On the Rocks: A Willa Cather and Edith Lewis Mystery (24 page)

“It’s not natural what she does, you know that.”

“Eight, nine …”

“She’s cut off her hair. She makes pots out of mud. Acts like a man herself and wears tall lace-up boots.”

“Little John,” Daggett warned and tried the starter again.

“Do you arrest her? No, you arrest me,” Little John turned in his seat and gestured toward the rear of the car. “Me and my young son here. And even his dog you threw in the car.”

“Now,” this time Daggett’s voice actually reverberated. “Stop that now.”

Little John’s mustache clamped down, hiding his lips. His jaw twitched.

The engine caught and they jolted forward just as the S. S. Grand Manan sounded its warning.

The steamer always blew twice when it passed by Whale Cove, after which it remained silent until its final swing into Long Island Bay toward the dock at North Head. It would be less than thirty minutes before passengers disembarked.

Daggett gripped the wheel. He already had guessed the ship would reach North Head before he could dispose of Little John. Daggett rarely swore, even to himself, but he damned Little John now. Once again he would have to trust Rob Feeney’s eyes.

Daggett realized he would miss the boat’s landing the minute James Enderby had burst into Feeney’s office to report that Little John Winslow was in the middle of the main street shouting about how the island should turn out to wrestle the Briggs witch down and tie her to the stake. This is one harlot who won’t be getting up out of any circle of fire, Little John was reported to vow. He was trying to rouse all of North Head to follow him to The Anchorage to break up what he had labeled Brunnhilde’s Blasphemy. A bunch of women, he roared, swaggering around in men’s armor and dress.

There was to be an entertainment tonight, Daggett suddenly remembered. Men’s dress is right, Feeney had pointed out. That’s when warriors wore short skirts that weren’t even called kilts. Feeney had started to laugh. Daggett considered joining him until Enderby added that Little John was carrying a shotgun and waving it in the air.

Serious as Daggett considered Little John’s offense, he had no intention of putting Little John in jail, only of disarming him and forcing him into silence. A more serious problem for Daggett was finding a way to impress Little John’s errors upon Jocko without entirely destroying the father for the boy. The size of Jocko’s eyes reflected in the rear view mirror suggested that the lesson might already be working.

One thing Daggett was certain about. When he delivered Little John and Jocko to Anna and insisted they stay home, Anna would see that they did. Anna might be in the midst of giving the silent treatment to Little John, but she was the one person on Grand Manan who could make Little John listen. Anna was a reasonable woman. She would speak to Little John and do whatever she needed to take care of her son. The shotgun would stay with Daggett.

A
T
Hole in the Wall, the man called Johnson paused briefly and leaned against a tree. Then, rather than head for the trail to The Swallowtail Light as most people did, he turned inland on a little-used path that went sharply uphill until it met several old logging roads high in the woods. Any one of them, Willa observed, would allow the man to drop down into North Head without being noticed.

It was, Willa said when Edith pointed out the way he had gone, like taking the back door into town. But, she added, it was a back door he didn’t seem to know much about. He was going the long way round.

Because Edith and Willa knew a shortcut, they decided to take advantage of the man’s meandering. Edith badly wanted a rest. Shortly after Church Lane she had tripped on a root and stopped herself from falling by grabbing a tree limb with her bandaged hand. The palm still throbbed and she was having trouble concentrating on the trail.

Willa found a comfortable spot on the arch above Hole in the Wall, and Edith stretched out flat, raising her arm in a vertical slant. Once she slowed the flow of blood, the throbbing would cease. Edith closed her eyes and drew her mind inward, then let go of the man and focused on her breathing. Her pulse slowed and muscles relaxed. She sent inner breath to her wound. Finally, she let go of the wound. Her hand dropped to her side.

Two long wails from the S. S. Grand Manan broke the silence. Edith let its measured pace slide across her mind. The steamer was crossing the mouth of Whale Cove. Soon it would dock in North Head.

“Blue. Didn’t you say you saw blue?”

Willa’s voice seemed to come from a distance. Edith opened her eyes. Willa stood at the far end of Hole in the Wall, her back toward Edith. She was staring not at the steamer but at a point half way along the trail they had just come.

“Look for blue,” Willa turned her head, “isn’t that what you said?”

Edith saw the blue from Eel Brook again in her mind, “Brilliant blue, a flash, yes.”

“Brilliant, yes,” Willa repeated.

The blue at Eel Brook had been a transitory flicker near the beach. It never left the woods.

“I just saw it,” Willa pointed, “there.”

Edith followed the direction of Willa’s hand in her mind and registered the image of a blue-shirted figure moving their way. Quickly, she sat up and stared at the trees along the trail.

“Someone else must also be tracking Mr. Johnson.”

“Yes,” Edith long ago had ceased to be surprised whenever Willa read her mind.

“Y
OU
’
RE
wrong, Feeney. You must be wrong,” Daggett lost control of his voice. It was much louder than he intended.

Feeney flinched.

“Johnson did not get off that ship.”

Feeney backed to the side of his desk.

Daggett advanced, “I saw him myself not two hours ago. He was on the beach below Seven Days Work.”

“I know, I know,” Feeney nodded energetically, “that’s what you said.”

“He couldn’t be on the beach and on the boat. That’s a physical impossibility.”

“I promise you he was on the boat,” Feeney’s shoulders rose to the height of his ears in an extensive shrug, “he came down the gangplank.”

“Tall? Physically fit? Tennis togs? Chestnut hair?” Daggett touched his hair with his hand, “Deep vees on each side?”

“That’s the man.”

“Can’t be.”

“W
ELL
, we’ll just have to wait a little longer,” Willa chose a spot on the top step and settled her back against the door to Daggett’s office.

Edith took the next step, drawing her knees to her chin. She wrapped her arms around her legs and balanced the bandaged hand loosely on top.

“I hope he comes soon,” Willa began to rub Edith’s shoulders, “I am famished.”

Edith’s stomach grumbled in response.

“You, too?”

“Starved,” Edith glanced up, “and exhausted.”

If they chose the right table, the Rose Cottage dining room would give them a view of Daggett’s office. Edith could almost feel the surge of energy a cup of tea would provide, and Mary Robbins would certainly find them some leftover stew or a bowl of chowder.

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.”

“W
HAT
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.

“T
HAT
’
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.

“W
HAT LO
, V
OORHEES
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.