The Measure of Katie Calloway,: A Novel (30 page)

29

But now the winter’s ended,

and homeward we are bound;

and in this cursed country

no longer we’ll be found.

“Michigan I.O.”
—1800s shanty song

April 16, 1868

There was a stir down at the bay that drew Katie’s attention. It appeared that something was being dragged from the water. A knot of people had formed. One man walked away and vomited in the bushes.

Was it the body of one of the river drivers? She hoped not, even though that seemed to be part of the expected price of bringing the logs to market. She didn’t want to know what the people had found in the water. Shopping to replace Ned’s outgrown clothing was her objective right now.

She was admiring a pair of shoes in a display window when someone touched her on the shoulder. It was Jigger, but she hardly recognized him. He was all dressed up in a new suit with a high, starched collar. His face was inscrutable.

“You look wonderful, Jigger,” she teased. “Are you getting married?”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am.” He pulled a new black derby hat off of his head and turned it around and around in his hands. “I think there’s something you’d better come have a look at.”

Begging your pardon, ma’am?
She had never heard that phrase come out of Jigger’s mouth during the entire seven months she had worked beside him.

Her day began its slow collapse as he led her toward the small crowd of townspeople down at the bay. When they began to open up a path for her, she knew she was about to see something terrible.

Yes. Someone had drowned. She stared at the soles of the man’s boots. She didn’t want to look any higher, but her eyes crept upward against her will. The pants were a water-darkened gray. The long coat was decorated with a double row of brass buttons—an eagle was embossed on each one.

It was the uniform of a Confederate soldier.

And then her eyes caught the face and blond hair of the man who had made her life a living nightmare for so long. A long wound across his neck explained the reason for his death.

Slowly, slowly, with Jigger loyally standing beside her, his good arm around her waist to help support her, she realized that Harlan Calloway was no longer a threat to her or anyone. A great, yawning emptiness filled her heart where sorrow should have been.

“Who’ve we got here?” The sheriff pushed his way through the crowd. “Anyone know this fellow?”

“It’s my husband, Harlan Calloway,” Katie said. “He’s been missing for several months.”

The sheriff looked her up and down. “Robert Foster came to talk to me back in January about the husband of his camp cook. Wanted me to be on the lookout for the man. Are you her?”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“The day after Christmas, when he left the camp.”

“Did he have any money on him?”

“A small sack of silver coins.”

He gingerly searched Harlan’s pockets and came up empty. “Looks like it was a robbery.” The sheriff, who was known more for his affection for his luxurious handlebar mustache than his enthusiasm for fighting crime, sounded relieved to have an easy answer for Harlan’s death. “Bay City is attracting some seedy characters since the railroad came in. With the water so cold, I can’t even guess how long he’s been dead, but the man who did this is probably long gone by now. What do you want me to do with him, Mrs. Calloway?”

Those members of Robert’s crew who were still in town swore to the sheriff that no one had left the camp that night except Harlan. They also swore that none of them had murdered the man, although some admitted that they would have liked to—what with him threatening their little cook and all.

The sheriff, with no eyewitness or any evidence, was relieved to chalk this up to yet another mysterious killing. There was a lot of that going around. Especially when the shanty boys came to town. Unclaimed bodies showed up in the bay on an almost regular basis—usually near the mouth of the tunnels beneath the building known as the Catacombs.

The death of a Confederate soldier was not something the sheriff had any intention of seriously investigating. Feelings about the war were still too raw. There were at least a hundred veterans in the county who could conceivably be considered suspects.

The sheriff was the kind of man who didn’t like to rock the boat. He kept law and order as much as possible—without actually upsetting anyone in power—and he left the shanty boys alone when they came into town. A man could get himself killed getting in the way of a wild-eyed logger fresh from the woods bent on having a good time.

He made certain the death certificate was filled out as “unknown causes.”

If there was one thing Katie knew, it was how to do her duty.

Right now her duty was to take her husband’s body back to his home in Georgia. Regardless of his actions toward her, taking him to lie in the cemetery alongside four generations of Calloways was the right thing to do.

It occurred to her, as she sat with Ned on the train, looking out at the bustling town of Bay City, that this was where her adventure had begun seven months ago as she had crawled off the train, ragged, fearful, and desperate.

Today, thanks to Robert Foster and his men—and in no small measure thanks to the tender mercies of God—she had money in the bank, new clothes on her back, and a shiny new valise with everything she needed to make the train trip all the way back to Georgia.

Still, she was disappointed that Robert had left, reportedly checking out the stand of pine that the timber-looker had found. It would have been helpful to discuss Harlan’s mysterious death with him and see if he could help her figure out how this had happened.

It bothered her that the sheriff had not investigated more thoroughly. It could have been anyone—even someone she cared about. The only person she knew absolutely for certain had not killed Harlan was herself.

“Hey, Foster!” The sound of a woman’s raucous voice behind him made him jump. “You’re letting her leave without you?”

It was Delia, looking older and more ravaged than ever.

“What are you talking about?” He had just arrived back in town after checking out Charlie’s discovery and was dirty, hungry, and bone-tired. All he wanted to do was go home, eat a good meal, take a bath, and see his kids. Then he wanted to find Katie and . . . well, he didn’t know what he wanted to do about Katie. He just wanted to see her. That’s all. He missed her friendship, if nothing else.

“She’s taking her husband’s body back to Georgia,” Delia said.

“What?” he exploded. “What are you talking about, woman?”

“They found him in the bay. Our overpaid sheriff listed it as death by unknown causes, but I think a knife might have had just a leetle something to do with it.” She held two fingers a quarter-inch apart.

Robert couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Was Delia lying? She enjoyed playing with people. He’d seen her do it before.

“Is Katie coming back?”

Delia pouted prettily, which was grotesque on a woman her age. “How should I know?”

“Who did it?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Of course I don’t know! I’ve been gone for days!”

Delia snorted. “Let me buy a stake in that new pinery I hear you just checked out—and I’ll tell you all kinds of things you need to know.”

“I don’t have time for games, Delia.”

“Neither do I.” She sobered. “That was a serious offer. I want to get out of the business, Foster, and you’re the only camp owner I trust.”

“No.”

“I’m a good businesswoman.” She touched her mouth where a front tooth was newly missing, and he saw that beneath the heavy makeup was the yellowing skin of healing bruises. “But I’m in the wrong business. I have been for a long time.”

There was something about the tone of her voice, the regret he heard there, that surprised him.

As she continued to list reasons it would be to his advantage to take her on as his business partner, her voice faded away, and the strangest thought came over him—how Rahab the harlot had been included in Jesus’s lineage.

He was not a man given to seeing religious signs—but he felt strongly as though God was nudging him to give this broken, sinful woman a chance.

From a business perspective, Delia had one thing going for her—she definitely knew shanty boys and could be quite the judge of character. And the woman was shrewd, even if he had no respect for the occupation she had chosen.

“All right.”

Delia stopped in mid-sentence. “What do you mean—all right?”

“I could use someone in town who could order quality supplies for me while keeping the costs down. I could take care of the logging camp operation and you could keep an eye on things here in town.”

He saw hope dawning in her eyes.

“I’d be good at that,” she said eagerly.

There was something in the ragged hope he saw in the woman’s face that made him think she was truly serious about wanting to change her life—and actually, he really
did
need someone watching after his business here in town. Could he trust her? He had no idea—but his instincts told him that he could. He lowered his voice. “That pinery Charlie found is really something, Delia.”

“How much?”

“More than I made on this year’s crop. I’d like to buy all of it, but I can only swing a couple sections.”