Miss Lizzie

by Walter Satterthwait

“But they think my brother did it.”

  “Because he took off,” he said, exhaling: “Someone takes off, right after a murder, the cops gotta get concerned. Only natural. But don’t sweat it. Soon as he turns up again, he’ll set ’em straight.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Sure I do. Seen it happen a million times.”

  I nodded, grateful for the reassurance. “I guess you’ve been a Pinkerton man for a long time.”

  “Forever,” he said, and sucked on the Fatima again.

  “Did you ever shoot anybody?”

  “Shot at a guy or two. Never hit ’em. Not much good with guns.”

  “You’re a really good boxer, though.”

  “Nah.”

  “But I saw you, with that man Hornsby.”

  “Hornsby’s not much. Ten years ago, maybe. Right now he’s coasting on history.”

  “But he looks really strong.”

  “Maybe. But he’s not tough.”

  “They aren’t the same thing?”

  He shook his head. “Strong is outside. Tough is inside.”

  “You mean a person can be tough without being strong?”

  “Happens all the time.” He grinned. “Miz Borden now. Not all that strong, probably, but tough as a bag of nails.”

  “She’s really been good to me.”

  He nodded. “She’s a piece of work, all right.”

  “She didn’t do it, did she, Mr. Boyle?”

  He inhaled on his cigarette. “Do what?”

  “You know. Back in Fall River.”

  He shrugged. “Jury acquitted her.”

  “But some people still think she did it.”

  He shook his head again. “You can’t worry about that stuff. You gotta deal with people the way they deal with you. They treat you fair, you treat them fair. Simple.”

  “What about if they don’t treat you fair?”

  “Then you treat ’em the same way.”

  I considered this for a moment. “I guess,” I said, “you’ve got to be pretty tough to do that.”

  “Sometimes.” He smiled. “Sometimes you just gotta be smart.”

  “Do you think Mr. Slocum is tough?”

  He leaned forward, tapped his cigarette into the ashtray, leaned back. “I think he’s smart,” he said. He shrugged. “Being tough isn’t something lawyers gotta worry about, generally. Small town like this, subject probably never comes up.”

  “You think he’s not tough just because he lives in a small town?”

  He grinned. “Hey. I didn’t say that. Maybe he’s tough, maybe he isn’t. No way of telling.”

  “You can tell if Miss Lizzie is tough or not.”

  He laughed. “You’d make a good lawyer yourself, kid. I guess you like him, huh?”

  “Like who?” I could feel my face flushing elaborately.

  Laughing again, he said, “Don’t worry. Secret’s safe with me. I—”

  He looked off to the left. Someone was knocking at the front door.

  I sprang from my seat. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’ve got to see who that is.”

  Boyle jammed his cigarette into the pile of butts filling the ashtray, then stood up, still grinning. “That’s okay. I gotta go anyway. Come on, I’ll walk you to the door.”

  Out in the entryway, he twisted the knob of the lock, pulled the door open, and stepped back.

  In gray twill pants and a plaid workshirt, summer clothes he wore when we were at my grandparents’ house, Father stalked into the hallway.

  “Father!” I cried. “Was he there? William? Was heat the fort?”

  Lips compressed, he nodded. “Yes. But the police have him now.”

  SEVENTEEN

  “LET’S ALL SIT down,” Boyle said to Father. “Sounds like you got a lot to talk about.”

  We went into the parlor. Father stood straighter than he had yesterday; his movements were quick and abrupt, impatient, and his face was grim. Anger, I realized, had replaced his exhaustion.

  He and I sat on the sofa, Boyle in one of the chairs.

  “Okay,” said Boyle, getting out his cigarettes. “You found your son. Where was he?”

  “Near my parents’ house, up in the Berkshires. He was in the woods.” He winced. “And dammit, I should’ve left him there.”

  Boyle snapped a match alight. “Wouldn’t of helped any.”

  “At least the police wouldn’t have him right now.”

  Boyle tossed the match into the ashtray, inhaled on the Fatima. “Maybe. Maybe not. He was in the woods?”

  “In a lean-to he built a few years ago. Amanda told me about it. She thought he might there, and she was right. I found him there early this morning. About five o’clock.”

  “Was he all right?” I asked.

  He put his hand on my knee. “He’s fine, Amanda.”

  I asked, “Where did the blood come from?”

  He sat back. “It was his. He was hitchhiking to Boston, and he got into a fight with the man who gave him a ride.” I made a face, and he shook his head. “It was just a bloody nose, baby. Nothing serious.”

  Boyle said, “You’re talking about the blood on his clothes. The ones the police found in Boston.”

  Father looked at him, surprised. “You know about that?”

  Boyle shrugged. “My job. Crime lab in Boston should have the results by now. Okay. You found him. Then what?”

  “I took him to my parents’. We talked.”

  “He tell you why he left town?”

  “He was angry and humiliated. That argument with Audrey worried him. Confused him. He wasn’t really running away—I tried to tell that to the police. He didn’t even know Audrey was dead until I told him. He just wanted to go someplace where he could be alone and think.”

  “What time did he leave?”

  “Before ten o’clock, he said. He said he got the ride about ten.”

  “So he’s alibied for the time of the murder.” His brow furrowed. “Hold on. Why’d he fight with the guy?”

  Father frowned, glanced at me, said to Boyle, “The man made advances.”

  Boyle sighed. “Terrific,” he said.

  I asked Father, “What does that mean, he made advances?”

  He shook his head. “Later, baby.”

  “Your son happen to get his name?” Boyle asked.

  “Smith,” Father said sourly. “Jim Smith.”

  “Uh-huh. What about the car? What make?”

  “A Ford.”

  “Great,” said Boyle, nodding. “Perfect. You know how many Fords are out there on the road?”

  “It had Massachusetts license plates. William remembers that.”

  Boyle nodded glumly. “Okay. Why was the guy traveling between here and Boston?”

  “He was just motoring, he told William.”

  “Motoring.” Boyle nodded. “Keeps getting better, doesn’t it. He tell your son where he lives?”

  “Boston. He lives in Boston. William said he seemed to know the city well.”

  “So maybe he lives in Boston. Maybe he used to live in Boston.” He shook his head. “Never mind. We’ll find him. Okay. Your son can describe this guy?”

  “Yes, of course. He’s given the description to the police.”

  “Okay. I get it from him, or from the cops, and send it on to the agency. Now. Anyone see your son in Boston?”

  “No. No one he can remember.”

  Boyle nodded. “How’d he get from Boston to your parents’ place?”

  “The train. Listen, someone had to have seen him on the train.”

  “What time’s the train leave Boston?”

  “Five in the afternoon.”

  Boyle shook his head. “Doesn’t help much. Okay. At your parents’ house. You and William talked. Then what?”

  “We slept for a while. Both of us. We both needed it.”

  “What time the cops show up?”

  “Ten this morning. It was that policeman. Medley. He must’ve followed me last
night. I never saw him till he showed up at the house this morning, with a state trooper.”

  Boyle nodded. “Out of his jurisdiction. Needed the state cops to pick up the warrant and make the pinch.”

  “He explained all that.”

  “Nice of him. Okay. So where’s your son now?”

  Father frowned. “In the jail.”

  “Here in town? They already booked him?”

  “Yes. I think that’s what they’ve done.”

  “Took his prints? His picture?”

  Sighing, Father nodded. “Yes.”

  “Hey,” Boyle said. “Don’t worry about it. Couple years from now, it’ll be a big adventure. Nick Carter stuff. Something to brag about to the coeds.”

  Father frowned again. “I hope you’re right.”

  “Sure I am. Okay. Let’s go down to the cop shop and see what we can do.”

  Father nodded, then turned to me. “Amanda, you wait here. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “But I want to see William,” I complained, a whine nearly creeping into my voice.

  “Tomorrow, baby. I promise. Right now we’ve got to let Mr. Boyle do his job. All right?”

  “It’s not fair.”

  “I know it’s not. I know that. But what we’ve got to do now, all of us, is concentrate on helping William. Don’t you think?”

  Reluctantly, I said, “Well … yes. I guess so. But I can see him tomorrow?”

  “I promise.”

  No more than ten minutes passed from the time Father and Boyle left to the time Miss Lizzie came down the stairs and found me sitting dejected on the parlor sofa.

  “Amanda?” she said. “What is it?”

  “Father was here,” I said, not looking up.

  “You should’ve told me, dear. I would’ve come down to say hello.”

  Still staring down at the carpet, I said, “The police have got William. He’s in jail.”

  For a moment she was silent. Then she sat down beside me. “They have him here in town?”

  “Yes. That sneaky rat Officer Medley, he followed Father all the way to my grandparents’ house last night. William was hiding in his fort in the woods.”

  “Well,” she said, “at least you know he’s all right.”

  I looked at her. “But he’s not all right, Miss Lizzie. They think he killed Audrey.”

  “Amanda, everything will work out.” She smiled. “Didn’t I promise you? You’ll only get yourself upset if you keep worrying.”

  “Everyone tells me not to worry—but how can I stop worrying? My brother’s in jail, and he’s never done anything bad in his life. It just isn’t fair.”

  She reached up and stroked the back of my head. “Sometimes life is like that, Amanda. Or it seems to be. But I believe that everyone gets what he deserves, sooner or later.” She smiled again, faintly, sadly. “Sometimes a good deal later.” The smile brightened and she took her hand from my head, put it on her lap. “But I don’t think that’s going to happen here. I’m sure that once your brother tells the police his story, they’ll understand that he’s innocent.”

  “That’s what Mr. Boyle says.”

  “You see? And Mr. Boyle is an expert.”

  Reluctantly—my sadness did not wish to capitulate to optimism—I smiled. “He was awfully good fighting with that man Hornsby, wasn’t he?”

  She nodded. “He was indeed.”

  “He says it was just a lucky punch.”

  “We make our own luck, Amanda. But some of us make it more quickly than others. Mr. Boyle makes his very quickly.”

  “I’ll say.” And I laughed.

  Miss Lizzie smiled. “Now listen, dear. While I was upstairs I wrote down the position of all the cards in the Nikola system. Here.” She handed me a folded sheet of paper. “So you can take a look at it, if you like, while I’m gone.”

  “Gone?” It was only then I noticed that she was holding her purse and her bonnet. “Oh,” I said, and shook my head. “No, Miss Lizzie. You can’t.”

  “If I eat another bite of mutton I shall scream. I thought I’d go down to Mr. McGee’s, the fish market, and find us some nice seafood for lunch. Some bluefish, or some crab? Would you like that?”

  “I hate seafood,” I told her. “Mutton is fine with me. Really. I love mutton.”

  She nodded. “Then you shall eat the mutton, and I shall eat the crab.”

  “But Miss Lizzie, they’re still out there. They’re all still waiting out there.”

  “Only a few of them. Layabouts and vagrants. They’ll not harm me.” She smiled. “And your friend Officer O’Hara is out there as well. I’m sure he’ll protect me.”

  “But you can’t.”

  “Of course I can. And if I’m going to do it, I should do it now. There’s a storm building up, out at sea, and I think we’ll finally be getting some rain. So you just wait here, and I shan’t be long at all.” She stood up, put on her bonnet, and stepped over to the circular mirror that hung above the escritoire. “I do hope it rains,” she said, adjusting the bonnet. “This heat is intolerable.”

  “Miss Lizzie,” I said, and this time the whine did insinuate itself into my voice. “Please.”

  “I’ll be perfectly all right, dear.” She returned to the sofa, picked up her purse, and tucked it under her arm. “So which is it?” she said. “The fish or the crab?”

  There was obviously no point in arguing further. And so, with little grace, pouting now, I admitted, “Crab.”

  She smiled. “Crab it is.” She turned and then, bent slightly forward, as resolute as I remembered her, she marched off toward the door.

  As soon as I heard it shut, I pushed myself off the sofa and rushed toward the window. By wedging my body against the sill and craning my neck, I was able to see Officer O’Hara and Miss Lizzie through the screen. Despite his being only inches taller, he somehow made himself appear to tower over her as his florid face twisted in outraged protest. I could not hear what he said, for though he seemed to be shouting, he must actually have been whispering.

  But his theatrics proved as futile as my whining. Miss Lizzie gave him a firm little shake of her head, turned away, and started down the porch steps. O’Hara slapped both his palms against his legs and rolled his head skyward, a dog baying at the moon.

  The crowd, small a few hours ago and now smaller still, consisted of only twenty or thirty people, all of them men. For a moment, as Miss Lizzie strode down the steps, they seemed to draw back from the picket fence, as though the sight of her—at last, after all the shuffling and waiting and jeering—had startled and perhaps even frightened them. And for a moment, I thought she would do it: that, cowed by her determination, they would keep backing away, would fall aside to let her pass.

  And then, just as she left the steps and reached the flagstone walk, someone called out, “Hey, Lizzie!” and from the corner of my eye I saw a flash of movement, an arm slicing through the air above the gathered heads, and I saw the blur of the projectile as it hurtled toward her. “No!” I cried, but it was too late.

  It struck her shoulder, and her body rocked as the thing exploded with a flat dull splat, spraying red everywhere. Blood, I thought, horrified. But it was not—another missile sailed toward her, missed, and splashed red against the sandy lawn. Tomatoes.

  Barks of laughter shot from the crowd, and Miss Lizzie stopped moving forward. Another tomato flew through the air, and then another, and someone whooped with wild hysterical glee. As the first smacked against her, and then the second, Miss Lizzie stood immobile. Another flashed by her head, a miss, and still she did not move. I believe to this day that if I had been in front of her, facing her, I would have seen that throughout all this she did not once blink.

  Then Officer O’Hara was slamming down the steps and across the walk, waving his nightstick and shouting, “Here now, stop, stop!” With a speed and agility I would not have thought possible, he sprang over the fence and stormed into the crowd. “Idyots! Ya bloody idyots! Get the hell out
ta here, ya hear me!”

  This time the crowd, alarmed, did fall back. It splintered into clusters, pairs, individuals; it fractured, dissipated, before the fury of Officer O’Hara. He blustered and screamed, he wailed, he bellowed. He nabbed one straggler by the shoulder, swung him round, sent him reeling off down the street. He snatched another by the collar and roared into his astonished face, “Git the hell outta here, O’Hanlon, before I break yer thick Irish skull!” then hurled the backpedaling man away.

  And they left: some running off, giggling like adolescent pranksters; some strutting, sneering back over their shoulders to demonstrate the tenacity of their valor; some skulking like beaten dogs. But they left, all of them, and Officer O’Hara stood there alone in the hot empty street, his back to me, panting with anger and struggle, slapping his nightstick against his palm—as though hoping for, daring, them to return.

  I looked at Miss Lizzie. She turned and, her head lowered, she walked up the porch steps.

  I raced to the entryway, twisted the knob at the lock, jerked the door open, and stood back.

  She entered the house, pushed the door shut with her back, and remained there, leaning against it, holding her purse with both hands below her stomach. The front of her dress was splotched and splattered with tomato, bright yellow seeds and an ooze of shiny red liquid pulp. It was in her hair and on her face and it was dripping from both her arms. As she stood there against the door, her breast rising and falling with short quick sibilant breaths, a wet chunk of it fell from her hip and plopped against the carpet.

  I had heard Miss Lizzie when she was angry, when Officer O’Hara had burst into her parlor and babbled about my stepmother; but my head was hidden in her afghan, and I had not seen it. Now I did.

  Her eyes were narrowed, her lips white and so thin they had almost vanished. Blotches of reddish purple blossomed like evil bruises along her pale forehead and cheeks.

  She closed her eyes. “Poltroons!” she hissed, her nostrils flaring. “Bumwipes!”

  She opened her eyes and those gray eyes, darker now, stared at me. Or, rather, toward me; or through me; for I do not think she recognized me at all.

  She blinked once, and then, without another word, she pulled herself off the door and stormed past me down the hall. She disappeared round the corner and I could hear her feet thump thump thump against the stairway as she pounded up the stairs.