by Joanne Fluke
Lucy was dismayed at her reaction. “I didn’t mean to distress you,” she said.
“Forgive me,” she said, as if coming out of a trance. “I was just overcome. This is wonderful. So thoughtful of you. An antique glass cane.”
“I’ll take it back. I’ll get you something else,” said Lucy. A bottle of Dry Sack came to mind. It would be expensive, but at least she could be sure Miss Tilley would enjoy it.
“Not at all.” Miss Tilley got to her feet and laid the cane on the mantel. “This is remarkable, a wonderful find. And so festive.” Her voice became soft and reflective. “I haven’t seen one of these in years.”
“So you know what it is. You’ve seen one before?”
“Oh, yes. There used to be a glass factory in town many years ago and canes like this turned up frequently. But of course they’re fragile and I suppose a lot of them got broken and now they’re quite rare. This one is a real find.” She looked at Lucy. “Do you mind telling me where you got it?”
Lucy blushed, embarrassed. “Actually, well, it was at a yard sale.”
“A yard sale,” mused Miss Tilley, reaching for the sherry bottle. “Would you like a bit more?”
“None for me, I have to drive home,” she said, watching the old woman refill her glass, setting the bottle on the table beside it.
“Where was this yard sale?” asked Miss Tilley, emptying the glass of sherry and refilling it.
“Out on Packet Road.”
“Ah,” she said, nodding. “Kyle and Dora. How interesting.”
“That’s right,” said Lucy, who continued to be surprised at the way Miss Tilley seemed to know everyone in town.
Miss Tilley sighed. “I suppose I owe you an explanation.”
“Not at all,” said Lucy, wishing desperately that Toby would wake up and she could get out of there, away from her embarrassing gaffe and back home. But Miss Tilley was not about to be deterred.
“It was Christmas Eve,” she began, taking another sip. Her eyes had lost their focus and she was looking inward, seeking the past. “I was just a girl. I’d been out skating on Blueberry Pond and when I got home the house was quiet. Very quiet, which was unusual, because my mother was an invalid and there were usually people around, a nurse, a cook, a maid. There was always someone in the kitchen, people going up and down the stairs. It was the stairs, you see. She’d fallen down the cellar stairs. Mama was there at the bottom, crumpled in a heap, and there was a glass cane, red and white like this one, on the floor beside her. Smashed to smithereens.”
Horrified, Lucy’s hand flew to her mouth. “I had no idea,” she said.
“Of course not. How could you have known?” Miss Tilley’s voice was thoughtful. “Nobody knew, really. It was all kept very quiet. Papa didn’t want people to know the details, that Mama was wandering about the house as if nobody was taking proper care of her. He let people assume that she died a respectable death in bed, surrounded by her loving family.”
Lucy’s mind was full of questions but she wasn’t at all comfortable asking them. She sat, trying to think of something appropriate to say, and watching as Miss Tilley refilled the glass yet again.
“It was horrible. He made me help, you see. He made me help carry Mama upstairs to her bed.”
“Who did?” It popped out before Lucy could stop herself.
“Papa did. He took her by the shoulders and told me to lift her by the ankles. He said she wouldn’t, she couldn’t be very heavy, not after being sick for so long, but she was heavy. We kind of bumped her up the stairs, two long flights. And then he sent me back downstairs to sweep up the glass and tidy the basement while he put her in a fresh nightgown and tied her hair with a ribbon and tucked the covers around her, folding her hands around a Bible and laying them on her chest.” Miss Tilley looked her straight in the eye. “Then he called the doctor.”
Lucy found her eyes going to the portrait over the mantel. The stern, righteous man pictured there suddenly didn’t look quite so respectable. That gleam in his eye, was it the light of truth and justice, or was it something more sinister?
Lucy thought of her own great grandfather Tobias. He wore flannel shirts and khakis in the house, where he spent his days reading and watching baseball on TV from his armchair in the living room and making wooden furniture in his basement workshop, but he never went outside in such casual clothes. He put on a starched white shirt, a dark suit, shiny black shoes and a hat for the short walk down the street to buy the newspaper. “Times change,” said Lucy. “When I was a little girl I wore white gloves to church. And my great grandfather wouldn’t go out of the house without a hat.”
Miss Tilley nodded. “Straw between Memorial Day and Labor Day, felt for the rest of the year.”
“Exactly,” said Lucy, smiling. “So it’s not surprising that your father would want to protect his family from gossip. Every funeral’s the same: everybody wants to know all the details. Did she smoke? Was it expected or was it sudden? Did she suffer? I can see why he wanted to keep some things private. He wanted to preserve your mother’s dignity, even in death.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Miss Tilley. “Mama rarely got out of the house except to go to church on Sunday even before she got sick. She may have looked like a fine lady then, in her silk dress and her flowery hat, but at home she worked like a slave. Everything had to be just so for Papa. She even ironed his morning paper before he read it.”
Lucy had never heard of such a thing and her eyebrows shot up.
“Oh, yes,” continued Miss Tilley. “He had to have fresh linens on his bed every night, fresh towels every day, starched napkins and those shirts of his.” She rolled her eyes. “The slightest little wrinkle, even a pucker from the iron and he’d have a fit. My goodness, the hours my poor mother spent at the ironing board. There was no permanent press then and if there had been Papa certainly wouldn’t have allowed it. When I think of her, before she got sick, I think of her standing at that ironing board, her sleeves rolled up and her hair falling down, her face shiny with sweat.”
“She didn’t have any household help?”
“Not until she got sick.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if she got sick on purpose,” said Lucy, attempting a joke.
Miss Tilley’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, she would never do that. It was the doctor who insisted that she needed bed rest and even then she would try to get up and make sure everything was just as Papa liked it.”
“Perhaps that’s what she was doing the day she fell,” said Lucy. “She was probably weak and collapsed.”
“An accident?” Miss Tilley looked at her empty glass and reached for the bottle, sighing when she realized it was empty. “I don’t think it was an accident.”
Lucy glanced at the portrait. “You don’t?”
“There was a tense atmosphere in the house that morning. That’s why I went skating. I wanted to get out.”
“Did they have an argument of some sort?” asked Lucy.
“No. I never heard them fight, but I’d know that something was wrong. Papa would be very abrupt, his tone would be very sharp, and Mama would watch him anxiously, as if she were afraid of him.”
“Oh dear,” said Lucy, remembering the scene she’d witnessed the day before, with Kyle and Dora.
“I’ve always suspected that Papa pushed her down the stairs.”
Lucy gasped. “That’s a terrible thing to think about your father,” she finally said.
“Yes, it is,” agreed Miss Tilley, looking up at the portrait. “I loved him, I still do, but every time I look at that picture I have the same dark suspicion. If only I could know for sure what happened that day.”
Lucy thought of the book she was reading, Josephine Tey’s Daughter of Time about a British police inspector who attempts to solve the fifteenth-century murder of the Little Princes in the Tower of London. “Maybe we can try to solve the mystery,” she said. “Just like Inspector Grant.”
“I thought you’d l
ike that book,” said Miss Tilley. “But it’s fiction. This is real life.”
“But that mystery was hundreds of years old. Your mystery is much more recent.”
“But the princes and Richard III were historical figures, things were written about them, there were documents and books.”
“A lot of which was propaganda put out by Richard’s enemies.”
“And a lot of it was written quite a bit later, long after anyone who might have known the truth was dead,” agreed Miss Tilley.
“Which is not the case here,” said Lucy. “You were on the scene.”
“But it’s been so long,” said Miss Tilley.
“Why don’t we give it a try,” coaxed Lucy. “You might be surprised what you remember.”
Chapter Three
Miss Tilley sat primly on the little Victorian sofa with her ankles neatly crossed and gazed out the window, collecting her memories. “Papa was a terribly difficult man to live with,” she began, rubbing the knobby knuckles of one age-spotted hand with the other. “He was always conscious of his position as a judge and believed his own behavior—and that of his family—had to be above reproach.”
“That’s understandable,” said Lucy, with a little smile. “If a judge is going to enforce the law he has to obey it, right? Otherwise he’d be a hypocrite.”
“This went beyond obeying the law,” said Miss Tilley, speaking slowly, her gaze turned inward. “It was as if he believed he had received the rules for acceptable behavior from a Higher Power, rather like Moses receiving the Ten Commandments.” She gave a small, rueful smile. “Only there were a lot more than ten, and Mama and I, and my sister Harriet—she was named for Harriet Tubman—had to follow them to the letter. We all rose at six, except for Mama who got up earlier, and we had to be washed, and combed and dressed, with our beds made and our rooms tidied before breakfast, which was served in the dining room at six-thirty sharp.” She looked at Lucy. “From time to time Papa would conduct a surprise inspection and, oh dear, there was such a fuss if a slipper was left lying on the carpet or the windowsills were dusty.”
“What sort of fuss?” asked Lucy. “My mother says her father used to spank her with a hairbrush.”
“Nothing like that. No hairbrushes. It was worse, really. We’d have to listen to a long lecture on irresponsibility and wickedness and ungratefulness and by the end I would feel absolutely worthless. And, of course, there’d be no breakfast for the sinner who would have to remain in her room to reflect on her crime until Papa decided—or remembered—to let her out.”
“He locked you in your room?”
“He didn’t have to. We simply didn’t dare leave until we’d received permission.”
Lucy, an only child who had always been able to convince her father to grant her every wish, found this hard to understand. “And what about your mother? Did he treat her like that, too?”
“Oh, yes. If Mama failed to live up to his expectations he would scold her, too.” She shook her head. “Looking back it all seems ridiculous. A piece of burnt toast was treated as if you’d burned down the house. It was all out of proportion, but we were so cowed we didn’t realize it. Except for Harriet. She was always more rebellious than I and refused to give up her friends from school—Papa considered them unsuitable companions—even when he threatened to send her away to boarding school. She was convinced that he was too miserly to pay tuition and she was right. Papa predicted she would come to a bad end and I guess she did, at least in his book. She ran away with a young man Papa did not approve of. He was a labor organizer and a big supporter of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and of course Papa believed Franklin Delano Roosevelt and his wife, Eleanor, were earthly embodiments of Satan himself.” She paused and licked her lips. “Especially Eleanor.”
“My great grandfather Tobias thought that, too,” said Lucy. “What happened to Harriet?”
“I’m ashamed to say that I don’t know.”
Lucy was shocked. “You don’t know?”
“No. Papa disowned her and we never heard from her again.” She sighed. “It was a great sadness to my mother. In fact, it was right after Harriet eloped that Mama’s health began to fail and she became bedridden.
“I suspected she had tuberculosis and I knew she was terrified of being sent to a sanatorium. That’s what they did back in those days. They packed people off to the mountains and hoped the good clean air and lots of hearty food would cure them. Mama didn’t want to leave home so she insisted she had woman troubles because all you had to do was say that in those days and everyone changed the subject fast.”
Lucy couldn’t resist chuckling. “It’s not so different now, at least in my house.”
Miss Tilley shook her head. “No. I don’t imagine your home is anything like that. My parents’ house was a house of secrets. When you’re afraid the truth will get you in trouble, you lie. You hide things. Everything becomes dangerous, even ideas, so you keep them to yourself. That’s what happened to us. Mama, Papa, and I became strangers to each other, strangers living in the same house.”
The baby inside her kicked and Lucy placed her hands on her tummy. “A house of secrets and strangers,” she said.
“Exactly,” said Miss Tilley, with a little nod. “But it all changed when Papa hired a nurse to take care of Mama. He resisted for a long time, but when I fell ill, too, the doctor insisted. Papa didn’t like the idea, of course, especially when the doctor recommended a nurse who was obviously Italian. As you’d expect, Papa did not approve of anyone whose name ended with a vowel—and he wasn’t too keen on the Irish either. Angela DeRosa was her name and I’ll never forget it because she was just like an angel to me, and to Mama, too. She was like a breath of fresh air, so efficient, so caring. You felt better the moment she entered your room, you just did. She was young and pretty and sang to herself as she made the beds and spooned out the medicine. But Papa always grumbled about having to pay a nurse as well as a cook and a maid.”
Now we’re getting somewhere, thought Lucy, mentally adding the nurse, the maid, and the cook to the judge as possible suspects. “What was the cook like?”
“Her name was Mrs. Sprout, if you can believe it.” Miss Tilley snorted. “Helen Sprout. She was no angel, that’s for sure. She was big and fat, and grouchy and she slammed around the kitchen, banging pots, and chopping up chickens with a cleaver, and punching the bread dough, and pounding potatoes with a big wooden masher. I stayed clear of her, that’s for sure.”
“Were you afraid of her?”
Miss Tilley reflected. “I guess I was, now that I think about it. There was something out of control about her. She was unpredictable, like a human whirlwind. Plates would break, smoke would billow from the stove, the sink would overflow, things like that were always happening.”
“How was the food?”
“Fine. Really good. It was the oddest thing. You’d think everything would be awful, burned to cinders, but it wasn’t. And after Papa had a taste of her apple pie, why there was no question about letting her go. He loved all her cooking, but especially her pies. That woman certainly had a knack—even Mama’s pie crust wasn’t as flaky as Mrs. Sprout’s.”
“My mother makes good pies,” said Lucy, “and she’s tried to teach me but mine are never as good as hers.” She thought of her father, drifting in and out of consciousness in the hospital, and her mother who was spending every free minute with him and suddenly wanted desperately to talk with them. Later, she promised herself, maybe after dinner when Bill gave Toby his bath. “What about the maid?” she asked.
“Which one?” chuckled Miss Tilley. “We went through quite a few of them, if I remember correctly. There was a Brigid, and several Marys, and a Margaret. They never lasted very long.”
“Your father?”
“Oh, no. He never took any notice of them. It was Mrs. Sprout. She made them work awfully hard. And I think some of them were afraid of Mr. Boott,” said Miss Tilley, giving an involuntary little shudder.
&
nbsp; Lucy’s interest perked up. “Boott? Was he related to the Bootts on Packet Road?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. Kyle is probably his grandnephew. Mr. Boott never married. He was a sort of handyman. He cut the grass and painted the trim and tended the coal furnace and sometimes he drove Mama when she went to see the doctor.”
“Did he have a first name?”
“Oh, yes. Emil.” Miss Tilley paused. “You know, I think that’s why I didn’t like him. I didn’t like his name.”
“Maybe there was some other reason?” prompted Lucy.
“Well, he was a convict, a trusty, from the county jail.”
Lucy’s eyebrows shot up. “A prisoner?”
“Yes. Papa had some arrangement with the sheriff and men from the prison often worked for him. They painted the house, I remember. Things like that.”
“No wonder you were afraid. They must have been in jail for a reason, right?”
“I don’t think Mr. Boott did anything very terrible, or Papa wouldn’t have had him around the house.”
“But he was in jail for a long time, right? So it must have been a fairly serious crime.”
“You’re right, Lucy. I never thought of it that way before. He must have worked for us for at least twenty years and he was a prisoner the whole time.”
“Twenty years is a long sentence,” said Lucy.
“Even for Papa,” said Miss Tilley. “He was tough but he rarely sentenced anyone for more than a year or two at most.” She paused. “Only the very worst criminals, like murderers and embezzlers got long terms. He believed in getting them back to work as fast as possible so the taxpayers wouldn’t have to support them, or their families.”
“Your father sounds like a peach,” said Lucy, sarcastically.
“Speaking of peaches, I almost forgot Miss Peach.”
“Miss Peach?”
“Oh, that wasn’t her real name. That’s what Mama called her, because she was from Georgia. She was my father’s secretary. Miss Katherine Kaiser.”
“It sounds as if your mother was a bit jealous.”
