The Fire of Home (A Powell Springs Novel)

by Harrington, Alexis

  He nodded. “I didn’t think so. He would have worked hard to keep those two lives separate, and I’ll bet it was a tricky chore. Plus, the police have learned he was probably using that money to buy bootleg whiskey from Canada. He would take his wife’s—uh, that is, Tabitha Monroe’s—gardeners with him to load the goods into his car. One night a few months ago, something went wrong, and one of the gardeners was shot and killed. The other one took off running, but recently he went to the police to tell them about it. I guess he was afraid he might be next. That was when Adam left Portland. But he did go back to Park Place at least once and told Tabitha that he was working on some special project. She admits she didn’t believe it.”

  Amy’s stomach felt as if it had dropped to her shoes. To think that all of this was going on and she had no idea. “This is incredible. I feel so stupid.”

  Whit patted her hand. “Don’t. No one could have guessed something as crazy as this. What’s that saying? Truth is stranger than fiction?”

  “This certainly is.”

  “All the lawyers and police working on this haven’t been able to find out what he did with the money, though.”

  Amy thought back to the day she left, and what she found in the closet. She straightened. “Wait! I might be able to help with that.” She climbed the back stairs from the kitchen and hurried to her bedroom to pull out the book she had hidden in her chest of drawers. She rummaged around and found it tucked between the cuts of fabric, just where she’d left it. Pounding back down the stairs, she held it out to Whit.

  “I found this under a floorboard in the house I left in Portland. I didn’t know what it was, but I recognized Adam’s handwriting. I took it as a kind of insurance. I thought if he went to that much trouble to hide it from me, it must be valuable. I’ve never been able to make any sense of it, but maybe the answer is in here.”

  Whit pushed aside his coffee cup and thumbed through the pages. “Maybe. It’s a bunch of numbers and dates—it might lead to solving the mystery.” He looked up. “Anyway, when you left he hired that Milo Breninger to find you. He gave the bum your photograph and three hundred dollars down payment.”

  “Down payment? How much did he promise him?”

  “In the end, he paid him a thousand dollars.” She could only stare at Whit. The figure was beyond comprehension.

  “We think he’s still around here someplace, since he’s been blackmailing you and trying to knock the pilings out from under Bax.”

  “Oh, God—”

  “Just keep locking your doors. We’ll get him.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A few days later, Amy shrugged into a dress that was easiest to put on, brushed her hair, and left her house for the New Cascades Hotel. It was a sunny day, one that promised to be warm but not with the blasting heat that would come later in the summer. This weather was kind to flowers and the lawn. When she walked into the hotel lobby, this time she wasn’t worried about who she might see. The man she feared most was sitting in Whit Gannon’s jail until arrangements could be finalized to move him to the county jail in downtown Portland. But she could hardly believe the reason she was here. The old Amy, the selfish, shortsighted Amy, would never have dreamed of making the offer she was about to make.

  She approached the front desk, where a bored clerk was trying to balance a pencil vertically on the end of his finger.

  “Excuse me.”

  He looked up, startled, and the pencil clattered to the floor. “Uh, yes, ma’am! How can I help you?”

  “I’d like to see Tabitha Pratt-Monroe. Could you please call her room and tell her that Amy”—she stalled here—“Amy Jacobsen is here?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He fumbled through a register and did as she asked. “She said to please come up. Room two ten.” Although the hotel had only two floors, it featured the most modern conveniences, including an elevator. She stepped into the car when the doors opened and was taken to the second floor. It was nice here, she thought, walking down the rug-covered hall. She had certainly seen much, much worse.

  At room 210 she stopped and knocked on the door. After a moment it opened a crack and she looked at a two-inch-wide section of face. Apparently satisfied with her identity, Tabitha opened the door wider to let her in.

  The two women looked at each other. They both wore slings, and both of them were protecting their left arms. Tabitha wore an expensive pink satin dressing gown.

  “I understand you spoke with Sheriff Gannon,” Amy said. Tabitha nodded. Then to breach the awkward moment, she added, “We’re a sight, aren’t we?”

  Tabitha sighed and nodded. “We are, we are. Please, Amy, come and sit.” She motioned to a brocade sofa.

  When they were settled, Amy came to one of the points of her visit. “I’m so sorry for what happened yesterday. I had no idea that Adam would simply walk into my kitchen. And God knows, I never meant for this to happen.” She gestured at their arms. “But more than anything, I want to thank you. You saved my life.”

  Tabitha put a hand to her chest. “I did?”

  “If you hadn’t come to the door when you did, I’m sure I would be dead now. You interrupted Adam and gave me a chance to break away from him.” She went on to explain briefly what had happened, and what she knew would happen. Tabitha gaped at her.

  “I never knew that side of him. He could be impatient, and he always tried to make me think less of myself, which I suppose now, reflected what he really thought of me. But, sweet Adeline, the past twenty-four hours have staggered me. I left behind a comfortable life that was built on larceny and lies.” Her chin trembled briefly, and she stared at her lap. “I’m not even a married woman.”

  Amy understood what she really meant. She gave her an even look. “Consider yourself fortunate. I am married to him and all he has done is drag me through the mud behind him. He made me work as a dishwasher and turn my pay over to him, and that was while he was living part-time with you.” Another moment of silence fell.

  “But,” she went on, “I didn’t come here to review Adam Jacobsen’s numerous shortcomings. I’m wondering if you have plans—somewhere to go.”

  Tabitha hung her head. “Yes, and not really. I haven’t contacted my cousin to tell him about this. I lived with him and his family before I—before the wedding. I taught school but I was considered an old maid without any other resources or suitable prospects. They thought they would be stuck with me forever, I think. And they were so obviously relieved to be rid of me. Now I’ll have to go back.”

  Amy touched her hand. “No, you won’t. You can still come to my house and board with me. I realize it’s an odd situation, probably the strangest anyone ever heard of. But as I said, you saved my life. Powell Springs isn’t as grand or glamorous as Portland can be. It’s a mostly rural community, but growing, and it’s safe here, usually. We do have societies and women’s leagues, if you’re interested. I used to be. No one knows you here. You don’t have a reputation or a past to live down. And it seems to me that it would beat living with relatives who aren’t very eager to have you back.”

  “You would do that for me?”

  The old Amy would not have . . . “Oh, we’ll have tongues wagging for a while—the two wives of Adam Jacobsen, or Harlan Monroe. But they’ll settle down after a while and get used to us. I can’t promise what the future holds, but if you’re interested in a peaceful existence, you’ll have that. You might even be able to get a teaching job again.”

  Tabitha’s eyes welled up with tears. “How very kind of you,” she said in a choked voice. “Can I think about it?”

  “Of course. I’m not going anywhere. Let me know.” She stood up and smiled at her. Tabitha rose as well, and saw her to the door.

  “Harlan should be horsewhipped for what he did to you.”

  “He certainly left a lot of casualties in his wake,” Amy said. “But I’ll survive. You will too.”<
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  Amy Layton Jacobsen left the hotel knowing that she had finally grown up.

  Just as she reached the house, Amy saw a car pull up and recognized Daniel Parmenter getting out.

  He lifted a hand in greeting. “Mrs.—Miss—Amy, it’s good to see you.” They met on the front walk.

  “Mr. Parmenter, it’s nice to see you, too. I hear you’ve been busy these days.”

  He looked very dignified, as he usually did. “I’m on my way to the courthouse in Portland but I wanted to come by and check on something we talked about recently. Of course I heard about your terrible incident the other day.” He gestured at her arm.

  This couldn’t be good, she thought. This house—she couldn’t lose this house. But there was no point in avoiding whatever he had to say. “Please—come in. Thank you for dropping by. I’ve just been to the hotel to visit Tabitha Pratt.”

  “The two of you have had some bad luck.”

  “I’m still alive, though,” she said, and unlocked the door.

  She led the way to the dining room. “Have a seat. I’m sorry about bringing you to the table, but—” She hadn’t had the rug taken out and she couldn’t bear to look at the bloodstain and be reminded constantly about that horrible day. The memory was too new, too raw.

  “No need for explanations.” He pulled out a chair and sat at the table. She sat across from him. “Now then. After our last meeting, I began the paperwork to get your legal action against Adam Jacobsen moving. I did some research about property ownership and inheritances, that sort of thing.”

  She froze. No, no, no—she couldn’t possibly have to share this house with Adam now, not after everything that had happened, not with him headed to jail. “He’s under arrest.”

  “Yes, well, that’s not the issue.” He sat forward in his chair and put his elbow on the table.

  “Issue?”

  “You said you were married in Multnomah County. When you married him, did you sign anything? A license, any sort of document?”

  She sat up. “No, now that you mention it. There was nothing.”

  “Did a judge or a justice of the peace perform the ceremony? Were you married by a clergyman?”

  “Well, yes, Adam performed the ceremony himself. He is an ordained minister.” She dropped the corner of her mouth and added, “As hard as that is to believe now.”

  “Yes, I remember that he was Mr. Mumford’s predecessor.” He didn’t add what they both already knew. He was Mumford’s predecessor due to the social disgrace that made them leave town together. “Were there witnesses? Even strangers pulled in from the street?”

  She shook her head, and she stared at him. “No one except us.”

  “Where did this take place?”

  “In the office at his home just before—before we eloped.”

  “The reason I’m asking is because I sent my law clerk to Public Records to research the specifics of your marriage. He couldn’t find anything.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve requested a special search, but I have a feeling that your wedding was never formalized. You never saw a license or a certificate?”

  “No. What does all this mean?”

  “Well, if Jacobsen performed the ceremony himself, there were no witnesses, and no papers were signed, you were never legally married to him.”

  “What!” Here came that throbbing pulse in her ears again. “Never married? All this time?”

  “No. Of course, this simplifies matters. There is no common-law marriage in Oregon, so even that isn’t a consideration. On the other hand, certain aspects of this are probably very distressing.”

  Her brain whirled with the distress of it. “Um, yes, I . . .”

  “And just to clarify, you said there are no children.”

  “No . . .”

  “We might see that as a good thing.”

  “I certainly do.”

  He rose from his chair. “As I said, I’ve requested a special records search, but I have a strong suspicion that it will turn up nothing. I hate to rush off, but it’s a trek to Portland and back.”

  She stood up, too. “Thank you, Mr. Parmenter. I appreciate your efforts. Of course, you’ll let me know what I owe you.”

  They walked toward the front door. “We won’t worry about that now. I’ll be in touch soon.”

  She nodded and opened the door for him. Once he was outside, she locked it again.

  She went back to the dining room and sat down. Why had she never thought to question Adam about the lack of marriage licenses and certificates? All these years, she thought again. She could have walked away at any time. She hadn’t needed to stay with him and take the abuse and the beatings and the poverty. Amy had only recently come to realize how selfish and immature she had been. But she believed that he actually topped her in that department. He had referred to her as his wife, used her like one, ordered her around and made her obey like one. But she was not his wife, not now, not ever. And he’d taken from her that one thing that was hers to give only once. It might be a new day, 1922. But some things stayed the same. Some things still had value, to her anyway.

  Not married. Never married. Just like Tabitha Pratt. She was free of him and he had no legal claim on her. But he’d stolen from her something she could never get back.

  Then bitter tears began to flow.

  “Right. Thanks, Paul. We’ll be right there.” Whit hung the earpiece back on the telephone.

  “Where are we going?” Bax asked. He’d just walked in from seeing Jacobsen being hauled away by two armed guards the county had sent from the courthouse. They were taking no chances—they’d shackled their prisoner, hand and foot, to restraints built into the backseat. Bax had glimpsed him just once in his high-society clothes when Whit had pointed him out in Portland. Jacobsen looked pretty bad by the time they turned him over. Both he and Whit were glad to see him go.

  “Paul McCoy said he’s got a stranger holed up in his barn with a couple of jugs of moonshine. He was working in his field out near the Braddocks’ horse farm when the guy came by and tried to sell him some of the stuff. I talked to him a week ago to let him know we were looking for someone like that. Paul chased him into the barn with a shotgun and locked the doors. Now if the fool doesn’t set fire to the inside or figure out an escape route, I think we might have our man.”

  “For a quiet town, we’ve had a lot of business in this cell lately,” Bax observed.

  Whit jammed his hat on his head. “Yeah, and I’d like to see it slow down. I’m not as young as I used to be. I’m getting tired of gallivanting around the countryside. Let’s go.”

  They drove out over dry roads, past Cole’s place, and just beyond the horse farm. When they reached Paul McCoy’s berry farm, he met them in the yard, holding his shotgun across the crook of his arm. His overalls were worn to thread at the knees and his shirt was missing a cuff on one sleeve. Paul’s wife had died five years earlier, and he and his three high school–age sons weren’t all that particular about such things as new clothes and haircuts.

  The flat, well-tended field of berry bushes stretched out behind him, green and healthy-looking under the sun. They got all of his attention.

  “I’ve got my boys watching the barn. If that son of a bitch tries to escape, they’ll run him down with the tractor.”

  Bax handed a shotgun to Whit. “All right, we’ll get him.” He made it sound as if they were cornering a rattlesnake in a bedroom, or trying to get a skunk out from under the house. “Do you think he has a weapon?”

  “Nah, just that kerosene he’s passing off as liquor.”

  “And you’ve never seen him before.”

  “Nope. He’s a stranger to me, and you know I’ve lived around here my whole life.”

  “Got any livestock in there?”

  “No, the chickens are all out pecking around
under the filbert trees.”

  “Here’s what I want the boys to do. Get some grass that’s dry enough to burn but just green enough to make some smoke. Twist it into torches and light them. Fill some buckets with water to dunk them in when they get to be too short.” He glanced up at the trees to determine the wind direction. “Great, it’s an east wind day, so we’ll have them stand on the east side of the barn.”

  “Damn, Whit, I don’t want to burn down the barn.”

  “We won’t. Trust me, I’ve used this before. It’s better than shooting the walls full of holes.”

  Paul conceded that point.

  When everything was ready, Whit motioned to one of the boys to rattle the door on the east side of the barn. Then they lit the torches. The amount of smoke was impressive. The object, he said, was to make the criminal believe the barn might be about to catch fire.

  “Come on out, mister. You’re surrounded and we’ve got a bad fire here. If you don’t save yourself, we might not be able to save you, either.”

  It took several attempts, but at last the smoke flushed out their suspect. The barn wasn’t very big and it hadn’t taken a huge effort to fill it with smoke. A man flung open that east side door and stumbled out, coughing and with eyes streaming.

  Whit grabbed him and they opened the big doors to let the barn air out. “Your days of selling your poison are over.”

  Bax closed in, and when he saw who Whit had by the scruff, he was surprised—not because he wouldn’t expect it of the man. He’d sell his own mother’s eyes if the price was right. But he’d tried to alter his appearance. Usually a fan of cheap, gaudy suits, he wore a pair of beat-up denims that were too short and a blue gingham shirt. He even had a red bandana tied around his neck. He’d cut off most of his hair—with hedge shears by the looks of it—and what was left had been dyed with what seemed to be black shoe polish.

  “Breninger!” If he hadn’t done so much harm to so many people, Bax would be laughing, he looked that ridiculous. No wonder he hadn’t recognized the description Granny Mae gave him.