Quiet Dell: A Novel (40 page)

For the second time in his short life, Duty, a Boston terrier, finds himself the only survivor of a family wiped out by death. He belonged to Mrs. Asta Eicher, Park Ridge, Ill., widow, murdered by Harry F. Powers, “Bluebeard” of Quiet Dell. Several years ago Duty was owned by a family which was killed in a tornado.

—
The Clarksburg Exponent,
November 5, 1931

The streets of Clarksburg were strung with pine roping and velvet ribbon to herald the holiday season. Emily would celebrate Thanksgiving at the Gore Hotel and return to Chicago soon after the trial. William questioned her resolve in arriving so early; the trial was set to begin December 7. What was there to report, but the trial itself? Everything, she assured him. He would attend the trial and stay at the Gore, near her own suite. Emily, just arrived by train from Chicago, was somewhat amazed to find herself at the Gore reception desk, holding Duty on the leash. Clarksburg and Quiet Dell had seemed, since her flight here two months ago, so sharply resonant and yet so distant.

“Oh, hello—Mr. Parrish, isn’t it?” She glanced quickly at his name tag and leaned near to glance at the register; hopefully no other press had yet arrived. “Rooms 126 and 127. I reserved the rooms with the door through. I have the dog, as before.”

“Miss Thornhill, we’ve been expecting you, and we’ll make the exception; no one complains about a dog that doesn’t bark.”

“Ah, yes.” Local papers had picked up Chicago coverage: Duty’s photograph and history under a heart-wrenching headline.

Parrish peered over the desk. “And I reckon the two of you could sell that second bed at a premium if you’d a mind to, with everything that’s going on. Porter!” he called.

“Oh no, I’ve too great a need of the space, for interviews and an office. I do apologize for all these bags, though.” She’d brought all her files, her typewriter, warm clothes, boots, Duty’s accoutrements,
and in a separate grip, her loveliest nightgowns and sheer lingerie, her own soaps and perfume. She’d grabbed her valise, assuming its weight was more notes, and discovered on the train that it still held Hart’s old skates, his catcher’s mitt and baseball, from the Eicher estate sale last September. She felt quite stupid, for here they must stay until it was over.

She turned to follow the porter, the Negro gentleman she’d interviewed last summer. They were all here to play their parts, and the production was finally starting.

“Ma’am.” The porter was standing back, her luggage piled on the cart, indicating the open elevator.

“Thank you, Mr. . . . Woods.”

“Yes, that’s right, ma’am.” He stepped in behind her, expertly maneuvering the cart.

The doors shut soundlessly. “Will you be testifying?”

“Yes, ma’am, they say so, though it won’t take long to say my part.”

“I remember.” Dorothy Lemke, fiftyish divorcée, arrives very late after motoring from Massachusetts with Cornelius Pierson, checking in to the hotel for a few hours. Lemke checked in alone and checked out alone. They were observing propriety, was undoubtedly his excuse for not touching her except to bind and kill her.

The afternoon was not completely gone. She would unpack later, for she wanted to walk to the jail. She must start off, be inside the story again, quickly.

•   •   •

Snow was forecast and the air was sharply cold. Powers’ recent move back to the city jail was known, and the building fully garrisoned with a detachment of state police, city officers, sheriff’s deputies. Forty or fifty onlookers huddled near the jailhouse doors, dressed in farmers’ overalls or their Sunday best. It was Saturday; working people were at their leisure. Police held the crowd in check, but the gathering registered a wave of disturbance at
every entrance or exit from the jail. Reporters and photographers, interviewing Duckworth, Grimm, or Powers’ attorney, J. Ed Law, came and went, seemingly by appointment. Just now, an enterprising photographer incited reaction, setting up a shot; how did the town view Powers, the fiend now returned for the trial of the century? The crowd surged, shouting. Emily, press credential in hand, approached the doors. She felt herself jostled, and looked to see a child ducking down, skirting the throng behind her.

She reached into her coat pocket for William’s present and gasped to realize she’d been robbed. Her valuables and money she kept inside her clothes, but his mother’s purse, which she liked to touch as she walked, was gone. She set off after the child at a full run, pushing her way free, for she could see him walking nonchalantly along the sidewalk, until he sensed her attention and glanced back. His gaze met hers for an instant before he ran, fleetly dodging passersby. Emily could not bring herself to shout that he be stopped; she attracted curious stares but kept him fixed in her sight as he dodged and weaved. The town was crawling with police, but of course no one noticed a boy running along the street.

She called out to him, “You there! Boy! Stop!”

He did not, but fled into the alley beside the Gore. Emily arrived just behind him, relieved to see a blind alley, bricked off at the end. Lined with trash cans and pallets, it served as garbage pickup and delivery site for the hotel. She saw the boy standing, filthy in his cap and long coat, next to a drainpipe, amidst the cans.

“Do not run,” she said, walking up on him, “the police are right behind me.” He was young, she saw, nine or ten perhaps, a full head and shoulders shorter than herself, and very thin and dirty. “Step out here, please,” she said. “I have told the police I want to speak with you before asking their assistance.”

The boy peered up the alley, gauging his chances, no doubt.

“Give me my change purse,” Emily said. “I shall call them unless you obey immediately. Return what you took from me.”

Carefully, he stepped out, and at her beckoning motion, walked close enough that she could see his face. He was certainly a child.
His dark hair fell in his eyes as he reached into his clothes for the change purse, and put it in her gloved hand.

Emily opened the purse and unsnapped the clasp to show him that it was empty. “There. I didn’t follow you over money. This purse is very old and belonged to someone dear to a friend of mine. It is precious to me. That is why I chased you.”

Frowning, poised to run, he flicked his gaze at her.

“Hardened criminal, are you? What is your name?” She saw him startle, almost imperceptibly. The movement was involuntary. Perhaps he was cold. “I said, what is your name?”

“Randolph Mason Phillips.” He glowered, angry to be detained by a woman.

“And where do you live, Randolph?”

He looked about him. “Here.”

“Do you mean you haven’t anywhere to live?”

He looked straight ahead and said nothing.

“Where are you from, then?”

“Coalton, in Randolph County.”

“Where is your father, Randolph?”

“He died in the mines.”

“Where is your mother, then?”

She saw his head move, again, almost imperceptibly, and he blinked, as though in response to a feigned blow.

“She died,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Emily said. “Whom do you live with, then?”

“I was living with my uncle but he run me off,” the boy said. “I ain’t going back there.”

“If I asked your uncle why he . . . made you leave, what would he say?”

“He’s too drunk to ’member that far back.”

“I see. Did he hit you?” She waited.

He looked at her as though she was simple. “Course he hit me. He hits ever’body gets in ten feet of ’im.”

“How old are you, Randolph?”

“Twelve, almost.” He scowled, pursing his mouth.

“Are you hungry?”

Again she saw his head move, and the accompanying blink of his eyes.

“Listen to me, Randolph. You must stop stealing from the crowd. The police will catch you, and put you into the reformatory.”

What good were such threats, when he was living on the street? She could not leave him, nor report him. His slight stature moved her to continue. “I’m a reporter, here to write about the trial. You’re not going to steal any more because you are going to work for me. I am going to give you a job, if you want it, and I will pay you a wage, as well as room and board.”

He pulled his loose coat closer about him.

It was a woman’s coat, far too large for him, and old and worn. “Do you want to know what sort of job?” Emily asked him.

He lifted his head, appraising her.

“You will be my assistant and archivist. An archive is a collection of documents. The job involves cutting clippings from various newspapers, and glue and paste, and keeping dates in order. Can you read?”

“I can read.”

“Do you have a favorite book?”

“The Deerslayer,”
he said.

“That’s a good book. Did you read it yourself?”

“Someone read it to me,” he said. “Then I read it myself.”

“Well,” Emily said, “I would like you to come with me, Randolph. I have a separate room in the hotel where you can sleep, and you can begin work tomorrow, that is, if you’re willing to have a bath and a meal. Are you willing?”

“Yes.” His soft voice was barely audible. Perhaps he was apprehensive, but she must be clear.

“One more thing, Randolph.” She softened her tone. “If you steal from me, or from anyone while you are in my employ, I will turn you in to the police. I need to hear that you understand, and that you accept my terms.”

“I do,” he said.

“All right then.” She began walking, back toward the hotel. He fell in beside her. She thought he might run. Far simpler if he did; she’d already decided not to pursue him.

But before they turned out of the alley, he stopped her. “I’m not called Randolph, miss. That were my father’s name. I’m called Mason.”

•   •   •

Duty greeted them, bounding about their feet as Emily stepped inside. She’d thought the dog might be hostile, for Duty was a suspicious guardian and the boy smelled of the street. She felt even more confident that he stole by necessity, and not happily. “This is Duty,” Emily said.

The child knelt down, saying, “Hey now,” as though comforted, it seemed to Emily, and surprised to find a dog in a hotel room. Perhaps he’d never been in a hotel.

She ordered two meals, steak, mashed potatoes, carrots and peas, and a breakfast steak and soup bone, from room service. The boy was famished. He ate the steak immediately, holding it in his hands up to his mouth, chewing it down until it was gone, watching Duty gulp cut-up meat from a plate.

She handed the boy his napkin, to wipe his hands. “Do you eat vegetables, Mason?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Have some then, with your utensils, perhaps.”

He began to eat the vegetables, the spoon in his right hand and the fork in his left, shoveling the peas and potatoes onto the spoon. She considered her own meal, and looked up to see that his plate was clean.

“Miss,” he said. “I don’t like milk. You have mine. I ain’t touched it.”

“You haven’t touched it.”

He nodded.

“Mason,” she said, “I hope you don’t mind if I correct your speech. People think they know all about you when they hear you
say ‘ain’t.’ Of course they don’t, but they leap to conclusions. If people are going to believe that you’re assisting me, you will need to do a few things differently. It will be as though you’re an actor, playing a role.” She paused, hoping not to offend him.

“Yes, miss.”

“Do you mind if we practice something?” She moved his empty plate and place setting across the table, and indicated he sit on the couch beside her. “I can’t possibly eat so much steak, so I’m going to ask you to share half. But I want you to use your fork and knife as I do.”

He sat beside her and took up the fork in his left hand, and the knife in his right.

“Yes,” Emily said. “Keep the utensils in your hands, just so, the whole time you are eating, putting them down only to wipe your mouth with the napkin—” She shook out his napkin and put it across his lap. “Now, ready?”

Together, they ate her supper. Both plates clean, he leaned back from the low table and said stiffly, “Thank you, miss.”

“Did you have enough to eat?” She saw him nearly smile. “May I show you your room then, and tell you a bit about the job you’ll be doing?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Now, one must not work without payment, and I will pay you, but I am also, of course, paying your room and board, so the wage must be adjusted accordingly. Do you agree?”

He nodded. Perhaps he had not eaten a full meal in some time, for he looked sleepy.

“Now, we will need to work every day until the trial is over, but you may manage your own time and stop when you like. If I pay you twenty-five cents a day, is that acceptable?”

He widened his eyes in surprise. Perhaps she’d offered too much. She supposed men dug ditches here, for such a wage. Still, the child must have some money saved, for whatever situation she could arrange for him after the trial. She started then: there were three loud raps at the door, and Duty leapt up.