Goodfellowe House

by Persia Walker

  I shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Decided to come back and write my column. Want to see it?”

  “Of course.”

  I handed it to him. He sat at a neighboring desk and started to read it. After about a minute, he looked up with a worried frown.

  “Are you talking about Sexton Whitfield? The Sexton Whitfield?”

  “Yup,” I said, tensing for his reaction.

  He took a deep breath, held it for a moment and let it out slowly.

  “You sure about this, Lanie?”

  “More than you’ll ever know.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’m sure. That’s all. I’m sure.”

  Sam read further, the furrow between his brows deepening. “Do you have any idea how big this man is?”

  I nodded.

  “You’ve spoken to him?”

  “He denied everything.” I tapped the pages. “It’s all in there.”

  Sam finished reading the draft. He reflected. “You’ve done a lot. No doubt about it. You’ve covered more ground in a couple of days than the cops did in weeks. But you’re heading into deep water. And you don’t have the evidence to back it up, do you?”

  I bit my lip. “I don’t name him.”

  “Thank God for small favors.” He heaved another deep sigh. “I’d like you to choose another topic.”

  “Sam—”

  “We need something upbeat.”

  “We’ve been through all that.”

  “For goodness’ sakes, it’s Christmastime. Nobody wants to read about a kidnapping case that’s three years old. And, if we write about this one, then we’ll have a stream of people standing at the door, wondering why we don’t write about their lost relatives, too.”

  “It’s a good question.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” I said. “Why aren’t we writing about the things that matter?”

  Sam blinked as if he hadn’t heard right. I wanted to reach out and smooth his worry lines away. But I couldn’t. I was the cause of them. He laid my copy aside and drew his chair close to mine, very close.

  “Look,” he said in an intimate voice of puzzled concern. “You’ve told me how you fought for this social column. Now, tell me why you’re willing to throw it all away.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Remember what you said. You told me you told the paper that too much attention was being paid to the bad things happening in our community, that more should be written about the dignity of our people.”

  “And I still believe that. Esther Todd was a dignified and talented woman. If crime hadn’t intervened, she might’ve well developed into one of those professionals I write about. Her story could be the story of any one of our people. But Sam, we’ve already been over this. If we’re going to disagree, let it be over how I write the topic—not the topic itself. You gave me the go-ahead. Twice.”

  “God help me, I sure did. But I also said I’d reserve final approval upon review of your copy.” He gestured to the typewritten sheets of paper. “This could get us into some deep shit.”

  “Exactly. But since when have you been afraid of stepping in shit? Good reporters don’t mind getting covered in it.”

  “That’s fine when you’re a foot soldier in the trenches.”

  “Oh, but when you’re the general, you want to stay clean—”

  “You don’t waste ammunition—and you don’t send in troops without hard proof.”

  “What troops? It’s just me.”

  He paused, then said in a soft voice, “If this baby misfires, it’s the whole battalion.” He gazed at me. “On something this big, we stand or die together.”

  I thought about it. I did. I gave it a good hard thinking about, but then I shook my head. “Sam, I’m sorry. But I can’t just let this go. It wouldn’t be right. He killed Esther — or had her killed — and so far, he’s gotten away with it.”

  He was quiet.

  “Sam?” I whispered, “it’s a good story and you know it.”

  He took a deep breath, then took up the copy and slowly read it through again. By the time he was finished, he was shaking his head. “You can’t back this stuff up.”

  “I have sources—”

  “But none of them would climb out on a limb for you, right? Not a single one of them would speak up if necessary.”

  “No,” I conceded. “They wouldn’t.”

  He sighed and tossed the sheets down. Leaning back, he rubbed his eyes. The circles under his eyes were pronounced. He was about to spike this story, all because he didn’t want to rock the boat. In a flash of skepticism, I spoke quickly.

  “Look at it this way: If nothing else, the story will increase sales.”

  He straightened up and gave me a look that said I’d gone too far. “Is that all you think I care about?”

  “I think it’s one of your concerns. Yes.”

  He looked frustrated, perhaps even bitter.

  I started to apologize. “Sam, I—”

  “It’s okay, Lanie. I know where you’re coming from. I’ve been there myself.”

  His eyes reflected an old pain. I felt a twinge of guilt. My comment about him, while containing some truth, had been unfair. Worse, it had tapped a wound, one that apparently went deep. I knew so little about him. At that moment, it struck me how little.

  He studied me, but after a while, it seemed as though his thoughts had moved elsewhere. His expression became distant, as though he was remembering something, something bad maybe, an experience that went well beyond the facile description of his life he’d given at the Bamboo Inn.

  “Lanie, I want you to know something.” His gaze refocused on me. “I love working at this paper, so don’t take me wrong, but the fact is … I took this job because it was all I could get.” His eyes searched mine. “Do you understand?”

  “I …” No, I didn’t understand. In fact, I was stunned. A man of Sam’s talents taking a position because it was the only thing offered? At the same time, his job at the Chronicle wasn’t all that bad. What other jobs or opportunities had he lost that would seem so much better?

  “I’m attracted to you,” he continued, “because I understand you. Believe it or not, I used to be just like you—impulsive, determined to uncover the truth at all costs, indifferent to the power of those who could hurt me—but I paid a high price for it.”

  I started to ask how, but he raised a hand to ward off a question.

  “I won’t go into the details. Now’s not the time. But this much I can tell you. You don’t want to go where I’ve been. You don’t want to crawl so far out on a limb that you make it easy—easy, do you hear?—for your enemies to cut it out from under you. Understand?”

  I nodded.

  He tapped my printed pages. “If we print this, we’re in for a rough ride. Are you ready for it?”

  My gaze flicked to the papers, then went back to him. “Without a doubt.”

  Another moment of consideration, then he blew out his breath and gave me a grim smile.

  “Well, okay then. Let’s do it.”

  Chapter 22

  Sam took me home. I told him he didn’t have to, but it was nearly two in the morning and he insisted. I have to admit his protective presence made me feel better.

  “Listen,” he said, as we drove, “I have some tickets to the Savoy. Actually, I got ‘em for a friend of mine, for him and his wife, but now he says they can’t go. I just wondered, you know, whether, uh …”

  “When?” Where was that promise I’d made myself earlier?

  “Tonight.”

  Talk about short notice.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Okay.”

  “Swell.” His smile was nice to see. “Show’s at eight. I’ll pick you up at half-past seven?”

  I gave a little nod.

  Still smiling, he pulled up to my house. I wanted to smile, too, but seeing my house again gave me the willies.

  Sam escorted me up the stairs
, ready to say good-bye at my front door, but then he saw how I fumbled with my keys. He gave me a curious look and said, “Let me.” I handed him the keys and pointed out which two opened the outer and inner doors. He unlocked both easily and handed me my keys. “You sleep tight, now. I’ll see y—”

  “Want to come in for a moment?”

  He blinked, obviously puzzled and surprised. “Okay.”

  “Go on in.”

  He gave me another uncertain glance, then stepped inside and flicked on the vestibule light.

  “Wow,” he said, looking around. “This is lovely.” He turned to see me hesitating on the threshold. “Are you all right?”

  The stairway I’d so loved now appeared to be menacing. Esther’s kidnapper had climbed those stairs and waited for me. He’d broken into my home, my sanctuary. Had he gone through the house, touched my belongings? A shiver ran through me. Would I ever feel safe here again?

  “Lanie?”

  “Oh, yes, of course.”

  I forced myself to step inside. My skin prickled with fear. Everything looked calm and clear, but that’s how it had looked before.

  The locks would have to be changed.

  It struck me that whoever broke in had done an excellent job of picking the lock. I hadn’t noticed any scratches or damage. When I’d slipped in the key, I’d felt no misalignment that might’ve tipped me off and Sam hadn’t noticed anything either. Thinking about it, I nearly turned back to double-check it, but caught myself.

  Sam was watching.

  I put on a bright smile. “Thanks for bringing me home.”

  “No problem.”

  He flashed a smile too, but his eyes said he suspected that something was wrong. “Lanie, are you all right?”

  “Yeah, everything’s jake. Would you like a cup of tea or hot chocolate?” I couldn’t stand the thought of being alone in the house, not then.

  He shook his head and I felt disappointed.

  “But I’d appreciate a glass of water.”

  “Okay,” I said with relief.

  I showed him in to the parlor.

  “No Christmas tree?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  He gave the parlor an admiring look. “It’s nice, though. Real nice. You and your husband, you bought it together?”

  I nodded.

  “Could I use your bathroom?”

  “It’s downstairs in the back. Follow me.” I led the way and showed him to the bathroom door. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  I went to get a glass from the leaning cabinet. My gaze touched Hamp’s open leather tool kit.

  “I’ll fix it for you, hon. Make a start tonight.”

  “Not tonight, Hamp. It’s late and I don’t want noise and a whole lot of mess.”

  “I’m not going to be making a lot of noise. And I sure won’t be making no mess. You worried about a mess? You just put a whole lot of glasses or china in there and watch it all fall out.”

  “Lanie?”

  I jumped at the sound of Sam’s voice and turned to find him standing in the doorway. Seeing him there was a shock. He was the first man to enter my kitchen in years.

  “You sure you’re all right?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. Why?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. You just had this faraway look in your eyes. Daydreaming?”

  I took the glass down, closed the cabinet door. “Sort of.” Then I went to the sink, turned on the cold water to let it run. He came and stood next to me. For several seconds, he studied my profile, then his gaze shifted to the cabinet.

  “What happened there? Looks like it’s going to fall down any minute.”

  “It was like that when we bought the house.”

  He gestured toward Hamp’s tool kit. “Nice set. You got somebody fixing the cabinet for you?”

  “I’m going to fix it myself. The tools were my husband’s. He started to fix the cabinet, but he, uh …” My throat tightened. “He went out to buy some nails and he …”

  “That’s when he had the heart attack?”

  I nodded, holding his glass under the faucet.

  “Out on the street?” Sam asked.

  I handed him the glass. “People thought he was drunk. They stepped right over him.” There’d been a bruise on his stomach. Someone had even kicked him.

  Sam touched me on the elbow. His fingertips were warm and their light touch incredibly intimate. I could feel part of me waking to him, a part that had been asleep for a long time, three years to be exact.

  He walked over to the tilted cabinet and eyed it. I picked up his glass and followed him. He accepted his drink, thanked me and took a sip. He nodded at the cabinet.

  “Do you mind?”

  I shook my head.

  He opened the cabinet door, looked at the shelves, then closed it and peered at the cabinet from the side, studying the loose nails.

  “One of these days, this thing’s going to come crashing down. Those nails don’t look like they’ve got another week in them.”

  “They’ve been like that for three years. More, actually.”

  He raised an eyebrow, not wanting to argue. He was right, but I didn’t want to agree with him. His glance fell on the tools and he reached for them. Without thinking, I stuck my hand out, covering them. It was rude and childish, and at his expression, I felt ashamed.

  “Sorry.”

  “No, no. It’s okay,” he said. “I should’ve known better.”

  But I felt terrible at the look in his eyes.

  He took a step back. “If you want, I could fix the cabinet for you. Build you some more.”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  “It wouldn’t be a problem. I’m good with my hands.” He paused a beat. “And I’d bring my own tools.”

  I averted my eyes and shook my head, no.

  “All right, Lanie.” He sounded tired. He went back to the sink and set his glass down. “Good night.” He started out, up the stairs to the parlor floor.

  I ran after him. “Sam!”

  He continued up the stairs and went to the front door, where he paused with a hand on the doorknob.

  “Please, don’t be angry,” I said.

  He gave me one of his gentle smiles. “I’m not. It would take more than that to anger me.” He cupped my chin. “Now you take care. And lock up. I’ll see you in the morning.” He kissed me lightly on the lips and was gone.

  For several long seconds, I stood in the doorway, watching his car drive away. Finally, I closed the door and turned to face the house.

  It had never seemed so empty. Not since the night Hamp died.

  Once more, my gaze traveled up the stairway. I wouldn’t go up there. Not that night.

  That night, I would sleep on the sofa.

  Chapter 23

  The next morning, at five minutes after nine, the phone on my office desk rang. I was bleary-eyed and bone-tired after a night of nightmares on the sofa, so I wasn’t at my sharpest when I reached for the receiver. But the mental fog cleared fast when the caller identified himself.

  “The name’s Echo,” he said. “Mister Echo. Special Assistant to Mr. Whitfield, of the Internal Revenue.”

  I felt the shock of fear. What did he want now?

  He continued blithely. “This call is to inform you that we will be examining your returns for the last four years.”

  I was so stunned, I couldn’t answer. Last night, he’d attacked me in my own home. He’d put a knife to my throat. Now, he was calling me at work and in the most civilized voice, threatening me with an audit. Scared or not, I had to speak up.

  “How dare you! After what you did last night, how da—”

  “Madam, Mr. Echo hasn’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. This is a courtesy call.”

  Courtesy? I almost laughed out loud. Not that there was anything funny about this. It was insane and cruel. It clarified what Hilda and Mabel had warned me about—and what Esther had tried to escape.

  “Mrs. P
rice? You do understand what I’m saying?”

  Oh, I understood all right. “You can tell your boss that—”

  “We want to see everything you have from 1922 onward,” the silken voice said. “For now, of course, it’s just a review.”

  “This will not work. This will not stop me—”

  “Now, a review could be all—or nothing. It depends on what we find. The decision to audit, to dig deeper, if you will—that would come from him.”

  To hear his tone, you’d think he was referring to God.

  He got downright chummy. “You know, he only has Mr. Echo make these kinds of calls on cases he really cares about.”

  “Put him on the line.”

  “No can do. He’s very busy.” The sound of papers being rifled came down the line. “You’re a journalist?”

  “You know I am.”

  “That’s nice. Got a column to write? Your deadline is today?”

  “As a matter-of-fact, it is.” No need to mention that the column was already filed.

  “Well, you’re going to have to miss it. We need your bills, receipts, checks, salary statements, etc. And we need it all today. We’re especially interested in your 1923 returns.”

  Why ‘23? I wondered. Then it hit me, with a chill. Those returns would’ve been filed in ’24. That was the year I’d been so preoccupied, first with my mother’s illness and death and then the struggle to find a new job.

  Had I even filed returns for ‘23?

  Might stomach knotted.

  Probably not, if they were asking for them. That meant they’d already done some checking. They’d gone looking for something to use against me, and thought they’d found it.

  He was waiting for my response, for me to beg for more time, if not outright mercy. Realizing that I wasn’t about to give him the pleasure, he continued, his tone less silken and much more spiteful.

  “Mr. Echo suggests you forget about that deadline. Do you hear? If you don’t, you’ll have to forget about your column, period.”

  He had some nerve.

  “Would you deliver a message?” I asked.

  “Why, of course.” He sounded surprised at the civility of my tone. To be honest, so was I.