The Stills

by Jess Montgomery

  Well, she’ll just have to worry about George when they get back to the farmhouse.

  For now, she stands ready, with fresh bandaging and Listerine that Elias had gotten from Dr. Goshen, telling him one of the guardsmen had injured himself working on the gravel road.

  Fiona had bitten back a smile when Elias told her that. It turns out that Elias can be surprisingly devious when he wishes.

  * * *

  When Fiona and Elias finally return to the farmhouse, George is too preoccupied to ask why it had taken them almost all day to arrange for a funeral.

  But Fiona’s breath is taken away when she sees why.

  There, in the parlor, is a young boy she guesses is about ten years old—or maybe he’s older than that but just looks younger because of how pale and gaunt he is. He’s wearing filthy brown pants that have been cut off at the bottoms.

  When Fiona found Colter in the woodshop, his head was bandaged with filthy brown strips of cloth.

  George sits to the side on the settee, while Abe towers over the boy, sitting on the same wing chair Lily had occupied the past two nights.

  Abe regards the child with narrowed eyes and a thin slice of a smile.

  Oh God. This must be the Harkins boy. Zebediah Harkins. He’s pale and shaky, but he meets Abe’s stare with his own resolute gaze.

  “Luther seemed upset when he learned you had been at Marvena’s still. Why would that be, boy?”

  The room spins around Fiona and she cannot breathe. She grabs Elias’s arm, and he offers her support. Manipulating adults to her end—that’s one thing. Not one of them deserved any pity, and she has no remorse, not after what happened to Martin, to Uncle Henry, what would happen to her if she doesn’t take control. But—but this is a child.

  George is intent on the boy and doesn’t notice Fiona’s distress.

  “I-I don’t know,” Zebediah says.

  “The nurse told me Sheriff Ross and Marvena came to visit you.” Abe puts his hand on the armrest of Zebediah’s chair, leans forward, so close that his face nearly touches Zebediah’s. But the boy doesn’t lean back, even when Abe barks at him, “What did they ask? What did you tell them?”

  “Nothing! Just—I had a drink, several drinks, of Mrs. Sacovech’s shine, and next thing I knew, I was coming around in the hospital.”

  Abe doesn’t believe him—neither does Fiona. She’s quivering. How long will the boy hold out?

  She pulls away from Elias. “Please, the boy’s tired. Maybe some food—”

  Zebediah starts crying. “I don’t know nothin’! Can I go home? I want to see my mama; she’s sick—”

  “Go upstairs, Fiona.” George’s voice hits each word as sharp and hard as a hammer on a nail. “Abe and I are working.”

  CHAPTER 31

  LILY

  Wednesday, November 30, 1927

  1:00 p.m.

  Lily stares in disbelief across her desk, first at Assistant Attorney General Mabel Walker Willebrandt and then at Special Agent Barnaby Sloan—shifting from shock at Mrs. Willebrandt arriving with Barnaby to disappointment.

  Barnaby has just announced, I’ve investigated to my full satisfaction. I’ll be taking my leave tonight, after Mrs. Willebrandt’s speech.…

  “I don’t understand,” Lily says.

  “Sheriff Ross, I went to the hospital in Chillicothe first thing this morning. The boy that you told me alleged Luther shot at Colter? Well, he’s no longer at the hospital,” Barnaby says.

  “He’s been released?” Zebediah was supposed to be at the hospital through the end of the week. His father, Leroy, must have found someone in the church who could get over to Chillicothe, bring the boy home. She can understand wanting the children all gathered for their mother’s funeral, but for Zebediah’s sake, he should still be in the hospital.

  “Yes, late afternoon, Monday. I talked to the nurse who works on the children’s floor. She told me that you asked very leading questions. That the boy was delusional, having come out of his coma.”

  Lily clasps her hands and leans forward. “He was not delusional. And I didn’t ask him leading questions. I have a witness who was with me who can attest to that.”

  “Marvena Whitcomb Sacovech? The union organizer and moonshiner who you’ve arrested for killing Luther Ross?” Barnaby’s smile stretches into a smirk. “Now there’s a reliable witness. I’ve done my research, Sheriff Ross.”

  “I’ve brought her in only because she and her husband each have confessed—but I don’t believe their confessions. I think they’re covering for one another.”

  Barnaby looks askance. “So, each thinks the other killed Luther and you don’t think either one did so?”

  “There are plenty of people who’d want to kill Luther,” Lily says flatly. “Regardless of who actually killed him, last we knew, your agent—your injured agent, shot by Luther—was headed to the Murphy farm!”

  “Right. What we really know,” Barnaby says, “is that Luther is dead and Agent DeHaven has been missing all this time.”

  “No—he showed up at the Harkins farm, was headed to the Murphy place—”

  “So said a distraught young girl who, by your own account, lost her mother right after telling you that.”

  “So now both children are confused, and you’re accusing one of your own?” Lily can’t keep the incredulousness from her voice.

  “Ma’am,” Barnaby says, “with all due respect, you’re getting too emotional—”

  Lily inhales sharply as Mabel clears her throat. Barnaby stops, chagrined by Mabel’s subtle sign of annoyance.

  “Agent Sloan filled me in after I arrived this morning,” Mabel says. Lily looks at the petite woman. She’s demurely, modestly dressed and coiffed, hair pinned back in a low bun, only a bit of powder on her nose. Only the finer quality of dress material, the luminescent strand of pearls, her soft floral perfume, suggest that Mabel might be from a station higher than the richest folks of Kinship. Her eyes belie a deep intelligence, the set of her mouth a determination, the fine lines by both that she, too, has endured despair and trials—and overcome them. Mabel Walker Willebrandt, no matter her lofty position, would fit in well with the women of Kinship—though of course, her ambition would not let her rest easy here. “Agent DeHaven’s job was to befriend Ross, which he did in Chicago. Then DeHaven offered him quite a sum—three thousand dollars, I believe you said?”

  Lily’s eyebrows rise at that princely amount as Barnaby nods in confirmation.

  “Yes, quite a lot, as payment for any leads that would help us nab Vogel.”

  “But Agent DeHaven was supposed to arrive with me this week to complete the sting.”

  “In time for your speech,” Lily says.

  Mabel gives a small smile. “In this war on alcohol, I’ve found that it’s dramatic stories—not statistics or studies—that draw people’s attention. We’ve had some magnificent wins in New York, Chicago, San Francisco—even along the East Coast and down in the warmer waters around Florida. But we’ve also had a lot of bad press about rogue agents—”

  “You can’t blame the newspapers and radio news for reporting both types of stories—”

  “No.” Mabel gives a small huff. “But they surely seem to revel in the negative.”

  “Such as the government allowing methanol into legal industrial alcohol? Knowing people will defy the law, try to cook it into something potable, and get sick, go blind, or die?”

  Mabel lifts her eyebrows, draws back, but looks at Lily with new respect in her willingness to speak to her without kowtowing. “That fact isn’t hidden.”

  “Thanks to those reporters,” Lily says. “But that doesn’t mean it’s widely known. The rules and attitudes around Prohibition are confusing and even self-contradictory. Rich senators and businessmen were able to stockpile huge amounts of liquor before the Volstead Act went into effect—and can drink it legally. Why, a farmer can even have a barrel of cider by the door.…” She hesitates, not because Mabel is now pinch lipped w
ith displeasure at Lily’s outburst, but because she’d been about to blurt about Mama’s grape bricks—just add water, stick in a dark place, and allow natural fermentation to take its course. “But some poor sap, whether in the city or in my county, who doesn’t know better, maybe doesn’t know how to read, can get legal wood alcohol, try to brew it up, not know better, die a gruesome death—”

  “You seem very concerned about this,” Mabel says.

  “That’s because I had it from a good source that George Vogel was planning to release a supply tainted with methanol into my county. I haven’t entirely worked out why yet, and thank God it didn’t happen, but—”

  Mabel smiles thinly. “Perhaps you should give a speech.”

  Lily sighs. She has, when necessary for campaigning, done so. It’s her least favorite part of her job. “I’m sorry. I’m—tired. I just don’t understand why I can’t get bureau help to look for DeHaven at the Murphy place.”

  “You’re the one who told me you believe in the rule of law. That you just can’t raid the farm because Vogel’s there, without evidence he’s breaking the law and a warrant,” Barnaby says. “Well, that’s what Luther was working to provide us. Now he’s dead. You ask me, DeHaven killed Ross, took off with the cold, hard cash he was trusted with.”

  “How does that square with the shield, the hat, the bullet, we found? The testimony of the Harkins children?”

  “You’ve told us their mother was ill for a long time, and just passed away. They’re under stress. And for all we know, if Luther shot at Colter, it was in self-defense,” Barnaby says.

  “And then didn’t tell you about it. Came here with you Friday morning, didn’t say a word. Even though he was still on the bureau’s side, right?” Lily delivers each word like a sharp jab. “Because there’s no way Luther would have tried to play both Vogel and the bureau and gotten himself killed, somehow, in the middle—”

  “You have a husband and wife who’ve confessed, and by killing him, they’ve ruined our operation! And again, you’re letting your personal, emotional issues with your brother-in-law—”

  “Enough!” Mabel’s retort is hard as a slap. Barnaby turns red. Mabel goes on. “Sheriff Ross makes an excellent point—if Mr. Luther Ross were really, fully committed to aiding the bureau, he’d have told you immediately about Agent DeHaven’s presence.”

  Hah! But Mabel turns her probing gaze onto Lily. Her take that! smile immediately fades. She wouldn’t want to be on a witness stand, trying to hide so much as a hangnail, under this woman’s interrogation. No wonder she’s gone so far in her career. Even squirming, Lily thinks, Good for you.

  “On the other hand,” Mabel says, “none of this theorizing gets us closer to cause or evidence for a warrant to raid the Murphy place, does it.”

  Lily nods.

  “Do you think you can get it?”

  That initial note from Fiona—her begging look for Lily to come to Lily’s funeral. Surely that look was in response to Lily’s own note, indicating an offer of help. Meeting at Luther’s funeral.

  Lily clears her throat. “Possibly.” She’s still not sure if she should trust Barnaby, but she’s probably not going to have much choice. She can’t take on Vogel by herself, with only local deputies. That would be a slaughter. “But I won’t know until Luther Ross’s funeral.”

  “When is that?” Mabel asks.

  “Thursday.”

  Mabel looks disappointed.

  Well, of course. Her speech is scheduled for tonight.

  “Any way you can speed that up?”

  “I’m sorry,” Lily says. “Not and follow the rule of law.”

  At that, Mabel smiles. “Well, I see we are kindred spirits, Sheriff Ross. At least in some ways.” She turns to Barnaby. “Well then, you had best get back to Columbus, assemble as much help as Sheriff Ross says you will need. I have a speech in Louisville on Friday evening. I will rearrange my schedule, have my speech here next Tuesday, say?”

  Mabel gives Lily a sharp look. “I’m assuming that will be fine.”

  “Of course,” Lily says. “But I can’t guarantee you’ll have anything exciting to add. A, ah, compelling story. I can only work within—”

  “I know, Sheriff Ross. I understand.” She opens her purse, pulls out a card, pushes it toward Lily. Lily picks it up, stares at the fancy embossing, Mabel’s full name and title and a number. “My telephone number.”

  Barnaby snorts. “The closest telephone is—where?”

  “Chillicothe,” Lily says. “I could send a telegram.”

  “Sheriff Ross, do you have someone you can trust who can get to a telephone quickly? To reach me if you find you need, ah, additional help?” Mabel shoots a hard look at Barnaby.

  The face of someone Lily can trust comes to mind. Gently smiling. Always willing to help. Benjamin.

  “Yes,” Lily says. “Yes, I do.”

  Mabel nods, starts to rise. Barnaby also begins to stand. “No need,” Mabel says. “I can see myself out.”

  After she leaves, Lily and Barnaby sit for a long minute in Lily’s office. Barnaby stares at the poster of Lady Liberty hanging on the wall behind Lily, while Lily gazes through the gaping door at the hallway’s black-and-white-checkered tile. The only palpable hint of Mabel having been here is her floral scent.

  Finally, Barnaby says, “All right. Now what, Sheriff Ross?”

  * * *

  In the parlor of the Harkins home, Leroy sits in his armchair, gazing past her and Barnaby out the window behind the settee.

  “How are you doing, Leroy?” Lily asks.

  “Fair to middlin’,” Leroy says. There’s no irony in his voice, just flatness.

  “I’m so sorry about Dora,” Lily says.

  Leroy twitches at his wife’s name, then shifts his dull gaze to Lily. “Thank ye for staying with her and Ruth—” He stops, choking up.

  Lily ignores Barnaby’s questioning look. They had driven out in an automobile she’d gotten on loan from the only dealership in town. Barnaby had sheepishly said his tank was low and he had just enough gasoline to get back to Columbus.

  While driving, Lily had explained about Dora’s passing, but not about how Leroy was gone with the twins in search of a miracle and that she’d found Ruth here alone with her mother.

  One of the twins climbs up into Leroy’s lap, but he ignores the child as if she’s a pesky gnat he can’t be bothered to swat away. She begins to cry, and Ruth, who is sitting in a rocking chair and already looking terrified and overburdened, opens her arms to invite her little sister into her lap. This sets off the other twin, who jumps up from his blocks and runs toward Ruth.

  Poor girl. “Hey, sweetie,” Lily says to the little boy. He stops in mid-run, clambers up in her lap. She pulls a handkerchief from her dress pocket and wipes his nose. “How about a snack for you and your sister?”

  “We just had break—” Ruth stops as Lily gives her a gently reprimanding look.

  They carry the twins to the kitchen, settle them at a small table with biscuits and jam.

  “We need to discuss a few things they don’t need to hear.” Lily aches to pull Ruth to her in a comforting hug, but the girl just nods.

  Satisfied the twins will be fine for the time being, Lily and Ruth return to the parlor. As she sits back down on the settee, Lily notes that Leroy hasn’t moved a twitch or reacted to any of this commotion. He’s in shock. Gently, she says, “I was glad to help the other night. If I can help in any other way—”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  His dismissive tone stings, but Lily nods. “I understand. Well, we will try to be right quick. This is Agent Barnaby Sloan. From the Bureau of Prohibition. When I was here the other night, Ruth told me that Luther Ross had been by very late on Thanksgiving night, wanting to talk to Zebediah.”

  “Yep,” Leroy says.

  “With Arlie Whitcomb.”

  “Yep.”

  “Did he say anything about looking for another Prohibition agent—a Colter DeHav
en?” Barnaby asks.

  “Didn’t get a chance. Ran him off right quick. Didn’t have time for his—or Arlie’s—foolishness. They were both drunk, and we don’t approve of such.”

  “Luther has been found, dead,” Lily says. “Possibly bitten by a snake.” Leroy frowns; even in his shocked, grieving state, this strikes him as unbelievable. “Possibly beaten. Both Marvena and Jurgis have confessed that they killed him—not together, but individually.”

  “Huh,” Leroy says. “Seems unlikely. And why’re you botherin’ us with this?”

  “Well, we have a witness who tells us that the agent, Colter DeHaven, has claimed Luther shot him when they were at Marvena’s still. And this witness claims that Zebediah brought Colter here and Colter stayed out in the barn.…” Lily pauses, looks at Ruth apologetically. The poor girl, who’d been so still and quiet in the rocking chair, now trembles.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy!” Ruth bursts out. “You and Mama taught us not to lie or keep secrets and this has been weighing on me something awful. I’m the witness Sheriff Lily’s talkin’ about. That agent and Zeb came here Wednesday. You were gone and Mama, Mama—” She starts crying. “And I didn’t know what to do, and Zeb was sick, and the man was hurt, and—”

  Leroy stands, moves swiftly to his daughter. Lily jumps to her feet, ready to defend Ruth.

  But Leroy sinks to the floor, pulls his daughter from the rocking chair and into his arms. He holds her, rocking back and forth. “Oh, baby girl, it’s all right, it’s all right. You done the best you could.”

  Lily sinks back to her seat, stares down at her hands. For a long moment, the only sounds in the parlor are the ticking of the mantel clock and the soft crying of father and daughter.

  “Perhaps if—if we could talk to Zebediah?” Barnaby finally asks gently.

  Leroy looks up from his daughter, confusion interrupting the sorrow in his tear-slicked face. “He’s at the hospital in Chillicothe, so if’n you’re asking my permission, sure.”