by Rodney Jones
“Would you recognize that dress were you to see it again?”
“What?” Hugh’s features twisted in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“The dress, Mr. Stewart. Would you recognize it?”
Hugh dropped his head into his hands. “I didn’t do anything to her. I swear I didn’t.”
Mr. Morse tilted his head and frowned. “Pardon me?”
“It was raining. I was just going to give her a ride is all.”
“The dress, Mr. Stewart. We’re talking about the blue dress here.”
“Yes, I saw her. So did everyone.”
I couldn’t make sense of what Hugh was saying. He seemed to have a couple of different stories crisscrossed.
Charles appeared equally perplexed. “So you would recognize that dress if you saw it again?”
“I told them, but no one believed me.” Hugh shook his head.
“The dress, Mr. Stewart. The dress that Miss McKinnon was wearing, would you recognize it?”
“Yes, I recognized it. But why is she after me?” Hugh raised his hands and held them out in a pleading gesture. “I never hurt her.”
Scratching at his sideburn, Mr. Morse turned and stepped up to the judge’s bench. “Sir, it seems that Mr. Stewart doesn’t understand my question. I’d like to give him a few minutes to think about it while I ask the sheriff a question, if I may.”
“You’d already questioned the sheriff, Mr. Morse.”
“Right, sir, as a witness for the prosecution. I’d like to question him as a witness for the defense.”
“That’s preposterous.” Buckhurst jumped up out of his seat. “He can’t be a witness for both sides.”
The judge sat back in his chair. “Mr. Buckhurst, I’m sufficiently aware of proper court procedures. I don’t need a lesson from you. Sit down.” He leaned forward, riffled through a stack of papers, then took a pen and scribbled something. “I’m sure the sheriff won’t mind answering another question or two for you, Mr. Morse.” He looked out at the gallery. “Mr. McNeil, would you please take the seat here?” He pointed toward the witness box.
The sheriff leaned over the rail and whispered something to Mr. Buckhurst. After a hushed exchange, he said, “Yes, Your Honor.”
As he sank into the witness chair, the judge reminded him that he was still under oath.
“I’m a lawman, sir. Far as I’m concerned, I am always under oath.”
The judge closed his eyes and moved his lips as if praying.
“Sir,” Mr. Morse said, “on the morning you arrested Mr. Bartley, did you see Miss McKinnon’s corpse?”
“Of course I did. And you’ve heard Randall and Hugh both testify that she was there, that she’d been murdered by this deceitful…” He turned. I felt the heat of hatred in his eyes.
“You seemed to have heard something different than what I and the rest of the court heard, sir.”
“Hardly matters now, don’t it? He’ll hang no matter what I heard.”
“Mr. McNeil,” the judge said, “please, just answer the questions.”
“I thought I was, sir.”
The judge took a deep breath. “Mr. Morse, continue.”
“The gal’s corpse… can you describe what you saw?”
“She was dead, Charles. I saw a poor, innocent dead gal, couldn’t be no more than thirteen years old.”
“Can you tell the court how she was dressed?”
“She had on a blue dress, just like Hugh and Randall had already made clear.”
The dress, loosely wrapped in the paper it had arrived in, was on my lap, concealed under the table. My mind was a world away, though. I pictured Tess standing on the porch of the Railroad House Inn, greeting me as I came up the steps, that reassuring smile in her eyes. It was as if she were right there, standing next to me. I could smell her. I resisted the urge to lift that package to my nose.
Morse didn’t pause. “Do you recall any details about the dress?”
“Other than it being blue?”
“Such as the condition of the dress?”
“It looked fine to me.” Sheriff McNeil’s eyes shifted a little. “A bit dirty, I reckon. Wrinkled some.”
“Do you recall seeing blood on the dress?”
The sheriff reached up and twisted the end of his mustache. He glanced toward the prosecutor, who shrugged. “Of course there was blood from where John Bartley shot her… down the front.”
Charles stepped over to our table. I lifted the bundle and handed it to him. He returned to the witness box, removed the brown paper wrapping, and let the dress fall open. A rustle of fabric, feet shuffling, and a hush of whispers came from the gallery. The sheriff straightened and stared at the dress.
Morse held the dress by the shoulders. “Does this dress look anything like the one she was wearing, sir?”
“My God, what’d you do, dig her up?”
“Could you please just answer the question?”
McNeil glared at Morse, and his nostrils flared. “Well, yeah, that’s what she was a-wearin’, and there’s the hole from the bullet Mr. Bartley put in her.”
“This little hole here?” Charles pointed at a dark spot below the collar, the same bloodstained hole that McNeil had shoved his finger through the day I was arrested.
“Oh, it’s a sight I’ll never shake from my mind.” The sheriff closed his eyes and shook his head. “Horrible.”
“It appears she was standing when she was shot. Wouldn’t you agree, sir?”
“Well, of course she was standing.”
“Yet there are no bloodstains around the collar,” Morse pointed out. “What do you make of that?”
“There wouldn’t be ’cause she was shot in the chest, square in the heart.”
“You don’t find that odd, Mr. McNeil?”
The gallery seemed to wake up all at once. The prosecutor was staring at the dress, his mouth hanging open.
As it dawned on the sheriff what Mr. Morse was implying, his eyes narrowed to thin slits. He drew in a breath and said, “It seems Mr. Pickett owes us an explanation.”
Randall Shaw sprang up from his seat. “He did it.” He jabbed a finger toward the sheriff. “He killed her.”
“Sit down, son,” Hugh’s pa shouted.
“Hugh and I both saw her. She told us it was him.”
“Sit down.” Mr. Stewart grabbed Randall’s arm and pulled him down into his seat.
The whispers from the gallery broke out into a rumble of voices competing to be heard. I turned in my chair. My aunt, my brother, and my sister gave me wide-eyed looks.
“Quiet! Quiet!” The judge raised his mallet. Bam! Bam! Bam! “Sit down.” He pointed at a man hurrying toward the front doors. “Mr. Pickett, get back here. You are under arrest for perjury and fraud.”
Joe Ferguson, sitting in an aisle seat not far from the doors, stuck out his foot. Mr. Pickett tripped and tumbled to the floor.
“What difference does it make whether she was shot in the head or the foot?” the sheriff yelled. “If she’s dead, she’s dead.”
“And you, sir, are still under oath,” the judge said. “Quiet. Everyone.” Bam! Bam! Bam!
Within a few hours, the whole ordeal was over. I was acquitted, and the sheriff and the county coroner were on their way to jail. The coroner had confessed that, during the four days in which he and the sheriff were supposedly in Greendale to examine Tess’s body, they were actually in White River Junction. There, the coroner attempted to satiate his appetite for whiskey while the sheriff paid a visit to a lady friend who was in the business of being a lady friend.
Randall testified again and suggested that the fire at the mill may have been caused by an errant spark from the lighting of the torches, which the sheriff and his posse had carried in their pursuit of Tess. He admitted to having suffered the g
uilt of this suspicion since the night of the fire, but Hugh and his pa had warned of dire consequences should his “misguided perceptions” be spread any further. The Stewarts faced charges of contempt and withholding evidence. They were ordered to provide restitution to Uncle Ed and me for our loss of income resulting from the destruction of the mill.
I left the courthouse with my sister and my brother. Stepping out onto the front steps, I paused for a moment and peered up into the blue sky to offer a silent thank you. I turned and looked down the street. Beams of golden sunlight streamed down through the maples. Their leaves glowed like bits of stained glass—yellows, greens, and reds.
Uncle Ed had just been released. A bunch of us gathered out in front of the jailhouse. My brother had gone on ahead to Cousin Eli’s farm, where we would soon meet up with him.
Morse clapped me on the back. “When are y’all going back to Greendale?”
“In the mornin’,” Aunt Lil said. “We’ll be staying the night at my cousin’s place, south of town here. You’re all more than welcome to join us there for supper.” She let out a deep sigh. “I just can’t hardly believe it. Here it was, only a week ago, I thought I’d lost everything.” Uncle Ed gently patted her on the back.
“I’m so sorry about the hardships you all were put through,” Mrs. McNeil said.
“Well,” Aunt Lil replied, “it would’ve been unbearable if not for your kindnesses. Will you be all right, hon?”
Mrs. McNeil closed her eyes then straightened. “Oh, don’t worry yourself about me. Really, Henry… well, I’ve suspected for some time. He got exactly what he deserved.”
I offered my hand to Mr. Morse. “Will you be joining us?”
“I appreciate the invitation, but I’ve already accepted an invite for supper.” He glanced at Mrs. McNeil.
Uncle Ed chuckled. “Sir, I’m sure it was obvious I didn’t have a great deal of confidence in your talents as a lawyer. I now regret that I missed the show.”
“I can assure you that it wouldn’t have increased your confidence any. If it wasn’t for that dress showing up…”
“Where’d that come from?” Mrs. McNeil asked.
“Same place the medicine did,” I said. I couldn’t shake the suspicion that my angel, Jack White, was guiding me back to Tess.
“Somebody risked their soul on your behalf,” my aunt said.
I smiled. “Did they?”
“I don’t know,” Uncle Ed said. “Sometimes it’s more of a sin not to sin.”
We rolled out of town on South Street. Uncle Ed was up on the driver’s bench. Squeezed between him and Sarah, Aunt Lil went on about the trial, filling him in on details he’d missed. I sat in the back of the wagon, gazing out over the tailgate and watching the village disappear behind us. I was enjoying the taste of freedom as though I’d never known it before. I pictured myself riding up Greendale Road, headed for the ribbon place. I’d knock on Tess’s door, and there she’d appear with that mischievous grin of hers. In reality, it would probably be the snarling face of our first encounter, but I didn’t care. My biggest concern was how I’d manage to keep a straight face.
About half of a mile south of town, we passed a fellow watering his horse down by the stream. I didn’t pay much attention to him as his horse was what caught my eye—an exceptionally handsome animal. I hadn’t ever seen one like it. As we drove by, the gentleman glanced up at us. I raised a hand in greeting, and he tapped the edge of his hat—a peculiar looking thing. It looked a bit like a Boss but creased on top, as though a tree branch had fallen on it. I didn’t want to stare, but everything about the fellow aroused curiosity—his canvas trousers held up by a belt, a clean bright-white shirt, and a new saddle—the whole getup.
I called up to my uncle, “You ever seen a horse like that, sir?”
Uncle Ed glanced toward the empty road at his left. “Like what?” By then, the fellow was well behind us, climbing up into his saddle.
“The one we just passed.”
My uncle twisted around for a look. “A Morgan?”
The man rode his horse up onto the road then fell in behind us, keeping a distance, a slow walk, allowing the light cross-breeze a chance to push our dust clear of his path. I could see Aunt Lil’s cousin’s farm up ahead, to our right, just a little ways farther.
Minutes later, my uncle steered the wagon up the rutted lane leading back to Eli’s barn. J. W., Eli, his wife, and their seven young’uns were all gathered outside. I jumped down from the wagon and gave Sarah and Aunt Lil a hand.
“Well, ain’t this the dangedest,” Eli called. “Looks like they got their rope dusted off all for nothin’.” His wife smacked him in the arm.
“For nothin’ is right!” my aunt hollered. As we drew nearer, she added, “Eli, I don’t reckon you remember John.”
“Of course I do. Look at him all growed up. He wasn’t waist-high to me the last we saw of each other. Still wet behind the ears.”
I stepped up and offered my hand. “Sir.”
He shook it then pointed to each of his brood. “This here’s my wife, Isabel, and my oldest, Frank. That’s Alice, Hattie, Earl, and I can’t recall what them last three there was named.”
“You do, too,” a girl of about five said. “My name’s Zona.”
One of the other unnamed children, a girl who looked as if she might be Zona’s twin, tugged on Eli’s shirt sleeve. “Pa?”
“Y’all must be about ready for some supper,” Isabel said.
“Pa?” the girl repeated.
“Well,” Isabel said, “Eli and Frank pulled a handful of trout from the brook this morning. I figured we’d fry that up—”
“Pa?” The child pulled on his trousers.
“What in blazes is it, Laura?”
She pointed. “There’s a man out there in the road.”
We all turned and stared. The fellow who’d been following us earlier had dismounted in the middle of the road and was just standing there alongside his horse, looking up toward the porch. I frowned. I was almost certain he’d had a mustache before, but his upper lip was now bare.
He reached up and removed his hat. Long red hair fell down past his shoulders—or rather, her shoulders, as it became obvious that she was no man.
I hopped down from the porch and walked toward the road. She smiled as I drew near. At first, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. She looked remarkably like the one person in the world I wanted to see more than I’d ever wanted anything in my life. She put a hand over her mouth, dropped her hat in the road, and tore off running toward me.
“Tess?” My feet seemed as light as laughter as I rushed forward. “Tess!”
She threw her arms around me. I lifted her and swung her around.
“Oh, dear God.” My head swam with the wonder of her closeness. “My God. It’s you. I just can’t… it’s really you.” I twirled her around a second time then pulled her close and breathed in the smell of her hair.
“I missed you,” she said.
I wanted to laugh, and at the same time, I wanted to cry. I wanted to howl to the mountaintops, to the sun, and to the moon. She gazed up at me, her eyes sparkling with tears.
“You got my letter,” I said.
She smiled and nodded. “I was going to write back but then decided it’d be better to tell you in person.” She slipped her hands around my neck and guided my ear close to her lips. “I love you, too,” she whispered.
epilogue
Liz
“Remember,” Tess said, “I’ll write.” She wound the horse’s reins around her hand and started up the trail. She stepped past a tree with Victoria just behind her and, without so much as a glance back, kept going.
I returned to Tess’s car and opened the door. I paused and turned to watch as she led Victoria up the mountainside. I leaned against the car, marveling at her courage and won
dering what I might be willing to give up for love. It makes you crazy, love. I know.
I climbed into the front seat, started the engine, and then gave one more glance toward the swishing black tail of the horse disappearing into the woods above. As I drove home, I thought about her idea of writing to me. I had about as much faith in that as I did in all the other goof-droppings that had led us to that wacko idea of her traveling back in time. If she really did travel to 1875 and place ads in the paper, then hypothetically, they should all appear the instant she left 2009.
I’d never admit believing, except to Tess, and only because on some silly, adolescent fantasy level, I wanted it to be true. But I honestly didn’t believe her. I was certain she’d call me later to tell me the whole thing was a joke.
Later that evening, Tess’s mom called me. She was not happy. She demanded to know where Tess was. I couldn’t exactly say, “Oh, Mrs. McKinnon, your dear, sweet, innocent daughter is fine. She’s in 1875, tucked in safely… sleeping with the miller’s nephew.” I was pretty ticked at Tess for leaving me to deal with her mother. I put her mom off with some lies. I figured Tess would return at any minute, crushed that the time-travel thingy didn’t work and wanting her Dora lunchbox back.
By Monday morning, I was beginning to get worried. I hadn’t heard from Tess—no calls, no texts, no emails, nothing. Very weird.
Later that day, I went to the mall to do some shopping for school. I bought three pairs of jeans, two pairs of shoes, and couple of sweatshirts and a new White Stripes T-shirt with a really cool picture of Jack bent over a banged-up, hollow-body guitar. After a quick food court lunch, I drove to the library. I still didn’t believe, but I had to at least check.
A librarian assistant logged me onto a computer. “Is there anything specific you’re looking for?”
“The personal ads.”
“What year?”
“Uh, 1875,” I said.
She directed me to a menu of search tools. I selected 1875 from a drop-down list.
“Now go to Month.” She pointed at the button on the screen.
