The preacher looks genuinely shocked and hurt. “So Zebediah says he saw this man shot … but why…”
“The man is a revenuer. Another—his partner—came to see me today, said Agent DeHaven isn’t expected until Monday. He must have come early, for some reason. If we can find him, return him safely to the bureau, find out who shot him—well, it would be better than agents eventually coming in from the bureau crawling all over this hill, and maybe finding other stills either run by or visited by your congregants, Pastor.”
At this, all the piety falls away from the pastor’s and Arlie’s expressions.
“Not only that, Luther Ross is back in the area.…” She hesitates, decides against sharing that he claims to be working with the bureau. She opts for a true, but vague, explanation. “I have reason to think he’s now associated with George Vogel—you know who that is?”
Stiles nods.
“Then you know that neither you nor I nor anyone else want any part of this county caught in a cross fire between Vogel’s men and the bureau. The sooner I can find out what happened to this Agent DeHaven, the better.”
Stiles shakes his head. “But we don’t know anything—”
“The boy would have brought Agent DeHaven here on a Wednesday,” Lily says. “I noted your sign out front saying you have prayer meetings on Wednesdays.” She thinks back to Ruth’s comments yesterday. “According to his sister, Zebediah got home sometime between four and six in the evening. So if he got the man here, it would have been early, at three—well before your prayer meeting, but I reckon there might have been people here? Some of the women, to stoke the coal furnace, set up for the supper?” She bites back the temptation to add serving in their proper roles.
Brother Stiles shakes his head. “The womenfolk would have told their husbands, or me, if that had been the case.”
Lily grits her teeth. “Could you tell me who among them might have been here then, so I can ask?”
“They would have told me,” he repeats.
Lily stares him down. “I can get a warrant, right quick, to search this land. Your congregants’ homes, to see if any have taken in the agent.”
Stiles rubs his hand over his face. “Why would you think we’d hide such a thing, Sheriff?”
“The man was seriously injured. It’s my understanding you don’t believe in regular medicine. Faith healing a man of the law—well now, that would be quite a sign from God,” Lily says. “The failure of such healing—well, that could be another sign altogether, and possibly, under the law, manslaughter.”
For a long moment, Brother Stiles stands frozen, staring at Lily. Then he sighs, gives her a look of pity. “How little you think of us, Sheriff Ross. But there is no need for warrants. I will give you the names of the women who would have been here. You can bring back your men and your hounds and search in every cave and crevice and holler. You will not find your missing agent. Zebediah, now he’s a good enough boy, but he runs wild and scared, and probably ran away and has no idea what happened after to that revenuer man. Now, his sister? Ruth’s the softhearted one. She’d a gotten the man to safety here—if Zebediah had brought the man to their house.”
Brother Stiles’s words hit Lily like a gut punch.
Ruth had said Zebediah stumbled back to their home around 4:00 p.m., but Zebediah had been at the stand near Marvena’s still first thing in the morning. Long enough, maybe, for Zebediah to get the revenuer to the church—but the boy doesn’t remember much past finding the man. With alcohol hitting his diabetic system, would he have had the strength to get the man this far and then return to his home?
And why in the middle of all that illness and confusion, would Zebediah have shown Ruth the badge? Why would it have meant anything to a burdened fourteen-year-old girl? Could she understand the import of Bureau of Prohibition inscribed on the badge—all on her own, without someone to explain it to her?
Ruth’s the softhearted one.
What if the pastor is right? What if the agent and Zebediah had never made it here? Instead had gone, straightaway, to the Harkins home—so much closer to Marvena’s still?
CHAPTER 18
FIONA
Friday, November 25, 1927
3:00 p.m.
Fiona and Abe have only taken a few steps from the automobile, which Abe left at the top of the lane, when Lily’s mother pops out of the farmhouse’s front door, shotgun in her hands.
Abe chuckles, mutters under his breath, “Poor old thing, she’d miss us by a mile.”
“Don’t be so sure!” Fiona snaps. So ridiculous, this wave of homesickness spurred by seeing Lily’s mama, even with her shotgun trained on them. Seeing Aunt Nell, saying good-bye at the train station, hadn’t stirred such sentiment. But Mrs. McArthur had always been kind to her, kinder than most Kinship townsfolk, especially after Martin died, bringing comforting pies and stews and canned goods for her and Leon and not just hastily dropping them off to fulfill unwritten social obligations. Fiona, my bones are weary; mind if I sit a spell? And then Mrs. McArthur would sit with Fiona, on the front porch or in the parlor, and chat about nothing in particular, which in those moments meant everything in the world.
Well, she can sure understand taking aim at Abe, but Lily’s mama must not recognize her, in her fine coat and cloche hat festooned with a feather. Fiona hollers, “Yoo-hoo! Mrs. McArthur? It’s—”
“I know who you are.”
“Well, we’re here to see Sheriff Lily.”
“She’s in town.”
“Checked there.”
A slight shift in Lily’s mama’s stance. Ah. Fiona can feel a mother’s worry, even from this distance.
“We need to talk to her—about Luther Ross.”
“She’s not here. Leave a message at her office.”
Dammit.
Abe starts to head back to the automobile.
Panic grips Fiona. If she can’t get a message to Lily, then the plan will go through for imbibers to drink methanol tonight—and if that happens, men, maybe a few women, will die. Or come so painfully close, they’ll have moments of wishing to. And, of course, she won’t be able to later take credit for alerting Lily.
Plus, if she delivers this message, she can tell Elias she followed through on his wish. He’ll be beholden to her.
She sinks down to the ground. “Oh, Mrs. McArthur! I—I’m not feeling well!”
* * *
Inside the house, Mrs. McArthur still regards Fiona and Abe with skepticism. But Fiona sips from a hot cup of tea—mint and chamomile and a dash of dried elderberries, a soothing mixture, Mrs. McArthur says, that she’d learned from a friend of hers, good for calming nerves.
The warmth from the cup itself is soothing, as are the aroma and the mild, sweet taste.
“I added one dollop of honey.” Mrs. McArthur’s shotgun lies across her lap. “My friend says tea always needs two dollops of honey, but doesn’t that seem, well, excessive?”
“I’m sure,” Fiona says, eyeing the gun.
Mrs. McArthur hadn’t dropped it, even when she’d run up the hill to help Fiona. Nor had she put it aside when she’d finally allowed them in the house, telling them to sit in the parlor while she made the tea to help settle Fiona’s light-headedness.
In the parlor, while Mrs. McArthur rumbled about in the kitchen, Fiona briefly closed her eyes. That way, she could ignore Abe glaring at her, and besides, she became truly dizzy. Well, she’d only picked at her breakfast, had no lunch, and the day had been stressful. As if from a great distance, she heard Mrs. McArthur holler out the back door at the children to just stay outside and work on their snowman a little longer.
When she opened her eyes, Mrs. McArthur was putting the cup of tea on a doily on the side table, before sitting down in her chair with her shotgun and giving Abe skeptical side glances, though all he held was the bag of candy that Fiona had dropped in the snow when she sank to her knees.
“You have to take extra care of yourself,” Mrs. McArthur says, and paus
es to lean forward and whisper—as if Abe won’t be able to hear—“when you’re in the family way.”
“I know,” Fiona says, surprising herself as tears spring to her eyes at Mrs. McArthur’s unique blend—rather like her tea—of gentleness and gruffness. Does Lily Ross know—even after all her loss—how lucky she is? “I’ve just been sorrowful over losing Uncle Henry—”
“Yes, I didn’t know your aunt and uncle well, except to see them at church from time to time,” Mrs. McArthur says, “but I was sorry to hear of your uncle’s sudden stroke.”
Fiona nods. “It was a surprise. And now here we are, visiting, and Luther Ross seems to be missing! It’s causing quite a strain for Elias, who is of course tending to me for this pregnancy since I’m, well, older.”
Mrs. McArthur cocks an eyebrow. “Well, I was forty-one when I had Caleb Junior. You’ll be fine, I’m sure.”
Three children rush in—a girl and two boys—laughing and whooping. They skid to a stop and fall silent when they see the visitors. Jolene and Micah—Lily’s two. And Caleb Jr.—Mrs. McArthur’s change-of-life baby. Those apple red cheeks, bright eyes, eager faces. Another set of tears dampen her eyes, and she dashes them away. These children have all grown so much since she last saw them. Two years … and truth be told, children can change rapidly in just a few months. It’s been nearly three months since she’s seen Leon. It’s good, with all that’s happening, that he’s spending the holiday at his school in Philadelphia, but a wave of resentment at George, for breaking his promise to bring her son home, again crashes over her. What are the chances he’ll follow through on bringing Leon home at Christmas?
“I told you’uns to stay outside!” Mrs. McArthur snaps. In the thick of rearing them, she brooks no sentimentality.
“We should leave before it gets dark,” Fiona says. “Please tell Lily we called, won’t you, and that we’d welcome any news of Luther. If she has questions, she can always come out to the farm—she knows where it is. Oh, and if you don’t mind, I need to use your facilities—”
“Our facilities is an outhouse,” Mrs. McArthur says with a wry tone.
Fiona gives a small laugh. “We’ve all gotten used to that out at the farm—haven’t we, Abe?” She looks at him, still standing in the parlor entryway, a silent shadow-man.
“Well, Jolene, can you show Mrs. Vogel the way?”
Abe leans forward from the entryway, a scowl on his face. Fiona bites back a sigh. He’s not going to trust her to be out of his sight, even if she’s with Lily’s daughter.
Fiona replies to Mrs. McArthur, “I’m sure I can find my way—”
“Wouldn’t want you to pass out in the snow,” Abe says.
“Of course not.” She stands, looks at the children. “I brought along some treats for you—early Christmas, if that’s all right?” Maybe the children will beset Abe, long enough for her to be alone in the kitchen, leave the note somewhere.…
But Abe just tosses the bag of candy on the coffee table, stares at her evenly as she puts on her coat. He hasn’t, she notes, even taken his off. He follows closely behind as Fiona walks through the parlor and dining room. Behind them, she hears Jolene’s delighted voice: “Oh, these are the peppermints Uncle Elias always brought us!”
Such a simple comment—but it spoke volumes about the closeness that Elias once had with Lily and her children. What had happened to end that? Fiona wonders.
In the kitchen, Abe comes so closely behind her that Fiona has to step quickly to keep him from touching her. He follows her outside.
At the outhouse, on the slope beyond the garden plot and the frozen, empty clothesline, Fiona turns abruptly. Abe stops short. She cocks an eyebrow at him. “You sure you don’t want to come in with me? It’ll be tight, but—”
“Just hurry up!”
Fiona steps in and then makes gagging sounds. She wants him to think she’s sick again. She pulls out her gloves from her pocket, reaches in her dress’s bodice, gets the note she’d written earlier, tucks it in one of the gloves, and leaves the gloves on the neat stack of newspapers.
She steps back out, hands tucked in pockets. “It’s all yours—though I have to warn you, it turns out afternoon sickness—”
He wrinkles his nose in disgust but steps toward the outhouse. Fiona’s heart pounds. Oh God. She can explain away forgetting the gloves—no one would keep on gloves to clean up, after all—but what if he finds the note?
But Abe grabs Fiona’s elbow, force-walks her back toward the house.
Thank God.
Her instinct is to hurry; the sooner they leave the better. She doesn’t want him to suddenly turn back to the outhouse, to see if she’d left a message. But she resists just enough that he has to push her along a little—not resisting would raise suspicions—though as she stumbles past the snowman the children had just built, with his goofy coal eyes and dotted smile, she almost smiles back.
CHAPTER 19
LILY
Friday, November 25, 1927
6:00 p.m.
At long last, Lily and Benjamin come around the bend to the turnoff to her farmhouse.
Benjamin’s driven in silence since their last stop, and Lily has taken the quiet as a chance to reflect on the events of the day. After they’d hiked from the church back to his automobile, he’d driven them back to Rossville proper. From there, Marvena had pulled Lily aside and asked if it was fine by her if she headed back home to tend to Frankie, and Lily had agreed. Marvena leaned close, said, If’n Frankie’s right well, I’m hoping Jurgis will still be willing to go to the barn dance. You could mention it to Benjamin. Lily had given a little smile while shaking her head. At Lily’s request, Benjamin drove to the turnoff to the Harkins place. She told him to wait in his automobile, but he’d gotten out and followed her, just as he had up to the church. Irritating, but she couldn’t order him to stay put.
It didn’t take long to assess that the Harkinses weren’t back home yet—a curiosity, given Dora’s frail state. But if Agent DeHaven was tucked away somewhere on the property, it wasn’t anywhere obvious. And without permission or proper paperwork, Lily wouldn’t unlawfully search. Or, for that matter, with Benjamin observing, she wouldn’t even peek in windows and barn doors, toeing the line of lawful.
Now she ponders how best to leave off with him once they inch to the top of the snowy lane.
Lily ventures a glance his way. So different in looks and nature than Daniel, and yet he has the same resolute air. The same underlying quality of loyalty. The conversation they’d had in the woods overlooking the church, about the Argonne forest, comes back to her.
Might well be that he’s aiding out of respect for his friend Daniel, nothing more.
Well, Mama would want her to invite him in for a bite of supper. He’d certainly earned it and had to be famished, as was Lily.
At the sight of light warming the parlor window, Lily relaxes just a little. Sanctuary. Mama. Home. The children. A warm meal. Even the effort of heating water and toting it upstairs for a warm bath in the claw foot tub seems worthwhile. Then sleep. Hopefully, dreamless.
Then again, how likely is she to restfully sleep after a day like this? Her mind will be aswirl. Maybe they should go to the barn dance Marvena keeps going on about.
Lily turns to Benjamin. “You know, Marvena’s been telling me—”
Benjamin yawns. “Sorry,” he says.
Lily looks back out at the night. “Well, she’s been, she’s been saying, um, how you get on well with the miners. And you’ve been such a help today. Thank you. Please know you’re welcome to come in for supper—it will more’n likely be Thanksgiving leftovers—”
Benjamin, who has been driving smoothly, jolts to a stop. The sharp movement wracks Lily’s body only lightly, but it’s sufficient to send a spasm of pain from her stiffening shoulder, still in the makeshift scarf sling.
“Sorry,” he says, pointing ahead.
There, in the headlights, is Mama, rushing up the drive.
*
* *
In the parlor, the note shakes in Lily’s hand, partly from what it says, partly because she’s holding it on her injured side.
She holds it thusly because Jolene sits tightly against her, head leaned against Lily’s good shoulder. When she and Benjamin had entered the house, Jolene and the boys had run to greet her. Jolene had noted the scarf sling over Lily’s shoulder, the difficulty with which she’d removed her hat and coat, her winces as the children demanded hugs and she gingerly gave them. Mama had tried to banish Jolene back to her own supper in the kitchen with the boys, but Lily, seeing the fear in Jolene’s little face, said she could stay, help Mama serve turkey sandwiches and tea in the parlor, as if they were having a tea party.
I had a mishap with my automobile. It may be a few days before it’s repaired, Lily had explained in an overly chipper tone. Mr. Russo has been my chauffeur today, she’d added, hoping the fancy word might serve as a distraction.
But that’s when Jolene had studied Benjamin, wary eyed. Yesterday, his presence had been unremarkable, mixed in with all the other friends. Tonight, Lily can tell Jolene senses something different about his being with them. Something she doesn’t quite trust, isn’t ready for.
Benjamin had looked at Jolene evenly, as if talking to an adult and not an eight-year-old girl, and said flatly, As a Bronwyn County citizen, I’m glad to drive the sheriff wherever she needs to go until her shoulder heals.
Well, she certainly hadn’t asked that much of him. On the other hand, she needs some way to get around that doesn’t involve working her poor mule to death.
Now she rereads the note Mama had run up the lane with, thrusting it at Lily after explaining Fiona and Abe had come by earlier to report Luther missing, that Fiona had visited the outhouse, left her gloves with the note on the stack of newspapers. Caleb Jr. had found the gloves of the fancy lady, as he’d called her, and was sticking them on branches to give the snowman arms, when the end of a branch poked the note. Jolene had realized the gloves must belong to the fancy lady and grabbed them away—Caleb Jr. all the while howling that he was her uncle and she couldn’t order him around.
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