Turning the letter over in my hand, I slid the letter from the envelope and unfolded the crackling pages. Adjusting my eyes to the old-fashioned script, I scanned for information. It read like a thank you note. Appreciation for hospitality and gratefulness for introductions in the community filled the first sheet. Moving to the second sheet, the signature caught my eye. There it lay, just like the images I saw on the computer while researching the Know-Nothing Party. Millard Fillmore. My heart thumping, I reached for another letter. Opening it and turning to the last page revealed that it, too, was from the former President.
I spread all the letters on the table and arranged them by date. The first ones were impersonal and polite. The later ones sounded as though written to a friend. They spoke of the campaign trail and the strength of the competition. Mostly, though, they spoke of the poison spreading through the nation in the form of Catholic immigrants. Millard Fillmore thanked Eustace for his support and the support of those he had encountered at the meeting of true Americans in Winslow Falls. Fillmore thanked Eustace for being a patriot in troubled times and expressed a certainty he could be counted on to rally his fellow party members at voting time.
The Know-Nothing Party, that’s what this was all about. It wasn’t about stamps. It wasn’t even about the autographs on the envelopes. While they would probably be worth quite a bit of money, if the Franklin Pierce autograph I’d seen in Gene’s shop was any indication of presidential signature value, I was willing to bet the contents of the letter was where the real value lay.
“But did Ethel realize what she had?” I asked myself aloud. My voice sounded louder than normal in the empty house.
“No, she didn’t.” Gene’s voice came from the doorway. I turned and saw him standing there, the beaded vest from the attic dangling from his hand.
“What are you doing here, Gene?” My throat felt dry, and my stomach churned like it had on the night of the Museum fire. He stepped toward me, and I felt an urgency to put something physically between us. “Were you looking for Know-Nothing paraphernalia?”
“You don’t know how sorry I am to hear you say that, Gwen. I’ve always liked you, and it will grieve me to distress Augusta.” He stepped toward me. I tightened my hold on the letters.
“Did you take this suitcase from Ethel’s?”
“They aren’t just any letters. You don’t realize what kind of a historical find this is. Virtually no information has survived about the Know-Nothings. To have a former president’s signature on a letter discussing his part in their meetings is unprecedented. Add on the fact that he was abusing his ability to post his letters for free by just signing the envelope, and you’re sitting on a gold mine. But it really isn’t about the money.”
“What is it about, then, owning a piece of history?” I stepped back a little further. His voice rose, and he paced in front of the door, flinging his arms about.
“Anyone with enough money can do that. I want to be an expert. I will be the world’s leading authority on a subject, one that has intrigued both myself and political historians for decades.”
“Did you kill Ethel?” I asked, hearing my voice crack. Any second now I was either going to vomit or burst into tears. Neither Hugh nor Augusta knew where I was. Gene was blocking the door I’d come in through, the one closest to the kitchen. I inched toward the one that connected the dining and living rooms, keeping the table between us.
“Stupid, grasping cow. Ethel had no idea what she had gotten her hands on this time.”
“But you knew.”
“Of course I knew. Would I be here otherwise? From the first time I drove into Winslow Falls to look at the building I bought for The Hodge Podge, I knew the potential was here for a very big find. Local bigwigs don’t place a Know-Nothing symbol up on the highest point in the town without a reason. I was certain something was going to pay off. I just needed to keep looking until I found it.”
“Did she offer to sell you the letters?” I leaned on my cane, thinking about its potential as a weapon. The one that had probably killed Beulah was just out of reach.
“She asked my opinion on the value of the signature. She met me in her kitchen and handed me a letter. At first she didn’t mention that there were more, but her greed got the better of her. She returned to the front room and brought back a few more for me to evaluate.”
“That doesn’t explain how she died.” I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer. Too many bad things happened to people who had something to do with any of this. Mostly, I just wanted to get to the door. My heart was knocking around so hard I was sure it was going to break one of my ribs.
“When her stupid cat meowed at the front door, I removed the letter from its envelope. The contents were sufficiently interesting for me to peruse the other ones she had brought in. By the time she had persuaded the cat to come in, I realized this was what I’d spent years looking for. When she saw me reading them, she tried to grab them back.” Gene’s voice rose higher. He stopped his pacing and noticed me creeping towards the door. “Sorry, Gwen, I can’t let you leave.”
Thirty
I bolted. I launched through the doorway with a speed that I hadn’t possessed since I was ten.
Gene was standing in front of the kitchen door to the outside. I wasn’t getting out that way. I thought about the layout of the house and made a dive for the basement stairs. I wrenched the door open and tripped on the first step. Running, tumbling and losing my footing all the way down, I prayed I’d make it to the bulkhead and out before Gene caught up with me. I couldn’t stop long enough to feel for a light. Relying on memory, I raced through the clammy space running my hand along the rough stone foundation wall until I felt it disappear, and the bulkhead stairs stood before me.
Tears sprang from my eyes as relief washed over me. Ankle throbbing, knees trembling, I mounted the short flight of steps. Pushing upward on the double doors, I knew I was going to make it out after all.
The doors didn’t budge. They couldn’t be locked. When Bill Lambert installed the bulkhead for Beulah years before, he had suggested a lock. Beulah said she’d never been in the habit of locking her doors and wasn’t about to start so late in the game.
“Snow.” The lights flickered on, and Gene’s voice floated towards me from the basement stairs. “There’s a couple of feet piled on top of the door. You’ll never push your way out.” I shoved and pushed harder, becoming even more frantic with each footfall clattering over the concrete floor.
“I really am sorry,” Gene said. I rattled the door desperately, looking back over my shoulder. A puff of cold air drifted toward my face, but the crack wouldn’t widen enough to let me out. Gene’s hands grabbed my waist. I struggled to pull away, but it wasn’t helping. He was larger, stronger, and wasn’t working with a sprained ankle.
“Please, Gene, you don’t want to do this.” Tears slid down my face. I felt myself start to hyperventilate.
“No, I really don’t, but in order to get what I want, I must.”
Gene dragged me toward him. My feet barely touched the stairs on the way down. He clamped down on one of my arms with his left hand and put the other on the back of my head. Before I knew what was happening, he thrust my head toward the rock wall of the foundation. My forehead took the bulk of the impact, and my vision blurred. Before I even registered the pain he was dragging me toward the laundry room. He shoved me in and slammed the door.
I heard a dragging noise beyond the door. The noise stopped, and I heard something heavy thump up against the laundry room door. Hauling myself to my feet, I threw my weight against the door and tried the knob. It turned smoothly in my hand, but the door opened barely a crack before it bumped against whatever Gene had lodged there. My best guess was the old water heater Beulah hadn’t had hauled away because of the disposal cost when she had a new one installed.
I heard Gene stopping in front of the laundry room every few moments. As I tried peeping through the crack between the door and the jamb, blood trickled
down through my eyebrow and into my eye. I wiped it away with my sleeve, but it kept flowing. I felt for the light and then searched for something to stop the bleeding.
I grabbed a yellow cotton blouse and held it against my head. Standing near the door I surveyed the room for a way to escape. Straining my ears, I heard Gene mount the wooden stairs to the first floor. A wave of relief washed over me. Maybe he thought he had killed me and was leaving with the letters.
The windowless room was small, no more than eight feet square. The walls were constructed of two-by-fours and plywood. The door hinges were on the outside. In front of me sat a washer and dryer and an old-fashioned soaking tub. Above them hung a bank of three cabinets. At the end was a full-length closet. A drying rack and a table for folding ran along the wall opposite the laundry machines. An ironing board was propped in the corner.
I heard Gene’s footsteps on the stairs again. I pressed the side of my face against the crack in the door, but Gene remained just out of view. I heard sloshing and smelled sulfur. There was a glow and then a blaze. Through the crack I could just see a mound that looked like it was made of coats and an area rug. Sticking out from the bottom of the pile was a wooden leg and a bit of skirting from an upholstered chair. I could hear Gene’s feet as he dashed up the stairs.
My eyes smarted as smoke and fumes first floated, then streamed, through the opening in the doorway. I slammed it shut and searched again for a way out. Smoke barreled under the door. The smell was vile, not the familiar smell of burning wood but a smoggy stench of synthetic fibers and upholstery foam. Grabbing at the laundry draped around the room I threw it into the sink and turned on the water. I stuffed the drenched clothes against the base of the door. More smoke crept in through the gap at the top and hovered along the ceiling.
I pulled open a cabinet door looking for something, anything that could either cover the smoke or help me hack my way out. Soap, bleach and old fashioned spray starch were lined up neatly on the shelves. The next two cabinets held an old iron, cast-off baskets, clothes pins and cleaning rags. A hamper full of sheets sat on the floor of the closet. I decided to soak those and try hanging them from the ceiling in front of the door. I grabbed them and tossed them in the sink before I realized why they had been there. The closet was empty except for the hamper because it was a laundry chute. Beulah had it included several years ago as part of the laundry room design.
I’d told her at the time laundry chutes were losing favor with new home builders because of their ability to act as an unobstructed tunnel for flames in the event of a fire. I’d never been so glad not to have been listened to in my life.
I yanked the hamper out of the closet and ducked inside to get a closer look at the opening at the top. I was going to need a boost—and to shrink my circumference by about a third. I tugged on the folding table and slid it end first into the closet. I climbed on top of it and reached for the little door at the top. I could just barely touch it with the tips of my fingers.
The air outside the closet was getting smokier, and it was harder to breathe as I climbed down. Fire roared just outside the laundry room door. It felt like being back at the fire scene at the Museum. I grabbed the ironing board and pulled it on top of the table. Swaying and praying I swung a leg up on the board and tested its ability to hold me. It creaked, but it held.
I straightened and felt for the small door. Pushing against it, I realized it was latched from the outside. Frustration and anger launched me into a string of cuss words that should have blistered my tongue on the way out. Tumbling down off the board and the table, I re-entered the room to look for a battering ram. The only thing that looked helpful was the iron. The laundry room door crackled, warped and darkened in color. I grabbed the iron and scrambled back to the top of the chute.
I bashed the door with the iron, teetering and rocking with each blow. The concern over the safety of a laundry chute was becoming more of a reality. Heat and flames felt as though they were seeking me out. Sweat mingled with the blood still weeping from my forehead.
The door must have been made of hardwood, because it never splintered. The latch gave way, and the door popped open. Twisting and wriggling, I pulled my upper body through the small opening. My hips attempted to remain behind but I dug against the door frame with my elbows. Ignoring everything but the blistering heat behind me I pried and squeezed. Fleshy bits circling my hips cried out in pain as I popped free.
Slamming the door behind me to help contain the fire, I dashed for the dining room. The suitcase was gone, but Beulah’s cane still lay on the table. I grabbed it and ran.
Bursting into the cold fresh air, I sucked in a deep breath. Skittering along the icy walk, I hauled up short. On the ground was a pile of arms, legs and fur. Gene lay stretched out flat on his stomach. Ernesto sat on his back. Clive had his heavy winter boot pressed against Gene’s neck. In one hand Clive held Brandy’s leash, in the other a little red suitcase. Brandy stood over Gene and growled every time he twitched.
“This is the suitcase I was telling you about.” Clive held it out to me.
“How did you know to show up here?” I asked Ernesto.
“Diego and me not like you going here with no person with you. We go behind you and wait,” Ernesto said.
“I was walking Brandy and saw Ernesto and Diego standing around. Then Gene comes running out the house like he’s seen a ghost, and he’s carrying Ethel’s suitcase, so maybe he had. There twern’t any good reason I could see that he’d be running away from Beulah’s or carrying that case, so I shouted to Ernie to stop him, and he just stuck out his foot. Gene went down ass over teakettle, and Ernie dropped on his back like a paperweight. I helped out a bit with my boot, and Brandy encouraged him to stay put.
“Where’s Diego?”
“Gone to get Ray.”
“We need the fire department, too,” I said, but there was no need. The town’s shiniest new engine jounced to a stop in front of the house, and Winston sprang from the cab like a man half his age. Ray and Diego pulled in behind and ran to stand over Gene.
“You don’t look so good,” Ray said.
“I look better than I would have if I’d been trapped in Beulah’s laundry room for another two minutes.”
“I meant your hair.” Ray grimaced and pointed. I put my hand to my head to feel for my hat and touched the throbbing lump on my forehead instead. I must have lost my hat in the fray. Now that the fear had drained away, I felt dizzy and exhausted. And angrier than I’d ever been in my life. If there hadn’t been any witnesses, I’m not sure what would have happened to Gene.
“Did you kill Ethel?” I shouted. Brandy growled and lunged forward.
“Don’t interrupt, Dog.” Clive gave her leash a gentle tug.
“She grabbed the letters out of my hand when she came back from letting in the cat. I couldn’t let them go. She pulled on them and slipped in a puddle on the ceramic tile, hitting her head on the corner of the woodstove. I checked her pulse and could tell there was nothing I could do for her.” Gene strained to lift his head a little to look at me.
“Heifer dust. The dent in Ethel’s head didn’t begin to match up with the corner of her woodstove.” Gene slumped back to the ground as a high-pitched wail filled the air.
“There’s the ambulance,” Winston said.
“I need to call Hugh.” Flames shot through the roof and lit the night sky.
“I’m already here.” Hugh’s voice called out as he loped toward me. I hurried to meet him and sank my grimy face into his chest. Coughing and crying, I felt the softness of the wool sweater I’d given him rub against my cheek. His chest felt sturdy beneath it and his arms capable as he wrapped them round me. His biceps muffled the sounds around us as he stood swaying a little, rocking me like an injured child.
Thirty-One
Hours later as I sat at the table in the middle of the police station with a bag of animal crackers in my lap and a thick bandage stuck to my forehead, Hugh and Ray filled me in on what
I’d missed while receiving medical attention. I wish I could honestly say I’d wanted to refuse help and be in on the last of the investigation, but truth to be told, I was rattled. The last little bit of brave I had got burned up in my anger at Gene. Just the thought of being anywhere near him again made me as queasy as I’d been the night of the Museum fire. So I skipped out and was grateful for a legitimate excuse.
“We searched Gene’s shop and found the hand. He admitted to breaking into your house and taking it. He saw it once while he was picking Augusta up for a date.”
“I wonder what he was planning to do with it?”
“I’m not sure he had a plan. I think he was just obsessed with any evidence pointing to the Know-Nothings.”
“Speaking of evidence, other than him trying to burn me up at Beulah’s, was there anything to prove he killed Ethel?”
“Faced with the facts from the medical examiner, it didn’t take Gene too long to start telling the truth.” Hugh sat next to me, his notebook opened up on the table in front of us.
“It didn’t sound much like what he tried telling me, did it?” I asked.
“No, it didn’t. Ethel asked him to evaluate an autograph for her,” Hugh said.
“Millard Fillmore?”
“Right. When he got a good look at it Gene realized what she had and told her a figure that he expected the signatures alone would fetch. He offered to purchase them from her, but she refused, saying she wanted to think about it.”
“I bet he didn’t like hearing that.” I popped a camel cracker into my mouth.
“He played along, telling her she was wise to shop around for the best offer, and left. He knew she must have gotten them from Beulah’s or the Museum because of the addressee on the envelope. Since he was sure they were stolen, he convinced himself he had at least as much right as she did to them and determined to sneak in that night and steal them himself.”
Live Free or Die Page 21
