Farley stooped to peer into her face. “You didn’t set that fire, did you?”
She jerked her head back, as though the words had been a physical blow. “Set it? Marshal, the roof was struck by lightning—I saw it happen!”
“Seems to me something like that would be pretty unlikely,” he mused, rubbing his chin with a thumb and two fingers as he considered the possibilities.
“Oh, really?” Elisabeth demanded, frightened now because the scenario was beginning to go the way she’d feared it would. “Well, it split one of the apple trees in the orchard right down the middle. Maybe you’d like to go and see for yourself.”
“Who are you?” Farley inquired, and Elisabeth was sure he hadn’t heard a word she said. “Where did you come from?”
She swallowed. Jonathan had told various people in the community that she was his late wife’s sister, and now Elisabeth had no choice but to maintain the lie. If—when—she saw him again, she was going to give him hell for getting her into this mess. “My name is Lizzie McCartney, and I was born in Boston,” she said, her chin quivering.
“Yes, I remember that Barbara’s family lived in Boston,” the marshal answered calmly. “If you’ll just give me your father’s name and street address, I’ll get in touch with your family and tell them you’re going to need some help.”
Elisabeth felt the color drain from her face. She couldn’t relay the information the marshal wanted because she didn’t know the answers to his questions. “I’d rather handle this on my own,” she said after a hesitation that was a fraction too long.
The marshal took a watch from the pocket of his trousers, flipped the case open with his thumb and frowned at the time. “Now where do you suppose those Presbyterians are?” he muttered.
“I don’t imagine they’ll be coming by for me at all,” Elisabeth ventured to say, and her throat felt thick because Jonathan and Trista were gone and she might have to live out what was left of her life alone in a strange place. “My guess would be the ladies of Pine River don’t entirely approve of the fact that I’ve been staying in Jonathan’s house.”
“Well, you’d better get some sleep. You can bunk in there, on the cot.” He pointed toward the cell and Elisabeth shuddered to think of some of the types who might have used it before her. “In the morning, we’ll contact your people.”
Elisabeth was shaking, and not in her wildest imaginings would she have expected to sleep, but she went obediently into the cell all the same. When the marshal had blown out all the lamps and disappeared into his own undoubtedly humble quarters out back, she stripped off the wet nightgown, wrapped herself tightly in the blanket and laid down on the rickety bed.
Two sleepless hours passed, during which Elisabeth alternately listened for Jonathan to storm the citadel and cried because she knew the twentieth century would never surrender him. She was tortured by worries about how he was faring and whether he and Trista had been hurt or not. Jonathan was a doctor and an extremely intelligent man, but Elisabeth wasn’t sure he’d know how to get help in her world.
What if Jonathan and Trista were in pain? What if they weren’t in the twentieth century at all, but some weird place in between? Worst of all, what if they had died in the fire and their remains simply hadn’t been found yet?
The cell was brimming with sunshine when the marshal appeared, bearing an ugly brown calico dress in one hand. “You can put this on,” he said, shoving it through the bars. Actually, he looked rather handsome in an Old West sort of way, with his brown hair brushed shiny, his jaw shaved and his substantial mustache trimmed.
“At least have the courtesy to turn your back,” Elisabeth said, rising awkwardly in her scratchy blanket to reach for the garment.
Farley obliged, folding his beefy arms in front of his chest. “Looks like you’ll be staying with us for a while,” he said with a sort of grim heartiness. “I had a talk with Jon’s housekeeper, and she managed to find some family papers in the part of the house that didn’t burn. Then I sent a telegram to Barbara’s family, back there in Massachusetts. They wired me that they never had a daughter named Lizzie.”
Elisabeth felt panic sweeping her toward the edge like a giant broom, but somehow she contrived to keep her voice even. “I guess I’m just lucky I didn’t end up in the 1600s,” she said, pulling on the charity dress and fastening the buttons. The thing was a good three sizes too big. “They probably would have burned me at the stake as a witch.”
“I’d be careful about how I talked,” Farley advised, turning around to face her. “The people around here don’t hold much with witches and the like.”
“I don’t imagine they do,” Elisabeth remarked sweetly, wondering how the heck she was going to get out of this one. “Tell me, whose dress is this?”
“Belongs to Big Lil over at the Phifer Hotel. She’s the cook.”
“And she’s in the habit of lending her clothes to prisoners?”
Farley’s powerful shoulders moved in an offhanded shrug. “Not really. I believe she left that here the last time I had to run her in for disturbing the peace.”
Elisabeth gripped the bars in both hands and peered through with guileless eyes. “I hardly dare ask what Big Lil was wearing when she left.”
To her satisfaction, the marshal’s neck went a dull red, and he averted his eyes for a moment. “She had her daughter bring her some things,” he mumbled.
If it hadn’t been for the gravity of her situation and all the dreadful possibilities she was holding at bay, Elisabeth might have smiled. As it was, her sense of humor was strained to the breaking point.
“Exactly what am I charged with?” she asked as Farley went to the stove and touched the big enamel coffeepot with an inquiring finger. “You can’t pin a murder on somebody if there aren’t any bodies.”
Farley stared at her, looking bewildered and just a touch sick. “What makes you so sure we didn’t find…remains?”
He’d never buy the truth, of course. “I just know,” Elisabeth said with a little shrug. She wriggled her eyebrows. “Maybe I am a witch.”
The marshal hooked his thumbs under his suspenders and regarded Elisabeth somberly. “What did you do with them? Drop ’em down the well? Dump ’em into the river?”
Elisabeth spread her hands wide of her body and the horrendous brown dress that was practically swallowing her. “Do I look big enough to overcome a man Jonathan’s size?”
Farley arched an eyebrow. “You could have poisoned him or hit him over the head. As for disposing of the bodies, you might even have had an accomplice.”
Knowing the townspeople were going to believe some version of that story, Elisabeth cringed inwardly. Still, she had to at least try to save her skin. “What motive would I have for doing that?”
“What motive did you have for lying about who you are?” Farley countered, rapid-fire. “I’ll bet you lied to Jonathan, too—told him you were family, so to speak. He took you in, and you repaid him by—”
“Before you whip out a violin,” Elisabeth interrupted, “let me say that Jonathan does know who I am. And telling people I was Barbara’s sister was his idea, not mine.”
“Unfortunately, we don’t have anybody’s word for that but yours. And it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference if we did.” He came to the cell door and glared at her through the bars, his hands gripping the black iron so hard that his knuckles went white. “What did you do to Dr. Fortner and his little girl?”
Elisabeth backed away from the bars because, suddenly, Farley looked fierce. “Damn it, I didn’t do anything to them,” she whispered. “To me, Jonathan and Trista are the most important people in the world!”
Glowering, Farley turned away. “Big Lil will be by with your breakfast pretty soon,” he said, taking a gun belt down from a hook on the wall and strapping it on with disturbing deftness. “See you don’t try to escape or anything. Lil is mean as a wet badger and tall enough to waltz with a bear.”
Again, Elisabeth had the feeling th
at she would have been amused, if her circumstances hadn’t been so dire. “I’ll be sure I don’t try to dance with her,” she replied, slumping forlornly on the edge of the cot.
Farley gave her a look over one broad shoulder and walked out, calmly closing the door behind him.
Elisabeth cupped her chin in her hands and tried to remember if the Pine River Bugle had said anything about a lynch mob. “Jonathan,” she whispered, “where are you?”
When the door slammed open a few minutes later, however, it wasn’t Jonathan filling the chasm. In fact, it could only have been Big Lil, so tall and broadly built was this woman who strode in, carrying a basket covered with a checked table napkin. She wore trousers, boots, suspenders and a rough-spun shirt. Her gray hair was tied back into a severe knot at the nape of her neck.
It occurred to Elisabeth that Big Lil might begrudge her the calico dress, and she reached back to pull the garment tight with one hand, hoping that effort would disguise it.
Big Lil fetched a ring of keys from the desk, unlocked the door and brought the basket into the cell. Her regard was neither friendly nor condemning, but merely steady. “So, you’re the little lady what roasted the doctor like a trussed turkey,” she said.
Elisabeth’s appetite fled, and she swallowed vile-tasting liquid as she stared at the covered food. She jutted out her chin and glared defiantly at Big Lil, refusing to dignify the remark with an answer.
Big Lil gave a raucous, crowing laugh, then went out of the cell and locked the door again. “Folks around here liked the doc,” she said. “I don’t reckon they’ll take kindly to what you did.”
Still, Elisabeth was silent, keeping her eyes fixed on the wall opposite her cot until she heard the door close behind the obnoxious woman.
Elisabeth was in the worst fix of her life, but in the next few moments, her appetite returned, wooed back by the luscious smells coming from inside the basket. She pushed aside the napkin to find hot buttered biscuits inside, along with two pieces of fried chicken and a wedge of goopy cherry pie.
She consumed the biscuits, then the chicken and half the piece of pie before Farley returned, followed by a hard-looking woman with dark hair, small, mean eyes and a pockmarked complexion.
“This is Mrs. Bernard,” Farley said, cocking his thumb toward the lady. “She’s a Presbyterian.”
At last, Elisabeth thought, the lynch mob.
Mrs. Bernard stood at a judicious distance from the bars and told Elisabeth in on uncertain terms how God dealt harshly with harlots and liars and had no mercy at all for murderers.
Elisabeth’s rage drew her up off the cot and made her stand tall, like a puppet with its strings pulled too tight. “There will certainly be no need to bring in a judge and try me fairly,” she said. “This good woman apparently feels competent to pronounce sentence herself.”
Mrs. Bernard’s face turned an ugly, mottled red. “Jonathan Fortner was a fine man,” she said after a long, bitter silence. She pulled a handkerchief from under her sleeve and dabbed at her beady eyes with it.
“I know that, Mrs. Bernard,” Elisabeth replied evenly. The marshal made something of a clatter as he went about his business at the desk, opening drawers and shuffling papers and books.
“Which is not to say he didn’t make his share of errors in judgment,” the woman went on, as if Elisabeth hadn’t spoken. She snuffled loudly. “In any case, the Ladies’ Aid Society wishes to extend Christian benevolence. For that reason, I’ll be bringing by some decent clothes for you to wear, and some of my companions will drop in to explain the wages of sin.”
Elisabeth let her forehead rest against the cold bars. “And I thought I didn’t have anything but a hanging to look forward to,” she sighed.
If Mrs. Bernard heard, she gave no response. She merely said a stiff goodbye to the marshal and went out.
“If you’ll just bring a doctor in from Seattle,” Elisabeth said, “he’ll testify that human bones can’t be destroyed in an ordinary house fire and you’ll have to let me go.”
“I’m not letting you go until you tell me what you did with the doc and that poor little girl of his,” Farley replied, and although he didn’t look up from his paperwork, Elisabeth saw his fist tighten around his nibbed pen.
“Well, at least send someone out to look for my necklace,” Elisabeth persisted, but the situation was hopeless and she knew it. Farley simply wasn’t listening.
CHAPTER 15
It was the second week in July before the circuit judge showed up to conduct Elisabeth’s trial, and by that time, she’d lost all hope that Jonathan and Trista would ever return. The townspeople were spoiling for a hanging, and even Elisabeth’s defense attorney, a smarmy little man in an ill-fitting suit, made it clear that he would have preferred working for the prosecution.
If it hadn’t been for the child nature was knitting together beneath her heart, Elisabeth wouldn’t have minded dying so much. After all, she was in a harsh and unfamiliar century, separated from practically everyone who mattered to her, and even if she managed to be acquitted of killing Jonathan and Trista, she would always be an outcast.
And she would probably be convicted.
The thought of the innocent baby dying with her tightened her throat and made her stomach twist as she sat beside her lawyer in the stuffy courtroom—which was really the schoolhouse with the desks all pushed against the walls.
The judge occupied the teacher’s place, and there was nothing about his appearance or manner to reassure Elisabeth. In fact, his eyes were red rimmed, and the skin of his face settled awkwardly over his bones, like a garment that was too large. The thousands of tiny purple-and-red veins in his nose said even more about the state of his character.
“This court will now come to order,” he said in a booming voice, after clearing his throat.
Elisabeth shifted uncomfortably in her chair beside Mr. Rodcliff, her attorney, recalling her reflection in the jailhouse mirror that morning. Her blond hair had fallen loose around her shoulders, her face looked pallid and gaunt, and there were purple smudges under her eyes.
She was the very picture of guilt.
Farley stood over by the wainscotted wall, slicked up for the big day, his hat in his hands. He caught Elisabeth’s eye and gave a slight nod, as if to offer encouragement.
She looked away, knowing Farley’s real feelings. He wanted to see her dangle, because he believed she’d willfully murdered his friend.
The first witness called to the stand was Ellen, Jonathan’s erstwhile housekeeper. Tearfully, the plain woman told how Elisabeth had just appeared one day, seemingly out of nowhere, and somehow managed to bewitch the poor doctor.
Mr. Rodcliff asked a few cursory questions when his turn came, then sat down again.
Elisabeth folded her arms and sat back in her chair, biting down hard on her lower lip. Vera was the next to testify, saying Trista had told her some very strange things about Elisabeth—that she was really an angel come from heaven, and that she had a magic necklace and played queer music on the piano and claimed to know exactly what the world would be like in a hundred years.
Mr. Rodcliff gave Elisabeth an accusing sidelong glance, as if to ask how she expected him to defend her against such charges. When the prosecuting attorney sat down behind his table, Elisabeth’s lawyer rose with a defeated sigh and told the judge he had nothing to say.
Elisabeth watched a fly buzzing doggedly against one of the heavy windows and empathized. She felt hot and ugly in her brown dress, and even though she’d borrowed a needle and thread from Farley and taken tucks in it, it still fit badly.
Hearing Farley’s name called, Elisabeth jerked her attention back to the front of the room. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, though his gaze swept over the jury of six men lined up under the world map. He cleared his throat before repeating the oath, then testified that he’d been summoned to the Fortner farm, along with the volunteer fire department, by one of Efriam Lute’s sons, who’d awakened because the lives
tock was fretful and seen the flames.
When he’d arrived, Farley said, he immediately tried to get up the main staircase, knowing the members of the household would be sleeping, it being the middle of the night and all. He allowed as how his way had been blocked by flames and smoke, so he’d tried both the other sets of stairs and met with the same frustration. He had, however, found Miss Lizzie half-conscious in the kitchen and had carried her out.
It was only later, he related, when she began saying odd things, that he started to suspect that something was wrong. When he’d learned she was lying about her identity, he’d filed charges.
While Farley talked, Elisabeth stared at him, and he began to squirm in his chair.
Mr. Rodcliff didn’t even bother to offer a question when he was given the opportunity and, at last, Elisabeth was called to the stand. She was terrified, but she stood and walked with regal grace to the front of the crowded schoolroom and laid her left hand on the offered Bible, raising her right.
Benches had been brought in for the spectators, and the place was packed with them. The smell of sweat made Elisabeth want to gag.
“Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?” asked the bailiff, who was really Marvin Hites, the man who ran the general store.
“I do,” Elisabeth said clearly, even though she knew she couldn’t tell the “whole truth” because these relatively primitive minds would never be able to absorb it. She would be committed, and Elisabeth’s limited knowledge of nineteenth-century mental hospitals told her it would be better to hang.
There followed a long inquisition, during which Elisabeth was asked who she was. “Lizzie” was the only answer she would give to that. She was asked where she came from, and she said Seattle, which caused murmurs of skepticism among the lookers-on.
Finally, the prosecutor inquired as to whether Elisabeth had in fact “ignited the blazes that consumed one Dr. Jonathan Fortner and his small daughter, Trista.”
The question, even though Elisabeth had expected it, outraged her. “No,” she said reasonably, but inside she was screaming her anger and her innocence. “I loved Dr. Fortner. He and I were planning to be married.”
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