On the Rocks: A Willa Cather and Edith Lewis Mystery (25 page)

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 emphasis 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.

T
HE
A
NCHORAGE
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.

E
DITH
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.

“T
HIS
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.

“W
HY
,
YOUNG
J
AMES
,” 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.

“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.

F
OR
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.

And none of them, not one of them, had ever heard of John Thomas Bush, Daggett shook a match loose from his little tin box. But Boston and New Bedford had. And so might Detroit.

“I
S
that young James I hear?” Willa’s voice called through the screen.

“Yes, ma’am,” James snapped to attention. “How are you today, Miss Cather?”

“Just fine, James.” The screen door squeaked and Willa joined Edith on the back stoop.

“James has been waiting for you to come down.”

“I see,” Willa rubbed her palms together. “Well, here I am, quite ready to get back to good, hard, physical labor.”

“Not today, I’m afraid,” Edith sighed.

“That’s true,” Willa patted Edith’s arm just above her bandaged hand, “it will be quite a while before Miss Lewis can join us.”

“The whole village heard about what happened,” James turned to Edith, his bearing slightly more formal. “We were very sorry to hear about your hand, Miss Lewis. My mother said I should tell you, if you need any help …”

“Thank you, James. A few days and my hand will be as good as it used to be.”

“We’ll make out just fine, James. But do thank your mother for thinking of us.”

“Yes, ma’am,” James shifted his weight.

“Now,” Willa looked around, “when are you bringing more rocks and where’s Mr. Sharkey?”

“Mr. Sharkey’s not here, Miss Cather,” James squared his shoulders, “that’s not why I came.”

Willa waited, but James’ silence extended. Willa chose to break it.

“Would you care to sit down, James?”