Indigo Christmas (26 page)

The chuckle came clearly over the line. “I won't ask what things, my dear. Good luck to you. And when you've finished for the day, why don't you stop in here? We do need to talk a bit about the party, as it's a week from tomorrow.”

“I have not forgotten. I have been planning. Thank you for letting me use your sleigh, and John Bolton, and I will call in late this afternoon.”

Patrick would not like her using John. There had been times in the past when John's flirtation with Hilda had been on the heavy side. But Hilda knew he had meant little by it, and had put him in his place when necessary. And John was strong, and essentially loyal to her. He would do nicely as an escort for today.

She had barely had time to inform the O'Rourkes about her plans when John was at the door, with a dashing cutter pulled by Star and Bright, Hilda's favorites among the Studebaker horses. She slipped some sugar lumps into her pocket and went out into another day of brilliant winter sunshine.

She had not seen John since her wedding. He took off his hat and swept a bow, a pronounced twinkle in his eye. “Good morning, madam. You're looking very fine today, if you don't mind me saying so.”

“Good morning, John. You are looking well yourself. It is good to see you again. And my name is Hilda.”

He grinned. “So long as nobody's around.”

“Yes. We are friends. I do not see why we should be formal when we are private. With others, I suppose we are Mrs. Cavanaugh and Bolton. Yes?”

“Agreed. You really are looking beautiful, Hilda. Regular Gibson Girl. So where do I have the privilege of driving you today?”

“We go first to Firehouse Five, then out to the country. South of town; I do not know exactly where. That is what I must find out at the firehouse.”

Given explicit directions from an admiring fire crew, Hilda climbed back up into the sleigh. John wrapped her well in Mrs. Clem's fur carriage robes, and they were off, harness bells jingling.

It was truly a beautiful day. Since the snow, the weather had been so cold that very little had turned to dirty brown slush. The small factory workers' houses they were driving past looked brighter, cleaner than usual, snow turning stunted bushes into sparkling white mounds, snow covering dirt front yards, snow hiding roofs that needed repair. on a few of the houses were hung small wreaths of holly or pine, bright with red ribbons. The people they passed waved cheerily, and Hilda returned the waves. Snow and sunshine—a merry combination.

Soon, though, the snow would melt. The poverty and ugliness it hid would be seen again. The sky would darken, and so would the spirits of the poor. She must, Hilda thought, she
must
see to it that the boys' party was a great success. And if she could bring Sean home soon, she would ensure that one poor family, at any rate, had a happy Christmas.

She leaned forward. “Can we go no faster, John?”

“Not unless you want your ears froze off,” he called back. “It's cold out, in case you hadn't noticed.”

Hilda sat back and shook her head. John would never change.

In fact it took only half an hour to get to the Miller farm. Once they were near, it was easy to spot. The blackened ruins of the barn loomed over the property like an ugly sentinel. Even after more than a month of rain and snow, the smell of smoke still hung heavy in the air.

“You sure this is the place?”

“John! This is the farm where the hired man was killed. Of course it is where I want to visit.”

“Ah. Snooping again, I see.”

“I try,” said Hilda with dignity, “to find out who set the fire. I know it could not have been Sean O'Neill, but Norah is very afraid. And with her new baby, she should not be worrying.”

“That's true enough,” said John seriously. “It's a bad business, that. Sean's all right, if he is an Irishman, and I'll swear on forty stacks of Bibles he never killed anybody. Right you are. I'll deliver you to the door, and I'll be right here, in case of any funny business.”

“Thank you, John. That is why I wanted you to come. I can trust you.”

He helped her down, and she made her way to the side door, knowing better than to go to the seldom-used front door of a farmhouse.

Her knock set off a cacophony of barking. “Hold your horses, I'm coming!” A female voice responded to her knock, and a moment later, the door was flung open. Two large dogs stood panting next to a rosy-cheeked woman in a print dress and an apron, with flour on her hands and a smudge of it on her nose.

They looked at each other in equal astonishment. Hilda recovered first. “I am sorry. I did not know Mr. Miller had a housekeeper. That is—I am at the right house, am I not? This is Mr. Miller's farm?”

“It is, though I'm sure I don't know who you might be. As for me, I'm not the housekeeper. Or, I suppose in a way I am. I'm Mrs. Miller. Here, now, don't stand there in the cold letting your mouth gape open like a fish. Come on in, come on in.”

It was warm in the kitchen, and fragrant with the smell of apple pie. “Thank you,” said Hilda, grasping at her manners. “My name is Hilda Joh—Hilda Cavanaugh. I was surprised, Mrs. Miller, because I did not know Mr. Miller was married.”

“He wasn't, was he, till about a month ago. And I only moved out here last week. So nobody much knows about me yet. We don't have close neighbors and we don't get into town much, what with all the work to be done here. Sit down, child, and take your things off. My, that's a pretty hat! Mind you don't get flour on your skirt. I'm afraid the kitchen's not very tidy, but I've been baking. Wanted to get my pies done well before Christmas. I've finished with the apple now, and before I start on the mince I was just about to sit down and have a piece myself. Want one?”

The kitchen was a model of cleanliness, except for the table, where a dusting of flour covered the oilcloth and a rolling pin sat amidst a few scraps of dough. Hilda assessed the situation and made a decision. “I would like a piece of pie. It is very kind of you. But may I ask my—my friend to come in? He drove me here, and he will get very cold waiting.”

“He's welcome as the day!” Mrs. Miller went to the door. “Yoo-hoo! Come on inside and warm yourself!”

When John had come in and surrendered his coat and hat, he exchanged glances with Hilda, who shrugged slightly. Mrs. Miller didn't notice. “Those are beautiful horses you've got. I'm sorry I can't ask you to put them in the barn, but our barn burned a while back and the insurance company hasn't paid us yet, so we haven't rebuilt.”

“They'll be all right for a little, what with the sunshine, thank you kindly, ma'am.”

“So you'd be Mr. Cavanaugh, then?”

“No,” said John and Hilda at the same moment. Hilda went on. “I must tell you, Mrs. Miller. Mr. Cavanaugh and I do not own a sleigh, so I borrowed this one from a friend. Bolton is my friend's coachman.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Miller was clearly puzzled. “But what I don't quite understand is what you wanted to traipse out here for in the first place, with the snow and all. Is Mr. Miller a friend of yours? Oh, would you like some coffee with your pie?”

“No, thank you,” said Hilda, knowing how most American coffee tasted. She took a deep breath. “No, I have never met Mr. Miller. I hope you do not mind, but I came to ask him some questions about the barn fire. You see, the man who has been accused of setting it is a good friend of mine, and I am sure he did not do it. I thought maybe if I asked Mr. Miller a few questions about it, I might learn something to help my friend.”

“Well, you'd be welcome, I'm sure. He wants to get to the bottom of it, too, so the insurance people will be satisfied and give us our money. But he's not here right now. Went to town this morning to try to find a new man to hire. He and I've been able to keep up with the work so far, it being winter and all, but come the spring planting, he'll have to have help.”

It was a blow. She had counted heavily on talking to Miller. But perhaps this unexpected wife could help. “Does he have any idea who might have started the fire?”

“Dearie, if he knew, he'd horsewhip him! He's lost a lot that'll never be repaid, even when the insurance settles up, not to mention that Jim Jenkins was a good worker, if a mite too fond of the bottle, and didn't deserve to die that way. The only thing my Walter can think is maybe some tramp went in there and turned over the lantern by accident, and then got scared and ran when the straw caught.”

Hilda frowned. “Do you get tramps out here very often?”

“Well, I wouldn't know, would I, bein' as I've only lived out here a week or so. Walter says no, hardly ever, except in summer when they maybe want a handout. But there's not much to give anybody in ovember, except apples. And it's a long way to walk from the nearest train tracks for an apple. Only he couldn't think of anything else. Another piece of pie?”

“No, thank you. It was very good, but I cannot eat any more. Is there anyone who—who does not like Mr. Miller? Who would have a reason to want to hurt him?”

“Don't know as there is. He's a shy kind of a man, y'see. Keeps pretty much to himself out here, away from town, except for buying supplies and that. We met one day in Harper's feed store. I worked there then, and he could hardly get himself to say two words to me. He kept coming in, though, and we'd talk a little, and after about a year I got brave and asked him if he'd like to go to the ice cream social at the Methodist church with me. I knew he'd never have the nerve to ask me himself. Well, so we went, and had a real nice time, and after that sometimes he'd take me to a spelling bee or a church social, and once to a barn dance. Took him two more years to work himself up to asking me to marry him! I declare,
I
was gonna ask
him
if he didn't get a move on.” She laughed richly.

Hilda had a sudden idea. “And on the day of the fire—that was your wedding day, was it not?”

“It was. And we'd planned a nice little wedding trip, only he had to come right back out here next day, the minute he heard about the fire.”

“Mrs. Miller,” said Hilda, unable to resist an irrelevant question, “why would Mr. Miller drive to his wedding in a farm wagon, when he owns a buggy? And with his dogs? And why did he not tell the police when they asked him what he was doing on the day of the fire?”

“He doesn't own a buggy anymore, dear. It got burnt up in the fire. And he'd as soon go without his shirt as without these two mutts.” She rubbed their heads affectionately. “But he didn't drive us to the church in a wagon. Catch me climbin' up on one o' those contraptions in my wedding dress! He drove the wagon to the livery stable and hired a nice little surrey for us. I was right sorry when he had to take it back. As for tellin' the police, he said to me it was nobody's business except ours. He's shy about it, is what I think, gettin' married at his age. Me, I think it's grand— and I'm as old as him!”

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    South Bend
Tribune
   
December 1904

 

 

27

S
O THERE, THOUGHT Hilda as John drove her back to town, went another lovely theory. Mr. Miller had been doing nothing shameful, nothing to provide a reason for blackmail. He had been courting. And on the day of the fire, he had been, finally, getting married.

The voluble Mrs. Miller had explained further. She had planned to move out to the farm as soon as they had come back from their “little wedding trip” to niles. But the fire had so disrupted life at the farm that they had decided she should stay where she was, in a respectable boarding house in South Bend, until Mr. Miller could put things to rights. He had been distressed by the accusations of arson and murder, and thought Mrs. Miller had better wait a while longer, but she had put her foot down. “I told him he needed somebody to look after him. He wasn't eating right, I could tell that, getting thin as a rail, and I could only imagine what the house looked like. So I moved myself in, bag and baggage, and to tell the truth, the place wasn't too bad. not much cheerfulness to the house, you know, what with a man living here all by himself all those years, but I soon put up my own curtains and put down my own rugs. I'm plannin' to buy new furniture, too, as soon as that insurance pays up. Wish I could do it now, with the Christmas sales, but when I do, the place is going to look right nice!”

Hilda assured her that it looked nice already, and refusing more pie, set off for home.

“Where to now?” asked John when they were close to home. “I promised Mrs. Clem that I would stop and talk with her about the Christmas party for the boys. This is not a good time, though. It is nearly time for her lunch.”

“She doesn't eat much when she's home alone, remember? Usually just a little from a tray in her room. She'd welcome the company, Hilda. She misses you. We all do.”