But no one had dared to voice the question yet. The slaying of Rowley was too new. The capture of the other ought to reveal something—though that kind never told on each other!
And then the morning came, and a nasty little snake of a reporter who had come down to the scene of the burglary the night before and sneaked around among certain townspeople, came out with a story that froze the hearts of all who knew and loved either Jason Whitney or Rowan Parsons.
It is said, the scathing paragraph read, that Jason Whitney had long been in partnership with the Rowley brothers, having spent much time in their Road House, supposedly playing pool and dancing with the kind of women who infest such places, and that his job in the bank, which dated back several months, had made it easy for the thieves to effect an entrance. In fact, it is pretty well established now that young Whitney was inside the bank at the time of the robbery, though he had that day been dismissed from employment there. A notebook of his had been dropped in front of the broken safe and gave ample proof of his presence at the time of the robbery.
Closely connected with young Whitney was his close friend, Rowan Parsons, who is supposed to have spent the day of the robbery in Bainbridge making preparations for a good getaway for all concerned. Both Parsons and Whitney disappeared the night of the robbery and have not been heard from since. It is supposed that these two accomplices were with the gang when it was first sighted in the alley, when Pete Bundon was recognized by an old prison pal of his who had been pardoned out for good conduct, and that they made good their escape during the shooting. It is confidently expected that all three will be captured within the next twenty-four hours, as word has gone out with warning in every direction and a cordon of police is drawn around the whole area, so that final escape is practically cut off.
The people of the town read the paragraphs aghast, and terror filled their eyes. Even the worst gossip of the town had not dreamed of anything so crude and bald and blatant as these printed words. Those who had harbored the worst thoughts concerning the two young men were somehow shamefaced and guilty that such things should really be printed against one who belonged among them.
Joyce Whitney read the paper first, white lipped and trembling, and hid it before her father should come down, and her bitter-tongued stepmother, and then she crept through the morning sunlight, shivering, and hurried across the meadows to the Parsons’ house to knock timidly at the door.
Hannah opened the door, and her face was grave and sad but not stricken.
“Oh, have you seen the paper?” whispered Joyce and then saw that Rowan’s father was reading it.
“Oh, what shall we do?” she cried in a despairing voice as she dropped into a chair, too weak to stand.
“Do?” said Hannah Parsons. “Do? We’re going to trust and not be afraid!”
“Do, dear child?” said Charles, lifting his eyes with a look of triumph. “Don’t you know what our God has said? ‘No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper; and every tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord, and their righteousness is of me, saith the Lord.’ What we are going to do, child, is just to wait God’s time and He will set all right again. This is for some good purpose, and we are just going to trust Him!”
Chapter 8
Rose Allison went to the village store for more sugar. Her mother was canning the peaches that grew on the old gnarled bitter peach tree in the parsonage backyard, and they always took a lot of sugar to make them taste like peaches. Some years they seemed worse than others and had to be pickled to make then edible at all.
While she waited for sugar and cinnamon she could not help overhearing the talk around her. It was midmorning and many of the housewives of the town and countryside were in the store. The spaces in front of the counter were pretty well filled. Women with big market baskets were poking around among the piles of cereals and crackers, looking at lists, and gazing up to the shelves behind the counters.
Close beside Rose, Mrs. Alcott and Mrs. Brisbane were standing, awaiting their turns. Rose gazed around the store and sighed. It would be a long time before her turn came, there were so many ahead of her. Her head ached and her feet were tired, too, for she had been standing up by the sink peeling peaches all the morning. Then she heard a name spoken just behind her. That was Mrs. Baker and Miss Ginny Hollis. No need to turn around to see. Their voices were unmistakable.
“Have you heard how Joyce Whitney is?”
That was Miss Hollis.
“Why, no. Is she sick? I hadn’t heard, but I’m not surprised. I should think she’d want to hide her head somewhere and never come out again! What an awful thing it is to have a scapegrace brother!”
Mrs. Baker’s voice was raucous and penetrating. She was slightly deaf and talked the louder because she seemed to feel that all womankind had a like affliction. Several people turned quickly to listen and stopped their own conversation as they looked toward Mrs. Baker.
“Oh, well, I don’t know that she’s sick. I just saw the doctor stop there as I was coming by just now, and I figured it out that she must be. There wasn’t anybody else to be sick. I had just been talking with Mrs. Whitney over the telephone and she seemed all right, so I supposed it must be Joyce. Her father never calls Dr. Babb. He always gets Dr. Fulton. Besides, Joyce looked awfully peaked at the card party, didn’t you think so?”
Her voice was necessarily raised to accommodate Mrs. Baker’s dull ears, but she compromised by husking it into a resonant whisper, which the whole store could hear. And suddenly the store became very quiet, with only now and then a question from a purchaser. “How much is that a pound?” or “You can give me half of one of those watermelons. Oh, you don’t cut them? Well, I don’t want any, then. Only half our family eats watermelon anyway.”
“Well, yes,” said Mrs. Baker, “now you speak of it I remember she did look peaked. But then who wouldn’t with a gangster for a brother? I declare I think that Jason Whitney ought to be strung up, disgracing a decent family the way he’s done. A pity he hadn’t died when his poor mother did, I say! There might have been some chance for him then, or for the rest of the family anyway. So you think Joyce is sick? Well, I must tell Mrs. Petrie. She was a friend of the first Mrs. Whitney, you know, and she’s always interested to know about the family. Now that she can’t get out anymore she sort of depends upon me for the news. By the way, did you notice Mr. Whitney stealing around to the back door before the party broke up and then stomping up the back stairs?”
“Yes, I did!” said Miss Ginny. “He slipped in behind the syringa bushes and went past the window where I sat. Pitiful, isn’t it, how hard his poor wife has to work to have a little pleasure? Other men come in when they get home while we’re breaking up, and pass the time of day and all that, have their little joke, and flatter the ladies. But not Nathan Whitney! He skulks into the house and stamps around upstairs. Makes everybody know he’s come home and wants his house to himself. I certainly am glad I never married!” And Miss Ginny tossed her head independently.
“Well, I didn’t think so much of it that day,” said Mrs. Baker. “Of course he must have been terribly worked up and all. When one has a son like that—you know—”
Mrs. Baker shook her head ominously.
“Oh, what do they think about Jason now?” asked Miss Ginny avidly. “Have they found out anything more?”
“Well, not definitely. But I heard Cal Green say that he thought they had the shooting pretty well tied up to Jason. You see, they’re about certain he did most of the planning, though they do say—” her voice lowered into a melancholy whisper—“that Rowan Parsons was really at the bottom of it all. He furnished the brains I guess. But Jason did the actual deed, they seem pretty sure. At least Cal Green said so, and his wife’s cousin is living over at Talbuts, right across the corner from the bank, and if anybody would know they would.”
“Rowan Parsons! Oh, what a pity! And he’s so well educated! And so
good-looking! It really doesn’t pay to educate children, does it? You never know how they’re going to turn out. That’s what I always say, it’s a risk, having children! But Rowan Parsons! Who would have ever thought it! What makes them think so? Did they have evidence?”
“Well, I really don’t know. But they all seem to think it’s so! I guess because he and Jason Whitney went off together early that morning. That is, they say Rowan was waiting for Jason at Rowley’s, just think of it, of all the places! Poor Hannah Parsons! Her only son! And now they’re telling that Rowan was in Bainbridge getting a car ready for them all to get away in.”
“But I thought Jason was in the bank until half past ten that morning. How could he go to Bainbridge if he was in the bank?”
“Well, that’s so, it must be that Rowan was waiting for him in Rowley’s all that time.”
“Well, but Rowan didn’t know that Jason was going to be dismissed, surely?”
Mrs. Baker turned puzzled eyes on her inquisitor and looked annoyed.
“Oh, well, I don’t know just how it was, but I know that Jason Whitney was in the thick of it all day, for everybody says so, and not a soul has heard a word from him or seen a hide of him since he marched out of that bank at ten thirty on Wednesday morning! Not even his poor sick mother! No, Mr. Prentiss! Not that end of the steak. I want the little end. At the prices you charge I can’t afford the big end of the sirloin.”
Rose had turned sharply around and almost cried out when Mrs. Baker said that no one had heard from Jason since he walked out of the bank at ten thirty! Just in time she remembered and closed her lips, but she gave the woman an indignant look before she turned away, and drew a sharp breath. What cats these women were! To think they would talk that way about Jason!
But Miss Ginny was not through with the conversation yet. Mrs. Baker had turned away to follow the butcher until he cut he steak to fit her pocketbook, so Miss Ginny turned to the other two women beside Rose, Mrs. Alcott and Mrs. Brisbane.
“Such a pity, isn’t it?” she said with sympathy in her voice. “Poor Joyce Whitney! First to lose her mother, and then to have a brother like that! Did you hear Mrs. Baker say just now that Jason hasn’t sent Joyce any word since he was dismissed from the bank?”
“Oh yes, we heard it,” said Mrs. Brisbane. “One couldn’t very well miss hearing it.” And she gave a sly wink at Mrs. Alcott. “But what I want to know is, where did she find out all these details? Do the police report to her? However, I suppose it’s all more or less true. Everybody seems to think so, anyway. Yes, poor Joyce! She hasn’t a very pleasant life. I understand she and Mrs. Whitney don’t get on so well together.”
“Well, look at the way Joyce acts,” said Miss Ginny. “Mrs. Whitney had the loveliest card party on Wednesday and Joyce would play at all. She never will. She won’t even learn. And Mrs. Whitney had to invite an extra to make out the tables because Mrs. Pettibone was sick.”
“Wasn’t Joyce at the party at all?” asked Mrs. Alcott curiously.
“Oh yes, she was there, that is, she took us upstairs to lay off our things, and she helped pass and pour at the end when the refreshments came in. But she didn’t really enter into things the way Mrs. Baker’s daughters do.”
“Well, I think Joyce is to be pitied!” said Mrs. Brisbane. “She’s like her mother, quiet and shy, and her mother never went out to parties much. She was just a sweet homebody, and Joyce is going to be another one if they let her alone. I don’t know but it’s a relief. No lipstick and perm on her!”
“She doesn’t need any!” said Mrs. Alcott. “Her hair was born wavy, and looks wonderful, and as for lipstick, her lips are red enough by nature!”
“Not now,” said Miss Ginny primly. “You ought to have seen her Wednesday. She was white as a sheet!”
“Well, she had a right to be if all you say is true!” said Mrs. Alcott. “Her only brother lost his job, and you know what her father is, worse than a northeast storm if anything goes wrong. And if she hadn’t heard from her brother that made it that much worse. Though I doubt myself whether that is true. He probably phoned them!”
“No!” said Miss Ginny Hollis sharply. “I had it from the best of sources that he did not, and I for one am sorry for Joyce, even if she is so sort of hold-offish. She really can’t expect much in the future if her brother is found guilty, and this should turn out to be a murder case as they are afraid now it will. You know nobody would marry a girl whose brother was a murderer or a robber.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t want to get married,” said Mrs. Brisbane cheerfully, with a significant look toward Miss Hollis. “Some don’t!”
“Well, I think she ought to get married,” said Mrs. Alcott complacently, as if she would be willing to arrange it if all were agreeable. “There’s that nice Corey Watkins! Why doesn’t she take him? They would make a nice pair. She’s attractive enough and I’ve often seen him looking at her in church. It really would be better for her to marry, especially now since this has happened about her brother.”
Rose’s package was brought just then and she turned swiftly away. She felt that if she stayed another minute she would surely burst forth with indignant remonstrance, minister’s daughter though she was. Those horrid women! She had never known how cruel they could be until now that they had turned their tongues on people that she liked. And to think they would talk that way bout Jason’s sweet sister Joyce! It was unthinkable! How she would like to be free just for once to stand out there in the middle of the store and tell them just what she thought of them, just what they were, and then tell them that they were all mistaken. That she knew that Jason had not been at Bainbridge, nor even with Rowan, anywhere. She was sure he had been alone when he telephoned her in the first despair of his dismissal. She was not quite sure how it was that she knew that, but somehow the conviction was strong and deep in her heart.
She tried to reason it out now as she walked slowly toward the parsonage. Well, it had been his tone. He had been confiding in her. He had needed sympathy. If Rowan had been with him and they had been engaged in the devilish things the town seemed to think, Jason would have had no time to turn back and telephone to a girl to whom he had given only a casual promise that she had never really expected him to keep. He would have been too busy to think of her.
Of course those catty women wouldn’t believe that even if they knew it, but Rose knew it was true.
And then she fell to wondering if Joyce had something like that to comfort her. Could it be true that Jason had not telephoned his sister? She wished she knew. If he hadn’t perhaps it would help if she told Joyce what Jason had said to her about leaving town. Would Father object to her doing that?
She thought about it all the morning while she helped her mother to finish the peaches, and when her father was sitting on the porch after lunch she slipped out beside him.
“Father,” she said, sitting down on the arm of a big porch rocker, “they say that Joyce Whitney is sick, and they say she hasn’t had any word from Jason at all.”
“It probably isn’t true. They are saying all sorts of things. Who told you she was sick?”
“Nobody told me. The women in the store were talking about it this morning. But I was thinking if it was true that she had not had any word from him maybe I ought to tell her that he phoned me.”
“No!” said her father sharply. “I don’t see that that’s necessary. Besides, she might resent your speaking about it.”
“She wouldn’t,” said Rose. “She’s sweet. I thought I’d take some flowers and go over and say I heard she was sick, and then if she said anything maybe I could just tell her about Jason. I wouldn’t, of course, if the way didn’t open.”
The minister looked at his sweet, earnest young daughter yearningly.
“Take her the flowers if you like, child, but don’t talk about Jason. I wouldn’t like to have that old bear of a father of hers know that his scalawag of a son had even spoken to my girl!”
She was very still an
d serious for several minutes, rocking slowly back and forth and staring off at the clouds in a lazy blue sky. Then she said softly, “Father, it wouldn’t be anything like that. Mr. Whitney would not know. But, I thought perhaps the Lord would like me to tell Joyce!”
The father was very still now, his elbow on the chair arm, his head resting against his hand, his eyes looking down, and then he said gravely, “If that’s the case, Rose, go. But go in the strength of the Lord, not in your own strength.”
“All right,” she breathed softly.
She kissed him gravely and went away. He could hear her up in her room getting ready to go out, but it was a long time before she came down. The sun had gone lower in the west, and her father had gone out to make parishional calls.
She wore the little pink dress she had had on the day she met Jason and asked him to the meeting, and she went and picked both hands full of pansies before she walked down the street and out the road toward the Whitney place.
Rose was four years younger than Joyce. She had never been very close with her. For a few Sundays Joyce had taught the Sunday school class she was in. She had always shyly smiled whenever they met. It was going to be a little awkward to explain her coming. As she walked out the edge of the road she tried to plan what she would say. Suppose nobody was home but Mrs. Whitney? She never had liked Mrs. Whitney. So her shy steps faltered along the way. Yet somehow she was driven on.
It was Aunt Libby who opened the door, however. Mrs. Whitney had taken herself out of the gossip of home to visit her sister seventy miles away.
Sunrise Page 11
