At least we’ll have privacy, Gordon thought.
A fine, Morocco-bound book rested on the table in front of Len. Gordon gestured at it. “Is that your find?” he said. “Tell us all about it.”
“Not just yet,” Len said. “Let’s order dinner first, then I have a request of you, Gordon.”
“Do you know what this is all about?” Peter asked Gloria.
“I’m as much in the dark as you are. But Len called a couple of hours ago to say he’d found the Holy Grail on Maria.”
They quickly scanned the menus, and when the waitress (the co-owning wife) arrived, declined to listen to the specials. She took their orders, and after she left, Len picked up the book.
“There was a trunk in that attic that was a historical treasure trove,” he said. “Apparently it’s been passed around from family member to family member for almost a century and a half, and, miraculously, no one threw it out. This is one of five volumes of journals kept by Ezra Pierce, one of the pioneer residents of Dutchtown, who worked at the bank. They cover the years from 1850 to 1854, when he moved to Green Valley. This is the book for 1852.”
“The year Maria was hanged,” Gordon said.
“Exactly. I could scarce believe my eyes when I found them. They’re in pristine condition, with no water or insect damage. Almost unheard of. And Pierce was very much a man who kept his eyes and ears open. If the rest of the journals are as good as the first six months of this one, they will provide a near-authoritative history of the formative years of Dutchtown.”
Everyone sat in spellbound silence.
“Gordon, you have a good, deep voice. Would you honor us by reading the several pages beginning where I’ve marked the journal? That way we can all hear the story together, and by hearing it spoken by someone else, I can finally believe I’m not just imagining it.”
He handed the journal across the table, and Gordon took it carefully. The binding was gorgeous, and when he opened it near the middle, where Len had placed a bookmark, he could see that the paper was high quality and unlined. The writing on it, done with a quill pen and black ink, was in high-caliber penmanship, almost as if it had been copied for a school lesson.
Gordon took a sip of water, coughed to clear his throat, and began reading.
Sunday May 23rd. Attended church this morning, but did not come away from it with the usual comfort. Reverend Barnes was uncommonly succinct, keeping his oration to an hour and three-quarters, rather than the usual two, and it was, as always, a well-reasoned and well-presented effort. Perhaps it was the subject matter, the Wages of Sin, and in particular, sins of the flesh that caused the disquiet, as everyone in the church this morning — indeed everyone in town who has not been drunk since Friday night (I believe that to be a slight majority) — is aware of yesterday’s fearful happenings.
At around daybreak on Saturday, there was a shout of pain and a commotion in an alley between two buildings along Dutch Joe Creek, north of the main street. One of the buildings is occupied by Mrs. Johnson’s well-known house of ill repute (was there ever a Mr. Johnson, I wonder?) and the other building is Howenstein’s Stables. The noise was sufficient to frighten the horses, and Howenstein, who had just arrived at work, rushed forth to see what had transpired.
Howenstein arrived at the alley in time to see a man lying on his back, with a knife plunged deeply into his chest, blood staining the front of his shirt. The man was Barney McManus, a miner who had recently filed a claim on what could be a prosperous section of upper Dutch Joe Creek. Standing over McManus, watching helplessly, were a man and a woman. The man was Joseph Benkelman, the man after whom Dutch Joe Creek was named, and one of the earliest settlers of Dutchtown. The woman was a denizen of Mrs. Johnson’s establishment, who goes by the name of Maria Valdez. Howenstein said that as he rushed to the scene, McManus attempted to sit up, pointed a finger between the woman and Benkelman, and said one word, “He,” before falling back to the ground and dying.
Constable Rooney was hastily summoned and was presented with conflicting stories. Benkelman said he was walking up the street, heard a cry from the alley, and looked in to see the woman kneeling over McManus, about to pull the knife from his chest and stab him again. He rushed up to her, he said, and pulled her back from the body, noticing, when he did, a bloodstain on the front of her white linen dress. She, on the other hand, said she had just let McManus out of the side door of the house and had closed it to go back in when she heard him scream. She stepped into the alley and saw Benkelman standing over him, looking down at the knife in McManus’s chest. She rushed over and tried to lift his head, at which point he coughed up a quantity of blood, some of which landed on the front of her dress. Her contention was that when McManus said “He,” it was an attempt to say he, Benkelman, did it. Benkelman said McManus was trying to say that he, Benkelman, had pulled the woman off McManus.
Given the difference in standing between Benkelman and the woman, there was no question the constable would take his word over hers, and she was led off to what passes for a jail in this barbarous town. Still, I wonder. Benkelman, who has a shrewd eye when it comes to enriching himself, had been overheard coveting McManus’s claim, and McManus’s death could offer the opportunity of buying it. Would he go to such lengths? I do not know, and I will pray tonight that justice be done.
I am troubled, as well, by several fleeting recollections of the Valdez woman. Not that I have ever been a patron of Mrs. Johnson’s establishment — I have been saving myself for my Hannah, and await a letter to see if she sails for San Francisco this summer — or known Maria Valdez personally. But she is well known in Dutchtown because of her unusual condition. She is what is commonly referred to as an albino, and because of that is said to be much in demand among those who attend Mrs. Johnson’s. On more than one occasion, I blush to say, I have been walking in front of her house and seen her waving at me (and perhaps others) from a second-story window, wearing no clothing whatsoever. Once, as I was walking up the road on the other side of the creek, she waved at me from a window overlooking the creek. This is difficult to say, and it involves a considerable paradox, but despite the licentiousness of such behavior, her attitude seemed almost innocent — as if she simply regarded herself as being in a state of nature. Between her almost natural innocence and Benkelman’s shrewdly calculating character, I would incline toward believing him the more likely of the two to take a human life.
And now she faces the noose for murder. A rider was dispatched to Green Valley this morning to see how quickly the judge can be got over for a trial. It had better be quick, as talk is already being heard of forming a vigilance committee.
Gordon set the book down and took another sip of water. “It looks like the next entry wasn’t until a few days later,” he said, and kept reading.
Thursday May 27th. A pall seems to be hanging over Dutchtown today, and some people pass each other in the street, looking the other way as the consequence of the dreadful happenings of last night. My hand begins to tremble as I write, but I must continue and bear witness to the extent I can.
The rider sent to Green Valley returned after dark on Monday night with word that the judge had left on Friday to ride a two-week circuit and could not get out to Dutchtown until late June. As the news began to spread on Tuesday, a state of agitation began to fall over this place. Barney McManus was not, to the best of my knowledge, a well-liked individual. He kept to himself and had few friends. The manner of his death was so shocking, however, that nearly every man in town feels compelled to avenge it. In three short days, the nature of Maria Valdez’ accusation had been all but forgotten, and she was almost universally considered to be guilty.
On Wednesday, the talk against her was becoming more general and heated, and I began to fear the worst. I was working late, and at dusk looked up from my desk to see a torchlight procession heading in the direction of the jail. Deciding that I had better see for myself, I locked the office and took up a position at the rear of the proceeding
. I assayed a quick count of the number of men, and it seemed to be between forty and forty-five; some dropped out and some new ones joined. We arrived at the jail to find Constable Rooney in front, rifle in hand.
A voice in the front demanded that he release the prisoner, and I was taken by surprise to hear that it was the voice of Benkelman. It did not seem right to me that, as an interested party in the case, he should be leading the procession, but to my discredit, I said nothing. Rooney refused to release the prisoner, but as the mob advanced upon him, he realized he could not stop so many men and stepped aside. Three men entered the small building and emerged a moment later. Two of them were on either side of Maria, each holding onto one of her arms, and the third stood behind her with a rifle pointed at her back. As if she had any thought or hope of escape! She was still wearing the white dress with the bloodstain on the front, and I felt a sense of pity and dismay that she had not even been allowed a change of clothing.
The procession headed in the direction of the bridge over Dutch Joe Creek. By the time it reached the bridge, there was but a faint glimmer of light in the western sky, yet the scene, illuminated by many torches, was as brightly lit as any interior in town. From somewhere in the crowd, two hands emerged, holding a rope, already formed into a noose at one end. This was quickly placed over her head and secured around her neck. Someone else tied the other end of the rope around the stout railing of the bridge, and she was lifted over the railing to a narrow ledge on the other side.
It is astonishing how the human mind works, even at a time of considerable agitation. As she stood there in the white dress, men muttering and cursing all around her, I recalled having seen her picking berries at Scopazzi Meadows the previous autumn. She was wearing a white dress at the time, and I found myself wondering if it was the same white dress she was about to die in. Perhaps this was my mind’s way of coping with the horror unfolding before me. A voice from the crowd asked if she had any last words to say, and she turned her head so it was in profile to the mob. A deathly silence fell upon the group, and we could hear her words clearly.
“I am innocent of this crime, and one among you knows it,” she said. “That one is Joseph Benkelman.” No sooner had she said that than a hand emerged from the mob and gave her a push in the back. She fell forward and dropped to the end of the rope, about fifteen feet, I would guess, until it violently jerked her neck backward. I have heard that in a properly conducted hanging (which I hope never to witness after this) the poor wretch’s neck breaks immediately, resulting in a speedy death. Ill-fated to the end, Maria got no such reprieve. The fall did not kill her at once, and her body twitched grotesquely at the end of the rope for what seemed like hours, though it was probably no more than a minute or two. One man on the bridge lost control of his stomach, and expelled its contents onto the boots of another man standing next to him. Another man did the same, but over the bridge, and then another and another. I joined them shortly, and have barely been able to eat since. At length her still and lifeless body was pulled back up onto the bridge and a wagon summoned to take it to the jail, where it would be held until she could be buried in an unmarked grave this morning.
I remain haunted by the image of a hand emerging from the group of men and pushing Maria over the bridge. I could not see to whom the hand belonged and could not testify on the matter, yet I cannot help feeling I know. I am all but certain it was the hand of Joseph Benkelman.
Gordon closed the book and set it on the table. No one said anything for several minutes.
“That explains quite a bit, don’t you think?” Len finally said.
“You have no idea how much it explains,” Gordon said.
IT WAS DARK WHEN THEY LEFT the restaurant at 7:45. Gloria and Len walked down the street together, holding hands, and Gordon watched them until they disappeared around the corner. He gave Peter a lift to the church where the meeting was being held and turned back toward the house.
As usual after dark, there was almost no one on the streets of Dutchtown, and it felt like a ghost town in more ways than one as he drove toward the bridge. After reading the journal entries, he was grateful not to be walking over the bridge in the dark. It was deserted, like the rest of the town, and he realized when he got to the other side that he had been holding his breath while crossing it.
Safely inside the house, he checked his cell phone and saw that Melissa McConnell and Elizabeth had both called during dinner. He returned Melissa’s call first.
“Gordon!” she answered. “I’m impressed.”
“Oh?”
“I think you’re really onto something.”
“So do I, but I’m not sure what. How did the meeting with Gary go today?”
“Very interesting. How do you want me to tell you about it?”
“Let’s get the details out of the way first. For starters, did the thirty-four thousand and change mean anything to Gary?”
“Nothing at all, though he did say it could have been a number Connie wrote down from her job at the county.”
“That’s what we’re thinking. How about the nine hundred in cash in Connie’s purse?”
“He said he was really surprised to hear about it when the attorney told him before the trial. Money was always tight, and he had no idea where it could have come from. Do you have any leads?”
“A couple, and they all point to something improper or illegal. In which case it could be related to her murder, don’t you think?”
“It sure could. Anyway, where you hit the jackpot was with The Philadelphia Story. When I asked him about that, he really lost it. Connie being in that play was a huge deal for him.”
“And for her, apparently.”
“Oh, and he realized it. He was really torn up about the whole thing. On the one hand, he was happy for her because she was getting attention for demonstrating a latent talent. On the other hand, he was terrified. His own life had been going steadily downhill, and he was worried that her success would drive them apart.”
“Which, if you think about it, is a strong motive for him.”
“I can see where you’re coming from, Gordon, and it makes sense. But after talking to him, I don’t buy it. He felt powerless to do anything about it, and if she had left him, I think he just would have stepped up his drinking even more.”
“That wouldn’t have been pretty.”
“In any case, he practically opened the door to my asking if he thought she was becoming attached to another man, and when I did, he broke down and cried. I was kind of stunned. He finally said he suspected her of having an affair with Kevin, who played Mike in the play. Does that ring a bell?”
“Talked to him a couple of days ago. He’s one of the possibles for the other man.”
“As I was getting ready to leave, Gary said to me that he’s had a chance to reflect on it now and he realizes he was living in self-centered alcoholic fear. Fear of losing the woman he loved — the woman who was about all he had left. He was so mortified about that, he didn’t tell his lawyer about his suspicions about an affair. Stupid! But his whole way of thinking about it was what would he do if he lost her, not how could he keep from losing her. I feel more certain than before that he didn’t kill her.”
“I’m leaning that way, too, Melissa, but the problem is I’ve done a great job of raising questions and a lousy job of getting answers. You could still argue the case either way.”
“That’s more than could be said when Gary came to trial. You’re doing better than you realize, Gordon. The last thing Gary said to me before I left today, was, ‘God bless Mr. Gordon. Please tell him I appreciate what he’s doing.’ I’m looking forward to seeing your report.”
GORDON MADE A SMALL POT of herbal tea before calling Elizabeth. As the tea was steeping, he thought about the pleasure he felt in looking forward to talking with her and the comfort he got from knowing she wanted to hear from him.
“I talked to Melissa,” she said, after they exchanged greetings. “Apparently you were ont
o something with The Philadelphia Story.”
“Looks like it. I just wish I knew what, though.”
“You’ll see it eventually. Remember how long it took to get the meaning of Wheaties,” a reference to a clue in the case that had brought them together.
“Maybe. So far I’ve managed to come up with things that need investigating and developed very little faith that the powers that be in Dutchtown are interested.”
“That’s why NGNC is there. Turn what you have over to them and let their experts go after it.” She paused. “Are you looking forward to coming home?”
“Very much.”
“Has it been a good fishing trip?”
“I’m afraid we haven’t been able to do much fishing the past couple of days. The Baxter investigation has kind of taken things over.”
“Your fishing trips can be like that.”
“Yeah.” He took a sip of tea. “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. Something strange that’s been happening here.”
“All right.”
He paused a moment to get the words just right. “It started last Saturday morning. I got up first and decided to see if I could catch a couple of trout for breakfast in the creek below the house. I hooked a fish, and as I was playing it, I got the feeling I was being watched. I looked up at the house on the other side of the creek, and there was a naked woman standing in the window. She waved to me, then I looked away to get the fish in, and when I looked again, she was gone.”
He waited for a response and heard nothing but silence.
“Are you there?”
“I’m here all right — just paralyzed in disbelief. If I had to guess at your ultimate fantasy, it would be hard to come up with anything better than that.”
I Scarce Can Die (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 5) Page 23
