The Hollows--A Novel

by Jess Montgomery

  “Don’t you volunteer over there, with Miss Harding in Rossville, tutoring those ignorant miners? I think your mother has mentioned this. At the Woman’s Club. Which she says you’re a member of, but you haven’t been coming of late.”

  “I—I’ve been busy—”

  “Volunteering with Olive? So perhaps you’ve seen—”

  Hildy forces her voice to stay calm, but it still wavers a little as she says, “I do volunteer with Olive. All I’ve noted is that she is an excellent teacher. It’s an honor to work with her.”

  Margaret sighs. “I should have known that the current sheriff and you as her little helper would offer no sympathy to concerns about the moral decay—”

  “Olive has broken no laws,” Hildy says. “And Sheriff Ross upholds the rule of law.”

  “Oh, does she? She certainly doesn’t when it comes to moonshining and bootlegging by the likes of Missy’s husband—and others.”

  Merle comes huffing out of the storeroom, toting a crate of canned soup. He puts the box on the case, knocking over the jar of licorice. Hildy catches it before it can crash to the floor.

  “Here’s the tomato.” Merle smiles encouragingly. “They’re only twelve cents a can!”

  “Oh, I’ll take three cans,” Margaret says. “You wouldn’t have the vegetable soup, too, would you?”

  “I do—let me go get the box,” Merle says.

  “Wonderful! Hildy and I were having such a lovely time, catching up,” Margaret says.

  “I’ll get some cans for you!” Hildy dashes around the counter, ignoring Merle’s protests. She slams the storeroom door shut behind her, picks up another crate of soup, and puts it in front of the door, and then rushes out the back, down the alley.

  She must get to her automobile, and over to Rossville.

  Not just to find Tom.

  To alert Olive and Clarence.

  CHAPTER 17

  LILY

  Thursday, September 23—9:50 a.m.

  Lily hurries out her back door toward the jailhouse. She’s overslept. Mama had left a note saying she’d watch the boys today and take Jolene to school on a breakfast tray outside Lily’s bedroom door—biscuits and jam, and boiled coffee already cold by the time Lily arose.

  She’d gulped down the food, both grateful and guilty.

  Now men’s voices clamor angrily from within the jailhouse, the door to which hangs open. Inside, Lily fights back the urge to gag. The place stinks of human waste.

  “Quiet!” Lily yells, and the men in the jail cells settle down to a grumble. She looks at Leroy Gregson, one of the security guards Lily had insisted the county commissioners ante up for as the county’s population has grown. They’d been reluctant—until Lily reminded them that their positions were also elected and no one expects their daddy or husband or brother to be tossed in jail for a routine twenty-four-hour hold and come out roughed up worse than he went in.

  She frowns at Leroy. “What is going on?”

  He rubs his face nervously. “They’re upset that the chamber pots aren’t cleaned up—”

  “And all we got for breakfast was leftover, cold biscuits!” yells a prisoner.

  “Where is Hildy?” Lily asks.

  Leroy shrugs. “Never showed.” He steps outside the jailhouse.

  Dammit! Of late, Hildy has been so withdrawn, reserved. She’d been so delighted when Merle first wooed her, and Lily was relieved that Hildy had found someone who would keep her safe.

  She can’t worry about her friend at this moment. Lily looks around, assesses. One of the men is unperturbed, but he’s snoozing by himself in one of the cells. The other two cells each hold two men. In one, a man lies on his cot, moaning. His cellmate sits on the opposite cot, hands clasped over his nose and mouth.

  “Has he been sick long?” Lily asks.

  “Something hit him wrong sometime yesterday,” says the sick man’s cellmate.

  Lily nods. “All right. I’ll send a doctor.”

  She exits, finds Leroy on her back stoop, spitting tobacco juice into her chrysanthemums by the cellar door.

  “What the hell is going on?” Lily demands.

  Leroy looks up at her, shocked, as if a lady using an ordinary curse word is the most shameful thing about this situation. Then his eyes narrow with anger—and also fear. Lily has learned that look well over the past year. She gets it as much from women as men. She’s learned to pretend it’s not there, to not respond, to go on about doing her job, to let the rule of law speak for itself—and for her.

  “What the hell do you care about the scum you have in lockup?” Leroy asks.

  “The prisoners are people with rights under the law.”

  Leroy scoffs, “The right to a clean cell? Where’s that in the lawbooks, missy?”

  “There’s the law of man—and the law of a greater power.” In spite of her doubts, her withdrawal from church, Jesus’s words from the book of Matthew in the Bible rise from deep within her. “‘Then shall they also answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee? Then shall he answer them, saying, Verily, I say unto you, inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.’”

  For a moment, Leroy pulls back, rebuffed. Then his grin returns. “Now you think you can be a preacher, too? No woman can be behind a pulpit!”

  “No. But they can be in a Sunday school room. Your mother was an excellent teacher. I still remember her lessons.”

  As Lily walks away, frustration rattles her every step. She wants to give her complete attention to the case of Thea Kincaide—but first she needs to get help for her prisoners.

  * * *

  Three hours later, Lily steps out of the courthouse—her second trip there today.

  On her first trip, she’d found one of the county commissioners, informed him that she’s firing Leroy and that she would be replacing him with one of the other guards, a retired barber who usually only filled in when needed on weekends.

  Then she’d gone to the doctor, and requested his immediate attention for the prisoner, who, it turned out, was suffering from a kidney stone, so she released him from his hold early so he could get back to his home and moan in privacy.

  By then the retired barber was at her house, along with his wife, who was willing to take on jail mistress duties.

  Lily’s next stop was to both Douglas Grocers and the Cooper household—neither Merle Douglas nor Mrs. Cooper knew where Hildy has gotten off to. Merle thought she wasn’t feeling well and had gone home; Mrs. Cooper thought Hildy was at the grocery; both Merle and Mabel Cooper were curt.

  Lily had wondered where could Hildy have gone? Just for a drive, or maybe over to Rossville to tutor? She’d have to find her soon—she doesn’t want Hildy to learn from anyone but her that she’s been officially relieved of her jail mistress duties. And yet Lily was irritated at having to track her down. She had more pressing matters to attend to first—namely, returning to the courthouse and filing a request for a search warrant for the Hollows Asylum for any information that might help her with Thea Kincaide’s case.

  Now Lily stands on the top step of the courthouse, taking a moment to draw in a deep breath, to survey the calm, the normalcy, of the town. She considers the courthouse—the scaffolding on the end of the building, the addition that will have a proper county jail and an office for her, assuming she is reelected. Progress. Change.

  And there—at the bottom of the courthouse steps, an older woman bending over the pram that the younger one has been pushing, both women beaming, and Lily can imagine their conversation, yes, their new baby boy, baptized last week at the Presbyterian church, yes he’s doing well, waking them up at night, but they’re so pleased with his growth.…

  Lily’s smile falls away. What if one, or both, of the women had been at the WKKK gathering the night before on the old Dyer farm? Both of those women—and Lily—are in the Woman’s Club, along with Margaret D
yer. Was Margaret responsible for the meeting? Or had the farm been used without any of the Dyers’ knowledge?

  Lily can’t imagine that either woman, chatting so amiably and innocently at the bottom of the steps, could be part of such an ugly gathering. But then they would be shocked at some of the things she’s had to do, to keep secret. Can anyone really know their neighbors—what’s more, their neighbors’ hearts?

  The women stop talking, look up at Lily. They wait as Lily comes down the steps, and then chat for a few moments—yes, Lily says, she will bring her pie on Friday to the county fair, yes, yes, she’s looking forward to the Woman’s Club meeting at Mrs. Perry Dyer’s home. She’d actually forgotten about the meeting, or where it was to be held, and looks away from the women to coo at the baby boy. He smiles at her and coos back. Yawns.

  A sudden stiff breeze stirs his blanket. He starts to fuss.

  It is enough for his mother to say “goodness” and she must get him home, settled for a nap. The women go their separate ways.

  Lily heads to the Kinship Daily Courier.

  * * *

  “What can I do for you, Sheriff?” Seth asks.

  “Well, first, thank you for running Hildy’s sketch and article. I have another favor to ask. I need to see some old newspapers—how far back do your archives go?”

  “All the way back—the newspaper started shortly after Kinship became a village in 1842. They are in cabinets in the basement.”

  “Good. I need to see editions from 1857. I’ve been able to identify the woman from the notice—Thea Kincaide. I need anything about her father, Rupert Edward Kincaide. He died in 1857—allegedly at the hands of an escaped slave he was helping.”

  Seth lifts an eyebrow. “Sure, I’ll find those editions for you. Hey—will you give me the exclusive if this turns out to be really interesting?”

  “All right.” He’d been like this even in high school, for the newspaper that came out once a year, though there wasn’t much to report for a school with at most eighty students.

  “Thanks! My editor is out now, doing the interview I wanted. Said I’m not seasoned enough to handle it. I’ve been here more’n ten years!”

  Lily’s curiosity is piqued. “What interview is that?”

  “George Vogel. He’s in town, but no one seems to know for sure why. There were a few theories at the Kinship Inn—Lily? Are you all right?”

  As Seth’s voice grows more distant, Lily sits down, hard, on a chair. Seth stares at her with concern. “Lily? You’re not gonna pass out on me, are you?”

  Vogel, Lily had learned after Daniel’s death, had exerted far too much control over her husband. The year before, she’d managed to maneuver out from under similar control—or so she thought. But Vogel, a powerful attorney and businessman, managed to not only sidestep bootlegging laws but also cleverly use the Volstead Act to sell his “tonic” with a legal percentage of alcohol and become even more rich and powerful. There was probably no permanent way to get free of such a man’s reach.

  “I’m fine.” Lily forces her voice to be even.

  Seth looks doubtful. “All right. I’ll find all I can about Rupert Edward Kincaide.”

  “Thank you.” Lily starts to the door but stops. “How did Hildy seem to you yesterday?”

  Seth’s eyebrows go up at that. It’s an odd question—everyone knows that Lily and Hildy have always been best friends. Seth chooses his words carefully. “Hildy has always been more tender than most people. Yesterday, she seemed more determined than I’ve ever seen her.”

  * * *

  A few minutes later, it’s spitting rain as Lily hurries past the train depot.

  A small crowd under the awning catches her attention. At first she thinks maybe they’re hoping to avoid a downpour, and then she hears his voice—loud, bombastic, jocular.

  The great George Vogel.

  Lily stops, mid-stride.

  After Daniel had come back from the war, their plans were up in the air—perhaps Daniel would go into the grocery business with Daddy, since Roger had died in the war; or perhaps they’d move somewhere new, start fresh. Daniel had run for county sheriff instead, his boxing career and war heroism a sure platform. Then, after Daniel died and Lily became acting sheriff, Lily learned Daniel’s real motivation—George had held a terrible secret over his head from his boxing days. George—Cincinnati attorney, pharmaceutical mogul, and alleged mobster, whose deeds are fearfully whispered about—is not a man you want to be in debt to.

  Yet after Daniel’s death and Lily becoming sheriff, George had promised that he would leave Bronwyn County alone.

  “How are you doing, Sheriff Ross?”

  Lily jumps at the sudden presence of Abe Miller—George’s right-hand man and enforcer—looming over her with an umbrella. Lily’s gaze hardens as she looks up at Abe, the tallest man she’s ever met, and so slender it’s hard to imagine he takes any joy in eating. She’d dealt with him in the past. Now Abe doesn’t deign to look down at her, so all she can see of him is his well-pressed suit lapels and shirt collar, his exaggerated Adam’s apple as still as a stone lodged in his throat, his chin and jawline shaved so smoothly as to suggest that even stubble is too scared to brush his face. No matter. She already knows from past experience the only expression his dark eyes ever hold—sharp expediency.

  “I’m quite well,” Lily replies. “What is Vogel doing here?”

  “Visiting.”

  “To what purpose? He gave me his word that he’d release my county from any hold—”

  Abe cuts her off with a flat bark of a laugh. “As I told you once before, Mr. Vogel is always on the side of his own business.”

  Oh yes, he’d told her that. Lily looks back at the crowd at the depot as if she’s simply a casual observer. There’s the newspaper editor, the mayor, one of the commissioners, and—Is it? Yes. Perry Dyer. Lily frowns. What is he doing, cozying up to George Vogel?

  Then some of the men in the crowd shift, and Lily sees her. Oh God. Surely not—but yes. That’s Fiona Weaver, widow of Martin Weaver. Martin, who had been Daniel’s top deputy.

  Beside Fiona is a steamer trunk. She is wearing a fancy new dress, a style depicted in illustrations in newspaper serials, but not for sale in the ladies’ shops in Kinship—a drop-waist lavender sheath, all the way up to her knees, with sapphire blue embroidery work, and a matching hat that accentuates her pert bob haircut.

  In her shock—not at the dress or hat or hair, but what it all likely means—Lily runs down the slope to the depot, breaks through the men, stops in front of George and Fiona.

  George looks at Lily, momentary surprise quickly masked by a sneer. “Why, Sheriff Ross, you’re not here to arrest me, are you?”

  The men who know Lily all laugh a little nervously. There’s no doubt it’s likely George is guilty of at least a few crimes. There’s also no doubt that, even if she had cause, she couldn’t make an arrest stick. The men who don’t know her—reporters and photographers from other towns’ newspapers, and Pinkerton hired guns as his security detail—look a little confused, then surprised as one points out her sheriff’s star.

  Lily ignores them and turns her attention fully to Fiona. She steps closer to her under the awning of the depot, as Fiona looks imploringly at George.

  “Ah, let the little women talk, shall we, fellas?” George gives Fiona a proprietary pat on her arm, before abruptly turning to enter the depot. The men quickly follow, except Abe, who has come down the slope and stands off to one side, smoking a cigarette, looking away as if he doesn’t notice them at all. Lily has no doubt that he is taking note of everything. She’s just as sure that George wouldn’t have left Fiona alone with Lily if he thought Lily would have any influence over her. Still, she has to try.

  “Fiona, what are you doing?”

  Fiona’s bright red lipsticked mouth pinches into a tight knot. The wind nudges her hat, and as Fiona lifts her hand to adjust it, Lily notes the large sapphire on her left ring finger, the carefully painted
pink crescent nails.

  Lily’s shoulders and heart slump. “Oh, Fiona.”

  At this, Fiona’s eyes brighten with tears, as much of anger as of sorrow. “Don’t you dare, Lily Ross. You’ve barely done more in the past year and a half than say hello to me at Woman’s Club meetings—and only out of cordiality. If you had, you might have learned that George invited me and Leon to visit Cincinnati a few times, staying at the hotel of course, because he thought it might be good for Leon.”

  Lily has to think for a moment before it strikes her—Leon is Fiona and Martin’s now fourteen-year-old son.

  Fiona correctly reads Lily’s expression—confusion, then recognition—and her mouth twists into a small, bitter smile. “Do you even know your own children’s names anymore?”

  At that, even Abe Miller shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. Lily swallows back her rising anger. “Fiona, I understand. Missing your husband. But you deserve a good man. Martin was a good man. George has done terrible things—”

  Fiona grabs Lily by the shoulders, gives her a hard shake. “I had a good man, Lily. I had Martin. And he … he believed in you. Respected you. Trusted you. More than the men he knew. And that got him killed.”

  Fiona releases Lily with a final, small shove and stares past her. “I’m not like you, Lily. Not every woman can be like you. We live in a man’s world. So I’m doing the best I can, and right now that is going to Cincinnati to marry George.” Fiona returns her gaze, hard and dark as coal now, to Lily. “If there is a reason, a real reason, why I should not go with George, you tell me now. Tell me now, Sheriff Ross.”

  Lily glances at Abe Miller, who has not moved a grass blade closer, yet somehow seems to be right beside them. His stare remains steady, his face expressionless.

  She looks back at Fiona. Even if Abe weren’t standing right there, Lily knows she wouldn’t tell Fiona the truth about the barter she and Marvena had made with George the year before to resolve their investigations—and to help their community.