She sat back—sagged back—and looked so near tears that Erik was disarmed.
“Well, you don’t need to cry about it,” he said, his voice dropping into the low, man’s register that was becoming his normal speech. “Andy’s okay, prob’ly, as long as he’s at the hotel. It’s comin’ and goin’ that scares him, ’specially comin’ home at night. It’s gonna start gettin’ dark earlier pretty soon, y’know, and he has to work late sometimes.”
Hilda nodded. “Yes. But what—I thought he would be safe if he told what he knew in front of everyone.”
“He thinks they’ll try to get him, though, just to teach him not to be a snitch.”
“Is this something he has heard anyone say, or is it just a feeling?”
“He says—” Erik’s voice broke into its higher register again “—he says he hears people whisper things behind his back, but when he looks to see who’s talkin’, there’s never anybody there.”
“What kind of things?” Hilda’s mouth was dry.
“He didn’t say. Just—mean things.”
Hilda looked at her little brother, her tears near the surface again. He was lying, and he knew she knew he was lying, but he wasn’t going to repeat to his sister the words, the cruel, menacing words that Andy had heard flung at him by unknown voices.
Erik was becoming a man.
“What do you think we should do, my brother?” she asked him, and they both understood. She had called him “little one” for the last time.
“I had an idea,” he said, digging his toe against the wooden floor of the porch and shedding about five years of his new-found adulthood. “I don’t know if you’ll like it.”
“Yes?”
“I thought maybe Patrick could give him a job at the store, and maybe walk him back and forth every day. He doesn’t live so far from here.”
Hilda considered that. “Patrick needs more help, I know, now that Uncle Dan is ill. Do you think Andy would like working at the store?”
“He’s been wantin’ to get a better job,” said Erik eagerly. “He’s been sayin’ there’s no chance to make anything of himself as long as he’s just a bellhop. He’d work real hard, I know he would.”
Hilda wanted to hug him, but she knew he didn’t like it anymore. Even if she could have reached him, she thought ruefully, looking at her prominent bulge. “I will talk to Patrick as soon as he comes home. But for today, I will have Mr. O’Rourke meet Andy when he gets off work, and take him home.”
“Not in the carriage!” said Erik in alarm. “Because the crooks would know—”
“No, not in the carriage,” Hilda agreed. “He will walk to the hotel, and Andy will tell him where he lives.”
“I’ll go tell Andy!” said Erik, ready to dash away.
“Wait! Erik, wait. I nearly forgot why I ‘dragged you away’ from your swimming. I want to you ask Sven to come and see me. No,” she added, seeing the question trembling on his lips, “do not ask me why I do not go to him. This is something secret, Erik, and you must not tell anyone about it. Not even Andy. Will you promise?”
“Promise,” he said, in his new adult voice, and crossed his heart. “I gotta hurry, though, ’cause I gotta go find Sven for you, and then stop at the hotel before I go to work at the stable.”
“No time to swim today,” said Hilda. “I am sorry. Maybe tomorrow.”
But Erik was already out of earshot.
20
Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear—not absence of fear.
—Mark Twain, Pudd’nhead Wilson’s New Calendar, 1897
Sven was also hot and tired when he came to see Hilda, but Sven almost never lost his temper. He was the epitome of the calm, stolid Swede, the sort that others thought of as “dumb.” They could not have been more wrong.
He sat down heavily on one of the wicker porch chairs, so heavily that the chair creaked, and said, in Swedish, “You wanted to see me, my sister?”
“Yes, and I am sorry to keep you from your supper on such a day.” She poured some of the fresh lemonade Eileen had brought out, with a passing thought to the number of lemons they must be going through. Time was when a lemon, or an orange, was a rare treat. Lemonade was one little luxury for which she was deeply grateful.
“Yes, it has been a long day. The paint shop is very hot and close on such a day. There are fans, but the smell of paint is hard to bear.” He sipped at his drink, then held the cold glass to his temple.
“You have a headache. I will give you some powders, and then you must go home to rest. But first, there is a thing I would like you to do for me.”
Sven looked wary. Many of the people in Hilda’s life were wary when she asked them to do things for her. “Yes,” she said to his unspoken criticism, “it is maybe a fearsome thing, but not I think so fearsome for you as for me. He does not know you.”
“Who does not know me, Hilda?”
“Mr. Vanderhoof. Always we dealt with his agent, Mr. Andrews, about getting Mama and the children here. Mr. Vanderhoof knows me, or he knows who I am, because of what happened later, but he does not know you.”
Sven’s jaw worked. His cold blue eyes seemed to grow even colder. “And what is it you want me to do about Mr. Vanderhoof?”
Hilda lowered her voice. Across the street a sweating boy was mowing the lawn. The cicadas were buzzing loudly. She would not be overheard. “I want to know what Mr. Vanderhoof has done, where he has been, since he left South Bend. It was said that he left the country. I do not know if that is true, or just a story that was told to protect him.” She moved closer to Sven and spoke even more quietly. “He is an evil man, Sven, and I think maybe he still has colleagues here, political friends, who would do anything he asked of them. I think—I do not know, but I think—maybe he has been setting these fires, and killing people, and even wrecking the trains, for some reason of his own. Oh, he did not do these things himself, but I think maybe he has had other men do them.”
Sven heaved a great sigh. He was extremely tired, and his head ached badly. “My sister, you say these things, but you have no proof. Yes, Mr. Vanderhoof is a bad man. He is a thief, and he has killed one man, at least. No, not by his own hand, but by his bidding. But why would he do these things you now say he has done?”
“I do not know, Sven. I know only that he helped Clancy to turn bad. He used him. Then Clancy returned to South Bend, and now Clancy is dead—murdered. I think there is a connection. I do not know what it is. Will you help me to find out?”
Sven rose, ponderously. “I must go, Hilda. I will think on it. I do not like to accuse a man—even a bad man—with no evidence.”
“That is why we must find the evidence, my brother. Wait. I will give you something for your headache.”
He took the medicine, thanked her gravely, and trudged home, refusing Hilda’s offer of the carriage. She had not gotten the pledge of help that she had hoped for, but she knew it was no use trying to coax or plead. Sven would do what he thought was right, and anything more that Hilda could say would have as much chance of moving him as of moving one of the old elms that lined the street.
And if she felt any slight qualms about breaking her implied promise to Sergeant Lefkowicz, or putting Sven in possible danger, she pushed them to the back of her mind, hoping they would be less troublesome there.
When Patrick came home a few minutes later, it was with Andy Mueller in tow. Andy was carrying a box so big he was almost invisible behind it.
Hilda was not best pleased. “Patrick,” she whispered, “what if someone is following him?”
“That’s fine, lad,” said Patrick loudly. “Just set it down in the hall, and then go and have yourself a wash. The scullery’s just off the kitchen. Then maybe Mrs. O’Rourke will give you a little somethin’ to eat.”
When he had gone inside, panting a little under his burden, Patrick motioned to Hilda and they both went in to the parlor.
“Hush, now, before you say a word,” said Patrick, going to the sidebo
ard to pour himself a whiskey. This was so unlike him that Hilda stared open-mouthed and obeyed his command.
He took a swig, sighed, and looked at Hilda. “All right, darlin’, you want to know what’s goin’ on.”
“Yes!” Her tongue unleashed, she let it run freely. “He was not to be seen with you, not yet. If anyone saw him with you, it could be very bad. I had a plan, but it—”
“Things don’t always work out accordin’ to plan.” Patrick took another pull at his stiffener. “The boy’s a bit muddled, but if I understand what he was tellin’ me, Erik went to the hotel and told him there was maybe a chance of him comin’ to work for me.”
“Yes, he was to say that, and to say that until I had a chance to talk to you about it, Mr. O’Rourke would come to the hotel and walk him home. After he went to work for you, then maybe he could come home with you. I did not think about how he would get home from here. I am so tired, Patrick.”
“I know you are, darlin’ girl. So are we all, in this awful heat. Anyway, I guess maybe Andy didn’t hear another word Erik said after ‘work at Malloy’s.’ Anyway, he came straight to me, in the middle of the afternoon. And he said he was followed.”
Hilda’s hand went to her mouth.
“Yes. Now what was I to do? Tell me that. The boy was scared nearly out of his wits. So I brought him home, hopin’ maybe that big box would hide him from anybody who wanted to know where he was or what he was doin’. It wasn’t a wonderful idea, but it was the best I could come up with at the time.”
“Who followed him?”
“He didn’t know. I don’t know, meself, if it’s true or if he was just so scared he imagined it. He reads those dime novels, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, but—”
“And Sherlock Holmes and that sort o’ thing?”
“But he is not—”
“All I’m sayin’, darlin’, is it could be so, or it could be somethin’ he’s made up out o’ shadows.”
“You will not let me finish. I think it is true. But even if it is not, he thinks it is true, and he is very frightened. Patrick, I think we must let him stay with us for a little while.”
“What about his family?”
“We will have to let them know. I can send Mr. O’Rourke.”
“And what is he goin’ to tell ’em? That their boy’s been nosin’ around for you and got himself in trouble with some nasty sorts? That he’s seein’ things that aren’t there? Or what?” There was a hard note in his voice that Hilda had seldom heard before.
She said nothing for a moment. Then she swallowed and said, “You are right, Patrick. I have been foolish in some ways, and I have put the boy in danger. But now we—you and I, Patrick—must think of the best way to protect him. I think it is to keep him here with us. We can tell his mother that I need some extra work done at the house. But do you think that is what we should do?”
Patrick’s anger melted. “Yes, darlin’ girl, I do. I’m sorry if I sounded—well, I didn’t mean to be scoldin’. You’re doin’ the best you can, I reckon. Let’s get Andy in here and talk to him about it.”
They found Andy in the kitchen, eating cookies and drinking milk and talking to Mrs. O’Rourke as if they were old friends. Hilda was astonished.
“Sure, and it’s good to have a boy around,” said the curmudgeonly cook. “I miss my own, now they’re grown and gone. Did you want somethin’, madam?”
“Yes,” said Patrick, since Hilda seemed once more to be struck dumb. “If you’re done with your snack, Andy, we’re wantin’ to talk to you. He’ll be back, Mrs. O’Rourke.”
Andy looked apprehensive as he followed them back to the parlor.
“It is nothing bad, Andy,” said Hilda. “Sit down. We have a plan—an idea—a—”
Patrick came to her rescue. “A business proposition to put to you, me boy. Now, we’ve agreed you’re to work for me at the store from now on.”
“Yessir?” Andy had clearly not realized that the deal had been sealed.
“Yes. I can pay you a bit more than you were gettin’ at the hotel, to start, but you won’t be gettin’ tips. So’s you won’t come out on the short end o’ the deal, we thought—Mrs. Cavanaugh and I—that you might like to work for us here at the house for a little while, too.”
Hilda, without missing a beat, took up the improvised narrative. “You would help Mr. O’Rourke with the outside work, and maybe some work inside as well. I am—now that I am near my time, I can do little, cannot even carry anything very heavy. I would be very happy to have your help, Andy. But it would mean that you would have to live here for a time. Would that be hard for your family?”
“I’d be here all the time? And go back and forth to work with Mr. Patrick?”
Hilda and Patrick exchanged glances. This boy was no fool. “Yes, Andy,” said Hilda gently. “You would be with one of us all of the time.”
“I’ll have to tell Ma.”
“It’ll be all right with her, then? She won’t be missin’ your help around the house?”
“The others’ll pitch in. It’s summer, so none of ’em’s goin’ to school. It’ll be okay. But I gotta tell her. Already she’ll be worried ’cause I’m late.”
Patrick grinned at him. “Suppose I go with you, and we can get your clothes and bring them back. And meanwhile Eileen’ll fix up a room for you.”
Hilda stood, with difficulty, and put her arm around Andy’s shoulders. “Tell your mother you will be perfectly safe with us,” she whispered, and got a smile in return.
21
Evil is easy, and has infinite forms.
—Blaise Pascal, Pensées, 1670
So that was one problem solved, thought Hilda as she gave instructions to Eileen. Temporarily, at least, Andy would be under supervision all day long, with no chance for anyone to harm him.
“Will he sleep in the carriage house with the O’Rourkes, ma’am? There’s an extra room there.”
“No, Eileen. I want him to sleep in the house. The small room on the end will do for now.” The place for him, really, was on the third floor where Eileen slept, but Hilda had once been fourteen herself. Better to have the two of them on different floors.
Eileen was no fool, either. If the boy was to be a sort of footman, his place was in the carriage house. If he was to have a bedroom in the house...
“You want to keep an eye on him, don’t you, ma’am?”
“Yes, I do, but not because I do not trust him.”
“No, ma’am. I know. He’s in trouble, isn’t he?”
“He—could be. Eileen, do not ask him about it. It is—complicated.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Eileen went to the linen closet, her face soberly obedient, but her mind racing. Miss Hilda was up to something. Eileen wasn’t sure she approved—with the baby so near, and all—but it was exciting, all the same. And even if she wasn’t to talk about it, nobody could keep her from listening and speculating.
Hilda was very quiet at supper. She ate, but as if it were a duty. Patrick, tired, hungry, and preoccupied, ate with steady concentration. Eileen, serving at table, was uneasy. High spirits and confidence, that she expected from her mistress. Of late, tantrums and tears were the norm—but that was just the baby. This mood was new, in Eileen’s experience, and what with everything else that was going on, she was sure it boded no good.
Mrs. O’Rourke had made a peach cobbler. It was one of Hilda’s favorite desserts, but she took only a small helping, and picked at that. Patrick finally noticed.
“Kevin?” he asked.
Hilda didn’t rise to the bait. She simply shook her head. “The baby is fine. I am fine.”
“What, then?”
“I think. I am thinking,” she corrected. “There is much to think about.” She took a deep breath, as deep as she could, with the baby taking up so much space. “Patrick, Aunt Molly was right when she told me to give it up. Andy was right when he said it was dangerous. You were right. Everyone was right. But I cannot stop now. I have done t
oo much. In Swedish we have an expression about stirring mud.”
Patrick nodded. “In English, too. Stirrin’ up mud, we say.”
“Yes. I have stirred up mud. I have put other people besides Andy in danger. But your cousin is dead, Patrick. He was not a good man, and we did not like him, but he was your cousin. We cannot let the man who killed him go free.”
“But, Hilda, darlin’!” He fought to keep down his rising panic. “If it’s as scary as all that—and mind, I’ve said so all along—what can you do, girl? With the baby due any time now, and all.”
“I can think, Patrick. I can still think. And other people can ask questions for me. What else can I do? Sven will ask questions for me. He did not promise, but he will. I know him.”
“And how are you goin’ to know what questions to ask? Seems to me you’re still just stirrin’ up mud.” He was trying, he was trying very hard, not to let his temper get the better of him.
“No. Sven will ask about Mr. Vanderhoof.”
“Vanderhoof! Why him? He’s been gone for years, now.”
“It is because of Clancy, Patrick. I do not think Clancy was wicked, only weak. It was Mr. Vanderhoof who made Clancy do wicked things when they both lived here. Then they both left South Bend. Who is to say they did not meet again? Who is to say Mr. Vanderhoof did not come back when Clancy did?”
Patrick frowned. “You’ve not got any evidence of that. And Vanderhoof’s a big man, me girl, and he has a lot of influence. If he is mixed up in all this, you’d best leave it alone.”
“That is what Sergeant Lefkowicz said. But I cannot leave it alone. I told you. I have begun; now I must continue. I have asked Sven to talk to people, to try to learn what Mr. Vanderhoof did and where he went after he left South Bend.” She took another deep breath. “I did not plan to tell you about this, Patrick. But if—if something should happen—I wanted you to know that I think these evil things are all a part of the same plot, and I think Mr. Vanderhoof—”
“What do you mean, if somethin’ should happen?” Patrick had stood up, and his voice was rising.
Murder in Burnt Orange Page 14
