On the Rocks: A Willa Cather and Edith Lewis Mystery

by Sue Hallgarth

  Mary had done that before. Edith remembered one night the S. S. Grand Manan had been delayed by a storm. They were terribly late arriving in North Head and Edith had been almost delirious with sea sickness, so they stopped at Rose Cottage rather than going directly to Whale Cove. Mary had fed Willa supper and put Edith to bed.

  “What do you suppose that fellow was up to?”

  “I can’t imagine,” Edith leaned back into Willa’s hands.

  “Do you think he knew he was being followed?”

  “He didn’t seem to,” Edith’s interest revived, “though he certainly looked over his shoulder enough times.”

  “Do you think he saw us?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe he thought Daggett was after him.”

  “I’ll bet that was it,” Edith tipped her head. Willa began to massage the back of her neck.

  “Where do you think he was going?”

  “I wish I knew,” Edith rolled her head back. Willa began to knead the area between Edith’s shoulder blades. Edith raised one shoulder, then the other.

  “How could he disappear like that?”

  Edith shrugged. Willa squeezed the top of her shoulders and held them for a moment.

  “We had him all the way into the woods above town and then he was gone,” Willa released her grip, “that’s the real mystery.”

  Edith exhaled.

  Willa squeezed the top of her shoulders again.

  “And why didn’t he notice young James,” Willa drew Edith back with her hands, “James’ shirt was such a brilliant blue.”

  “We would never have seen him otherwise.”

  “WHAT do you mean Johnson never returned?”

  At that moment, Daggett would have taken great pleasure in throttling Harvey Andrews. The innkeeper at Swallowtail may not have done anything wrong, but nothing was right.

  “He never did. That’s why I never sent my Henry to fetch you,” Harvey leaned against the wall behind his counter and worked his toothpick between his teeth. “I told you I’d send him the minute Johnson came in,” Harvey moved the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “Well, he never came in.”

  “And the others?”

  “They went to meet him at the boat, Geneva said.”

  “That’s right, they did,” Geneva came in from the dining room and stood in front of the counter next to Daggett, her apron clasped in her hands.

  “And they never came back after that?” Daggett looked from Geneva to Harvey and back again.

  “No. Said they were going to The Anchorage. There’s an entertainment there tonight,” Harvey took the toothpick out of his mouth and placed it on the edge of the counter near the cash register.

  “That’s right,” Geneva nodded, “they took a box lunch with them.”

  “Bit late leaving, if you ask me,” Harvey leaned forward and put his elbows on the counter.

  “THAT’S how I heard it,” Mary Robbins set a plate of crackers between the steaming bowls of chowder she unloaded from her tray, “Constable Daggett ran Little John all the way home in the Chevrolet and told him to stay there.”

  Edith picked up her spoon. There were only the three of them in the Rose Cottage dining room, and the street in front of Daggett’s office was empty of cars. Daggett must have gone elsewhere after taking Little John home.

  “Disturbing the peace, I suppose,” Willa buttered a roll.

  “Carrying a firearm, too,” Mary brushed crumbs off the nearest table.

  “A firearm?”

  “Loaded shotgun,” Mary stopped brushing to look at them.

  “What on earth good did he think that would do?” Edith swallowed a spoonful of chowder. Its heat made her blink.

  “‘Save us from witches’ is what he said.”

  “More likely he shouted,” Willa stirred her soup with her spoon.

  Edith applauded Daggett’s handling of Little John. Things could so easily get out of hand. Edith remembered the blaze of torches, the stench of kerosene, and the heat of men’s voices on one hot August night in her childhood. Lincoln’s widest avenues had been too narrow for the vigilantes that night, as nice a name as anyone could give the throng of drunken, hotheaded men who raced through the streets demanding death for Earl James, a man convicted of rape and child killing, though her father maintained no one really knew who had done what. Justice, they shouted, justice. And they brandished guns and swords and knives and clubs. The leaders carried ropes. Edith had pressed her nose to the parlor window until her father carried her away. For weeks after, Edith heard how they got their man, how his brown body had swung naked and maimed. It was years before the nightmares died. And many of those same voices Edith heard on other summer nights, in celebrations and torchlight parades, calling for speeches from William Jennings Bryan or pledging allegiance on the Fourth of July.

  “That Little John,” Willa broke into Edith’s memory, “that Little John ought to move to Louisiana. He’d fit right in, after all.” She began to grin broadly, “Just another Southern demagogue.”

  Mary Robbins turned and put a hand on her hip to consider Willa.

  Edith ate her chowder.

  “It’s true that people call us backwoods,” Mary moved to the next table, “but we do have a little bit of everything here.”

  “Geography holds no bounds for demagogues,” Willa smiled and glanced out of the window. “Even out-of-the-way fishing villages come equipped with their own,” she nodded toward the empty street.

  “Yes,” Mary let the word linger and bent to her task. Then she paused and looked up to add, “but I really don’t think Little John should be likened to one of your American political parties.”

  Willa cocked her head.

  “Southern Democrats,” Edith guessed with a grin.

  XVIII

  “WHAT LO, VOORHEES the Viking,” Brunnhilde cried, staring wistfully toward the door at the side of the makeshift stage. She raised bound hands and pulled against the stake fastened to the floor to the right of the door. “Pray the fair Viking secures my release.”

  Brunnhilde’s short red hair shone like a cap. Her eyes, grown wide, rolled toward the pair of sheets serving as a temporary backdrop, where her so-called captors had earlier retired.

  Several loud thumps preceded the entry of Voorhees, who strode through the door with helmet flashing, eyes ferocious, body leather-clad. A fearsome head, echoing her own, bristled from the painted shield clasped to her left side, a spear threatened from her right.

  Voorhees swaggered to center stage and took a moment to glare at individuals in the audience. The brightly painted helmet, bedecked with horns, covered her ears and curled forward toward her chin, adding to the terror of her stare. With great fanfare, she unlocked her word-hoard.

  “Your treasure and your fealty belong to me. Loose your prisoners and pile your wealth here,” Voorhees thumped the floor with her spear, “or my ships will invade.”

  Voorhees’ hateful words and baleful glare reached to the outer limits of the room. Someone down front drew a sharp breath. Voorhees raised her shield and shook her spear. Enormous muscles bulged beneath her sleeves.

  A trembling Brunnhilde pulled against the thongs binding her hands to the stake. She fluttered her eyes.

  “Oh,” Brunnhilde finally said, “Oh, my savior has come.”

  Without even so much as a glance in Brunnhilde’s direction, Voorhees thundered again, “Defy me and die,” her voice ringing like Thor toward the pair of hanging sheets behind which Brunnhilde’s captors supposedly lurked.

  The Viking’s words bounced off the sheets and then died. No one flung themselves through to her challenge.

  “Oh,” Brunnhilde gasped, “Oh,” and sank to the floor.

  Someone tittered off to the right.

  Voorhees turned to glare at the audience, and after a great threatening with shield and spear, she finally bent toward the fallen Brunnhilde.

  “I will free you, fair maiden, never fear,” Voorhees lay heavy e
mphasis on the word I. “But first,” she stomped her right foot, “I will ensure your good name.”

  Voorhees glared again at the crowd with baleful eyes then locked her stare on Eva McDaniels.

  Eva sat smaller.

  “Come forth, any who dare,” Voorhees threatened. “No one shall defame this fair Amazon,” she curled her lip, “and live.”

  After a long moment, Voorhees spun back toward Brunnhilde, but this time as she whirled, her helmet stayed still, its horns pointed skyward. Voorhees strode at once purposefully toward Brunnhilde, but her helmet aimed at the audience.

  Voorhees whirled. The helmet wobbled. The ferocious face reappeared then disappeared beneath the horns. Voorhees could not use her hands to right the helmet. It slid and pointed off to the side. She poked it with her spear. The helmet tilted. She tossed her head. The helmet slid to the other side. One baleful eye finally glared forth beneath the horns.

  “What lo, the Viking befuddled,” a voice yelled from the rear.

  “Besotted, you mean,” another yelled from the front.

  “Mead, that’s what she needs,” someone joined from the side.

  “That’s what we all need,” another one whooped, “if we’re to sit through any more of this.”

  “Glue is more like it,” the laugh belonged to Jacobus.

  “To hold us in our seats, you mean,” the whoop shifted to a howl.

  THE ANCHORAGE dining room was packed. Daggett had arrived too late to have any clear idea of what was going on, but at that point the crowd began to clap and someone guffawed. Others stomped their feet. Laughter shifted to uproar. Daggett dodged elbows all along the wall.

  Jennifer, snuggled next to her friend Alice in the front row, laughed so hard she threw her head back. On Jennifer’s left, Elizabeth sat with her arms wrapped around her belly. Her whole body shook. Daggett grinned. When they first courted, Daggett had discovered Elizabeth’s trouble with delight. Whenever something struck her funny, her whole body would laugh. She had no modulation, no giggles or simpers or little-girl grins, just rich, full-bodied, belly-shaking laughs that ranged all the way from fluted falsettos to vibrating basses. Elizabeth once laughed so hard at something Daggett had said, she popped all her buttons. Daggett no longer remembered what it was that struck her funny but ever since, unless Elizabeth were home and wearing comfortable clothes, she rarely ventured beyond a smile. People thought her somehow soured. Daggett wished she would just let her dresses out at the waist.

  EDITH finished folding the Rose Cottage vellum and slipped the sheet into the envelope she had already addressed.

  “We’ll just have to let this play itself out,” Willa stood in the road while Edith taped the note to Daggett’s office door.

  “When the time is right, Daggett will find us,” Edith descended the steps and looked up at the sky. The sun had set.

  “It’s already past nine,” Willa looked at her watch. “I certainly hope he doesn’t want to find us until tomorrow,” she yawned, “and then not until some very convenient time.”

  “I asked him not to stop by before noon,” Edith smiled and took Willa by the elbow, “I’d like you to be part of the conversation.”

  Pink fingers of afterglow invaded the dusky blue above North Head. The moon had risen. Willa and Edith decided to forgo Church Lane in favor of Swamp Road. It would be dark by the time they reached Whale Cove, too late to navigate the rocks across the beach even with moonlight.

  “In the meantime,” Willa patted her stomach, “we’ve had a fine meal.”

  “With two pieces of carrot cake,” Edith cast a sly glance at Willa, “I would say you found it to be quite satisfactory.”

  “Every bite a sinful joy,” Willa made deliberate smacking noises with her lips.

  “THIS is by far the most damnable case I’ve ever been involved with,” Daggett let the screen door slam behind him.

  Daggett helped Elizabeth with her coat. The evening was cool for July.

  “I saw him,” Elizabeth patted Daggett’s arm, then left to go up stairs to turn down Jennifer’s bed.

  Daggett took Edith Lewis’ note and the unopened telegrams out of his jacket pocket, placed them on the hall table, and went out to collect the sleeping Jennifer from the back of the Chevrolet.

  “Coffee or tea,” Elizabeth asked when they had finished putting Jennifer to bed.

  Elizabeth and Jennifer had eaten dinner before the Brights picked them up for the drive to The Anchorage, but Daggett had not taken time to eat.

  “Coffee,” Daggett loosened the top button on his jacket.

  “Come along then,” Elizabeth led the way to the kitchen.

  Miss Lewis’ note said that they wanted to see him but not until the next afternoon. The telegrams would keep. He would savor them with dessert. There was nothing he could do tonight, anyway.

  “Every lead simply evaporates,” Daggett followed Elizabeth and picked up where he left off. “It’s like someone is pulling strings or making cards disappear. Tricks. Magic.”

  “And that someone is Matthew Johnson, is that what you think?”

  “It’s apparently too soon to do that kind of thinking,” Daggett shook his head and pulled out a chair.

  Elizabeth put silverware on the kitchen table and struck a match to heat water for coffee. She put out two cups, uncovered the butter, and set leftover pot roast and a fresh loaf of bread before her husband.

  “Black magic, that’s what it is,” Elizabeth paused to consider.

  “Black improbabilities, certainly,” Daggett sliced an end off the bread and spread it with butter.

  “Impossibilities, you mean,” Elizabeth fetched milk from the cooler and glanced at her husband. “That man simply could not be in two places at once.”

  “Seems he was,” Daggett sprinkled sugar on the bread and took a bite. He chewed with pleasure.

  “Have some pot roast,” Elizabeth advised, “and tell me what the telegrams say,” she added a jar of mustard and a dish of applesauce to Daggett’s options.

  XIX

  “WHY, YOUNG JAMES,” Edith smiled broadly and opened the screen door, “what can I do for you?”

  “Good day, Miss Lewis,” James Daniels grabbed his cap with both hands. He had tucked in his plaid shirt, his pants were freshly creased and his workboots clean, their soles free of dirt. Edith had seen young James the moment he arrived and very much wanted to interrogate him about the day before. Edith knew it was better, however, to curb her curiosity. Impatience and assertiveness in women were two things that never sat well outside of New York City. Not in Nebraska and not on Grand Manan. Besides, Willa should be part of any conversation she had with young James.

  “Is Mr. Sharkey here?” Edith began again. “I didn’t expect to see you on Sunday,” she glanced past James toward the lane. “Are you going to deliver rocks today?”

  “No, ma’am. Mr. Sharkey’s likely at church. He doesn’t like to work Sunday. Most Baptists don’t.”

  It was one of the longest speeches Edith had heard from young James, who had been standing by the rock pile staring at the partially finished wall for several minutes.

  “Actually, I came by alone,” James cleared his throat, “to see you and Miss Cather.”

  “Miss Cather will be available shortly. Can it wait until then?”

  Willa often broke her work schedule on Sundays, but after so many interruptions during this week, she had chosen to spend the morning in the attic. It was already after eleven, however, Edith noted, looking at her watch. Willa should be down soon.

  “Yes, ma’am, I’ll wait,” James dropped his gaze to his feet. “I thought about coming earlier, Miss Lewis, but I held off. Everyone knows Miss Cather is not to be interfered with.”

  Edith smiled.

  “You’ve made good progress,” James nodded toward the wall. “You’ll be needing more rocks soon.”

  “Yes, Mr. Sharkey said the same thing when he came by.”

  James glanced in Edith’s direction.<
br />
  “Yesterday,” Edith decided to answer what James didn’t ask. “He came by to tell us he couldn’t deliver rocks without your help. You were unavailable.”

  “Mr. Sharkey came by.”

  “He said he didn’t know where you were.”

  James studied the embankment with deep concentration, as though any moment the rocks might slide down or the wall topple over.

  FOR the third time that morning, Daggett flattened the yellow half sheets out before him, running his fingers back and forth across their surfaces as though that would somehow bring more information from the inked words that ran in straight lines across them. Divining truth by touch, Daggett smiled at himself. On Sunday, too. But, of course, nothing unusual happened. What information these telegrams held he already possessed.

  St. Andrews, St. Stephen, Montreal. Officials in all three Canadian towns knew Burt Isaacs. Runs with a tough crowd, that Isaacs does, according to the constable in St. Stephen. But no one in St. Andrews, St. Stephen, or Montreal had ever brought Isaacs up on charges. Haven’t been able to catch him at anything yet, St. Andrews confessed.

  Montreal, but only Montreal, had caught Jackson Knoll. At several things, mostly juvenile offenses from years ago, along with a recent assault charge. He had served time as a youngster, but Montreal hadn’t been able to make the recent charge stick. They thought Knoll might be working as a middleman for bootleggers, but they had no certain proof. They did know that he was out of town a lot. Windsor, and Boston, and maybe Detroit. Daggett should check with Detroit.

  No one had anything at all on Matthew Johnson. Nothing in St. Stephen, St. Andrews, or Montreal. Not even a record of his passing through customs. Daggett touched Johnson’s name on each of the yellow half sheets, then spread out the next set.

  Machias, Calais, Bangor. All had a great deal on Jack Watson. He had served time. Seven years for armed robbery, another three for extortion. But that was eight years ago. Since then, Jack Watson had been spotted in the company of bootleggers and went often to Montreal, but as far as anyone knew, Watson was shipping logs across the border, not booze.