Cradle to Grave (16 page)

With a little click, the bedroom door opened and Jerusha came through. Rees knew instantly she had been listening, She looked frightened. “You aren't going to take us to the Shakers, are you?” she asked.

“Don't you like them?” Lydia asked.

“They seem … nice. But I would rather live with you.”

“Did your Mama have friends who visited her?” Rees asked. Maggie and her family seemed so isolated, and yet someone had hated her enough to kill her. And since she was a young and pretty woman, Rees's first thought was that it might have been a lover.

“Well, Constable Cooper. We've seen him the most. I don't think Mama liked him very much. She called him the rod of the town council. Reverend Vermette used to visit often, but that was when Aunt Olive was dying. He doesn't come much now. Mrs. Baker, once in a while. And not in a long time. She and Mama argued. She did bring us a big basket, though, right after Aunt Olive went to Heaven. With cheese and cake. And Mrs. Pettit used to visit, especially when Mama was expecting Nancy and then Judah.”

“Mrs. Pettit?” Rees repeated. “The midwife?”

Jerusha nodded.

“Anyone else?”

The child shook her head.

Since no man seemed to particularly stand out in Jerusha's memory, Rees abandoned that line of questioning. Maggie must have taken her activities away from home, and for that he respected her.

The afternoon evaporated in preparations for the night. Rees firmly refused to sleep in Maggie Whitney's bed, so Lydia prepared it for the children. She found a few linen sheets, only slightly mouse chewed, in a chest, and then spread out the tattered blankets Judah and Nancy couldn't sleep without. Maggie's worn quilts went over all. Lydia had brought some of her own sheets and blankets from the farm in Maine in case they stopped at an ill-equipped inn along their journey, and with these she made pallets on the floor before the fire for herself and Rees.

By the time they completed this activity, the last rays of sunset were disappearing behind the trees across the road. When Rees stepped outside his feet almost went out from under him. Ice filmed every surface with a hard slippery glitter as snow that had melted during the day refroze. And when he looked up the hill he saw Simon's small figure tramping down the slope toward home.

Chapter Fourteen

During the night the floor grated hard on Rees's hipbones and elbows, and he began to regret his fastidiousness. But he finally fell asleep, only to wake up again when a small body wedged itself tightly against him. When he awoke the following morning, he found Nancy snuggled up against his chest and Judah behind him, so spread out half of Lydia lay off the pallet uncovered by a blanket. Groaning, Rees levered himself to his feet. It was still dark but the faint gray in the sky promised sunrise. He peeked into the bedroom. Jerusha and Joseph lay together in the bed, the baby's dark hair next to Jerusha's blond. Simon was gone. When Rees looked at the pegs by the door the boy's hat and coat were missing; he'd already left for work. Rees hoped Mrs. Baker would be kind enough to give the boy some breakfast before sending him home.

He twitched the blanket over Lydia, who was beginning to rouse, and stirred up the fire. A sudden rush of warmth billowed out into the cold room. Rees pushed the kettle over the blaze, knowing his wife would want tea, and then busied himself with the coffeepot. That's when he discovered there was no coffee. Damn! He put a pot of oatmeal over the fire. The children would want to eat.

Lydia rolled out from under the quilts and wrapped her cloak around her. Her red hair, usually neatly combed and confined under a cap, hung down her back in a long and untidy braid.

“There's no coffee,” Rees said, an angry snap to his voice.

Lydia caught his tone and offered him a quick pat on the wrist. “I know. We'll have to stop at the shop today. I'll see if they carry coffee beans. Although I expect they will cost.”

Rees, who regretted snapping at her, said in a conciliatory tone, “I'm sorry for my ill temper. I slept poorly.” Lydia smiled at him.

“I know how cross you can be first thing in the morning. Anyway, I understand. I did not sleep that well either; the floor is hard.”

Rees looked at the cereal, beginning to bubble over the fire. “The oatmeal won't be done for another twenty minutes. While you and the children are eating, I'm going to visit Mr. Gray. His house is just behind the log church. Perhaps he saw something the night Maggie was murdered.”

“But you haven't eaten,” Lydia objected.

“I'll eat when I come back.”

“Very well. We'll drive into town together after you return,” Lydia said.

The children were stirring. As Jerusha appeared at the bedroom door, Rees put on his coat and went outside to harness the buggy. Ares had weathered the night's cold without injury, but he seemed eager to move. They set off at a rapid pace down the slippery drive, skidding around the corner of the track. Consistent traffic on the main road had crushed the ice into a more passable surface and Rees made slightly better time. He soon approached the left turn onto the lane. He could see the log church through the trees on his right.

The road curved, first to the right. Rees wondered if someone in the Gray house could see a buggy traveling past on the main road. But when he drove down the track a few feet and looked back over his shoulder, he couldn't even see the road. It was blocked by the curve in the lane. So, who could have seen Mouse driving the buggy? Someone in the meetinghouse? The front doors did provide a clear and unobstructed view of the road.

Thoughtfully, Rees followed the lane around to the left and then to the right again, toward a stone house nestled in a hollow and surrounded by evergreens. A buggy was drawn up beside a familiar bay mare, but Rees didn't remember where he'd seen her last. He pulled up next to her and jumped down. He thought the house might be sited on the opposite side of the trees from the graveyard, but the strip of trees and shrubs was so thick he couldn't see through it. So thick the residents would not have seen the killer discarding Maggie's body in the grave. Would they have seen lamplight? If the killer even carried a lamp; Rees couldn't know that for sure. But surely someone in this house could have heard the singing Mouse described.

Rees started up the path. Ashes had been sprinkled upon the packed snow to provide safer footing. As he put his foot upon the first step up to the porch, the front door opened. He couldn't see who stood inside the shadowy hall, but he was startled to see Miss Pike, the pastor's wealthy fiancée, who was on her way out.

“I know Reverend Vermette would be delighted to see you at the meeting tomorrow,” she said over her shoulder. The woman inside made some polite response, of which Rees only heard “thank you,” and then Miss Pike turned and started down the stairs.

“Why, Mr. Rees,” she said, sounding pleased. “How nice to see you again.” She paused to offer him her hand before continuing to her mount.

Rees went up to the open door and the pregnant woman waiting there. She looked at Rees from eyes drooping with fatigue. The hair hanging in wisps from under her mobcap was neither brown nor blond, but an indeterminate color that was lighter than the former and darker than the latter.

“Three callers in one morning,” she remarked. “And this early as well.”

“Is Mr. Gray home?” Rees asked.

“You aren't from around here,” she said, in a voice brittle with weariness. She did not immediately invite him inside and Rees had a clear view of the welter of cloaks and boots lining the wall behind her.

“No.” He looked down into her face. “I'm working with the constable on the recent death of Mrs. Whitney. Do you live here?”

“No. I come in twice a day to care for my uncle.” She pulled a face.

From the back of the house came a bellow of masculine laughter and a voice crying, “Maartje. Maartje.”

“I suppose you'd better come in,” she said with sour reluctance.

“Is that Mr. Gray? “

“Of course,” she said. “His old friend Mr. Randall stopped by and now my uncle…” She stopped and started again. “Please, come this way.” She preceded him down the hall, past the rack of cloaks and shoes and one pair of pattens, through the inside door into the kitchen beyond. As they passed the table, she dropped a small pocket Bible upon it. That must have been the reason for Miss Pike's visit.

A very old man, warmly wrapped in a blanket, sat between the fireplace and the window. His white hair was so fine and thin Rees could see the pink scalp underneath. He'd probably spent most of his life wearing a wig. Mr. Randall, the innkeeper, sat across the table. He looked at Rees in surprise. Mr. Gray turned and his faded blue eyes examined Rees with attention.

“Who are you?” he asked in a surprisingly strong voice.

“Will Rees. I wondered if you knew, I mean, has anyone told you Maggie Whitney was found in the graveyard?”

“Speak up,” Mr. Gray said. “I can't hear you.”

“He's hard of hearing,” Mr. Randall said. He pushed himself upright and gathered his hat and cane. “Farewell, my old friend,” he said, squeezing Mr. Gray's shoulder affectionately. “See you tomorrow.” He addressed his comment to both Maartje and Mr. Gray as he brushed past Rees.

“Who are you?” Mr. Gray shouted at Rees.

“I'm Will Rees,” he said in a louder voice.

“Louder.”

“I'm Will Rees,” he bawled, now quite sure Mr. Gray had neither seen nor heard anything of Maggie's killer.

“You don't need to shout. Who are you? I don't know you.”

Rees gave up and turned to look for the woman. Although seemingly entirely occupied cutting bread into tiny cubes, she was smiling. “Did you see or hear anything the other night?” he asked.

“You mean the evening Mrs. Whitney died?” A fleeting expression of triumph crossed her face. She held up a finger. “Wait a moment.”

Since she did not seem unwilling to talk, Rees retreated to the door to wait while she served her uncle. Maartje brought the plate of chopped bread to Mr. Gray. She poured a cup of cider, the aroma inspiring a growl of hunger in Rees's belly, and put it beside the old man's hand. Although good manners required her to offer refreshment to a guest, she did not, instead urging Rees toward the front door.

“As I was leaving here I saw a buggy. I recognized the driver as that Shaker woman.” She looked up at him with guileless blue eyes and Rees knew she was lying.

“You can't see the road from here.”

“No. I know. I meant when I went around the curve.” Catching herself, she added, “I mean the second curve.”

“And what time was that?”

“Just before sunset. After I'd given my uncle his dinner and cleaned up.”

“How could you see and recognize the driver?” Rees asked. “Wasn't the road dark by then?” Rees visualized the shape of the land and shook his head doubtfully. Surely the setting sun would have been behind the trees, behind someone facing the road. Mouse and her buggy would have been in shadow.

“It was light enough.” She leaned forward and added emphatically, “I'm telling you what I saw.”

“You didn't hear any singing or any talking from the log church?”

“No. And I wouldn't pay any attention if I did. We always hear pieces of the services whenever Reverend Vermette is here.” Rees heard disapproval.

“You don't care for the minister?”

“Not much but then I scarcely know him. I usually go to the Dutch Reformed Church in town.”

“The stone one?”

“Yes. But Mr. Gray likes him very well. He gave Reverend Vermette the land for his meetinghouse. And Miss Pike regularly attempts to persuade me to attend the Reverend's services. Well, she would, wouldn't she? She wants to befriend me. If the pastor does not succeed in squeezing more land out of my uncle, he will apply to me, as the only heir.” From her tone Rees understood she would not give Vermette so much as an additional foot of land. “I'll attend the service tomorrow though, for the memorial.” She flashed Rees a look that he couldn't interpret.

On cue, the old man began shouting from the other room: “Maartje. Maartje.”

“My uncle will attend as well. As he does whenever Reverend Vermette is in residence. My uncle—”

“Maartje!” She turned and hastened back into the kitchen. “Help me into my chair,” Mr. Gray commanded. Maartje, standing beside her uncle, slid her young shoulder under his arm. Leaning upon her, the old man levered himself upright. She half-supported him, half-carried him to a chair by the window. Rees took a few steps in their direction but hesitated, fearing they would not appreciate his help.

“You still here,” Mr. Gray shouted, turning to Rees. “That girl was a wanton, a harlot, and a liar.” His cheeks flushed a mottled red with anger.

“What girl? Maggie Whitney?”

“She was a liar,” Maartje agreed. She glanced at her uncle in concern. “Don't distress yourself, Uncle Elias. We won't speak of her again.” Putting a hand protectively on Mr. Gray's shoulder, she frowned at Rees.

“Please show yourself out, Mr. Rees. As you see, my uncle could not have heard anything. And any talk of Maggie upsets him.”

Rees said nothing. Mr. Gray clearly heard and understood more than he wished known, and he shared what seemed to be a common view of Maggie. Rees was beginning to feel defensive of this young woman, who was so alone and so scorned by the townsfolk.

He found his way to the narrow dark hall and out to the brightening morning outside. Mr. Randall's buggy was gone and a different one had been drawn up in its place. A farmer, by the looks of his clothing, was standing by the horse's head and smoking a long Dutch pipe. The man looked at Rees from eyes so dark a brown they appeared almost black. He seemed familiar, and Rees wondered if he had seen him in the tavern. “You called on Mr. Gray?”