by Jo Robertson
"You've been drinking," she accused.
Jolly swiped an arm sleeve across his mouth. "You'd drink too if you'd seen what I have, heard what I've heard," he growled. "Done what I've done," he added. "Give up your infernal inquisitiveness, Meghan. If you continue to stick your nose where it doesn't belong, you'll get the smell of something ugly."
"What – what are you talking about?"
He shoved past her in the direction of the mercantile store, but suddenly stopped and spun around to face her. "What did Madeline say to you? Did she tell you something?" The edge of panic hung on his words.
"Madeline?"
He grimaced as if in pain. "My wife, you stupid girl!"
Meghan hadn't known Mrs. Jolly's first name. How remiss of her, she thought weakly.
"What did she say to you?" he shouted.
Meghan drew herself up, her arms still hugging her purse to her body. "That's confidential, Mr. Jolly. You'll have to speak with your wife about it. You won't learn anything from me."
"Foolish woman," he muttered.
Meghan didn't know if he referred to her or his wife.
He took a step back toward her. "She's fanciful, you know. You can't believe anything my wife says."
"She seemed to have all her faculties," Meghan argued.
"There's darkness and evil out there." He swept his arms broadly in the direction of the Swamp. "Bad things happen to curious people. You'd best remember that."
Meghan watched as he turned and staggered past the Station House toward the park and the edge of the Pasquotank River, muttering incomprehensibly all the while. She shivered violently, chilled to the bone with cold and apprehension.
What craziness went on in the Jolly household? Had Mrs. Jolly told her husband what she'd seen months ago? If not, why? Was she afraid of who the mysterious man might be? Surely she didn't think her own husband had hurt someone?
A man of God? It wasn't possible, was it?
#
His muscles cramped and his bones ached when Gage rose the next morning, but at least he'd slept through the night. One of those doctors in the relatively new field of psychiatry would certainly have a great deal to say about Gage's strange behavior.
Of how he could not sleep in a soft, comfortable bed without having harrowing dreams of Sugar Point and the slaughter that took place there. Of how he only slept soundly when he punished his body. Likely they'd throw him in an asylum.
He briefly thought of the ancient monks who flagellated themselves to purge their sins. Was he punishing himself for real or imagined transgressions? Trying to annihilate the horrific memories of what he'd witnessed, of what he'd seen and done all those years ago?
He quickly made his bed, shaved and dressed. By eight o'clock he was at the Station House. Since he expected Bailey to arrive shortly, he spent the time updating paper work, notably the coroner's report on Nell's autopsy and his interview notes with her various boyfriends.
"Sergeant Henderson," he called to the desk duty officer. When the man appeared at the office door he explained he wanted to be informed the moment Miss Bailey came in. "And send Pruitt and Longhouse to pick up James Wade."
Henderson's round, florid face lit up. "Are you arresting him, Marshal?"
His senior deputy had long claimed Wade was the most likely suspect in the disappearance of Nell Carver. As a family man, he took a personal dislike to Wade and his philandering ways.
Wade might be a womanizer, Gage thought, but not necessarily a murderer. Gage's take on the man was all bluster and no action.
"Not yet," he answered Henderson. "We need to jail him for his own protection."
Henderson nodded, but disappointment showed in his face. "Folks are getting pretty upset now that Nell's turned up dead. Lots of agitation and wild rumors running about. They want answers."
Gage nodded and went back to work, muttering, "Don't we all."
He couldn't control the excitability of Tuscarora citizens, but at least he could assure the safety of the accused man. If the solicitor charged Wade at a later date, the man might have to be moved to a more secure jail.
The next several hours slipped by with no more incident than Pruitt and Longhouse bringing Wade in and locking him in the farthest jail cell from the Station House entry. No need to book him, Gage explained. Not until Westin made a formal charge.
Wade blustered a bit at being detained, but eventually calmed down and appeared to actually enjoy the time off from his work at the saw mill.
Thinking of the saw mill reminded Gage of the bloodied board Tracker Thompson's dogs had discovered at the Narrows. He believed the sawed-off two by four – similar to hundreds found at the saw mill – was the murder weapon. Although the laboratory in Charlotte had not yet sent the results, he was sure the sample would indicate human blood.
However, that still didn't prove Wade was the one who'd picked up the board and struck Nell on the head. Not at all.
When Gage's stomach rumbled in hungry protest, he became aware Bailey hadn't come into the Station House at all. Damned woman! What was she up to now? Wandering off on another wild tangent, he'd wager. She'd be the death of him yet.
She'd interviewed more townspeople than he had, he thought grumpily, but with a mild amusement at her perspicacity. He'd have to go to the Bailey home to speak with her, he supposed, when what he really wanted to do was turn her over his knee and spank her soundly.
The image of that was disturbingly sensual. Good God!
"I'm going out for lunch," he told Henderson shortly, as he grabbed his Stetson and jacket and came out of his office. He hesitated at the top of the stairs. "Take care that nothing happens to Wade."
He walked down to the schoolhouse first, on the off chance Bailey was there, but it was locked up as tight as a drum. Hitching up his gig, he drove the few miles to the Bailey residence. Although he easily could've walked the distance, he figured his horse needed the exercise.
Gage knocked on the door and waited. When no one answered, he banged loudly again. He heard a faint curse from round back and found Dr. Bailey bent over his winter vegetable garden, pulling weeds.
He knew the man hated gardening and felt a twinge of sorrow that his friend was reduced to a retired life he had no liking for. If Gage had been consulted, he'd have kept Dr. Bailey on as county coroner after his retirement.
"Hello there, Tucker." With a relieved look, the doctor rose to shake his hand, clearly happy for the distraction.
"Bailey didn't come by the Station House like I asked her," Gage said without preamble.
"Oh? Well, she likely went to the school first and then forgot about your appointment." He smiled fondly. "You know what our Meggie's like."
"No sir, she wasn't at the school either. Can you think of anywhere else she might've gone?"
A worried frown puckered the man's brow. "No," he said slowly. "I heard her moving around quite early this morning. I assumed she'd gone to see you."
Sudden alarm covered the older man's face as he threw down his gardening trowel. "Good God, Tucker, you don't suppose something's happened to her?" Dr. Bailey clutched Gage's arm in a grip far stronger than one imagined a man his age would have.
Gage didn't want to worry him, but a chill of unease began to creep through his bones. Bailey was usually annoying, often irresponsible, but she'd never do anything to cause her father grief or concern.
"Don't worry." He patted Dr. Bailey's arm with more assurance than he felt. "I'll find her. I'm sure she's simply gone off visiting again." He gave a specious laugh. "She's interviewed more persons than I have, you know."
Dr. Bailey forced a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "She's determined to help your investigation."
"Remain here, sir," Gage admonished, "while I search further. Meghan will likely return home any moment. You'll want to be here when she does."
Dr. Bailey merely nodded.
"When she arrives, send someone to fetch me. Sergeant Henderson at the Station House will know
where to find me."
Gage sat for a moment before urging his horse on. No doubt Bailey walked the distance from her house to the school on Main Street. As she was a strong proponent of exercise and a brisk walker, she would've made the distance shortly before eight if she left her home after seven, as her father indicated.
Where had she gone from there? The Station House was a mere three or four blocks from the school. What was so interesting that she forewent the short distance to his office?
James Wade hadn't been arrested until late morning. The man was free until then and could've seen Bailey. Could've accosted her before she reached the Station and then hurried back to the saw mill.
Gage sighed deeply. Was he grasping at straws? Or was it possible Wade knew something about where Bailey was?
As the notion overtook him, Gage made his way toward the Station, his jaw clenched with determination. He had serious questions to ask his prisoner.
Chapter 22
Gage browbeat James Wade for over an hour, but the man insisted he hadn't seen Bailey this morning. Although he'd arrived late to his job at the saw mill, he accounted poorly for his actions before ten o'clock when the deputies took him to the Station House.
Gage pressured him further. "This looks very bad for you, Wade," he threatened, his patience nearly threadbare. "Are you telling me you can't remember what you did before work?"
Slouching in the chair opposite Gage's desk, Wade appeared even cockier than during his last interview. Not at all like a man who had something to fret about.
"I ain't done nothing wrong, Marshal. I told you that." Wade spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. "I didn't harm Nellie and I ain't touched that school teacher. I don't know nothing about her."
"You were late to work because you were ill?"
Wade shrugged. "Yeah, I don't rightly remember the details, but I felt pretty poorly."
"Hung over from a late night of drinking, then?"
Gage knew he'd guessed right by the look on Wade's face. The man was probably telling the truth. "Did you see anyone during the time in question? Can anyone testify to your so-called sickness?"
"Didn't see anyone," Wade muttered.
"You drank alone?"
"Not a crime, is it?" Wade countered belligerently.
"Not unless you got skunk-drunk and hurt someone. Maybe accidentally." Gage leaned across the desk and pierced Wade with a hard look. "Maybe you came across Meghan Bailey early this morning. Had words with her. Everyone knows how aggressive the woman can be."
Gage leaned back in his chair, eyed Wade speculatively. "Is that what happened? Miss Bailey accused you of having hurt her friend? She learned something about the two of you, confronted you, and you retaliated. It was an accident, right?"
Wade jumped out of his chair and it clattered to the floor. "God dammit, Marshal! I never seen the woman."
Fifteen minutes later Gage was convinced Wade told the truth. Not about everything. The man was a slippery liar who knew how to protect his own hide, and Gage was certain the little weasel hid something behind all that bluster that he didn't want Gage to know.
But he didn't think the man had run into Bailey between last night and this morning. He believed that part of his story.
He still wanted to discuss the ruby ring, but not now. Right now Bailey was on his mind.
What mess had she gotten herself into, he wondered, still more annoyed than worried.
#
Mr. Thomas was nowhere to be found, but since the schoolhouse was comfortably warm, Meghan took the opportunity to complete a few tasks for the return of the students after vacation. When he still hadn't returned by the time she'd finished up, she glanced at the clock.
She didn't relish arriving early at the Station House and having to wait around the drafty old place for Gage, so decided to visit Mrs. Nolan again instead. The woman had remarked that she was an early riser and invited Meghan to stop by any time she wished to speak about her daughter's schoolwork.
Meghan surmised she'd be safe from another confrontation with Mr. Nolan, for he spent most of his days at the bank, and Emily would be home during the school recess. Meg felt only a bit guilty about using the daughter as an excuse to probe into Mr. Nolan's affairs.
But when Meghan arrived at the Nolan house, she found Mrs. Nolan abed – yet again – and Emily fending for herself with the aid of their harried Negro housekeeper.
"Will you play with me?" Emily asked when they settled on the sofa in the parlor.
Meghan would much rather have spoken to the mother, asked her directly about her husband's activities with the Klan. "What would you like to do?"
"Hmmm, we could play dress-up with Poppa's robes," the girl suggested, her face all pure innocence.
"That's probably not a good idea," Meghan said hastily. "In fact, Emily, your father's, uh, clothing is private. You shouldn't play with his things." She looked chidingly at the girl. "And you shouldn't invite others to see them."
"Okay," Emily answered with cheerful alacrity.
An idea sprouted in Meghan's brain. "You haven't, have you?" she ventured.
"Haven't what, Miss Bailey?"
"Shown others the robes your Papa has hidden in the chest beneath the alcove."
Emily squirmed and jerked her round blue eyes away from Meghan, a sign she took to mean the girl knew she'd done something wrong. "No," she answered, still avoiding Meghan's eyes.
Children were rarely good liars and Meghan had learned long ago the subtle signs of falsehood, had practiced them herself many times to avoid punishment for her youthful indiscretions. Emily was lying to her.
She'd wager her pitiful teacher's salary the child had told someone else about the robes. Perhaps a servant. Or even another schoolmate. Perhaps even Nell, Meghan thought. Her friend had spent a lot of time in Emily's company.
Meghan couldn't imagine anything more disastrous than having Mr. Nolan realize his daughter had discovered his secret cache of clothing. Except knowing she'd shared the information with others. Even if he had nothing to do with Nell's disappearance, he'd want his Klan affiliations kept private.
"Why don't we take a walk by the river?" Meghan suggested.
Emily wrinkled her small nose. "I'm not allowed to go to the Narrows," she said by way of answer.
"But you'll be with me and I'll keep you safe."
Emily frowned. "That's what Nell used to say, but look what the river did to her."
An icicle of alarm trickled down Meghan's back.
Before she could respond, Mrs. Nolan called from upstairs and the girl ran to see what her mother wanted, leaving Meghan alone. She rose and wandered around the parlor. No sounds emanated from upstairs or the kitchen at the back, and the house was eerily quiet.
What had the girl meant about Nell? Why had she mentioned Nell going to the river? Had Nell confided in the child? Had Emily, in turn, told Nell about her father's Klan robes, shown them to her?
Meg strolled unsupervised around the downstairs, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. What was going on in this house? The Jolly and the Nolan families – both seemed to harbor secrets.
At last she moved to the corridor and to the alcove space beneath the staircase. She could hardly detect the hidden door to the storage area, the room where Emily had previously shown her the large trunk with the white robes.
She hesitated with her hand against the wall when she turned her head and noticed another door tucked behind the flight of stairs. It stood invitingly ajar. She moved for a closer look and saw that an unhinged lock accounted for the open door.
Darting a quick look behind her, she reached for the knob, temptation beckoning. She hesitated, torn between a need to explore further and fear of being caught snooping.
Curiosity won and she pushed carefully on the door. It squeaked open, its broken lock dangling on the doorjamb. She slipped inside and pulled it closed after her.
Blood pounded thickly in her ears and her palms grew damp. The thumping of
her heart was a roar in her ears and drowned out the small household noises that came from the back of the house. When she wiped the back of her hand against her forehead, it came away wet.
Although her nerves grew increasingly jittery, she examined the room. Tidy and sparsely furnished, it was decorated in heavy dark furniture and deep red and gold upholstery. Thick damask curtains blocked out the sun. In addition to a richly covered sofa, a desk, a chair, and a cabinet were the only items in the room.
Meghan moved swiftly to the desk and opened the middle drawer. Nothing but pencils, a notepad, and a small dictionary.
She tried the one on the right. File folders filled the drawer, piled haphazardly on top of one another as if tossed carelessly inside. A small metal flask of what she presumed was spirits lay at the front.
When she examined the third drawer on the left, it jammed and she realized it had a small keyhole. Locked. She cast about for a key on the desktop and inside the middle drawer, but found nothing.
Pulling a pin from her hair, she knelt down on the expensive carpet, worked at the lock a moment. Deeply absorbed in her work, she didn't notice the gradual dwindling of noise from the rest of the house. Without warning the sound of an unexpected footstep jerked her out of her crouch.
"What the hell are you doing in here?" roared Nolan from the doorway, his features crimson with anger. "Where are my wife and daughter?"
Meghan sprang up from her task and stumbled back against the chair. "I – I'm so sorry, Mr. Nolan. I – I was – was looking ... " Meghan scouted about for a plausible excuse. After all what could she say?
I've entered the sanctity of your private office and I'm trying to break into your locked desk drawer because I think you're a maniacal Klan member who, for some reason, killed my friend Nell Carver? Oh, and additionally, I think you could be emotionally or physically abusing your young daughter.
"I was looking for a piece of paper to leave Emily a note," she finished lamely. "Uh, she ran upstairs to see Mrs. Nolan and hasn't returned."
"Get out." Nolan's voice shook with a low menacing growl as though he were barely keeping himself under control.
