Hidden Places (38 page)

‘‘Now, John Wakefield told me that he’s been trying to trace your brother-in-law’s whereabouts,’’ the sheriff continued. ‘‘I understand Matthew has an inheritance coming to him from Frank’s will, isn’t that right? Anyhow, Mr. Wakefield’s search and my inquiries led us to this same man—this so-called Gabriel Harper.’’

I finally found my voice. ‘‘Is it a crime to use a pen name? If Gabe really is my brother-in-law, then that’s wonderful news. And it’s not against the law for him to live here and work for me, is it?’’

‘‘Eliza—that man who’s been working for you is
not
the Matthew Wyatt who grew up here in Deer Springs.’’

‘‘How do you know he isn’t? People change. He went through a war—’’

‘‘There’s a real simple way to find out. Is the tip of his right index finger missing? Nail and all? The real Matthew had an accident with a hay mower blade when he was twelve or thirteen years old. Fingers don’t grow back. John and I believe this man came here to defraud you and your children out of their rightful inheritance. You were alone, vulnerable, needing his help.’’

‘‘But Gabe didn’t even know about Frank’s will. I never told him one word about it.’’

‘‘Don’t defend him, Mrs. Wyatt. We believe he did know. This impostor, this Gabe Harper or whoever he is, knows all about the real Matthew Wyatt. John Wakefield subpoenaed his work records at the newspaper to see if he was entitled to the inheritance and found out that Harper listed his parents as Frank and Lydia Wyatt, his birthplace as Deer Springs—he even used Matthew’s real date of birth.’’

Gabe knew much, much more than that. He knew all kinds of personal things, such as what kind of a father Frank Wyatt had been and the secret of how Willie had drowned. And he knew that Matthew wasn’t Frank’s real son, too. I felt as shaken as a tent in a hurricane. The sheriff must have noticed because he rested his hand on my shoulder to steady me.

‘‘As I said, the real Matthew Wyatt has part of a finger missing. Now, if you’ll just tell me where Gabriel Harper is, you’ll see the truth for yourself.’’

I already knew the truth. Gabe did not have any missing fingers. That must be how Aunt Batty knew he wasn’t Matthew, too. I turned to her—but she had disappeared! She had stood right beside me a moment ago when the sheriff pulled up—and now she was gone, silent as a cat. I couldn’t take it all in. I was so stunned to think that Gabe was a criminal who had come here to cheat me that I couldn’t speak. I still couldn’t believe it. The sheriff rested both hands on my shoulders as if he knew I was about to fall over.

‘‘We know that the real Matthew Wyatt moved to Chicago after the army discharged him,’’ he said. ‘‘The police in Chicago are very concerned because Matthew appears to be missing without a trace. Your Mr. Harper might well be connected to his disappearance. Don’t protect him, Eliza. Tell me where he is.’’

I struggled to comprehend the sheriff’s terrible words. I didn’t want to believe them. Had I fallen in love with a criminal? Had I allowed my children to sit on a murderer’s lap?

‘‘Um...Gabe’s in the apple barn,’’ I finally said. ‘‘He’s getting the apple grader ready to use.’’

I followed Sheriff Foster across the yard and into the apple barn like a woman in a dream. But when we went inside, there was no sign of Gabe. Instead, Aunt Batty stood leaning against the grader, smiling just as big as you please. Winky sat at her feet, his tongue lolling as usual.

‘‘Where’s Mr. Harper?’’ the sheriff asked her.

‘‘He’s not here, Dan,’’ she said. ‘‘I’m afraid he’s gone.’’

The sheriff pushed past her and ran out the open rear door.

I gaped at Aunt Batty in disbelief. ‘‘You warned him, didn’t you?’’

‘‘Yes, Gabe asked me to. Remember when he was working down at my house, and Dan Foster threatened to check up on him? Gabe made me promise that if the sheriff ever came back looking for him I would come and tell him right away.’’

‘‘But why? What secret is Gabe hiding?’’

She shrugged. ‘‘I didn’t ask him. I just warned him that Sheriff Foster was here, like I promised I would, and Gabe bolted.’’

The sheriff returned just then, puffing slightly. ‘‘I hope you believe me now, Mrs. Wyatt. Innocent men don’t run from the law. May I borrow your telephone? I’m sending for the dogs.’’

‘‘I don’t have a telephone.’’

He huffed in frustration. ‘‘Who’s your nearest neighbor? Does Alvin Greer have one?’’

‘‘You don’t need to send for your dogs,’’ Aunt Batty said. ‘‘My Winky is an excellent hunting dog. Just give him something of Gabe’s and he’ll be hot on his trail in no time.’’ Winky barked in agreement.

The sheriff looked at the fat little dog and frowned skeptically. ‘‘Miss Fowler...Ireally don’t think—’’

‘‘Try it, Sheriff. Look, here’s Gabe’s bandana.’’ She held it close to Winky’s nose. He sniffed the cloth as if his life depended on it. ‘‘Find Gabe, boy! Go get Gabe!’’ she coaxed.

I’d never seen the little dog get so excited before. He barked as if he wanted to tell us something important, and his stubby tail whirled in circles.

‘‘Go get him!’’ Aunt Batty urged again. ‘‘Find Gabe!’’

Winky put his nose to the ground and led the way, waddling out of the back door of the apple barn on his short, bowed legs. I knew he really had sniffed out Gabe’s trail because he trotted toward the barn in a straight line, not in the usual drunken, zigzag pattern his blind eye always caused him to take. I wanted to stop him but I didn’t know how—or why. If Gabe was really the criminal Sheriff Foster claimed he was, why did I still want to protect him?

Winky led us to the workshop where Gabe slept. He pushed the door open with his snout, then jumped up on Gabe’s bed and barked.

‘‘He’s not here,’’ the sheriff said in disgust.

‘‘No, but I’ll bet he was just here,’’ Aunt Batty said. ‘‘This is where Gabe’s been living, and see? His typewriter and all his other belongings are gone.’’

I couldn’t understand what Aunt Batty was doing. Why would she warn Gabe one minute and betray him the next?

The sheriff pointed to the clothes that lay neatly folded on a chair. ‘‘Aren’t these his clothes? He wouldn’t have gone far without these.’’

‘‘They belonged to Sam,’’ I said. ‘‘I loaned them to Gabe because he didn’t have much to wear. He left them here because he isn’t a thief.’’

‘‘But he wore them recently, so they’ll still have Gabe’s scent,’’ Aunt Batty said helpfully. She held one of the shirts near Winky’s snout and the little dog grew excited all over again. He barked, then jumped off the bed and followed Gabe’s trail out the back door of the barn. He led us down the path the cows always took to get to the pasture, then ducked under the barbed-wire fence and into the woods. Aunt Batty and I easily climbed between the wires, but it took Sheriff Foster a little longer to maneuver through the barbed wire without ripping his pants. Winky came back and waited patiently for him on the other side.

‘‘Didn’t I tell you he was a fine hunting dog, Sheriff?’’ Aunt Batty said proudly.

Winky barked again and took off into the underbrush. He led us to a thicket of dense weeds and fallen branches deep in the woods.

‘‘That looks like some sort of a nest, all right,’’ the sheriff said, resting his hand on his holster. ‘‘And I’ll bet he’s hiding in there. Stand back everyone.’’

Suddenly Winky barked three times, then took off toward home faster than I’d ever seen him run. Aunt Batty clutched the sheriff’s arm. ‘‘Wait a minute, Dan. I wouldn’t go poking around in there if I were you, because—’’

‘‘I said stand back, Miss Fowler. Harper knows he’s cornered and he might be dangerous.’’

‘‘But I think you should know that Winky has made a dreadful mistake and—’’

‘‘I want both of you to step back and stop interfering with this arrest,’’ he said firmly. He pointed back down the path to a large pine tree. ‘‘Go stand over there, out of my way.’’

‘‘We’d better do what the man says,’’ Aunt Batty said with a shrug.

‘‘But is Gabe—?’’

‘‘Trust me, Toots.’’ She pulled me back down the path and we stood beneath the pine tree, waiting. Sheriff Foster pulled out his gun.

‘‘Come on out of there, Harper,’’ he yelled. ‘‘I know you’re in there. You can’t escape.’’ When nothing happened, he picked up a dead tree branch and poked it into the thicket. ‘‘Don’t make this any harder on yourself by resisting arrest.’’

He poked again, deeper, and I heard a rustling in the thicket. From the safe distance where Aunt Batty had dragged me I saw movement. A thatch of dark hair emerged, then Sheriff Foster let out a yell. At the same instant that he yelled, the powerful stench of skunk overwhelmed all of us.

‘‘Ugh! I tried to warn him,’’ Aunt Batty said, shaking her head.

I did feel sorry for Sheriff Foster. The stink was so nauseating it took your breath away and made your eyes water—and the skunk had sprayed him at close range before running off into the woods. The sheriff couldn’t stop coughing and gagging, and we had to lead him back to the house since his eyes stung so badly he couldn’t see.

When we reached the back porch I gave him a basin of water to rinse out his eyes, but I had no intention of inviting him into my house, smelling like he did.

‘‘We can drag out the copper bathtub for you,’’ Aunt Batty offered. ‘‘I’ll fix you a bath of tomato juice. That’s guaranteed to take away the stench.’’

‘‘No...no...’’ he said, still sputtering.

‘‘Well, at least let me give you a change of clothes,’’ I said. But he couldn’t get into his car and drive away fast enough.

‘‘He should have listened to me,’’ Aunt Batty said as the sheriff roared out of the driveway. Then, before the dust even had a chance to settle she burst into laughter as if she’d held it inside for so long she either had to laugh or explode. I stared at her.

‘‘You led him to that skunk on purpose, didn’t you!’’

‘‘I didn’t do anything,’’ she said as innocently as a child. ‘‘Winky did it.’’

‘‘But—’’

She patted my arm. ‘‘Winky thought the world of Gabe, you know.’’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

W
e saw no more of Sheriff Foster that day. I waited and watched all afternoon, hoping Gabe would come back and explain himself, but he’d disappeared. Didn’t he trust us enough, after all this time, to tell us who he really was and why he was running? I guess not because he was gone for good. Once again, I felt all alone.

‘‘Where did Mr. Harper go?’’ Becky asked as we sat around the dinner table that night. I think we were all painfully aware of Gabe’s empty chair.

‘‘He didn’t tell anybody where he was going,’’ I said. ‘‘Back to where he came from, I suppose.’’

‘‘You mean to heaven? Was he really an angel?’’ Becky asked.

‘‘No, he wasn’t an angel—’’ I began, but Aunt Batty interrupted me.

‘‘Well, he was in a way,’’ she said. ‘‘Angels are messengers from God, sent to give us some help whenever we need it. That’s what Gabe did. He helped all of us out, didn’t he? He worked in the orchard for your mama, and he fixed my roof as good as new, and he taught you boys how to play baseball and swim and catch fish, and he made Becky’s swing....’’

‘‘Then why did he leave us?’’ Jimmy asked.

‘‘I guess his work here must have been all finished,’’ Aunt Batty said. ‘‘Maybe God needed Gabe’s help someplace else.’’

‘‘But we still need him here!’’ Jimmy said. I heard the tears in his voice. This was exactly what I’d been so afraid of—that my kids would feel the awful pain of being abandoned when Gabe left. And I felt the pain every bit as much as they did.

‘‘You’re looking to the wrong person for help,’’ Aunt Batty said. ‘‘God is the one who helped us. He sent His messenger into our lives because He wanted us to know that we can rely on Him. And God is still here helping us, even though Gabe is gone.’’

My kids didn’t want to hear all this church talk, and neither did I. We were all hurting much too badly to take any comfort in God just then.

‘‘Is Mr. Harper c-coming back?’’ Luke asked.

Aunt Batty seemed to realize that her fancy words about God weren’t getting through. She wrapped her arms around Luke, who sat at the table beside her, and gave him a hug.

‘‘Listen, Toots,’’ she said. ‘‘Gabe loved all of us very much, and he loved living here. He wouldn’t have left us like he did unless he had a very good reason. And if there’s any way in the world he can come back to us someday, I believe he will.’’

The more I thought about the mystery of Gabriel Harper, the more unsettled I felt. I had believed he was Matthew for so long that I still found it hard to root out the idea, even though I now knew for a fact that he wasn’t. But why would he impersonate Matthew? Had he planted all those stories about his father and his brother Willie in that burlap bag of his, hoping I’d find them? Did he want me to think he was my brother-in-law? And what about his injured leg? He had arrived at our door a very sick man—he might have died!—and that wasn’t something he could fake.

But the thought that unnerved me the most, the thought that made me want to lock all the doors when I went to bed that night, was the question the sheriff had raised—what had happened to the real Matthew Wyatt? Gabe must know the answer if he took on Matthew’s identity. Why would he run from the sheriff if he had nothing to hide? Could Gabe Harper really be capable of...murder?

After I’d tucked the kids into bed for the night, I went out to the workshop in the barn where Gabe used to sleep. I told myself I needed to gather up those clothes of Sam’s that he’d left behind, but in my heart I think I hoped to find Gabe hiding out there somewhere. I wanted him to offer me a simple explanation for this whole mess. I wanted to joke about what a silly misunderstanding it all was. I wanted to hear him laugh as I told him how Winky had saved the day and helped him escape from the sheriff. I wanted Gabe back—the old Gabe who’d worked beside me trimming trees and filling smudge pots and spraying apple trees and helping Angel the calf come into the world—not the dangerous Gabe who the sheriff insisted had lied in order to steal my orchard and my heart.

As I sat on the edge of Gabe’s cot, listening to the gentle rustlings of the cows and horses in their stalls, I knew one thing for certain—Gabe had indeed stolen my heart. He was gone and he’d taken my heart with him. He’d left behind a big, empty, hurting place where it once had been.