An Untimely Frost (10 page)

C
HAPTER
18

W
ith her head throbbing the slightest bit from a night of restless sleep and the last lingering effects of the injury Tim had inflicted, Lilly sat in the hotel dining room, enjoying a tasty breakfast of ham, eggs, and toast.

Warmer air had moved through the area during the night and almost all the snow that had fallen the day before had melted. The bright sunlight streaming through the windows was a promise that spring was just around the corner and hinted of brighter tomorrows.

It whispered that now she knew the truth, she should let go of the circumstances surrounding her mother's death and move on with her own life. The alienist Pierce had hired to treat her after Kate's murder had said there was a possibility that when and if Lilly remembered that day, it would be in bits and pieces through the years. Another possibility was that some small, seemingly insignificant incident would trigger her memory and everything could come back in a rush, which is exactly what happened.

In truth, finally remembering what had happened that day after so many years of wondering
was
liberating in a strange way. The return of her memory reinforced the certainty that far too many women were victims of self-serving men, which strengthened her determination to help them. More importantly, she no longer had to worry that she was somehow mentally impaired because she couldn't remember.

Driven by new resolve, she'd spent the previous evening rereading the journal William had given her on the Stephenses; then she'd immersed herself in Allan Pinkerton's
General Principles
. He was a man of great integrity with perhaps just a hint of Machiavelli in his soul. He considered the work he and his detectives did “a high and honorable calling.” His
Principles
stated that the agency would not investigate a woman's morals unless there was a connection to another crime, and they would not handle divorce cases or those of a scandalous nature.

This, along with his willingness to hire women for a job that most men would not, made Allan Pinkerton a champion for women in a time when few could be found. Her new position gave her a freedom that her contemporaries would either envy or be frightened to death to possess, and at last she would have opportunities to use the skills Pierce had insisted she learn through the years.

Pierce. At some point she should telegraph him and let him know she'd recalled every gruesome detail of her mother's murder, but it could wait for the moment. What she needed now was to get her thoughts and course of action organized and move forward with her investigation.

Taking a sip of her breakfast coffee, she began making a list of things to do and people to see. Virginia Holbrook's name topped the page. There was some reason the woman had turned frosty at the mention of the Purcells, and Lilly intended to find out what it was. Unfortunately, the hotel proprietor had not been at the front desk when Lilly ventured down to breakfast.

Next on her list was the sheriff. She would see if he had anything to add to what Helen and Billy had told her about Heaven's Gate. If not, perhaps he would point her to members of the reverend's congregation or others who might remember some tidbit that could cast a glimmer of light on the preacher's whereabouts.

She should also stop by the church where Purcell had preached and see if there were any old records that might disclose some useful snippet of information. And though she dreaded it, she knew she needed to return to Heaven's Gate to search every nook and cranny. Hidden in a drawer or the pocket of an article of clothing could be some piece of information—a letter, a diary—something to suggest the whereabouts of the preacher and his family. It was up to her to find it, and she would not let an old, dilapidated house frighten her.

When she finished her breakfast, there was still no sign of Mrs. Holbrook, but there was a tall, rather nondescript man behind the desk who Lilly concluded must be the lady's husband. He smiled at Lilly's approach. “Good morning.”

“Good morning. Are you Mr. Holbrook?” she asked, hoping her tone and demeanor conveyed the professionalism she was far from feeling.

“I'm David Holbrook, yes.”

Lilly extended her hand. “Lilly Long. I was wondering if you had time to answer a few questions about a family who once lived here.”

“I'd be happy to, if I can,” David Holbrook assured her.

“The agency I work for has been retained by a client who wishes to purchase the place called Heaven's Gate. He was unable to locate the owners, a Reverend Harold Purcell and his family, and hopes I will have better luck in locating them. He's interested in negotiating the purchase of the property.”

David Holbrook narrowed his eyes and stared at a spot across the lobby as if in thought. “I'm sorry,” he said at last. “The name doesn't ring a bell. They must have lived here before I came.”

“I believe they left town some twenty years ago,” Lilly offered. Why did she feel that Mr. Holbrook wasn't being completely truthful?

“Well, that explains it then,” he said with a smile. “I only moved here seventeen years ago, but my wife is from here. She may have known the Purcells. Regrettably, she's under the weather today.”

“No matter,” Lilly said, recognizing the man's smile did not reach his eyes. Curious. She decided to move on for the moment. Her smile was a perfect match to his. “I'll be here a few more days. Perhaps I'll have a chance to speak to her before I leave. Thank you for your time.”

“You're welcome.”

Leaving the hotel, Lilly walked the block to the Federalist-style structure that served as the courthouse, more convinced than ever that the Holbrooks were hiding something.

Sheriff Mayhew was in, sitting behind a large, scarred desk, his boots propped on the top as he leaned back in his chair and perused a page of newsprint. When he did not put down his newspaper and stand as common courtesy demanded, it was all Lilly could do to keep from grinding her teeth.

“Sheriff Mayhew?” She was pleased to hear that her voice held no hint of her irritation.

The man regarded her over the top of the paper. “I am. And you are?”

Lilly narrowed her eyes. How rude! Her indignation on the rise, she crossed to the desk and extended her hand. The sheriff had no recourse but to lower his feet, stand, and reciprocate.

Though she strongly suspected he knew exactly who she was, she said, “I'm Lilly Long.”

“Ah yes. Miss Long. I've heard all about you. Why, you're the talk of the town. A lone woman on her own asking lots of questions and looking for a missing family.”

There was no mistaking the amusement on the sheriff's rugged face. Other than Robert Pinkerton, it was her first run-in with the male mind-set that held the notion that women were incapable of doing a man's job. She did not delude herself for one moment that it would be her last.

Ignoring his narrow-minded attitude, she opted to play her trump card. With a smile sweet enough to give him a toothache, she reached into her reticule and drew out her badge, placing it carefully on the desk.

Mayhew's surprise was almost comical.

“Yes,” she said with another smile. “I can only imagine that the arrival of someone from an agency as prestigious as the Pinkertons would be cause for speculation.” Without waiting for him to answer, she added, “May I sit down?” and did just that.

“By all means,” the sheriff said. He picked up the badge, looked at it for a second or two, and then handed it back to her.

Lilly sat primly on the edge of the chair, and the sheriff retook his seat. She knew she had to present her case in the right way if she expected his cooperation. The town might be abuzz with talk of her looking for the Purcells so that a new enterprise could be started, but she hadn't told anyone whom she worked for or what that venture might be. Perhaps if she explained the noble nature of the undertaking the Stephenses proposed he would be more cooperative. To her surprise, the sheriff struck first.

“Begging your pardon, Miss Long, but you're really stirring up a hornet's nest by coming back and asking so many questions around town.”

The anger in his eyes and the knot in his jaw told her that Mayhew was struggling to keep a tight rein on his resentment.

“You have no idea of the misery Harold Purcell caused the good people in this town. If folks around here never heard his name again, it would be too soon.”

Act professional, Lilly. Don't antagonize the man.
“I know about the stolen money, Sheriff Mayhew, so their feelings are perfectly understandable. I've spoken with Billy Bishop about the ghost and the awful discoveries in the house. I even drove out there yesterday, and—”

“You need to stay away from there!”

Lilly's heart raced at his tone and the fury on his face, but she refused to allow him to intimidate her. She raised her chin a fraction of an inch and regarded him with a narrow-eyed gaze. “Is that a threat, Sheriff Mayhew?”

“I don't threaten women. It's just a word of advice. Anything could happen to a woman out there alone.”

“Well, I appreciate your concern, but I intend to do my job, whatever it takes. It would help me if I knew exactly when it was that you became aware the reverend had stolen the congregation's funds.”

She could almost see the cogs turning in his brain. As one professional to another, he was compelled to assist her, but she suspected he would offer no more information than absolutely necessary.

“Lady, it's been almost twenty years,” he said, the expression in his eyes cool and assessing. “How can you expect me to remember something like that?”

“I don't have to know the date, but I'm assuming it could not have been before Billy Bishop and his friend heard those . . . noises coming from the house.”

Sheriff Mayhew leaned back in his chair and once again propped his booted feet on the desk in a deliberate show of disrespect. “And why would you assume that?”

Momentarily forgetting her need to placate the man, Lilly met his insolent gaze with an artless one of her own. “Why, because any
reputable
lawman who'd known about the theft would have ridden out to confront Purcell, or if there was no idea who had taken the money, to at least let him know someone had stolen from his flock.”

The sheriff scowled. She wondered if he was rethinking his opinion of the nosey Pinkerton lady. She figured that few would dare to challenge how well he did his job.

He heaved a sigh. “You're right. Not half an hour before Robert Bishop and Jeff Gruber rode to town to tell me what their boys had heard and what they'd seen in that bedroom, James Reihmann, the bank president, came over and told me the preacher hadn't deposited the Sunday contribution. As I recollect, me and a couple of other men were getting ready to go out there to ask Purcell about it when Robert and Jeff rode in.”

“And what day was this? Do you remember?”

She could see the uncertainty in his eyes. He might resent her coming and nosing around, but he didn't want to look incompetent in front of a woman.

“As a matter of fact, I do. It would have been a Tuesday afternoon. I recall the day, because Pop Powell took up the collection, counted it, and gave it to the reverend after Sunday night services. Purcell usually deposited it first thing the next day. When he hadn't come in by late afternoon on Tuesday, Mr. Reihmann got concerned and thought we ought to go see if everything was okay with the reverend and his family.”

“So, already fearing that something was wrong at Heaven's Gate, and hearing the story about the bloody bed and the”—she offered him a slight smile—“ghost, you and the others went to check. Is that correct?”

“Yes, ma'am, it is.”

“And what did you think when you got there?”

She could see the memories cloud his eyes. Memories and horror and pain.

“It was everything Bishop and Gruber said it was. The bed . . .” He scrubbed a hand down his face, as if to remove the memory. “Frankly, Miss Long, I've never seen so much blood outside a hog killing.”

Recalling the scene from the previous day, Lilly swallowed back a wave of nausea at the thought of what it must have looked like when the blood was fresh.

“It appeared the Purcells, the whole lot of them, had taken off and left everything behind,” the sheriff added. “We don't know if Missus Purcell left before or after her husband, but we do know that he left town on Monday morning.”

“Really? How?”

“When we got back here, news of the robbery was the talk of the town. Delton Jester at the train station came forward and said that Purcell had bought a train ticket to Effingham.”

“And did you notify the sheriff there?”

“Of course I did,” Mayhew said, visibly offended. “They couldn't find a trace of him. The thing is, Miss Long, with no one knowing Purcell from Adam, he could have bought a ticket to anywhere once he got to Effingham, and no one would have been the wiser. He just . . . disappeared.”

She frowned. “Do you believe he left his wife and family behind?”

Mayhew shrugged. “They might have left before him. I have no idea. I do know that neither the missus nor her daughter was on any of the trains leaving from here, so they must have taken the buggy, since it was nowhere to be found.”

“Were there any other children?”

The sheriff rubbed at the stubble on his jaw. “They lost a son while they were here, so there was just the daughter, Sarah. Prettiest thing you ever did see. She had the whitest skin and the bluest eyes and this gorgeous blond hair, just like her mother. She'd have been about fifteen when this all happened.”