Quiet Dell: A Novel (23 page)

“That would be Chief Duckworth and Sheriff Grimm. Just there.” He nodded toward the front of the crowd. A knot of men concealed the winch. Emily could hear it turning, and the grunts of the men working it. The men standing aside with their hands clean would be her men, and she saw them now, though no telling who was who. “Could you tell me, Officer, which is Chief Duckworth?”

“The tallest one, madam, with the broad-brim hat.”

She nodded her thanks and began working her way toward them. She could see Eric on the roof, crouching to shoot the length of the ditch and the meadow beyond. She watched Duckworth, who was tall and quite thin, like a wraith; he wore a beige suit and
low boots, and his broad, high-crowned hat was almost laughable. The other man, who must be Grimm, looked to have stepped off a fashionable Chicago street. Perhaps he was counting on being photographed; his smart Panama hat was perfectly creased. She stood at Duckworth’s elbow now, averting her eyes from the ditch. The two men were back of it just enough, standing to the side of the turning winch.

Emily began. “Chief Duckworth, I’m Emily Thornhill, from the
Chicago Tribune
.”

He looked down at her warily. “You’re here late, Missy. The press has been and gone, with the bodies.”

“Sir, we have driven all night from Chicago. I bring you greetings from Chief Harold Johnson, police chief of Park Ridge, Illinois, from Mayor William McKee, from William H. Malone, president of Park Ridge First National Bank.”

Sheriff Grimm tipped his hat, as though amused. “In other words, Clarence, treat the lady with a little respect.”

Emily pressed on, addressing them both. “I very recently interviewed Mrs. Elizabeth Abernathy, the children’s nurse, the last person to see them at home, and Mr. Charles O’Boyle, former roomer and friend of the Eicher family, who first notified Park Ridge police of his suspicions concerning Pierson, or Powers, as he calls himself here.”

“I see.” Grimm looked into the field opposite. “Powers is not homegrown. Married a woman from town a few years ago. He’s a cipher. Smooth talker. No accent.”

“You’ve talked with Powers, then?”

“Oh yes. We know how to interrogate a suspect. Your Park Ridge men were quite practiced in that regard as well.”

“You interrogated the suspect together?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, you did not.”

“The interrogation is ongoing.” Grimm turned to her, lifting his head as though to fully impress her with his persona. He seemed a film star on location, in his three-piece suit, his banded
straw fedora. “Powers likes names that begin with
P
—Pierson, Powers—clearly American names.
Cornelius
brings Vanderbilt to mind, wealth, prestige, while
Harry
could be just about anybody. He’s not Powers, or Pierson. We’ll find out who he is. He’ll have a record, under one name or another.”

“You said he’s ‘not homegrown.’ You mean that such things don’t happen here—”

“Oh, one man kills another in a bar. Rarely, a husband kills a wife, or vice versa. But never a multiple murder.” He looked around them, at the crowd. “You can see they’re fascinated, stunned. It’s as though a rocket full of horrors has buried itself in the ground. A disaster from outside is visited upon them.”

“Them?” Emily questioned. “What of the victims?”

He regarded her frankly, as though conceding a point. “It’s not
of
them, of us, so there’s not the element of mourning, or responsibility or shame, to make it more than bizarre spectacle. It’s not that small towns or rural people lack compassion. Surely that’s obvious, to a big-city reporter like you.”

She looked at him, surprised at his astute description. He displayed a compact, wrestler’s physique; she could almost feel his muscles tense under his clothes as he met her gaze. Duckworth had handed her off to him and stood silent, staring into the ditch.

“I believe you’re at the Gore, Miss Thornhill?” Grimm kept his tone smoothly noncommittal.

She merely raised her brows and said nothing.

“I did advise Mr. Malone on where to locate you. Regardless, I like to know who comes and goes in this town, though keeping tabs on strangers is about to get much more difficult. I’ll send over the police log for the past couple of months. Give you a sense of the community.”

“Thank you. That’s useful.” Emily sensed the shift of the crowd, but Grimm had planted himself squarely in front of the ditch, as though shielding her view. “Are you from here, Sheriff Grimm?”

He looked down the line of the ditch. “Raised in Charleston, capital of our fair state. Dropped out of law school in Baltimore to
become a gentleman farmer, but ran for sheriff ten years ago. At this point, I seem to be indispensable.”

“I’m sure you are.” Duty was jumping at Emily’s legs. She picked him up and he strained toward Grimm, barking his whispery bark. “This is the Eichers’ dog,” she told Grimm. “He knows Powers; I believe Powers injured him, savagely kicked him, just before taking the children away. Might I have an opportunity, in your presence of course, to confront Powers with the dog, at the jail?”

“I’m afraid a dog’s ID won’t hold up in court, Miss Thornhill.” He smiled. “I suppose, at the right moment, it might get his attention. We’ll see. But I’ll lay my cards on the table, here at the start—the press will be a huge problem in this case. If you can work with me, I might work with you. I suggest we talk privately, soon, in whatever circumstances you prefer.”

“There it is,” someone called.

“Move back from here, now.” Grimm turned from Emily to shout instructions. “Officers, clear the way!”

“What’s happening?” Emily asked, but the smell assailed her. Directly across the ditch, she saw Eric, shooting the turning winch, which labored and creaked, dragging a burlap-encased mass through the moist earth. Workmen turning the winch heaved and sweated; Emily could see their wet shirts clinging to their backs. The Eicher family was discovered and gone, as Duckworth had so condescendingly informed her; what was this? She walked quickly to the foot of the ditch as the crowd moved toward the front. Eric, standing his ground, tall enough to focus over the shoulders of the police, had a close view of the bundled mass. Duckworth, tossing his head like a spooked horse, called for a stretcher, and then they were hauling it out, a human corpse wrapped in cloth and banding, the feet dark with crumbling earth. They were a woman’s feet, covered in hosiery, Emily could see, even at this distance. Something within her threatened collapse; it was the hosiery, in this dirt, buried so long.

She walked quickly toward Eric. He would want to follow the police van, to know where they’d taken the Eichers. She’d nearly
reached him when Grimm stepped between them. “The tearoom at the Gore,” Emily told him quickly. “Nine o’clock.”

He nodded as Eric took her arm and rushed her toward the car.

•   •   •

“We’re a day late here,” Eric said, “but that, at least, was luck.” He’d maneuvered expertly into line behind the police van and was speeding along as though an official part of the procession.

Bracing herself against the dash, Emily held the panting dog tightly and looked back to view the cars behind them. Duckworth and Grimm had stayed in Quiet Dell with most of their officers; news of another body would draw more crowds. And there would be more digging. The two sedans behind them appeared to be unmarked police cars, and looked no match for Eric’s roadster. “Eric,” she told him, “you could slow down a bit. No one is going to try to pass us on this road.”

“Emily, yesterday they let reporters in the garage itself, to photograph the Eicher trunks, all the possessions and family pictures, clothing he’d strewn about. We need our own pictures. Do you suppose your pal could get us in for a private look?”

“You mean Grimm?”

“Is that really his name? The natty dresser?”

Emily nodded. “One favor at a time. First I must get Duty in to see Powers at the jail.”

“And I must come with you, to protect you, as you are my girl cousin, engaged in investigating a serial murder.”

“It appears so.” Emily felt Duty relax against her. The dog lay absolutely still, asleep on her lap so suddenly he seemed unconscious. She touched Duty’s hard round head and velvety jowls. Yes, asleep. She wanted to sleep herself. Eric was not in this as deeply as she. Part of it, she’d not realized, was the dog.

Eric glanced at her. “You all right?”

“Of course. I could sleep, suddenly.”

“It’s that dog,” he said, as though reading her mind. “Raging around or fallen down in a trance.”

“Eric, don’t be dramatic. Next you’ll be warning me about trolls in the woods.”

He smiled. “There
are
trolls in the woods, and he must wear his vest and watch chain at a crime scene. Don’t let his attire fool you. Never married, I hear. Predatory womanizer, and never wants for volunteers.”

“As though all that isn’t obvious. And to my advantage.” Noisily, she opened the newspaper beside her, scanning the pages. “Listen to this: the AP has picked up my interview with McKee. Uncredited, of course.
‘Mayor William A. McKee, friend and confidant’
— hardly, but that was what he said—
‘of the slain widow, Asta Buick Eicher, said today he believed that solicitude of a mother with dwindling funds for the welfare and education of her children, led the widow and her three children to their deaths.’ ”

“What’s the headline?”

“ ‘
Widow Fearing Penniless Future Sought Wealthy Lover to Safeguard Tots.’
Typical. It’s why they call newspapers rags.” She dropped it, unfurled, into the backseat.

Eric grabbed the press credential from the windscreen. “Put this away. It can’t be far. I’ll pull in right behind the van. The car is still clean, thanks to the rain last night, and we look official. We can file from the telegraph office in the Gore, but the film must be flown, as many times a day as I can arrange.” He glanced in the rearview mirror at the car trailing them. “That’s Chief Deputy Bond just behind us.”

“You don’t think they’re going to let us in, to the actual viewing.”

“It’s all in the driving,” he said, “and the stepping out of the car. They just might. Grimm sent us, after all, to safeguard the van from spectators, coming and going. See?” He nodded at the opposite lane of the narrowing road. A line of cars sped past them, back toward Quiet Dell.

“There, Eric. The sign up ahead. Romine Funeral Home.” Emily turned to put the insensate dog into his open conveyance in the backseat. “It’s warm. We must crack the windows.”

“The blasted dog,” Eric said. He parked gently, adjacent to the
police van. “Give me the camera bag. Don’t get out until I open the door for you.”

Emily ignored him and stepped out of the Chevrolet, holding only her notebook and purse, as police threw open the back doors of the van and reached in for the stretcher.

•   •   •

The Romine Funeral Home loomed, two dark stories of mitered stone. The shutters had been removed from the big windows, and brick columns buttressed the broad stone porch. They’d no trouble gaining access, for Chief Deputy Bond and Dr. Goff, county coroner, seemed to accept them as approved by Grimm. Goff and the mortician were at this moment laying out the remains in the basement. One officer walking the stretcher down the steps had stumbled, eliciting a brief curse from the other. Chief Deputy Bond, an older gentleman in a bow tie, wore his white hair cropped short and held his hat in his hand. Dr. Goff, as thin as Bond but taller, in a dark suit, wore pince-nez and coughed into a silk handkerchief. Bond had startling black eyebrows and cold blue eyes.
Thin lipped
did not describe him; he kept his mouth clamped so firmly shut that his lips weren’t visible. He stepped toward the basement door and called, “Halluu?” as though pitching his voice down a well.

“Yes, Deputy Bond.” Heavy steps approached, and the mortician, in black rubber apron, shirt and tie, dark trousers, appeared. Here was a man, big, fleshy if not portly, who shook the steps he trod. His broad shoulders hinted at the physical strength required by his profession; he had the hulking, comfortable demeanor of a pleasant, round-faced Santa. Would have to, Emily supposed: consolation, all those grieving families. In small towns, especially, a mortician, akin to a minister or preacher, possessed secret knowledge. His dominion, his access to the body, nude and abandoned on a slab, was total.

“You set down there?” asked Bond. The phrase was toneless.

The mortician nodded. “Dr. Goff is ready. Ma’am? Gentlemen? This way.”

Downstairs, Emily heard Goff cough. The sweet, sickly smell of formaldehyde drew them into what seemed a vast cavern. The stone walls were three times a man’s height, and the concrete floor gently sloped to a central, massive drain. Emily had expected a series of metal tables, but the Eichers lay next to one wall on several wooden shelves, layers of sheeting drawn up like bunting around each form. She saw a skull gleam out, with two dark splintered holes at the back of the head, and looked away. The room itself was an underworld as broad and long as a ballroom. No wonder this place doubled as the city morgue; it could receive a lost battalion. The exposed beams of the ceiling were fitted with lamps hung from the rafters; powerful as searchlights, they were completely blinding. One could not look at them directly, but only at what lay bathed in their hot white light.

Emily heard Eric’s camera flash, though the small bursts were mere sparks. They stood, all of them, in a semicircle at the foot of the wooden bier, for that was what it seemed. The policemen had removed their hats, and the mortician spoke in gentle cadence. He might have been reciting a rosary.

“I judge the Eichers to have been underground almost two months, and we had rain, a lot of rain, in July, and a hot, dry August. The remains were almost completely decomposed, whereas the recent subject, underground two to three weeks, is relatively well preserved, being a larger personage, and given the clement conditions. I have bathed only the head and hands . . .” He was subtly turning the group to view the brilliantly lit, low table, and the startling form upon it.