The Stills

by Jess Montgomery

  CHAPTER 28

  FIONA

  Saturday, November 26, 1927

  10:30 p.m.

  As she nears the farmhouse, Fiona shuts off the flashlight she’d found earlier on the kitchen shelf. She stands still in the near-total darkness, savoring the sensation of being, for just a moment, totally alone. She tilts her chin so that snow and ice crystals fall on her face. Not new snow; a harsh, stirring wind has unsettled earlier snowfall.

  She’s just come from Colter, bringing him food, making sure he’s not well enough to consider leaving for the night. He still has a fever, probably from the head wound being infected. The skin around where the bullet had grazed him is red and puffy. But just to be sure, she’d put a dollop—not enough to kill him, of course—of Uncle Henry’s rat-poisoned stomach medicine in a cup of tea. When he was looking away, she’d put the bottle on top of the pie safe. She doesn’t want to run the risk of being caught with it. How would she explain to Abe or to George that she’s discovered Uncle Henry’s poisoned medicine—for they would know it was poisoned—and is carrying it around?

  Then there is the news about Luther. His death has devastated Elias. He is in shock. And being in shock means he is vulnerable, and Fiona can work with vulnerability.

  And what about Lily bringing back her gloves—with her own note?:

  I’ll be at Luther’s funeral if you need help.

  The raid on the inn must have gone well or, at the very least, the forewarning had convinced Lily that Fiona was on the side of right and thus might need help.

  On her slow trek back through the dark and cold, Fiona puts together the next step in her plan to unseat George and take control of all of his wealth.

  She takes a deep breath of the delicious cold, steps inside the kitchen door. Now to just get back upstairs without stirring anyone.

  Someone grabs her from behind, pinning her arms behind her back. She yelps, struggles to pull away, but her arms are pinned more tightly.

  “Stop,” Abe says. Just the one word, but it’s suffused with anger. If he could get away with it, he’d snap her neck, right there in the kitchen.

  “I’ll tell George—”

  Abe chuckles. “Yes. Yes, you will.”

  He shoves her, and Fiona stumbles through the kitchen to the parlor, where she sees George sitting in the wing chair in the far corner, his face partially shadowed, as there are only two coal-oil lamps lit in the dark room. The pale white skin of his fleshy ankles shows between his slippered feet and silk pajamas. He wears his robe over his pajamas, and yet he looks as confident and in charge in his nightclothes as he does in his usual suit.

  Klara, too, is up, putting a cup on the side table next to George. She turns to go, but George says to Klara, “You, stay. You’ve been tending to my wife since you both got here last week. I might want your input.”

  Klara sinks down onto a settee. She doesn’t meet Fiona’s eyes. They haven’t talked since Fiona told her of Abe’s unkind remarks. Had Klara believed her? Hardened her heart toward Abe? Or had Fiona turned Klara even more against her?

  As Abe finally lets Fiona go, he gives her a little shove toward George. Abe—still dressed in a suit as usual—Does the man ever rest? Fiona wonders—moves to stand beside George’s chair. Every self-protective instinct tells Fiona to turn and run, but she knows she won’t get far and trying to escape will only make whatever this is worse.

  She meets her husband’s unflinching, dark stare with the prettiest gaze she can muster and adds a soft smile for good measure.

  “George, darling, you’re awake! You were sleeping so deeply when I left our bed. And coffee, so late?”

  “Chamomile tea,” George says flatly. “Klara says it will settle my nerves.” Even in the shadows, even as he picks up the cup and sips noisily, Fiona can tell his stare is hardening. Abe has succeeded in making George suspicious of her.

  A shadow shifts in the entry behind George and Abe—tall, thin, leaning on the bannister for support. It’s Elias, who has crept down the stairs, like a little child listening in on the adults. Just stay put, Fiona thinks. Her heart is beating so rapidly, so hard, she can hear it thudding.

  “And I was quite unnerved, because yes, yes, I was asleep,” George says. He takes another sip, smacks his lips in satisfaction, and sets the cup down so hard that Fiona jumps. Miraculously, the cup doesn’t crack. “Abe awakened me. Alerted me to your actions.”

  “You left the house earlier this afternoon, and then this evening after you thought everyone was to bed.” A satisfied smile pinches Abe’s lips. “One of the guards noticed you disappearing this afternoon. I told Klara to stay up, keep watch, and from her window upstairs she saw you leave this evening.”

  This afternoon, this evening … she hadn’t been observed this morning. Nothing’s been said about anyone following her. She nearly smirks. Are they that afraid of the cold, hard weather? So, they’ve just noticed her leaving.

  Fiona relaxes a little. “Just what do you think I’m up to?” She directs the question to Abe, hardening her voice. He looks taken aback. Ah—he doesn’t have any ideas. He’s just desperate to make George doubt her. “Well, if you must know, I promised Aunt Nell I’d visit Uncle Henry’s grave in the afternoons for her, as she used to do, and reassure him she’s fine. Oh, smirk if you must, Abe. What do you know of love?” She is surprised but pleased at the flash of pain that crosses Abe’s face. Something else to dig into, use later, perhaps.

  Quickly, though, Abe’s expression closes and he snarls, “Oh please. She’s up to something! And what about this evening? Surely you’re not hiking up to a grave after dark!”

  Abe is suspicious of her—nothing new. He doesn’t know, though, what she’s doing.

  “I don’t like to talk about womanly things, but I find I need fresh air often. Even at night. Women can have odd cravings, especially when they’re in the family way.” She looks at Klara. Cruelly, she reminds her with a soft yet piercing question, “Isn’t that true? I’m sure that was your experience?”

  Klara looks down at her hands. “It is true. Usually, it’s food—but I suppose fresh air, even at night, makes sense, too.”

  Fiona gives George a hurt look. “Are you satisfied? Why are you doubting me?”

  She lifts her hand, lets it float to his knee, speaks the truth: “Haven’t I been faithful to you every step of the way? Haven’t I done your bidding since the moment we met?”

  And she had, at least until now. The plotting she’d done before they came here—well, that was all in her mind. She could have written it off to imagination run wild, the effects of a late-in-life pregnancy. Doesn’t everyone say women get hysterical during such times?

  It wasn’t until Aunt Nell shocked her with her suspicions of foul play in Uncle Henry’s death that she began putting such plans in action. And it wasn’t until acting that she realized how pinned down, like a flower to his lapel, she’s felt since marrying George. But soon she’ll be free. At least as free as a woman can be. Maybe as free as any person can be.

  “I don’t know,” George says. “On the one hand, Abe is quite concerned about your comings and goings. Seems to think you’re hiding something.” He looks at Klara. “You’ve been here the whole time with her. Do you think she’s hiding something?”

  “Klara—” Abe says, a warning tone to his voice.

  Klara looks at him, hurt flashing across her face. Good, Fiona thinks. “I don’t think she’s hiding anything,” Klara says flatly. “I think she needs fresh air. Whenever she needs it.”

  George takes another sip of his tea as he stares at Fiona. “So you see, darling, I don’t quite know who to believe. My longest-employed servant, or my right-hand man?”

  Fiona wants to say to Klara and Abe, Do you hear that? Not kin-who-was-like-a-mother, not friend. But Fiona doesn’t even look at them. She doesn’t need to point this out, even with a sharp look. From the growing cold stiffness of the room, they’re hearing quite clearly.

  She keeps her
gaze pinned on George. “Why don’t you believe me? I’ve been honest and true, well, except for one thing.” Now is the time to use the marks and bruises to her advantage. She sets her voice aquiver. Let George think she’s nervous because she’s afraid of Abe. “You see, I have kept something back. I visited Dr. Goshen after our trip to the bank. I felt faint, and Abe was kind enough to take me.” She looks up at George through her eyelashes. “You have so much on your mind, darling, and I didn’t want to worry you over nothing. Or maybe Abe mentioned the visit to you?”

  Silence. A harsh look at Abe, who shifts his weight, crosses his arms.

  Well then, no. Abe hadn’t mentioned it—and George is unhappy about this. Good.

  George abruptly moves forward on the edge of his seat. He takes Fiona’s hands. “Are you all right? Is the baby—”

  “Yes, I—I think so. But Dr. Goshen asked me if I was under any stress. Course I mentioned poor Uncle Henry. But also that Luther was missing. I hope that was all right. I mean, I knew Luther and Abe had gone to him to ask about getting medicine for Elias.”

  Fiona swipes a loose strand of hair from her forehead, uses the gesture as cover to glance at Elias. He’s standing so deeply in the shadows that he’s barely distinguishable.

  “And I asked if Luther had made mention of where he might have run off to—I mean, it had to be pretty important, for him to not come back to check on Elias.” As Fiona shifts her gaze, she studies Abe for just a moment. His jaw is tense, his fists clenched. But she knows he dare not hurt her in front of George. Fiona focuses on George, eyes wide. “Dr. Goshen said that he had told Abe and Luther that he’d gone with Lily to the Harkins family farm. Seems the girl, Ruth, accused Marvena of letting her little brother keep watch at her shine stand, and he must have gotten into the drink, because he’d stumbled home but fallen into a coma. Luther got agitated, and ran off.” Fiona offers a soft smile. She notes from the corner of her eye that Elias is no longer in the shadows; he’s gone at least partway back up the stairs. She hopes he’s still listening, though. “And I told Abe this, on our drive out to Sheriff Ross’s house, and that we should tell you, but he didn’t want you to know.”

  Abe leaps to his feet, lunges forward. “That’s not true; she didn’t tell me the doctor told her that on the drive out—” He stops, just from George holding up a hand. His tone deflates as he adds, “And I didn’t tell her I didn’t want you to know—”

  “But you also didn’t tell me about that visit with Goshen. Or about this girl or boy,” George says. “Is it true? That Luther ran off, to find a boy who kept watch at Marvena’s still?”

  Interesting, that George should care so much about Luther running off to find the Harkins boy. Of course, she knows from Colter that Luther shot him, but she’s assumed that Luther was acting on his own. Had Luther, playing both sides, told George and Abe about Colter? Had they, then, ordered Luther to get rid of the revenuer?

  From Abe’s silence and taut, pinched lips, he’s struggling to find the right words to appease George.

  “Is Fiona telling the truth?” George’s voice thunders around the parlor.

  Fiona makes her voice sound sad. “George, if you don’t believe me, you could just check with Dr. Goshen.”

  “Yes,” Abe bursts out.

  “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

  Each tick of the parlor clock ratchets the tension.

  Finally, Abe says, “Because we’re better off without Luther. God knows why he ran off because of some farm boy in a coma, but if the boy witnessed Luther paying off the revenuer and now he’s in a coma, he can’t exactly talk about it, can he? And if he’s just a poor farm boy with diabetes, he’s probably already dead. So the revenuer’s gone, the farm boy dies of his illness, and Luther’s running around like a fool—as usual—getting the shit beat out of him or bit by a snake. Great. All our problems are taken care of with no effort from us. It will be easier to make progress on our plans without Luther.”

  Fiona inhales slowly. Abe’s deep, calculated coldness washes over her, and her hand rises instinctively to her neck, where he’d pinned her against the automobile seat on the way to Lily’s farmhouse. His cold, menacing words echo: George never questioned my loyalty or competence until you came along, Fiona.

  George’s shoulders relax. “Good point. But I want you to check to see how the kid is. Find out from Goshen. If he’s come around, find out what he knows, if it was a good reason for Luther to be panicking, or if he was being a fool.”

  “And if the kid knows something that gave Luther reason to panic?”

  “If the kid’s that sick, a little coin thrown the family’s way should suffice. Otherwise—”

  Abe nods.

  In the dim silent stillness of the parlor, Fiona understands that protecting George’s enterprise knows no bounds.

  “Is there anything else you ought to tell me?” George’s question is brusque, proffered as he waves Abe to sit back down. Abe complies, flashes a taunting smile at Fiona. See? The men are back to business.

  Fiona puts all of her focus back on George. “Yes. I—I was covering for Abe yesterday. I didn’t want to have to say this—but those red marks? And bruises? They weren’t from a fall. They were from Abe being, well, rough with me, over not wanting to tell you about Luther’s actions on Thanksgiving night.”

  George’s eyes, even in the dim parlor, go so cold and dark, so fast, that Fiona involuntarily shivers. “Abe? Is this true?” His voice is equally cold, flat.

  “No! Well, we hit a patch of ice, and I held her back as we skidded, until I could straighten the automobile—”

  “I told you! She showed me the marks and bruises when she first came back yesterday.” Klara’s voice is a soft but shocking surprise, floating out across the room. “Poor thing. She was distraught. I can see why she covered for Abe, though. Neither of us want to get in the way of your business. And we know how much you rely on Abe.”

  Fiona wills her gaze to remain wide yet unflinching. She cannot show surprise at Klara’s pointed comment, a not-so-subtle criticism of George for trusting Abe too much. The hurt Fiona had planted with Klara, about Abe’s supposed comments, is already paying off.

  “What the hell, Klara? How dare you? When did you decide to take up with this—this—”

  “Careful,” George says. His eyes click over to Abe. “This is my wife. And Klara is like a mother to me.”

  Ah, now she’s like a mother, and not just a longtime maid. How easily his allegiances shift, depending on what he wants. Fiona ventures a darting glance at Klara. Even in the low light of the coal-oil lamp, she sees that Klara is beaming.

  George looks at Fiona. “Darling, Abe and I have a lot to discuss, given these revelations.” He stands, takes her by the elbow as if she is so fragile she needs his help to rise. Good Lord, she’d just been out hiking these hills at night. She smiles gratefully, though, lets him help her up. “But no more forays away from the house without Klara to accompany you. All right?”

  “Of course,” she says.

  “Or one of the guards.” His gaze sharpens a bit. He trusts her more, but not yet entirely. He never will. That’s all right. She just needs him to trust her enough, for a time. “I wouldn’t want you to be simply following doctor’s orders but be mistaken in the shadows for someone who shouldn’t be poking around here.”

  Here being her farm—technically.

  But she lets him walk her to the stairs, thinks for a moment that he is going to go up to the bedroom with her.

  He releases her arm, says, “Don’t wait up. Now that I’m awake, I want to review a few plans with Abe. Having Luther out of the way sooner than expected means modifying a few things.” He hands her the lantern. “Klara, brew up some coffee. Abe and I have a lot to discuss.”

  Klara nods, rushes out of the parlor and back to the kitchen.

  Fiona moves slowly up the dark stairway. She sees Elias sitting in the shadows on the top step. He is slumped with his forearms on his kne
es, his head dangling between his arms.

  Fiona puts her hand on his shoulder, and when Elias looks up she sees that the hard planes of his face have broken with hurt and the realization of betrayal, crumbled into one another, slicked with tears. He’s heard everything.

  Good.

  CHAPTER 29

  LILY

  Sunday, November 27, 1927

  11:00 a.m.

  For a moment, the cold air snatches Lily’s breath as she exits the telegraph office. She’d just sent a telegram to Special Agent Barnaby Sloan about the death of Luther Ross: Foul play suspected. She had not gone into details or mentioned that Zebediah Harkins had helped a man he said identified himself as Colter DeHaven, or her suspicion that Luther may have been the man who shot Colter, or that she had two suspects under arrest in Luther’s death. Not only was all of that too overwhelming for a telegram—heaven help her, it was overwhelming just to think about—but she still is not sure whether to trust Barnaby. If only she could find Colter—preferably alive, of course, and able to answer questions—then she might better know what her next step should be.

  Letting Barnaby know about Luther in the vaguest way seemed safe enough for now.

  So wearying, not being sure who to trust.

  But the cold air is refreshing, and so Lily takes her time to appreciate that overnight a brisk wind whisked away clouds, rendering the sky a deep cold silver blue. Though of course the Kinship General Store is closed on Sunday, she pauses to admire the store’s Christmas display of evergreen swags and ornaments. It’s the first store to decorate for Christmas.

  The window is also filled with the latest temptations for everyone: pipes and cloche hats and, for the children, toys—the popgun that Micah wants, and so of course Caleb Jr. covets one as well, and a collection of dollhouse furniture. Jolene still plays with the ornate dollhouse that Daniel had made for her several Christmases ago. Lily’s heart pangs as she stares at the tiny stove and sink, both miniatures more modern than her own farmhouse appliances, and for a moment she longs for the innocence of childhood, of blithely trusting in the good intentions and honest motivations of others.