by Jo Robertson
Mrs. Jolly hesitated, then shook her head, all strength gone out of her. Sweat plastered her hair to her temples and her long, thin fingers escaped Meghan's hold and plucked uselessly at the blanket covering her.
"A shape or size?"
Mrs. Jolly wheezed out the words. "No, no."
"Color of flesh? Clothing?" Meghan pressed. With each question, the woman merely shook her head and grew more agitated.
Meghan decided she might never have another chance to question Mrs. Jolly about Nell. "I must ask you something rather private, ma'am. I hope you do not mind."
A slight shake of her head was the woman's only response. Was that an assent or a protest, Meghan wondered?
But she plunged on. "Nell Carver visited you and the Reverend quite often right before she disappeared. Do you remember that?"
Mrs. Jolly nodded.
"Can you tell me why?"
Mrs. Jolly's dark eyes brightened momentarily, her thin eyebrows lifted, and Meghan had the feeling that she'd been surprised by the question.
"Why did Nell visit you?" Meghan repeated.
The ill woman opened her mouth to answer and then clamped the lips shut. Her eyes widened as if a troubling piece had just fitted into a giant puzzle. After several moments of changing expressions flitting across her face, she closed her eyes.
"Tell me why!" Meghan heard the shrill command in her voice as she clenched her fists to keep from giving the woman a shake.
With her eyes still closed Mrs. Jolly waved a weak hand toward the door and sank deeper into the pillow. "I'm tired now, dear. I don't remember Nell coming around at that time. Not at all. You must be mistaken."
There was nothing to do but leave. Meghan stood on the cottage path and tugged on her gloves. Thank God, she hadn't seen the Reverend as she made her escape down the dark hallway, past the sitting room to the entry.
Pondering the quixotic nature of both Mrs. Jolly and her husband, Meghan wrapped her coat tightly around her and faced the now darkening night. She'd made her way past the gate when the Reverend once again loomed from the shadowy mists and blocked her way.
"What did she say?" he barked. "What did she tell you?"
Although he was as whipcord thin as a scarecrow, Meghan felt a jiggle of apprehension
"We spoke in confidence, Reverend Jolly," she answered with starch in her voice. "You'll have to ask your wife."
She made to go around him, but he stepped sideways.
"Don't be a dimwitted chit," he exclaimed. "I want to know what she spoke to you about!"
Meghan set her jaw and took a half step backward. A maniacal glint sparked Jolly's eyes. Could she outrun him? Not likely.
She pushed her arm outward, palm flat against his bony chest. The contact even through their clothing chilled her. She fancied his heart thumped in his chest like something fierce trying to get out.
She tilted her chin and narrowed her eyes, employing a look that had quelled many of her older students. "Let me pass this instant."
Jolly shrank, then spun on his heel and hurried off, but not in the direction of his own home, Megan noted.
Shivering with cold and alarm, she strode off behind him. She wrapped her coat tightly around her and faced the dark journey home.
If there were a villain in that household, she wondered, who was it? Mrs. Jolly appeared kind and gentle, yet had not only run from what she believed was an attack on a woman, but had not mentioned the event to anyone. How could she keep such knowledge in her heart?
The Reverend, dour and grim-lipped, appeared to dominate his weak wife, yet had scurried like a servant to do her bidding. Timid one moment, stern the next, he was a difficult man to comprehend.
What secrets did these two harbor? What guilt? What darkness of the soul?
#
Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how one looked at it, the Chippewa Brave hesitated the fraction of a second that gained Tucker leverage. He threw the man off his body with a bolt of renewed energy. He'd be goddamned if he was going to die in the fucking Minnesota wasteland far from home and everything he loved by a savage who was primed to part his scalp from his head.
Although he had the buck by several inches, the brave outweighed him, but the last minute adrenaline surged through Gage. Gaining the advantage, however briefly, he managed to pin the Brave's arms.
He knew by the strain on his muscles that he wouldn't hold him long. Already the thrashing Indian threatened to unseat him. Gage knew it was a matter of seconds before he'd be too weak to fight.
Out of the corner of one eye, he spied a good-sized rock just within arm's reach. He shifted his weight and extended his arm. If he could just get a grasp on it.
His fingertips touched on the smooth stone and he managed to nudge it toward him. The movement over-balanced Gage, however, and the brave threw him as if he were a child.
He landed unceremoniously on his back, the wind momentarily swooshing out of him. His head banged again on the hard ground, addling his brain even as his hand curved around the rock. With one sure aim, he smashed the rock into the side of the brave's head and rolled over onto his side.
The next moments would remain confused in his mind, for he felt as if he'd left his corporeal body and watched some maniacal soldier acting in ways he would never attribute to the old Tucker Gage. The savage-soldier of his other self leapt onto the brave and began pounding him over and over and over again, vicious blows to his head and face until there was nothing left of the Chippewa except a bloody, pulpy mass where his face should've been.
When his fellow soldiers pulled him off at last, Gage felt an overwhelming sense of satisfaction, a jubilation, as if he'd triumphed over a great foe. Good, he'd howled in his head, wanting to scream and beat his chest like some kind of fucking savage, looking at the dead Indian and feeling the heady thrill of victory.
It was only much later, after the exulting voices of his fellow infantrymen had passed and the survivors began to gather up their dead, that he'd seen the Brave's body more clearly. The lower half of his face remained unbroken and Tucker saw the youthful slackness to the jaw, the smooth baby-like skin, and the hairless face.
In spite of his size, the Chippewa Brave couldn't have been more than sixteen.
Chapter 19
Quivering from her new-found knowledge, Meghan barely arrived home in time for dinner. The family maid Abigail had just set the table in the formal dining room, and Meg noticed that two extra services were laid out with the good linen, china, and crystal.
"Are we having guests, Abby?" she asked the girl who, save for the cook, was the only domestic her father kept.
"Yes, Miss Meghan," Abby answered cheerily, her coffee-colored face bright with excitement. "The Doctor invited Mr. and Mrs. Nolan for dinner."
Her dark eyes rolled in her round, pretty face. "Mistah Nolan's so handsome, isn't he, Miss? And we haven't had guests in so long a time." She whirled off to the kitchen to help Clara, the cook.
Hell's bells. Meghan wanted badly to mull over with her father what Mrs. Jolly claimed she'd seen at the edge of the Swamp. Rigidly logical, he'd make meaning out of the account, perhaps even persuade her to speak with the Marshal. Gage would surely want to know about the event even if it had nothing to do with Nell.
And Meghan was equally eager to tell Gage about the robes Emily had shown her at the Nolan house. Meghan wasn't naïve. She understood that many southern men had been Klan members back in the sixties, but that was decades ago.
Why would Mr. Nolan keep his robes if he were no longer involved with the Klan? And hadn't they disbanded for the most part? Certainly she no longer heard stories of them riding the night to terrorize poor Negroes.
Now Mr. Nolan would sit at their table all night where she'd be forced to make pleasant conversation with a man she suspected of having an ugly secret.
She mused again how people could appear so normal upon casual acquaintance, but could hide iniquity beneath a thin veneer of goodness. Or perhaps
Mr. Nolan's pose of civility was genuine and she was being fanciful. Gage would be sure to tell her so.
But why were the robes hidden in Mr. Nolan's closet?
Meghan changed into one of her comeliest frocks, a pale lavender washed silk with cream-colored lace on the sleeves and bodice. Quite good with hair styling, Abby fashioned her unruly curls into a fashionable Gibson girl knot with soft tendrils that trailed becomingly in front of her ears and onto her neck.
Pleased with the effect, Meghan descended the stairs to join her father in the parlor.
"I've had Abby set yet another place," Papa announced. "Tucker Gage is joining us."
"But – but – " Meghan couldn't think of a single objection to Papa's declaration. He adored Gage and she could hardly tell him that she and Gage weren't on friendly terms at the moment. She desperately required a few moments alone to smooth the waters with him.
Papa gazed shrewdly at her. "You haven't quarreled with Tucker again, have you Meggie?"
Damn!"
Of course not!" she exclaimed.
Papa would press her for details she wasn't willing to share if she admitted to the recent quarrel. Her feelings were far too raw at the moment to handle both Gage and her father. She contemplated pleading a headache, but cowardice was not in her nature, so she set her teeth and prepared for what would surely be the most awkward evening of her life.
After the first several courses were served, Abby and Clara brought in a great steaming ham on a platter laden with pineapple and apples, along with many of the cook's aromatic side dishes. Whatever else, Meghan had a hearty appetite and never took a dainty attitude with regards to eating.
She also refused to wear any sort of corset, deeming the rib-clenching garments injurious to proper breathing and good health for a young woman. She tucked into her food with relish.
Tucker Gage sat opposite her with Papa to her left at the head of the table. Mr. Nolan took a seat at the far end of the table and his wife, pale and silent, sat to his right beside Gage. All through the courses, Meghan was aware of Mr. Nolan's eerie pale eyes on her, probing and inquisitive, and she wondered what he was thinking.
Had Mrs. Nolan shared Meghan's concerns about their daughter? As a proper, well-behaved wife, she'd probably revealed the details of their conversation, Meghan thought with a tinge of annoyance. She hadn't missed how Mr. Nolan dominated his wife.
After a few innocuous comments on the dinner fare, Nolan addressed Meghan, startling her out of her reverie. "Miss Knight, my wife tells me that you are concerned about our daughter Emily."
Well, that answered her silent question. "Yes, I am," she answered, disinclined to elaborate further.
"I understand that she's quite excellent in her reading and writing and excels passably in her arithmetic," Nolan continued.
"Well, that is true," Meghan mumbled tossing a glance at Gage who stared at her with great interest, his gray eyes inquisitive, his mouth turned up on one side in what might've been amusement.
She squirmed a bit in her chair.
"Oliver," Mrs. Nolan said, placing a timid hand on her husband's sleeve, "perhaps we ought to discuss this privately. I'm sure Marshal Gage and Dr. Bailey aren't interested in such matters."
The look Nolan aimed at his wife would've withered the brightest bloom on the vine, and when he spoke his voice was false and hearty. "Nonsense! Miss Knight was concerned enough to take time out of her busy schedule to visit our home to discuss Emily's school progress. We should all hear what she has to say."
A malicious smile played about the man's full lips. "What's the particular problem with our Emily?"
Meghan felt rather than saw Gage's penetrating look, and when her eyes slid toward him, those steady gray eyes appeared irritated on her behalf. Or possibly just irritated with her? He surely couldn't guess that her visit to the Nolans was related to the case, could he?
Damn Tucker Gage! He was far too perceptive.
"I believe Emily's a bit shy," Meghan said, offhanded. "I might have overreacted somewhat." She hated this feeling of defeat, but she wouldn't betray her young student.
She turned her attention toward Gage. "What progress have the police made on Nell's case, Marshal?" She managed to maintain an innocent look, and rather thought Gage deserved to have the conversation turned on him.
"I don't discuss an on-going case," Gage said shortly.
"Oh, come now, Gage," Nolan said jovially, turning from the awkward topic of his daughter. "Surely a small discussion among friends is allowed."
"It's true, Tucker, that many rumors abound surrounding the case," Dr. Bailey interrupted. "Can you not give us some truth among all this gossip?"
Meghan watched Gage's face soften. Why was it that her father always seemed to engender respect and soft heartedness from him while she remained persona non grata?
"We are looking at several suspects," Gage said noncommittally.
Nolan pounced on the admission. "James Wade! If I were a betting man, I'd have chosen him. The man's disgusting."
Gage raised a brow. "Disgusting? In what way?"
Nolan looked from his wife to Meghan's father and back again as if for support. "Everyone knows that Wade is notorious in his conduct regarding women." He looked as if he'd say more, but glanced at Meghan and again at her father who scowled at him.
"Well," Nolan faltered. "Perhaps this is a topic best discussed in male company."
What? While Meghan had no interest in Wade's proclivities, she had no intention of letting such a comment go unchallenged.
"Nell was my very best friend," she said coldly. "Of all people I claim an interest in the outcome of this case." She tilted her chin, narrowed her eyes, and lowered her voice in an effort to look menacing. "You may be assured that Nell entrusted me with all sorts of confidences."
Although Gage's sharp kick beneath the table gave her a surprised jolt, she rather enjoyed seeing the supercilious look on Mr. Nolan's face replaced by a startled one.
What in God's name was Bailey letting herself in for? Tucker Gage felt his jaw drop and promptly snapped it shut. She's enjoying this, he thought, noting a satisfied expression brighten those green eyes. But he'd wager she missed the dark menace that accompanied Nolan's startled look.
Why bait Mr. Nolan? Throwing such claims about could be very dangerous for Bailey. If she spoke so carelessly all around town, she might well make the killer believe she knew something about Nell's death.
Which, of course, was absurd. For all her meddling and interference, Bailey didn't know anything. She was playing childish games again, but this time they were dangerous.
Gage scoffed, "Miss Bailey's confidences with Nell likely involved the very dark secret concerning which of her childhood friend's beaus would make the most likely matrimonial match."
"Nell and I never spoke of such frivolities," Bailey declared, those emerald eyes snapping at Gage this time.
"Well then, the latest fashion wear, I imagine," Gage answered meaningfully, wishing he were sitting next to her so he could administer a quick pinch to her thigh.
Bailey jumped as his foot nudged her ankle, but covered with a quick retort and a small laugh. "Well, I must confess that Nell's been trying for some time to get me involved in the latest fashions." She smiled charmingly. "I'm afraid I'm quite hopeless with such matters."
Dr. Bailey gave his daughter a strange look, but was perceptive enough to change the subject. "How is the banking business, Mr. Nolan? I understand the commodities market is doing quite well."
The conversation thus veered nicely from Gage's investigation to Nolan's banking business and then to local farming and inevitably to the use of Negroes for farm labor. Gage kept his face pleasantly neutral, but watched Nolan carefully.
He noticed that Bailey did the same and he nearly kicked her foot again beneath the table to get her to behave less obviously. If he tried it, she'd likely kick him back, he thought.
Gage couldn't have said why he'd recently become interested in
Oliver Nolan. For all the man's proper demeanor, a gut feeling told him there was something too slick and smooth about the banker.
Not that he believed Nolan had anything to do with the case. The man was the least likely person to be involved in Nell Carver's disappearance and subsequent death, but it was interesting that he seemed so certain of Wade's culpability.
Tucker hadn't paid much attention to Nolan during the year he'd lived here since his return from the Indian Wars. He'd heard that the banker had made some of his money out West. He was a highly respected businessman from all accounts and extremely wealthy. Gage believed there'd been a previous marriage and Nolan had inherited that fortune at his first wife's death.
After the gold rush of '49, there'd been some talk about additional silver and gold discoveries in the western territory. Gage wondered briefly if Nolan had been there when Gage was still engaged in his military service.
What a strange coincidence that would be.
He fully intended to ask Bailey what her thoughts were concerning Nolan. Apart from her fanciful games, Gage trusted her instincts. If there were any reason to distrust Nolan, she wouldn't be shy in her opinion.
And she was up to something. He'd wager a lot on that.
That something might land her in a world of trouble.
#
"Okay, Meggie, what's this all about?" Dr. Bailey sat in the parlor, his hand wrapped around a brandy snifter. He motioned with his other hand for his daughter to sit in the matching wing chair. A small marble-topped table separated the two chairs and he set down his glass on it.
"Why were you so hostile toward our guest?" he asked.
"Which one?" Meghan answered wryly. "Mr. Nolan or Tucker Gage?"
Her father's brows shot up, thick and bushy and white. Meg felt like a child being called to task by a disappointed parent. "Were you aiming at the both of them, then?" When her father's temper was up, his Irish brogue deepened.
"Oh, Father, of course not." She frowned under her father's scrutiny. "But when I visited the Nolan house, I learned some disturbing news. I wanted to tell Gage of it – it might be important – but he's likely to brush me off after taking me to task for becoming too involved in his precious case."
