The Fire of Home (A Powell Springs Novel) (20 page)

Amy’s heart sank. Sh
e’d
been right about the smell.

“I’m telling you, it was just a drop of laudanum and a splash of whiskey, with some spices—rosemary, cinnamon, a scrape of nutmeg,” Granny said, huffy and defensive.

Jessica’s brows rose. “Mae, where did you get the alcohol? And how much of a ‘splash’?”

She straightened, her aged spine almost creaking audibly. “Probably a half cup. Almost everyone around here keeps a bottle of whiskey.”

Jess sighed. “I know that. We have one too. I’m not judging you, I’m trying to figure out what’s going on.”

“Tilly charges so much for that highfalutin hooch he sells—”

“Except it’s not hooch,” Bax said. “It’s Canadian, bottled by genuine distillers up there. Not cooked in someone’s backwoods still.”

“Listen, sonny, I don’t have to take—”

Jessica dropped her bag on the floor and leaned over the bed, her eyes snapping with fire. “Mae Rumsteadt! Where did you get it?”

“Some fella came around a couple of weeks ago and offered it to me,” she admitted. “I couldn’t say no to his price. It seemed all right to me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, I never saw him before.”

Jessica stared at her with an open mouth, and Bax groaned and took a step back. “
Son
of a bitch!” he barked to no one in particular. Then he added, “Sorry.” But none of them acted like the
y’d
heard him in the first place.

“Someone is going around town selling wood alcohol and passing it off as drinkable. It’s poison, and it doesn’t take much to kill a person. For God’s sake, didn’t you hear about Winks?” she demanded. “
That
was a couple of weeks ago.”

“Of course, I did! But h
e’d
drink anything. How could I know what that man was selling? I just thought it—I thought . . .” Granny trailed off and Amy could have sworn she seemed to wither up and age fifteen years right before her eyes.

“Did you drink any of it?” Bax asked.

“No.” The old woman looked down at Deirdre and shook her head. “I swear . . .” she vowed softly. “She wanted the medicine. I never meant to hurt her.”

Jessica turned to Amy, and for that single instant it seemed as though no gulf lay open between them, no years of separation. When their gazes connected, Jess was the sister she remembered from years earlier, before Cole, before Adam. “How much did she take?”

Jess plucked the bottle from the night table and handed it to Amy. There was about an inch and a half missing from the top, more than when sh
e’d
left the room late in the afternoon. “I gave her two tablespoons, but she said it wasn’t working and she asked for one more. I gave that to her, and it looks like she might have taken more after I left. I thought she was asleep when I went.”

Absently, Jessica pushed at her straggling hair. “That would be enough. Deirdre is a small woman and she’s been ill. Get rid of this before someone else takes it by accident.” She handed back the bottle and reached into her bag on the floor for her stethoscope. Putting the bell to Deirdre’s chest, she listened while everyone standing around her remained silent. Amy, on the verge of tears, with her forehead furrowed and her hands interlocked tightly beneath her chin, caught Jessica’s gaze as she looked across the bed at her.

Jess straightened and unhooked the earpieces.

“Jess?” Amy whispered.

“She has all the classic signs of methanol poisoning. Slow heartbeat, vomiting, lethargy. I can even smell it and Granny admits she doesn’t know what kind of alcohol she put in it—”

“I believed I knew!” Granny protested. The target of three pairs of angry-eyed glares, she withdrew like a turtle into its carapace.

“—and I suspect Deirdre took even more than you gave her, Amy.”

“She had some kind of fit before you got here. But she didn’t drink all that much. You can help her, can’t you?”

She sighed. “No. I just don’t have access to what
I’d
need, a hospital setting and an IV drip of sodium bicarbonate. It’s a fairly new treatment but it’s had reasonable success. She’s alive so she
might
survive this. Even if she does she could have complications, and she’s still sick with whatever she had to begin with. I wish you had called me sooner about that.”

“I wanted to, but she wouldn’t agree to it,” Amy said.

“It’s true,” Bax added. “I heard it myself.”

“All right. It’s after two in the morning. I’m going to spend the rest of the night at the apartment over my office. If there are any big changes, come and get me. Otherwise, I’ll be over in a few hours. Amy, you’ll stay with her?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll take you, Doc,” Bax said. And then to Granny, he added, “Mae, I’ll want to talk to you later about the man who sold you that moonshine. Whit and I have been working on the problem.”

Mae nodded, and her shoulders drooped with defeat.

Amy noticed that for the moment, Bax seemed to have forgotten he wasn’t even sure if he still worked for the sheriff’s office.

But he was a hero in her eyes. Tom had slept through the entire ordeal.

After everyone filed out, she cleaned up Deirdre and then sat in the chair next her bed, prepared to finish out the long night beside her.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Whit motioned Bax into the chair across from his desk. “When I learned it was true, I sat you down to hear what you had to say. The letter from the War Department and your explanation satisfied me.
I’d
like you to stay on.”

The relief Bax felt was so profound, so visceral, it equaled the sense of freedom he experienced the day he walked out of Fort Leavenworth, dressed in a cheap suit and carrying his few belongings a paper bag. “Thanks, Whit. I appreciate your faith in me.”

“There’s work to do, and I need help with it,” he said, tipping him a wink. “Now, how’s the Gifford woman?”

“Still alive. I left before I learned anything more than that. Doc Jessica is there now, and I’m going to talk to Mae Rumsteadt this morning to try to learn more about whoever she bought that moonshine from. I think I might know.” He tapped the edge of the letter with his index finger.

“Okay, let me know what you find out. I’ve got these county bulletins to go over.” He fanned a short stack of papers at him.

“Anything interesting today?”

“I haven’t looked at them yet, but they’re usually the regular stuff—new laws, missing persons, bank robbers, other fugitives. Not nearly as much fun as talking to Granny Mae.”

Bax gave him a wry look, then stood and put out his hand. “Thanks again, Whit.” He was bone tired from running around half the night, but he was grateful to have his job and another man’s trust.

As for Milo Breninger, h
e’d
blackmailed his last victim. Bax would make certain of it.

“Miss Tabitha, those men are back,” Elsa whispered.

Tabbie lifted heavy lids to see her maid standing over her. She lay languid in the semigloom of her bedroom, the curtains drawn to shut out the afternoon sun, with a cold washcloth on her forehead. She wore only a pearl-gray dressing gown. “Oh, sweet Adeline,” she complained in a groan. “Have they no decency? What time is it?”

“Just after six o’clock. They’re sorry to trouble you.”

She pulled off the washcloth. “Yes, aren’t they always? Send them away, Elsa.”

“I tried, but this time they brought a Vigilance Reserve policeman with them. That Mr. Rinehart insisted on speaking to you.”

“The Vigilance Reserve!” Her headache pounded so hard, it felt as if it would blow out her eyes at any moment. She caught a glimpse of herself in her dresser mirror and saw that her hair was wilted and crushed. “This harassment is beyond the limits of civility. It’s despicable. Tell Mr. Rinehart that I’m ill and bed-bound. They are not welcome here. I don’t know where Harlan is, I don’t know what he’s done, and if they don’t stop bothering me, I’ll call Mayor Baker’s office and file a complaint. He’s been a guest in my cousin’s home many times, and this new police reserve business he created is his pet project. They’re supposed to protect citizens, not bully them.”

“All right, I’ll try. Shouldn’t you have dinner soon? You haven’t eaten since this morning. It might make you feel better.”

Tabbie had managed to entice Elsa to return after promising her a raise, but there were just the two of them here. Her maid now also cooked for her.

“Get rid of them first, Elsa,” she pleaded. “Then . . . then maybe some toast and tea.”

Elsa expressed her concern in a grumbled, half-audible comment about Tabitha’s welfare and the thoughtless monsters who were her persecutors.

Tabbie lay there, waiting for the sound of the front door closing, which she would take to mean that dreadful lawyer, his bumbling assistant, and the volunteer policeman had gone. She hadn’t seen or heard from Harlan since that one night he sneaked into the house, gave her money to keep the house running for a while, had his way with her, and faded back into the night. Not a single word. He had been gone nearly three months, and Tabbie was at wit’s end. No longer an amusing conversation piece to their friends, sh
e’d
begun to notice a decline in social invitations, but it was just as well. Having to appear alone at those functions was difficult enough. To be the object of curiosity, speculation, amusement, and undisguised gossip was too much. If Harlan ever came back, they would have to rebuild their lives, start over. But she had a feeling that life as sh
e’d
known it with him would never be the same. Then what would become of her?

They didn’t own this house; it was mortgaged. If the payments weren’t made, the bank would foreclose and she would be forced to go—where? Back to the relatives who had been so eager to unburden themselves of her to begin with? All of the beautiful furnishings and this home that sh
e’d
poured so much of her loving attention into just—gone?

Sh
e’d
thought of suing Harlan for desertion, and she should. But that wouldn’t be helpful if she didn’t know where he was.

At last she was sure sh
e’d
heard the front door close. In a moment, Elsa reappeared in her bedroom.

“They’re gone?”

Elsa nodded, looking as frazzled as if sh
e’d
wrestled a bearskin rug out to the front lawn. “I put my foot down and told them they were not going to bother you. What lady in your situation would not be ill and have to take to her bed?” She moved through the room, tidying the bed around Tabbie and collecting cast-off garments. “They might not have been happy, or believed that you know nothing of Mr. Monroe’s whereabouts. I went out on a limb and told them not to come back.”

“Oh, bravo, Elsa!” Tabbie sat up a bit and clapped her hands, once. “Did you tell them I’ll call Mayor Baker?”

“I did, ma’am. I think they understand that you are finished with polite cooperation.”

“Yes, I am. Bless you, Elsa. I feel like a recluse.”

“But there’s no guarantee it did any good. I’m pretty certain they’ll be back.”

Tabbie sank back against her pillow, her fleeting sense of victory deflated. The weight of defeat pressed on her shoulders as surely as a pair of oppressive hands.

Elsa began straightening some trinkets on the dressing table and looked up into the mirror, talking to Tabbie’s reflection behind her. “Forgive me for saying so, Miss Tabitha, but if I don’t speak up I think I’ll burst.” She turned to face her employer. “There’s no excuse good enough for what Mr. Monroe has done to you. To abandon you this way, a fine, loving woman of good family, and leave you holding the bag of his dirty linen to air,” she said. “I’m sorry, but I just think it’s awful. With no word from him, leaving you to worry—I don’t think I could stay with someone who did that to me.”

Tabbie sighed. “You’re mixing your metaphors, Elsa. But I know what you mean.”

The maid gave Tabbie a blank look, and she knew the woman had no idea what a metaphor was. She was right, though. Harlan had promised this would all be over soon, and claimed to have an important, anonymous client. Even she didn’t believe that nonsense. She just couldn’t imagine what he was involved in, and h
e’d
dodged most of her questions from the first day of their marriage.

Had he come up with some crazy idea? Was he already in trouble with the law and simply on the run? That last option certainly seemed possible, given the ongoing talk of financial
irregularities
.

She draped the washcloth over a glass on her night table. How could he have left her in this position? she wondered for the thousandth time. Sh
e’d
become a target for the authorities, gossip, and very real trouble.

Tabitha glanced around her lovely bedroom in her lovely home and decided she couldn’t stay, waiting for doom. Until now she had only dallied with the idea, but circumstances were growing worse by the day. She lurched to a sitting position. “I need to get away from here. I don’t know what’s coming next, but I know it won’t be good.”

“Where would you go?”

“I don’t know—not to my relatives. It would be too easy for these people to hunt me down. I just know I can’t continue to live like this. I certainly wish I knew where to find Harlan, if only to demand an explanation.”

Elsa put down the hairbrush she held. She cast a couple of troubled, sidelong looks at Tabitha, as if she was mulling over something.

“What?” Tabitha asked. “What is it?”

“I don’t know if I should say anything more, Miss Tabitha.”

“For heaven’s sake, what is it?”

Her maid put on an agonized expression. “It might only cause more trouble.”

Tabbie swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The sudden movement made her head swim. “Elsa! If you don’t tell me, I’ll cause
you
trouble! If it affects me, speak up.”

Elsa pulled in her chin and looked at her with fearful eyes. “Just before I shut the door, those men were still standing on the porch and one of them said . . . said . . .”

Tabbie scowled at her.

“It was Mr. Rinehart. I think he believed
I’d
already closed the door. He told the others he has information that Mr. Monroe might be in Powell Springs.”

“Powell Springs—what is that? Some kind of therapeutic facility, like Battle Creek Sanitarium?”

“No, miss, it’s a small town east of here.”

“I wonder how they know that. And why in the world would Harlan be there?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t hear Mr. Rinehart mention anything about that.” She cast another look at her. “But there might be more. He said that Paul Church is missing too.”

“The gardener? He took my gardener with him?” She pressed two fingers to her forehead. “Ralph stopped coming here at the same time. You know how ragged the yard has become—and my roses, I think they’re a lost cause.” But then, everything seemed lost now, she thought. “Well, I don’t think I have any choice. I’ll have to find Harlan myself.” When that trouble came, she would not be here.

Amy crowded beside her sister, watching as she listened again to Deirdre’s lungs. She still wore the dress and apron sh
e’d
had on yesterday. Spending the night in the bedside chair had covered them with wrinkles. Jess, she noticed, had been able to change clothes.

Jessica straightened, wearing a frown. “She’s consumptive. I suspected it last night but I couldn’t hear a normal heartbeat because of the methanol. Now it’s speeding up again and it’s too fast. Her lungs are full of crackles and rales. It’s a pretty distinctive sound—goopy, I guess you could call it.”

Consumption. God, Amy didn’t know anything about taking care of a person with tuberculosis. “I’ve seen it before, but the people who had it were ill for a long time, sometimes years.” She stared at the patient in the bed. Her red hair was a sweaty, snarled mess and the slight gray cast to her sharply boned face made her look as if Death were in the corner of the room, waiting to claim her. “She got sick just a few weeks ago.”

Jess’s brows rose. “I’ve never seen a case in Powell Springs—oh, you mean not here.”

Amy nodded, and briefly, an awkward silence opened between them.

Jess continued, “Those people you saw probably had chronic tuberculosis. Deirdre has the acute form.”

“What now?”

Deirdre had floated in and out of consciousness all night, but sh
e’d
never really seemed fully aware of her surroundings. Now her eyes fluttered open again and she groped around the bed with her right hand, as if searching for something.

“Amy?” she croaked.

She clasped the seeking hand. “I’m here. What can I get for you?”

“Deirdre,” Jess said, “how are you feeling?”

“Who is that? Dr. Jessica?” Her voice was thin and weak, and she seemed to be gazing right at them.

Jess blanched, and involuntarily, Amy clamped down on the hand she held. “Can’t—can’t you see me, Deirdre?” she asked.

“No, it’s—no. Where . . .” Her voice was as thin and gray as her face. “Where is Tom?”

“Damn it,” Jess uttered quietly.

Amy’s blood raced through her veins. “Can you see
anything
?”

“No.” The word sighed out of her.

“Tom came in this morning, Deirdre. He sat beside you for a long time before he went to work. Do you remember?”

“N-no.”

Jess took a deep breath and pulled Amy aside. “Blindness is one of the effects of methanol poisoning. Winks lost his sight too just before he died. As for what now, really, between this and the tuberculosis, I don’t imagine she’ll last much longer,” she whispered. “It’s a huge battle for anyone to fight, and she was kind of frail to begin with.”