Chapelwood

by Cherie Priest

  He stared hard into the half-empty glass that he balanced on top of his knee. “This most recent one, the girl who got jumped last Saturday . . .”

  “Jennie Heflin,” I supplied the name.

  “I went to speak with her at the hospital, for the nurse sent word she was finally awake. And she was,” he mused. “She was awake. Her head was all shaved, and covered in stitches or bandages—as was a spot on her shoulder. She was all wrapped up like a little Egypt mummy. Her eyes were big as quarters, and her mouth was still swollen up from where she’d hit the curb when she fell.”

  “But she lived.”

  “But she lived. And she didn’t want to speak to me, hardly at all . . . but I was patient with her. She’s about Ellen’s age, so I sat with her like I would my own daughter and I waited, and with a little time and patience, she opened up. Except . . .”

  “Except?”

  He shook his head and finished the drink, but held the empty glass upon his knee without asking for another one. “Except I can’t say how much of her story had any grain of truth, and how much of it came from being hit so hard on the head, so many times. Four times,” he clarified. “Four hard strikes to the head, then the one to her shoulder—or her back, depending on how you measure it. Someone hit her hard, and nearly killed her. That can rattle a body, can’t it? And rattle a mind, too?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “That’s what I’ve been thinking, and telling myself over and over since I spoke to her. So this is what she told me: She said it was early evening—much like now—and that’s when they tend to strike, isn’t it?”

  “Sure is,” I said, offering the bottle, even though he hadn’t asked for it. He seemed to need it, and he didn’t fight me—he just poured himself another slug, though he didn’t take a swallow just yet.

  “She was walking home to her mother’s house, after working in the laundry on Ninth Street, bringing home supper from the Jew’s shop, ’cause it was right on the way. The weather was nice, and the night wasn’t too cool, and she was just thinking how pleasant it all was, when everything went dark.”

  “You mean, she was knocked unconscious?”

  “No—” He swung his head back and forth. “She said the lamp went out overhead, and so did the one at the other end of the street, and the one behind her—all at the same time, like a switch had been pulled. She looked up and saw the windows above her, in the flats and the hotels, they were all dark, too; she said she saw the outlines of the roofs and gutters up against the sky . . . but there weren’t any stars, either. No moon. No light from the sky or anyplace else, and she could only tell it was the sky at all because it was a different shade of black.”

  “That’s . . .” I couldn’t find whatever word I meant to give him.

  “That’s what I mean—” He fumbled, too. “Sounds to me like someone conked her on the head, and it happened so fast she didn’t feel it, didn’t know what it was or what had happened. But she insisted that wasn’t it—she insisted she was awake, and alive, and she was looking up at the sky but it wasn’t there anymore. Then she said she smelled something funny, something like the fish stalls down at the market, at the end of the day when the ice is melted and things are starting to stink. She said it snuck up on her, so strong that she could feel it—she told me she felt it,” he asserted. “Felt it crawling around her ankles as she stood there, stopped and staring up at the sky.”

  I took a drink. All of it, in three long draws. I poured myself another. “Someone hit her on the head, Marty. That’s all.”

  “Her eyes . . . they were all black, too. She said the smell crawled up her legs, up under her skirts, and it wrapped itself around her waist, and shoulders, and around her neck like a snake that was going to choke her—and she couldn’t move, not for love or money. She couldn’t break loose from whatever it was. She said she looked up at the sky, that was all she could do—stare up at the place where the sky ought to be, but wasn’t. That’s how she put it, George . . . that’s how she put it. And that was the last thing she remembered.”

  I held the bottle in my hand. I’d been meaning to pour another round for us both, but I hadn’t gotten to it yet. I sat it back down on the desk without giving myself another drop. “All right, then,” I said, trying hard to be rational about it. “If you don’t think she’s made it all up—by accident, I’m sure—then what do you think happened to her?”

  “Can’t say. But I tell you why it sticks with me: Lorino, you know, the Italian fellow who survived. He said something about the smell, too. In that strange way, you know—he doesn’t really talk right anymore, not even in his own mother tongue. He talks so fast, but none of it makes much sense. But he said that before he was struck, he smelled the ocean real strong. Like something dead lying on the beach, when high tide has gone and left it to bake in the sun. That’s a funny detail, isn’t it? A funny thing for two folks to offer up, after something like this happened to them both. They wouldn’t have seen it in the papers. Nobody reported it, because I didn’t tell anyone about it.”

  “That is a funny detail,” I agreed. “But what does it mean? We’re looking for a murderer with poor bathing skills?”

  “I don’t know, but it means something.”

  He left, and I left, and we went our separate ways for the night, but it’s still tugging at me, hanging about in the back of my head. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, almost like I’m forgetting something—but not quite.

  • • •

  So when I say that the dirty politics of Nathaniel Barrett and the axe murders of the past year are connected . . . I have absolutely nothing to bolster the statement except an uncanny feeling in my gut.

  There are murders, and there’s a police chief who’s stumped and—so far as my opponent claims—is doing absolutely nothing about it. They’ve even implied that he might be at the root of the attacks somehow, which is preposterous; but then again, fools like Barrett and his “True Americans” believe a Catholic capable of almost anything. Their thoughts on that old church, and the pope, and everything associated therewith . . . well, they’re far more ridiculous than a girl with a head wound who thought the sky was missing one night.

  It’s a tenuous connection at best, I know. It’s a conspiracy at worst, and that makes me every bit as bad as the Klansmen and the True Americans. But I have nothing else, just a bad feeling about the timing of it all, combined with a horror of the elements that are pushing Barrett into power.

  I fear for Eagan, after this vote tomorrow.

  I fear for the city, and everyone in it.

  Inspector Simon Wolf

  BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA SEPTEMBER 25, 1921

  Through a convoluted series of events, I arrived in Birmingham, Alabama, later in the evening than I’d hoped. Train schedules in this part of the country seem to be more like general suggestions than hard-and-fast guidelines, and this observation does not immediately speak well of the place—and the legendary politeness I’ve found somewhat cool in tone. Then again, I am (as they still say, so help them God) a “Yankee,” and therefore deeply suspicious . . . to the engineer from whom I asked directions, to the driver who asked a thousand questions about my accent, and to the woman at the hotel who looked at me through narrowed eyes when I confessed I was visiting from Boston. I may as well have said Hades, but she smiled and blessed my heart, and gave me my key without incident.

  You’d think the war hadn’t been over for sixty years.

  Well, the food is good. I’ll give it that. Mrs. Becker—that’s the name of the hotel lady—told me that supper was served at six thirty sharp, and what she really meant was “something closer to seven,” but yes, it was very good. Everything full of butter and salt, everything fried, baked, and seasoned expertly, and a side to go with every course. Biscuits, corn bread, toast. Puddings, potatoes, and pickled vegetables. I might have gained another five pounds just from looking at the tabl
e, but on a frame like mine, it’s not as if it’d show.

  I’m prepared to forgive myself.

  First thing this morning, I collected the local newspaper from the mat in front of my door—and realized that my visit’s timing is less than stellar. I read quickly while I ate another large meal—a breakfast whipped up with more syrups, jellies, and flapjacks than a man had any right to hope for in a week—and I learned that I’d arrived on the far cusp of a local election. I’d say it was a hotly contested one, but by the sound of things it was bought and paid for with a significant margin, if the editorials can be believed.

  They are triumphant, these editorials. Not even pretending that their political victory had come from something other than the Klan’s coffers. You’d think they’d have the decency to demur, but no—it’s out in the open here. The Klan is very public, and very active; the paper reports on them like a local sports team. It’s appalling, and frankly a little strange. I mean, they have a great number of negroes and Jews about. You’d think the hooded devils would be run underground by sheer population density.

  Or not.

  They’re bolstered by wealth, privilege, and the momentum of history. They wield authority by the force of a habit no one knows how to break.

  Anyway, it’s chaos out there on the streets of Birmingham, as far as I can tell.

  It was chaos in the police department, that was for damn sure. I arrived at eight o’clock and helped myself to a cup of coffee, after a bright-eyed receptionist suggested I might take one from a sideboard in the spot that functions as a lobby. I stood still, sipped my beverage, and watched people argue, swarm, and come and go with boxes of belongings and sour expressions. Quickly enough, I gathered the gist: People were being removed from their jobs and replaced by a new staff—as a result of the election, no doubt.

  And to think, this was the day I chose to seek an interview with the local authorities.

  I finished my coffee, and having divined the location of the office I needed, I flashed the receptionist my badge and papers and set off down the hall.

  The name on the glass read, “Martin Eagan, Chief of Police,” but it wouldn’t for long.

  The chief in question was emptying his desk drawers into a crate, swearing under his breath, and ignoring a telephone that rang and rang and rang. He was an older man, probably a decade older than me—so perhaps his early seventies—but he was the blocky, sturdy sort. A boxer in his younger days, I would’ve wagered. His arms were thick within the sleeves of his suit, which was pressed to perfection with all its buttons gleaming. His hat was perched precisely; he wore it like a crown. His mustache was as fluffy and gray as two kittens tail to tail, but tamed with a touch of wax.

  I rapped gently on the doorframe and said, “Chief Eagan?”

  “No,” he shot back. “Not anymore.”

  “But you’ve been the chief for a while now, isn’t that correct? For the last few years?”

  “Since 1917,” he confirmed, never looking up. I liked his voice. It reminded me of some of the Boston lads—quite a few Irish among them, farther east from here. He sounded less like a yokel, and more like my idea of a policeman . . . if I must confess to a certain snobbery in that regard.

  I tried another approach. “Sir, I realize I’ve come in the midst of a difficult transition—I assume you’ve been . . . let go, due to the recent elections?”

  “I was offered a job as a patrolman, so yes—you might as well say I’ve been let go. Patrolman,” he muttered, each syllable dripping venom. “After all my years of service.”

  “The offer was an insult, to be sure. My apologies on all fronts, but I do hope I could beg just a few minutes of your time.” Before he could order me out the door, I added swiftly, “My name is Simon Wolf, and I’m an inspector from the Boston office—I was a friend of Father Coyle’s.”

  He stopped packing and looked at me, starting at my shoes and working his way up to my eyes. It took him a few seconds. I’m a big fellow, that’s no secret. Maybe not the tallest gent in a room, but likely the widest—and I, for one, am quite comfortable with that. I fought it when I was young, and now I don’t. Now I buy bigger clothes, and look better wearing them.

  “You were a friend of Father Coyle’s?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, keeping that professional deference firmly in place. “I heard about his passing, and wished to come pay my respects—and also, to see if I could lend a hand with the investigation into his murder.”

  He wasn’t sure if he believed me or not—I could see it in his eyes. “You can pay your respects at the boneyard at Saint Paul’s, but there’s no investigation, Inspector. We know good and well who killed him. Even if half a dozen people hadn’t watched the bastard do it, he confessed quick enough.”

  “He did?”

  “Aye, he did. Finished shooting, and walked calm as you like . . . over to the courthouse steps and sat down, waiting for someone to bring him the irons.”

  “But why?” I asked.

  “Because Edwin Stephenson is a hateful little wretch. Not entirely stupid, though. He knows where his bread gets buttered, and he knows he’s going to walk, instead of hang.”

  “Even though . . . everyone knows he did it? What excuse could he possibly have?”

  The former chief of police sighed heavily. He planted his hands on the desk, leaned forward, and looked at the crate filled with his belongings. “It’s a long story. No, it’s a short one—Coyle was Catholic, and he did something Edwin didn’t like. Now the murderer will put his hand upon a Bible and call his actions temporary insanity, if you ever heard of anything half so preposterous. His insanity didn’t come temporary, and it wasn’t sudden, either. Maybe . . . maybe you ought to walk along with me. There’s a bit of a story to it, and I need to be gone before Shirley gets here.”

  “Is that the new police chief?”

  “That’s him, and a filthier bastard you’ll never set eyes on. He’s crooked head to toe; the man must screw his socks on in the morning. If I meet eyes with him, I’m likely to take a swing, so it’s best that I be on my way. You can join me, since you’re not the sort who’s afraid to talk with a papist.”

  “Thank you, sir. Perhaps I can help carry something?”

  I took one box, he took another, and he slammed the office door behind him. As he passed, many of the patrolmen stopped what they were doing and removed their hats, seeing him off with regret, respect, and (if I read their eyes correctly) no small amount of fear. Whoever this Shirley was, it didn’t look like his presence would be altogether welcome among the uniforms.

  Outside, the morning sun was coming up hot and I wished I could wear a little less fabric, but such is the standard of decency among grown men. I blinked against the light and Martin Eagan ignored it, stomping toward a jalopy parked by the door. He yanked it open, threw one box onto the seat, and then asked me for the other so he could cram that one inside, too.

  “There’s no sense in driving, and the pair of us won’t fit anyway,” he said with regards to the little two-seater. Even without the crates, the pair of us might not have fit on the seat, but he was too polite or distracted to say so. “We may as well hoof it.”

  “To Saint Paul’s?”

  “It’s not so far from here, and I can give you the story, if you want it. But,” he said, and that rolling grumble of a voice was all vowels and dissatisfaction, “you aren’t going to like it much.”

  He kicked the jalopy’s door shut and walked away, pulling a cigarette from his inside jacket pocket. I was already sweating, and couldn’t imagine adding a stick of fire to the mix—so when he offered me one, I declined.

  “No, thank you. There’s plenty of heat out here already.”

  “Heat? It’s rather cool today, Inspector. If this is what you call heat, you’d best stay away in July.”

  “Duly noted.”

  He struck a ma
tch, and his mustache twitched as he sucked the cigarette alight. “But you’re here about Father Coyle. How much do you know about what happened?”

  “Almost nothing. I know he was murdered by a man named Edwin Stephenson, who expects to walk free due to temporary insanity. And you told me most of that. Word in Boston was only that he’d been killed, and details were thin.”

  Eagan cleared his throat and nibbled thoughtfully on the cigarette as we walked side by side through a pretty part of town. It was a lovely city, with clean streets, tall lamps, and signs freshly painted—everything in good repair. Southern charm, I suppose you’d call it. But so far, most of that charm appeared superficial.

  “Father Coyle was a good fellow, and I’m not just saying that because he was a priest,” the old chief finally said. “He was a man who cared about the people in his church, and everyone else, too. In the end, that was his downfall.”

  “There are worse things to go on a man’s tombstone.”

  He chuckled without smiling. “True, but no one wants it carved too soon. Father Coyle was only trying to help that girl, and should you ever encounter the despicable Mr. Stephenson, you’ll understand why.”

  “What girl?”

  “Stephenson’s daughter, Ruth. She’d been trying to escape that miserable old goat for half her life. As soon as she could walk, she did her best to run away from him; and recently, the girl’d reached an age where it was hard to keep her at home. I’m not saying she’s a bad sort, because she isn’t—she’s a sweet young woman, and a damn sight brighter than her old man.”

  “So what did she do?”

  “She eloped,” he said simply. “With a man plenty older. But that wasn’t the problem.”

  “No?” I asked, but I was already making guesses in my head.

  “There were two problems, really. Two problems at the root of it, anyhow: Her new husband’s a Catholic for one thing, and a Puerto Rican for another.”