by Lynn Austin
“Absolutely not.”
“See? That’s why we didn’t ask. That’s why we ‘connived,’ as you so eloquently put it. We needed your help and there was no other way to get it.”
“I could have you both arrested for kidnapping, you know.”
“Of course you could. But tell me, if you had gone home with your relatives last week, what would you be doing right now that’s so important?”
The answer was nothing. I had nothing important to do back home. Which was why I had reluctantly decided during supper tonight that I might as well resign myself to staying here and helping out. I pulled the stick out of Mack’s hand and tossed it aside.
“I want you to put your hand on a Bible, Mr. Leslie MacDougal, and swear to me that you aren’t doing anything that’s against the law—besides faking your own death, which I’m quite sure is a felony in most states.”
“No jury in the world would convict me once they found out why I did it.”
“Why did you do it?”
“I told you. So the shooter wouldn’t come back and try again. That’s why Lillie’s been telling lies, too—to save my life.”
“I might start taking potshots at you myself if you don’t tell me the truth. Are you breaking any other laws?”
“No. And I’ll swear to it on a Bible or my mama’s grave or anyplace else you want me to swear.” He was trying very hard to keep a straight face and not smile, or worse, laugh out loud. I wanted to kick him in the shins. “Once you get to know me, Alice, you’ll see that I eschew getting into trouble with the law.”
I stared at him in shock. “What did you say?”
“I said that I eschew getting into trouble with the law. Eschew means—”
“I know what it means!”
“Then why are you getting all riled up?”
“Because . . .” How could I explain to him that the word eschew had been one of the reasons my boyfriend had broken up with me? How could this annoying backwoods librarian casually use the same word in a perfectly innocent sentence? What were the chances of that happening? Did Mack read the same literary journals that I did?
“Never mind,” I mumbled. “I’m just surprised that you know what eschew means, that’s all.”
Mack placed his hand over his heart as if I had hurt his feelings. “You cut me to the quick, Miss Ripley. I am a college graduate, you know.”
I closed my eyes and waved my hands, wanting to erase this pointless conversation. “Forget all this eschewing. Just tell me who you think tried to kill you. Lillie said there might be more than one suspect.”
“She’s right, there might be.” He stroked his smooth-shaven chin for a moment the way he used to stroke his beard. “Okay, I’ll tell you this much. When I came back here after college and after working up north for a few years, people I’d known all my life didn’t quite trust me anymore. Some of them—Cora’s brother Clint, for instance—have a habit of making moonshine up in these mountains. There’s a lot of stills up in them there hills,” he said, mocking a mountain accent. “Some of those moonshiners began to think that I worked for the government. They saw me snooping around, and they may have intercepted a letter or two of mine at the post office, addressed to an official in Washington, and they decided that I was a revenue agent. A revenuer, as they like to call them.”
“Are you a government revenue agent?”
“Of course not. But my enemies want the moonshiners to think that I am so they’ll take a few potshots at me and try to run me off.”
“So you think Clint or one of the other moonshiners might have tried to kill you?”
“It’s a possibility. Which is why I can’t let Cora or the other girls know I’m alive.”
“Why are you really snooping around and sending letters to Washington?”
“Sorry. The less you know, the safer you’ll be for now. But I promise I’ll tell you just as soon as I can.”
“Who else might be trying to kill you besides the moonshiners?”
“Remember how I told you about all the union troubles over in Harlan County? Some of us tried to pressure the coal company here in Acorn for better working conditions, too. Then when the mine shut down and all the men lost their jobs, a lot of the miners blamed me. They didn’t believe that the whole nation’s economy is in trouble, not just Kentucky’s. They don’t get newspapers here very often.”
“They would kill you over a misunderstanding?”
“It’s like this: Before I came to town they had jobs. After I came, they were all out of work.”
“But . . . but weren’t you the one who created the packhorse librarian jobs? Lillie says those four women support nearly every family in town.”
“That’s true. But for those who are suspicious of me, getting government jobs for the ladies makes me look like I have clout with the government. So maybe I am a revenuer, after all.”
I exhaled, trying to make sense of this mess.
“Then there’s the age-old family feud here in Acorn,” Mack continued, “between the Larkins and the Arnetts.”
“Your mean June Ann’s family versus Wayne’s family?”
He nodded. “It happens that my mother was a Larkin.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Someone would kill you for that? I thought your parents died when you were young?”
“I don’t want to go into all of it,” he said, rubbing his eyes, “but whenever an inheritance or buried treasure is at stake, there’s always the possibility of bloodshed.”
I couldn’t speak. Buried treasure? Were the stories true? “Ike Arnett told me a bizarre story about a treasure,” I said when I could find my voice, “but I didn’t believe him.”
“You met Ike?”
“He came into the library to get a book to read. He played his fiddle at your funeral, too.”
“He’s very talented. Listen, Alice, the sooner I finish my work, the sooner you can go home. But I need your help. I’m stuck up here and can’t go where I need to go.”
“Where do you need to go?”
“To the Acorn Mine, to begin with. You could do me a huge favor if you went over there for me and looked around to see if they left any papers in the filing cabinets when they closed down the mine. That’s all. You don’t have to take anything, just look around. Will you do that for me?”
“You’re crazy. It’s . . . it’s preposterous! I’m not a spy or a detective. I could end up in a lot of trouble.”
“Not for looking around. Don’t be so melodramatic. You went to the mining camp once before and looked around, didn’t you?”
“Well, I’m not going again.” I almost added, especially for you. Then I had an idea. “I might agree on one condition: help me get to a telephone so I can call home. I need to tell my parents what’s going on. They must be very worried about me.”
“You’re in luck.” Mack grinned. “There’s a telephone in the mine office. You can kill two birds with one stone.”
“Won’t the phone be turned off if the mine is closed?”
“Not necessarily. You don’t know how hard it is to get the telephone company to come all the way up here. It’s easier for them to just keep the phone connected. In fact, that can be your legitimate reason for being there, if anyone asks. You came to use the phone.”
“In the first place, who is this ‘anyone’ who might question me at a deserted mine office? And in the second place, why should I believe anything you say?”
“The ‘anyone’ was rhetorical. And why not believe me? Why trust anyone in this big bad world, when it comes right down to it? Why trust God?”
“Let’s leave God out of this.” I sighed. “Do these papers at the Acorn Mine have anything to do with why someone shot you?”
“Maybe . . . maybe not.”
“I think I have a right to know the truth since you’re asking me to snoop around for you.”
“If anyone stops you, just tell them you’re there to use the telephone. Period. And while you’re there, see if
they cleaned out the filing cabinets. It’s simple.”
“I’m quite certain that trespassing is against the law.”
“But you look so very innocent and guileless, Alice, with your peachy complexion and curly blond hair—like the heroine in a fairy tale. You could be Little Red Riding Hood strolling innocently through the woods.”
“Does that mean there’s a Big Bad Wolf waiting for me?”
He didn’t laugh, but whether it was because he didn’t get the joke or because there really was a wolf, I couldn’t tell.
“I’m sure you’ll be completely believable when you explain about the telephone. It’s the truth, isn’t it?”
I glared at him through narrowed eyes. “I don’t think you or Lillie or anyone else in Acorn, Kentucky, would recognize the truth if it fell from the sky and hit you in the head.”
Mack didn’t reply. We sat side by side on the cabin step for a few minutes, listening to the creek rushing below us, feeling the warm evening breeze on our faces as I tried to decide what to do. One of the trees in front of the cabin was an apple tree, planted by a long-ago settler, and it was about to burst into bloom. The woods up in these Kentucky hills were so peaceful and serene that no one would ever imagine that feuding and loneliness and hardship were brewing beneath the surface. And secrets.
Mack slowly rose to his feet. He winced in pain as he twisted his head from side to side and rubbed his left shoulder. He had been massaging his left arm off and on while we had talked.
“Is your wound still bothering you?” I asked. “I promised Lillie I would find out how it’s healing.”
“Yeah, it bothers me. I think it’s healing okay, but sometimes my arm and fingers go numb. I may have damaged a nerve or a muscle or something. It’s going to be hard to use my typewriter.”
“What are you typing?”
“Nothing at the moment. My typewriter is still at Lillie’s house. But the sooner I get my book finished and to a publisher, the sooner we can both go home.”
“You’re writing a book? What kind of book?”
“Ever hear of a novel called The Jungle by Upton Sinclair?”
“Of course. It’s an exposé of the meatpacking industry in Chicago. It was a bestseller. It caused a lot of ruckus, as I recall.”
“My novel will be an exposé of the mining industry here in Kentucky. It isn’t even finished yet and it has already caused a ruckus here.”
“The mining company knows about this exposé you’re writing?”
“I had to tell a couple of people about it when I first came back because I needed to do some research. On the day of Hank Coots’s funeral, someone broke into the library while I was gone and stole the manuscript. All of it, including my research notes. I had to start writing it all over again.”
“That must be some book if they don’t want you to finish it.”
“Well, when you read it, maybe you’ll understand what I’m trying to do . . . what we’re trying to do.”
“You and Lillie?”
“No. You and me.”
Oh, boy.
“Please, Alice, just look around in the mining office and tell me if it’s cleaned out or not. The sooner I finish my work, the sooner you can go home.”
“Can you give me a timeline or a date? How much longer will I need to stay in Acorn? I’m sure my parents will want to know when I finally find a telephone and call them.”
“Can you give me about a month? I’ll help you get home after that, Alice, I promise.”
I thought of all the endless work there was to do every day, and how hard it was to do it without modern conveniences, and how tired I felt when I fell into bed at night. Another month? I couldn’t help groaning. Then I thought of June Ann who needed a friend, and Maggie Coots and all the children on my route who eagerly awaited their books.
“Okay,” I said with a sigh. “I’ll stay for another month.”
I’ve decided to stay in Acorn a while longer and help out,” I told the other librarians the next morning. I expected smiles and maybe even thanks. I got neither. The women didn’t seem to believe me—or else they thought I was a fool who couldn’t make up her mind. I packed some books and rode my route, stopping to see June Ann, the Sawyers, and Cora’s brother and sister-in-law. Lillie had said I should poke around. Mack implied that if we solved the mystery of who had tried to kill him, maybe he could come out of hiding. I would begin today.
Cora’s brother was finally out of bed, limping around the cabin in his long johns. As I piled books on his table and handed Granny a new Ladies’ Home Journal to read, he squinted at me suspiciously. “I don’t believe Cora ever told us why you come down here to our town in the first place.”
I explained how I had collected the donated books and brought them to Kentucky. “In fact, the book I brought you today is one of the new ones.” I finished with a smile, proud of my achievement. Clint’s eyes narrowed even more until they formed slits.
“Where’d you say you was from again?”
“I live in a small town in Illinois, not too far from Chicago.”
“Chicago? Ain’t that where all them gangsters come from? That John Dillinger fella—‘Public Enemy Number One’?”
My perky smile began to waver. “Chicago does have that reputation. And it’s true that Dillinger was killed in Chicago.”
“Well, if you brought the books already, why ain’t you going home?”
“I decided to stay and help out in the library after Mack’s . . . accident.”
“You a good friend of that MacDougal fellow?”
Before I could reply, Gladys chimed in. “He’s a Larkin, you know.”
I stifled a sigh. “I never met Mack until the day I arrived to deliver the books.”
Clint picked up a poker and jabbed the fire. “Sounds mighty suspicious to me. Don’t get too many flatlanders around here unless they’re up to something.”
Great. Was he going to accuse me of being a revenuer, too? My smile vanished completely as I searched for a graceful way to exit this conversation—and this cabin. I had liked Clint a lot better when he was flat on his back, not brandishing a poker and squinting his eyes at me. I was supposed to be asking the questions, not answering them.
“Cora says you’ve been getting real friendly with Miss Lillie,” Gladys said. “That true?”
“I’m not sure what you mean. We are friends, I suppose. We live together. Miss Lillie is all alone now that Mack is gone, and she needs someone to help her. Did you know that she’s one hundred years old?”
Gladys nodded, her expression pinched with distrust. “Miss Lillie’s been doctoring folks and birthing babies around here since before most of us was born. She knows everyone’s secrets, and you can bet she’ll use them to her advantage. I hear she took care of Great-Granddaddy Larkin before he died. Some folks believe that she and them Larkins spent all the treasure.”
This conversation wearied me. I scooped up the pile of books from last week and shoved them into my bag. “Miss Lillie hasn’t shared any secrets with me, Gladys. In fact, I’m trying to find out where her family is so they can come and take care of her after I leave, but she hasn’t even told me that.” I left a short time later, determined not to ask any more questions on my routes.
The next day, as soon the packhorse women left on their rounds, I put on a sweater and my walking shoes and hiked up the road to the abandoned mine. I still wasn’t sure if I wanted to get tangled up in everyone’s feuds and mysteries, but since I had agreed to stay for another month, I wanted to call home. My parents must be frantic with no way to reach me. And they must be furious with my uncle for not waiting to talk to me in person to find out when I’d be coming home.
I walked down the road alone, as if out for a pleasant stroll with no particular destination in mind. Every time I passed a house, I imagined that people were watching me from behind their curtains, wondering what I was up to. My imagination had always been my biggest problem. I had read countless novels, and
now it seemed as though this town had every type of plot: murder mysteries and lost treasure, evil mine owners and family sagas, horseback adventures and pioneer living, even a love story or two. I didn’t need to read books. For the first time in my life I was living them.
The graveyard on the hill looked spooky to me, even on a sunny spring afternoon, the first day of April. I wondered how many secrets were buried there along with the bodies. I glanced at the mound of dirt over Mack’s grave and knew that at least one secret was. A chill shivered through me. How could I know whether or not Mack had told me the truth, even now? He could have made up everything. I might be in cahoots with a criminal and not even know it. I was no good at snooping around—in abandoned mines or anyplace else. I wasn’t cut out to be another Sherlock Holmes, yet I had been forced into the role against my will. Everything that had happened to me in Acorn had been against my will.
I reached the mine entrance and turned down the road leading to the office, ignoring the NO TRESPASSING signs. “Look innocent,” Mack had told me. I was innocent. I was here to use the telephone.
I arrived at the office door and found it secured with a padlock. Of course it would be locked if the mine was shut down. I sidestepped through the weeds to peer through the front window, wiping dust off the glass. The office was dark inside since most of the windows were boarded up, but I could make out a desk piled with papers and a row of filing cabinets along the back wall. Except for the lock and the boarded windows, the office looked as though someone had been here only yesterday. Maybe they had been. Maybe they were here right now. I leaped away from the window and glanced around nervously.
Silence. Nothing stirred except for a few crows and nameless insects buzzing in the tall weeds.
I looked through the window again and saw the telephone, black and modern looking, perched on a corner of the desk. I traced the wire across the floor from the desk to an outside wall. Then I tramped around the corner of the building and saw that the wire continued out of the building and up to a telephone pole. More telephone poles and wires stretched up the road into the distance, away from town. Out to the civilized world. Home.
