A Killing in Zion

by Andrew Hunt

  “Yeah,” I said. “We were fight—”

  Clara glared at me.

  I rephrased: “We were discussing her, yes.”

  Hyrum shot me a curious look. “Who is she?”

  “Sweetie, why don’t you go inside?” suggested Clara. “We’ll be in in a minute or two.”

  “That means longer,” he said, feeding the licorice into his mouth. “More like ten minutes.”

  Clara looked at me and whispered, “He’s so brainy for a five-year-old.”

  “Like his sister,” I whispered.

  “I can hear what you’re saying, Dad.”

  I leaned in close to Clara. “His hearing’s good, too.”

  “I heard that, too.”

  Clara managed a smile. “Please, wait inside, dear. I promise we won’t be more than about another minute out here.”

  He nodded, his jaws working away on that licorice. Reluctantly, he opened the screen door and stepped inside. He was only in there for a second or two before he poked his head out.

  “Inside,” said Clara. “Please.”

  The screen door banged shut. Clara faced me.

  “And who’s going to watch her during the days, while you’re at work?” Clara held up her palm, as if to stop my reply. “Wait a second, the answer is coming to Clara the Clairvoyant. It’s getting clearer and clearer. Well, what do you know? I’m going to watch her! After all, I’m not teaching in the summer, and except for a couple of hours here and there when I’ll be training the substitute who’ll take my place while I’m on leave, I’m at home with the children until the baby arrives. So you just assumed I would watch her! Right?”

  “Yeah, more or less.”

  She hit me again in the forearm. I rubbed the soreness away.

  “How long is she going to be here, Art? Days? Weeks? Months?”

  “Okay, you’ve got me,” I said bitterly. “I’ll take her back. Sorry I put you through this.”

  I started for the door, but Clara stepped in my path. She hesitated, but found the words.

  “I know you did what you thought was right,” she said. “And I love you for it. I can never stay mad at you for long.”

  She ran her fingers through my hair. “You’re aided by your adorability. But I stand by my initial complaint. It was wrong for you to bring her here without asking me. We’re not just husband and wife, Art. We’re partners. Everything we’ve done up until now in our relationship has been based on love and mutual respect. But it doesn’t work if you pull a stunt like this. Understand?”

  “Yes,” I said, in a real tone of remorse. “I am sorry.”

  She gestured to the door. “We’d better go back inside. Don’t think for an instant this conversation is over, though. There are lots of details we have to iron out, when the kids aren’t around. Obviously, she can’t stay here forever. She’s probably got family somewhere who’re worried sick are about her.”

  “I know. I agree.”

  Hyrum poked his head out again. “It’s been more than a minute!”

  Clara laughed. “We’re coming.”

  * * *

  “Would you mind saying grace, S.J.?” I asked.

  “Sure,” said Sarah Jane. “May we all bow our heads?”

  Heads dipped around the dinner table. I peeked to see if our guest was bowing her head. She was. I closed my eyes.

  “Our beloved Father in Heaven, we’re thankful to be sitting down to dinner as a family with our new friend,” said Sarah Jane. “Bless Mom for preparing this meal tonight. Please bless this food that it may nourish and strengthen our bodies, to help us to do the good we need. Bless those who are not here to share this meal that they, too, may find the nourishment they need. And bless our new friend here, that she may have the things in life she wants and needs. We say these things in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  The girl didn’t say “Amen.” She kept her head bowed.

  “Thank you, honey,” said Clara. “Would you start passing the roast beef?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Sarah Jane.

  The food went around the table. I plunged the carving fork into the roast beef and lifted a hefty piece onto my plate. Next came the creamed baby peas and pearl onions, then steaming mashed potatoes, followed by cooked carrots. A basket reached me and I pulled a hot roll out from under the forest-green linen napkin. The girl, seated directly across the table from me, was not filling her plate. She stared at her empty plate, the same way she had cast her eyes downward in my office, without budging. For the first time, I noticed the wedding ring on her finger that Clara had mentioned earlier, a shiny silver band. Hard to believe I had missed it before. But so had other detectives, including Wit Dunaway, not to mention the police alienist, which made me feel slightly better about my own ineptitude. Clara looked at me, as if to say, Well? I closed the green napkin over the rolls and sent them to Hyrum, seated beside me.

  I spoke across the table to the girl. “You must be hungry.”

  As expected, she said nothing. She didn’t even raise her head.

  “How about I fix you a plate?” I said. “S.J., could you hand me her plate?”

  Sarah Jane picked up the plate in front of the girl and gave it to Hyrum, who passed it to me. I began scooping food, identifying it as I went. “Some peas and pearl onions—nobody makes ’em better than Clara. Let’s see, some carrots. Mashed potatoes. Gotta get you a good mountain going here.” I picked up my fork, which I hadn’t used yet, and began pressing a gravy crater. “See, the idea here is you gotta make a space for the gravy.” I exchanged my table fork for the carving fork to lift roast beef onto her plate. “You may wanna stay away from the horseradish. It’ll put a hem in your stocking.”

  I tipped the gravy boat over the girl’s plate and filled the mashed potato crater and covered the roast beef. “Voilà! Hyrum, I appoint you on a knight’s errand. Would you kindly deliver this to the fair maiden across the table?”

  “Dad, you’re being corny.”

  “Sorry. Do you mind?”

  He lifted the plate with both hands, circled the table, and placed it in front of the girl, who’d raised her head enough to watch me serving her.

  “As the Frenchmen say, bon appétit!” I said, raising my glass of milk in a toast.

  Before I could drink it, the girl began eating, and with a vengeance. She spooned peas into her mouth, stuffed half of a roll in there, and lifted the roast beef with her fingers and bit into it. We Ovesons sat in stunned silence, watching this hungry girl cleaning her plate in record time, before any of us even touched our food. She stopped chewing, despite a full mouth, painfully aware of us staring at her.

  I smiled. “Like I said, bon appétit!”

  The rest of us started eating, and the hungry girl resumed filling herself. The dour expression on Clara’s face as she chewed softly seemed to say, What have you gotten us into?

  * * *

  “Jack Benny, with Frank Black and his orchestra!”

  Lavish band music crackled out of the speaker of our four-legged radio console, with Sarah Jane and Hyrum hovering around the coveted ebony knobs. The girl sat on the davenport’s middle cushion, cautiously observing through an outsider’s eyes. Clara, seated on a floral armchair, was knitting something for the baby. Having just finished washing the dishes, I wiped my wet hands with a striped dishcloth and draped it on the back of a living room chair to dry.

  “Is it on the Red Network?” asked Hyrum.

  “Yes, it’s the Red Network!” snapped Sarah Jane. “It’s K-D-Y-L.”

  “The dial has to be precise.”

  “You don’t know what that means,” said Sarah Jane scornfully. “You heard a grown-up say it.”

  “I do so know what it means!”

  “You two cut it out,” said Clara.

  “And now for that man of mirth, humor, jokes,” said the radio announcer, “Rochester, Buffalo, Cleveland, and all poin
ts west, Mr. Jack Benny on track five!”

  “Hey, let’s listen to the A and P Gypsies,” suggested Hyrum as Benny launched into his monologue.

  “It’s not on tonight,” said Sarah Jane. “It’s on Monday nights.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I’ve got the schedule memorized.”

  “Betcha don’t know when Amos ’n’ Andy comes on.”

  “Mondays. Before A and P Gypsies. Give me a hard one.”

  “Little Orphan Annie?”

  “Thursdays at seven.”

  I studied the girl visitor. I could plainly see that she was relaxed around Sarah Jane and Hyrum. She seemed to find them safe, knowing they would not harm her in any way. My attention shifted to the soiled beige pillowcase near her feet, where I assumed she kept her possessions. The girl noticed me looking at her. She reached down and pulled her lumpy pillowcase closer, so it rested against her leg. She watched me uneasily, her eyes warning me not to touch her pillowcase. I nodded. I hoped she would interpret it as a sign of respect.

  Sarah Jane and Hyrum erupted in laughter.

  “Did you hear that, Dad?” asked Hyrum.

  I looked over at my children. “Sorry. I must’ve missed it.”

  “Nobody’s funnier than Jack Benny,” Hyrum told me. “Not even you.”

  Sarah Jane laughed with the radio audience. Hyrum went wide-eyed. “What? What? What did I miss?”

  “I’m not going to repeat it,” said Sarah Jane. “Just shut your trap and listen.”

  * * *

  Late at night, a blizzard moves in over Salt Lake City. Snow falls sideways, creating a whiteout. Churning clouds above swirl into a foreboding dark gray.

  The twelve-year-old boy runs through the streets on that freezing night in 1914. Even with his coat on, his skin is numbed by harsh winds. He sprints through snowdrifts, past storefronts where electric lights burn. He knows his dad is out here, and knows his father’s life is in danger. That’s why his legs move as fast as they do, spraying snow, driven by a faint hope that he can turn this tale’s ending into a happy one.

  The boy is out of breath, overcome with fatigue, thighs burning, heart thumping so hard it feels as if it’s going to leap out of his chest. He knows if he does not find his dad soon, the worst will come to pass. A streetcar rattles past, bell clanging, disappearing into a swarm of snowflakes.

  He hurries across the street. A horseless carriage slams on its brakes and skids across powder, with lantern spotlights trembling and horn blaring. The boy ignores the driver, pressing on, reaching the sidewalk in one piece. He makes his way to the next street, West Temple. Shops are scattered in this part of town, separated by vacant lots, wooden fences, and utility poles. Snow is everywhere: in the air, on the ground, coating the boy, who breathes in frozen crystals through his mouth as he tries to catch his breath. He comes to the corner of West Temple and 800 South, now in front of Morrison Grocery. The owner of this place—an ex–police officer—was gunned down a few weeks ago in cold blood, along with one of his sons. Tonight the boy has a feeling that he might find his father here. Morrison and Dad were friends, and Dad insisted on investigating his murder.

  But on this night of squalls, the lad cannot find his beloved father. He trudges through whiteness to a lit display window with MORRISON GROCERY painted on the glass and a CLOSED sign hanging in the door. Footsteps approach from behind. The boy spins for a look. A shadow-figure in a bowler hat and long coat steps out of the snow like a ghost.

  The figure grips his bleeding abdomen and topples to a bed of snow. His eyelids flutter like butterfly wings. His mouth opens and he struggles for air. Blood gurgles between his lips and forms droplets on his mustache. Blood seeps between his fingers. The shirt he is wearing—pristine when he left home this morning—is crimson-soaked.

  “Dad!”

  The boy falls to his knees by his father’s side. The wetness of damp snow seeps into the boy’s clothes, yet he hardly notices. He reaches out to touch his father and finds the man’s bloodstain is warm to the touch.

  * * *

  My eyes opened. Darkness enshrouded me. I ran my palm over my wet face and gave my eyes a chance to adjust to the darkness. With the dream over, I needed to adjust to the here and now. Clara slept on her side, back to me, partially covered with a sheet and blanket, humming with each exhale. My arm snaked under the covers around her waist, and only the slightest pressure from my fingertips against her pregnant belly triggered a kick from the baby. A warm wave shot through my body, slowing my heart, and my breathing grew more measured.

  Lying on my back, I watched leafy shadows bounce in the moonlight, and the night sounds—crickets, wind blowing branches, a train—blended in my ears. I tossed and turned, in pursuit of a comfortable position. Minutes passed. No point in denying it: Mr. Insomnia had come to pay a visit. I threw my legs over the edge of the bed, sat upright, stood, and slipped on my cloth robe. I closed the door on my way out.

  I switched on the hallway light and crept to Sarah Jane’s room to peek in on our young guest. The door was ajar. That’s funny, I thought it was closed before I went to bed last night. I nudged it farther. Imagine my surprise when I looked in and saw that the girl was nowhere to be seen. Sarah Jane, meantime, slept soundly on the cot. Where did she go? I wondered. I heard a floorboard creak right outside the bedroom. I rushed out to find the girl stepping out of the door to the basement stairs, located midway down the hallway. My heart performed a crazed horse gallop right then.

  “What were you doing in there?” I whispered.

  Why am I asking her? She can’t talk, I thought. She swallowed hard and the color drained out of her face. She developed a case of the shakes.

  “C’mon,” I whispered. “Go back to bed, okay?”

  She nodded. I watched her get into bed, and this time I left all of the doors open—Sarah Jane’s and the one to Clara’s and my room. I lay awake for hours, wishing I could go back to sleep, and wondering what the girl had been doing in the basement.

  Twelve

  The Olds rattled southward, past farms and fields and mountains, soon crossing the divide at Point of the Mountain between Salt Lake Valley and its neighbor to the south, Utah Valley. On the radio, Dick “Hotcha” Gardner’s smooth voice sang “Say, Young Lady” to a bouncy orchestral accompaniment by George Olsen & His Music. The windows were down and the warm air blew in, but it felt nice and cool against our perspiration-covered skin. We crested a hill and looked down into Utah Valley, a vast bowl that—like its sibling to the north—is bordered by the Wasatch Mountains to the east and a freshwater lake—Utah Lake—on the west side. From this high up, we could see the patchwork landscape below, and the remainder of our drive was steadily downhill.

  I felt the weight of Clara’s stare. I looked over at her, and she adjusted her flowery velvet hat as she watched me. “Are you sure this is a good idea? We could cancel, you know.”

  “That’s not such a good idea,” I said. “We spent last Fourth of July with your family. My mom’s expecting us this year.”

  “I don’t know how comfortable our daughter feels about lying,” Clara said, wincing as she said the word “lying.”

  Sarah Jane leaned forward so her head rested on the upholstered seat between her mother and me. “I don’t mind, not when it’s for the greater good. Dad’s right. They’re never going to understand why we took her in. It’s easier for everyone involved if we stretch the truth a little.”

  “Stretch the truth?” asked Clara, her painted red lips spreading into a smile. “Is that the new euphemism for lying?”

  “It’s not new at all,” said S.J. “Mark Twain said it all the time.”

  “You don’t have to do this, sweetheart,” Clara told Sarah Jane. “Nobody’s asking you to.”

  “I know. I volunteered. Remember? I even invented a name for her. Priscilla. I call her by her nickname, Prissy. I’ve known her since second grade, and she’s mute, so don’t count on her to be
much of a conversationalist at the dinner table.” Sarah Jane slumped back into her seat, between her little brother and the girl. Sarah Jane had loaned the girl a sky-blue dress with white lace and short sleeves, and it fit perfectly. Sarah Jane looked at the girl and smiled. “Isn’t that right, Prissy?”

  I saw in my interior rearview mirror that the girl smiled back and lowered her head, fixing her gaze on her lap, but she flashed S.J. a quick, coy look.

  “Priscilla,” I said with a nod and another glance to the rearview mirror. “I like it.”

  “So do I,” said Clara. “That’s a grand name.”

  I steered off the highway at American Fork, turning right on a road that took me to my childhood home, sending a high column of dust in our wake.

  * * *

  The Fourth of July barbecue at the Oveson homestead in American Fork was only slightly less epic than a Cecil B. DeMille movie, and I mean slightly. The line of autos in front of the porch could easily be mistaken for a used-car lot. In the vast backyard behind the farmhouse, a pair of long picnic tables accommodated feasting adults at one, children at the other, all of us dining under hazy skies, with a breathtaking view of the mountains to the east. My mother—called Mom Oveson by everyone—sat at the head of the table, a spot once reserved for our now deceased father. Soft-skinned, she had a gentle face with some age spots and a head of curly salt-and-pepper hair, more salt than pepper these days. The children—a baker’s dozen when you counted my daughter’s friend, “Priscilla”—ate at the table nearest the barn. At first, nobody paid much attention to Priscilla, which I took to calling her because it seemed as good a name as any. In keeping with her behavior the previous day, she didn’t say a word. She sat still among the boisterous and excited cousins, occasionally smiling, rocking back and forth gently as she got used to a crowd of unfamiliar people. I kept an eye on her at all times, occasionally missing what other people were saying in the process.

  “Art, dear.”

  I turned around and faced the picnic table. My heart raced, as if I’d just gotten caught doing something terrible. “Yeah?”