Murder in Burnt Orange

by Jeanne M. Dams

  He stalked off to the store, thinking a walk would calm him down. It didn’t. The heat of the sun only added to the heat of his temper.

  Hilda, for her part, heard the door slam behind him. She was awake, had been for hours. She had waited for Patrick to say something, to stroke her hair, to kiss her cheek—anything to show he wanted to be friends again. But he had left the house without even speaking to her.

  Very well, if he wanted to be stubborn, she could be stubborn, too. She did not intend to apologize for what was plainly his fault. She had done nothing wrong. He knew quite well that John Bolton was—well, harmless wasn’t quite the word, but Patrick should have more trust in her. He should know she would not permit John to take any liberties.

  Hilda rang the bell for Eileen.

  “Oh, ma’am, I was that worried you were maybe sick again! And it wouldn’t be no wonder, the way Mr. Patrick was treatin’ you!”

  “I feel well, Eileen, but it is still very hot. I will have a cool bath, and then I will dress to go out.”

  Eileen’s eyes widened. “To go out, ma’am? Are you—I mean, if there is some place I could go for you—”

  “I will go out, Eileen, after I have had breakfast. Find me a cool dress. And no corset!” That there were corsets designed for pregnant women, Hilda knew. She considered them even more idiotic than the customary ones.

  Eileen opened her mouth to remonstrate, but closed it again. When her mistress looked at her with that icy glare, she knew she had best do as she was told.

  It was Saturday, Hilda reminded herself. With any luck she would find her friend Norah at home. Norah, companion of many years when they both lived at Tippecanoe Place and worked for Mrs. Clem Studebaker, had taken a job as a daily maid for Mrs. Hibberd when she married. After time off when her baby was born, she’d gone back to her job, now that the baby was six months old, but she worked only five mornings a week. Sean’s new job at Studebaker’s paid enough that they could afford to sacrifice part of Norah’s pay, and it gave her more time to look after the house and the baby—little Fiona, born in Hilda’s house and named, in a roundabout Irish way, after her.

  Hilda ate such a large breakfast that Eileen was dubious about fitting her into a summer dress—especially without a corset—but a gusset quickly let in at the waist made it possible, though Hilda sighed at her reflection in the mirror. “If it were not so hot, I could wear a shawl and hide the fatness. I wish we would have cooler weather!”

  Eileen wished so, too. Soon Hilda would have nothing to wear to church, even. She, Eileen, would have to ask Mr. Patrick for some muslins and lightweight silks from the store, to make up into loose-fitting dresses.

  When she was speaking to Mr. Patrick again, that was.

  Mr. O’Rourke was no happier about Hilda going out than Eileen was, and expressed himself with an inaudible rumble of disapproval all the way to Norah’s small “company house” near the Studebaker factory. “Shall I wait, madam?” he asked in his chilliest tone.

  “No, O’Rourke.” He had taught Hilda to address him thus; it still made her uncomfortable. “No, thank you. Let me just make sure Norah is at home, and then you can come back for me in an hour.”

  Hilda could only imagine what Norah’s neighbors would think if a carriage waited outside the house for an hour.

  Norah came to the door, the baby in her arms. “Hilda! What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing is wrong. I came to see you. And Fiona, of course.”

  “But—oh, well, come in then. But you shouldn’t be out, in your state.”

  “You came to my house, ran to my house, in a howling blizzard, the day before Fiona was born.” Hilda walked past her into the tiny parlor.

  “That was different and you know it. I was in big trouble or I’d never have dared do it. Besides, I’m not a fine lady!”

  “Norah, I am sick of being told what I may and may not do. I will do what I wish, so long as it does not put the baby at risk.” She sat down and raised her arms to Fiona, who held out her own chubby arms.

  Norah handed over the baby with a smile and a shake of her head. “The same old Hilda, I see. Mind you don’t jiggle her too much—she just ate.”

  Hilda crooned to the baby in Swedish, holding her up so she could bounce on Hilda’s knees. Fiona chuckled happily, blowing bubbles. She sat down suddenly and reached for Hilda’s earring.

  “Oops! Anything shiny, she can’t resist. It’s very strong she is; don’t let her pull it off. Here.” Norah proffered a stuffed bear almost as big as Fiona, and the baby instantly lost interest in Hilda.

  “That is a pretty toy,” said Hilda, putting Fiona on the floor, the bear clutched in her arms.

  “It’s a Teddy bear. Mrs. Clem bought it for Fiona.”

  “Mrs. Clem is a very nice lady. Norah, I need your advice.”

  “You askin’ me for advice? I thought you knew everything. Fiona, don’t bite off Teddy’s ear, there’s a darlin’ girl.”

  “Always you say that. I do not say I know everything; I say I am smart. There is much I do not know, but I know where to find out. Norah, what should I do? Patrick is angry with me, and he will be more angry when he knows I have come here, but I have done nothing wrong.”

  Norah sighed and picked up her daughter, who was beginning to fuss. Rocking the baby, Norah said, “You’d better tell me all about it.”

  Briefly, Hilda recounted her search for information about the train wrecks and possible union involvement. “And I do this only because Mama and Aunt Molly asked me to. And if I asked John Bolton to come to the house, it was because I needed to talk to him, and I could not go to him. You know I would do nothing wrong. Why does Patrick not understand?”

  “He doesn’t understand because he’s jealous, for a start, and because this pokin’ around you’re doin’ might get you in bad trouble. Now don’t get your dander up! I know you don’t want to be told what to do, but you did ask me for advice. So my advice is this: be extra nice to Patrick when he comes home for lunch. Don’t say anything about yesterday, or about trains or unions or anythin’ else that’d set him off. He’s as stubborn as you, remember. He won’t admit he was wrong if you argue with him, but he might if you let it go. And don’t tell him you came over here!”

  “He will know. He knew about John. I do not know how, but servants know everything and they talk, and Mr. O’Rourke brought him home from the store yesterday.”

  “Hmm. Well, so tell him, but say I sent for you, that Fiona was colicky, or I was sick—no, don’t tell him that, he’ll be afraid you’ll catch somethin’. Just say I sent for you and you came because you were afraid somethin’ was wrong with Fiona.”

  “Eileen knows you did not send for me.”

  “You can talk her around. I’m bettin’ she’s mad at Patrick. Now, I’m bettin’, too, that you didn’t come all the way over here just to talk about a spat with Patrick.”

  “You are right. You are right almost as often as I am. I want to know, what does Sean say about unions and strikes?”

  “There’s no union at Studebaker’s, never has been.”

  “This I know, Norah. But what do the men think about unions?”

  “I reckon if they thought much of ’em, they’d organize one. You know Mr. Clem always treated the men right, and now Colonel George and J.M. do, too. Not that Colonel George has much to do with runnin’ the place, it’s mostly J.M. When the factory has trouble, it’s when some other place goes on strike, and Studebaker’s can’t sell their stuff, or move it, or get supplies. Then the men lose hours, and wages, and that’s not good for anybody. Me, I’m against unions. They only cause trouble.”

  Hilda was on the verge of replying that unions had their good side, when the front door opened and Sean burst in.

  “There’s been another train wreck! Right down by the plant, and there’s men dead and dyin’, and a fire that’s fixin’ to spread! I’m goin’ back to help, but I wanted you to know. Don’t know when I’ll be home.”

  The d
oor banged. Fiona started to wail. Hilda and Norah looked at each other.

  “Do any of your neighbors have a telephone? I must go home.”

  7

  Marriage is like life in this—that it is a field of battle, and not a bed of roses.

  —Robert Louis Stevenson, Virginibus Puerisque, 1881

  There was no need to telephone for O’Rourke. The carriage was rattling down the street toward Norah’s house as Hilda stepped out the door, and—oh, Herre Gud, Patrick was in it.

  He was nearly speechless with rage and fear. Nearly. Unfortunately, not quite.

  “And what d’you think you’re doin’, sneakin’ out like this? And with the wreckers right here, right here, not two blocks away, and a fire startin’ and maybe goin’ to spread to these houses... What were you thinkin’?”

  “I did not know there would be a train wreck, Patrick. Please help me into the carriage; I cannot get in by myself.” Hilda was trying hard to keep hold of her temper. Patrick had a certain amount of good sense on his side, and besides, Hilda was genuinely frightened. She could see the smoke rising near the factory, a black cloud that was growing by the moment. “Let us go home—please, Patrick.”

  “You’re goin’ home.” He jumped down and gave her a hand up. “I’m goin’ to the fire to help.”

  Only then did Hilda notice that her husband was in his old fire-fighting gear, his helmet under his arm. She started to voice the thought that the carriage should first deliver him to the fire scene and then come back for her, but the look on his face changed her mind. “Yes, Patrick. Be careful.”

  He turned away without another word and started to run in the direction of the smoke.

  By the time Hilda reached home, tears of frustration were forming in her eyes. If only she could have gone with Patrick, have stayed at the scene of the accident—if accident it was. She might have seen something, someone, heard talk, might have been able to make some sense of what was happening. But no, she had left like a good wife and expectant mother, had gone back to where she and the baby were safe, while Patrick had gone to a place where he was certainly not safe. Train men were not the only ones who had been killed in the fires following wrecks.

  There should, thought Hilda drearily as she climbed the steps to the porch, also be rules for expectant fathers.

  Eileen met her at the door. “Oh, Miss Hilda, ma’am, I was that worried about you! When we heard about the wreck, so close to the factory, we was all afeared the fire might spread to those houses. You’d best come upstairs and have a lie-down. You know you didn’t ought to be runnin’ around like this, with wrecks and fires and all!”

  Hilda allowed herself to be cosseted. She hated to admit it, but she was tired. A baby was such a nuisance!

  And then she thought of little Fiona, soft and warm and trusting in her arms. Maybe, after all, there was something to be said for babies. At least once they got themselves born.

  But what had her exhausting little trip gained her? Nearly nothing. Norah’s advice about how to handle Patrick, while sound, had, as things turned out, been useless, though maybe she could use it on another occasion. As for information, she had already known that most Studebaker workers were perfectly content not to be unionized. Her own brother Sven told her that, frequently. A deeply conservative man, and the valued foreman of the paint shop, he had little use for unions, regarding them as disruptive and liable to cause far more harm than good.

  Hilda thought about the fire. If it spread to the factory it could destroy wagons and carriages in production. It might even damage or destroy some of the motorcars Studebaker was now selling in increasing numbers. If it got as far as the paint shop—she didn’t want to think about that. Surely Sven would not be there. He would be out fighting the fire, for if it reached the paint shop, everything would go up like an explosion. Workers—no, they would get out safely. They had to!

  But it could spread to the company houses, the workers’ houses. They were nice enough houses, though small, but they were built of wood. They would burn like tinder.

  Not like this house. Hilda deliberately made herself relax and think about this good, safe house. This house was built of stone. It would last a long time, a home for her child, and for that child’s children, and theirs....

  When Patrick came home in the middle of the afternoon, tired, reeking of smoke, and ravenous, he found Hilda sound asleep. The sight of her lying in bed in her shift, her hair curling damply on her forehead, her cheeks flushed, made Patrick forget everything else—his weariness, his hunger, his anger. Heedless of the soot clinging to his garments, he sat on the bed and stroked her forehead. “Darlin’ girl,” he murmured.

  “Mmm.” Hilda opened her eyes. “Patrick! You are safe!”

  “That I am, darlin’. The fire’s not out, quite, but it’s under control.”

  Hilda yawned widely and woke more fully. “And you have brought most of it home with you! Look at what you have done to the sheets!”

  “I’ll have a bath in a minute, but first...” He leaned over, kissed her cheek, and then touched the sooty mark he had left there. “There. That’s to remember me by. Is there anythin’ to eat?”

  Eileen, who had watched all this from the door, torn between approval of his attitude and dismay over the grime he was leaving everywhere, answered. “On the table, Mr. Patrick, as soon as you’ve cleaned up.”

  Hilda, too, was famished, so it was some little time before the two stopped eating long enough for conversation.

  “Patrick,” said Hilda, “I am sorry I went out this morning without telling you. It was only to see Norah and Fiona, and I did not think you would mind.” That was not the whole truth, and she had a feeling Patrick knew it, but he, too, was eager to mend their quarrel.

  “I let me temper get the better of me, darlin’, but when I heard about the train wreck and the fire, and found out you’d gone to that part of town—well, I got that pothered, and...” He spread his hands in silent apology.

  “Yes, the wreck. Patrick, did you see anything, hear anything about how such a thing might have happened? Was it an accident?”

  “Don’t know. Reckon nobody knows, not yet, at least. One o’ the front cars jumped the track, just as it was gettin’ close to the factory. Carryin’ coal, it was, and should ’a been goin’ a lot slower than it was, the way I hear it. Anyway, it tipped over and spilled the coal all over the track, and then o’ course the rest of the cars behind it tipped, too, and the weight of it all brought the engine down, and that’s what started the fire. The engineer and the fireman were killed, and the brakeman’s bad hurt. He was thrown off when the cars jumped the track.”

  Hilda knew the brakeman walked along the tops of the cars to set the brakes. “But—is there not a law about automatic brakes? I am sure I read something in the newspaper that said the driver, the—the engineer had to be able to stop the train himself.”

  “There is, but there’s what they call a loophole in the law. If a train goes from one state to another, it has to have automatic brakes. But some of these coal trains, they just bring coal up north here from the coal mines down in southern Indiana, and so they can use old trains with the old systems. I talked to a couple of the train men, though, them as was at the other end and wasn’t hurt, and they said as how this train did have the new brakes, so somethin’ was maybe wrong with ’em, and that’s why the brakeman was up top, and why the first car jumped.”

  “The brakeman would know,” said Hilda.

  “He would, and so would the engineer. But the one’s dead and the other maybe dyin’, so how’s anyone to tell?”

  “And—the fire. Was anyone—did everyone—?” She had been afraid to ask before, and Patrick was quick to reassure her.

  “Sven’s all right. He was in there fightin’ the fire with the rest of us, and so was Sean. Nobody was bad hurt, savin’ a few burns here and there. The factory buildings were never in real danger, though a few windows got smashed. And it never came near the houses.”
<
br />   Hilda’s sigh of relief came from so deep inside her, it seemed as if the baby must have sighed, too. Her mind set at rest, she bent it again to questions. “But was there no one there who might have—have caused this to happen? I know that if someone damaged the brakes, or the track, he could have done it hours ago, but I have heard that when someone does a bad thing, commits a crime, he wants to stay and see what happens.”

  “I know what you’re gettin’ at, darlin’. But there’s no tellin’, honest. You’ve never fought a fire. When there’s coal burnin’, like today, there’s so much smoke, sometimes you can’t tell who’s next to you, helpin’. And you’re hot and scared, and workin’ as hard and as fast as you can. You don’t have time to notice hardly anythin’ but where the flames are, if you can find ’em for the smoke.

  “As for damagin’ the track, that couldn’t hardly have been done much before the train came along. There’s trains along that track all day long, and most of the night, too. It must ’a been the brakes. Maybe somethin’ could ’a been done to ’em so they’d work okay if the train was just slowin’ down a little, but when it was tryin’ to stop, they’d give out.”

  “Could not someone tell by looking at the wrecked cars?”

  “Darlin’, the shape those cars are in, it’s my belief nobody could tell now if they’d been cut apart with an axe.”

  And with that Hilda was obliged to be content—for the time being.

  She slept badly, visions of burning train cars playing behind her eyes. When morning came, very early, she was glad to get out of the rumpled bed and take a cool bath. By the time Patrick came downstairs, she was dressed and breakfasted and ready for church.

  For the past several months, with Hilda so uncomfortable, they had abandoned their practice of a family dinner after church. It had been their habit, with Sunday the servants’ afternoon out, to alternate between the Johansson and the Cavanaugh homes, facing in either place veiled resentment and chilly courtesy. Hilda had been glad to go to her church while Patrick went to his, and come straight home afterwards. Today, though, she felt better.