Quiet Dell: A Novel (27 page)

The suitcase Coley Woods had carried for Lemke was at the police station; film taken from her box camera was being processed. Emily had imagined a framed photograph of Lemke’s child, in a silver frame such as ladies kept on pianos or mantels, but no. It was too long ago. Any image would be a small one; she
would keep a treasured likeness in her handkerchief box or jewelry box, protected. Oh, confused, panicked, had she somehow thought he’d got to her darling boy? Unbound by ropes and straps, she would have lunged for Powers’ throat. Right now, Dorothy’s relatives were journeying to the Romine Funeral Home morgue. They would have driven fifteen hours, scarcely stopping. Emily wanted, suddenly, to be back in her room at the Gore. She looked for Eric, who was packing his camera, and Deputy Bond, who stood at the garage doors, forbidding entrance.

•   •   •

Emily closed herself in. She could see the lobby of the Gore beyond the carved oak panels and etched glass of the phone booth. Mr. Parrish was at Reception, awarding keys; Coley Woods passed by toward the elevator, laden with baggage. Emily searched her billfold for William’s card. She felt she was in a religious enclosure, like a confessional, and fixed her attention on the heavy black telephone. She held his card, with the numbers. Which was his direct line at the bank? She dialed a number and the line engaged. It rang, a low, neutral signal.

If she were there, left behind, and he were here, she would have paced the cage of their separation, marking out the hours. Don’t be a woman, she told herself. Urgent matters required his attention, including this case. He was trusted, respected. She thought: He is good. What was goodness? Valued, well educated, privileged, did not make goodness. Some trial the soul met, that required surrender and nurture: his wife, her illness, acceptance that her condition defined his, and going on, without bitterness.

She hung up, and tried the second number.

Her grandfather would have said William Malone had “character.” Character did not take advantage, but used power for good. The concept aroused her suspicion. People did not speak of women or laborers as having “character,” though they might be seen as “noble” in their purity of being, like the animals in the fields.

He picked up. “Hello?”

She saw his desk and the phone in his hand. “William?”

“Emily. God. At last. Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes. William, I’m sorry—”

“Of course you’re all right. Forgive me. I have just . . . longed to—”

“—to call you only now. It has been—”

“I know. I can only imagine. I so regret that I’m not there with you. I’ve read all your coverage, of course, and his—”

Eric, he meant. Could he be concerned?

The line buzzed unreliably, but the connection held.

“William,” she said. “I have been so occupied.”

“We’re speaking now, Emily. It’s not important—”

But she went on, in a rush of words. “I felt, hearing your voice at such a distance, that I might be distracted, lose focus.” She was astonished at what she’d said and knew it was true. Separated from him in these horrors, she had put him away from her in order to perceive clearly and quickly.

He said, more softly, “I think of you in every breath. I fight the impulse to fly there on some pretext, but I must not interfere.”

“William, it’s chaos,” she said. “The crowds, the police and press—”

He waited, listening.

“The family are taken from him,” she said. She saw them, each one shrouded and separate.

“Emily,” he said, “we must bring them home. I’ve spoken to police and morgue officials there. Pittsburgh has the closest crematorium. I’ve arranged for Romine to transfer the remains tomorrow by hearse, and a mortuary there will ship the caskets by train to Park Ridge, according to my instructions: Annabel with her mother, and Hart with Grethe.” He breathed. “I would have asked your—”

“I know,” she said, “it’s right that they not be separate any longer.” She closed her eyes and thought, Even in darkness, there is goodness.

“Emily,” he asked, “will you come with them?”

“Of course,” she said. They should not be alone; she would go with them.

“Emily, I must ask your counsel, about something else.”

“Yes, William.”

“It is known here, through the
Tribune
and small-town papers farther west, that I am involved in the case. I’ve received inquiries from persons who think they recognize Powers. A Henry Kamp, from Belmond, Iowa, and a Mr. Aukes, from Ackley.” He paused. “Is that near your grandparents’ farm?”

“It’s a few counties west.” Iowa. How could it be?

“They are both Iowa farmers, these men, and don’t seem to be in communication. They want to speak with you before talking to police or reporters.”

“If you could let them know, William, that I will be home in two days’ time, and will contact them immediately.”

“I will, Emily. Soon, then.”

“Soon.”

She stepped into the lobby, leaving their mingled voices in the phone booth.

“Miss Thornhill?” It was Parrish, at Reception. “There’s a telegram for you. I was just sending it up.”

She took the telegram. He would have signed it, “William Malone.” He was with her; he would meet her in Chicago. She looked across the desk at the clerk. “Mr. Parrish,” she said. “I understand that Dorothy Lemke stayed here at the Gore, in Room 127, probably the last night of her life, back in July.”

“Yes,” said Parrish, “the police have taken that night’s register into evidence. I was on night duty, and signed her in.” He added, “I didn’t mark it, really, except that she was alone and it was late, past midnight. I didn’t see her check out—not my shift—but no one spoke with her. She gave the porter her key.”

“Mr. Woods, you mean,” Emily said, to elicit Parrish’s affirmation. “An excellent porter, Mr. Woods. Very professional.”

“Yes, Miss Thornhill.”

•   •   •

Emily arranged Room 126 for the interview and sat waiting, aware that Dorothy Lemke had slept in 127, Emily’s adjoining room, for a few hours at least, alone, in happy anticipation. Powers had gone home to Quincy Street, to Luella Strother, his wife. What excuse had he given Lemke, to fetch her so early, before breakfast, before anyone but the porter and night clerk saw her or spoke to her?

Grimm knocked and stood aside, and the Lemke family was in the room, a heavy, grieving presence. “This is Mrs. Charles Fleming, Mrs. Lemke’s sister, and her husband, Charles Fleming. This is Mrs. Rose Pressler, the sisters’ aunt.” Grimm introduced them rapidly, and sat in the straight chair to the left, as if to hurry the proceedings along.

The women were big women, while Charles Fleming seemed their overgrown son, thin and jagged in his brown suit. He was wide-eyed, intense.

Having just seen her, Emily thought. They had all just seen her.

“I’m Dorothy’s aunt Rose,” the older woman said to Emily, and reached for her hand.

“This must be so difficult for you,” Emily said.

They shook hands all around.

“Please, call me Gretchen,” Lemke’s sister said.

Gretchen had been the pretty one; her round green eyes and fine features were a bit lost now in her plump face. Pleasingly plump, as they said; Emily could imagine her engaged in tinkling conversation, for she had a breathy, little girl’s voice. Gretchen looked the younger sister, by at least ten years.

“Please,” Emily said, “sit down. I’m so sorry for your loss. May I offer you some hot tea? There are sandwiches, as well. I know you drove a long way.” She sat in the straight chair opposite Grimm, the Lemke relatives between them, and opened her notebook. The tea tray was on the low table. Emily leaned forward to pour two cups, and offer the spoons and sugar. The women seated themselves on the settee, looked at the hot tea, didn’t touch it.

Charles Fleming settled into the armchair and crossed his long arms over his chest. “That your dog there?” He jerked his head at Duty, who lay beside Emily’s chair.

“That is the Eichers’ dog, Duty. He was orphaned when the family were killed, so, yes, now he is my dog.”

“Killed all of them,” Charles Fleming said.

“Yes.” Emily supposed she must tell them, as the plan required their permission. “I think the dog ran after Powers, as he was taking the children away, and he kicked it, injured it badly.”

“The jail after this—” Charles Fleming looked at Grimm for confirmation. “Bring the dog.”

“What a good idea. Thank you, Mr. Fleming. Now, can you tell me, from the beginning, about Dorothy and Powers, what you yourselves witnessed.” Emily addressed them all. “Try to keep the facts very clear. You will be called as witnesses, no doubt, and opinion or supposition weakens your testimony. This interview is for the
Tribune,
but it will be widely circulated. Perhaps we can work together to clarify important points.”

“He called himself Pierson.” Charles Fleming sat forward, turning his hat in his hands, pressing the felt brim so hard that his knuckles were white.

“He was at our house,” Gretchen Fleming said, “on a Monday afternoon, the twenty-seventh of July it was. Arrived at two or so and sat down with us at the kitchen table, with Dorothy, to talk of their plans. Said he was a civil engineer and gave us to know he had property, a big ranch in Iowa his overseer ran. Valuable land, he said, as well as parcels in West Virginia, where he was working presently. Do you recall, Aunt Rose?”

Aunt Rose put her hand upon her niece’s generous thigh, and gave her a cup of tea, nodding at her to drink it. “He told us he was advising on a bridge, across a gorge in West Virginia. Very high cliffs, he told the boys, when they were home from school. And they must come to his ranch to visit Dorothy and him. Seventy-five cows and as many hogs, and he raised all the corn to feed them, he said.”

“How old are the boys?” asked Emily.

“Eight and ten,” Charles Fleming said.

Gretchen held the tea before her and spoke over it, expressionless. “She was all aglow, like the Dorothy of years ago. They would marry in an office, Dorothy said; at her age it should be modest. Well, you’ll need witnesses, I said. That should be Charles and me. Stay the week and marry here. You were home from work by then, weren’t you, Charles, when I said that?”

“I heard you say that.” He looked down, gripping the hat, his jaw tight.

“But no,” Aunt Rose said, “he was in a rush, to check on the bridge project down South and then get back to his ranch, to relieve his overseer. It would be a road trip for them, a sort of honeymoon. Dorothy said she would take photos to send us.”

“And here they are!” said Gretchen Fleming. “He has them!” She turned to Grimm.

Grimm took the photographs from his pocket and put them on the table. These were enlarged from the box camera snapshots. Emily remembered Grimm’s comment: Powers was sloppy. He kept the camera but didn’t bother to dispose of the film. There were three snapshots of Dorothy, three of him, obviously taken at the same picturesque views along mountain roads. Powers wore his glasses, white shirt, suit trousers, smiled. Dorothy outweighed him by thirty or forty pounds. Dressed elegantly in black, she stood, arms at her sides, looking askance in the sun, with a pleased, happy expression. Aglow—yes. The word described her.

Gretchen went on bitterly. “To think he talked to my boys, telling them all his stories. They were full of questions. How did he light up the farm and the house at the ranch? Why, he had his own electric works! He impressed them so, lying.”

“He talked big,” Charles Fleming said.

“Some tell tales to children,” Aunt Rose said. “But I said to myself, if even half was true, Dorothy would have no worries. He said they’d be back in two weeks. We all sat down over supper.”

“I’d sent the boys to bed.” Gretchen put down her untouched tea. “It was just the adults. He took Dorothy’s hands before us, like a pledge, said he was going to give her everything she would wish for, that he wanted her to be happy. She said he was her change of fortune. And he said, ‘My dear.’ ”

“That part fooled us,” said Charles Fleming.

Aunt Rose said, “I asked her in private, was she sure? She said she could weep with happiness. No one was so fine, so respectful, as Mr. Pierson. How could I ask her not to go?”

“Did you hear from her in the month she was missing?”

“We had three letters, that wasn’t her writing,” Gretchen Fleming said.

“No need to describe those,” said Grimm. “They will come out at the trial.”

But Gretchen went on. “She said she wasn’t marrying after all, because ‘she told things that wasn’t true and was found out.’ Can you imagine, saying such about herself?” Gretchen addressed Emily in disbelief. “And she was going on a long cruise with a rich lady that hired her as companion! Glad she would never marry now; she would have missed all this!”

“Dorothy had been married before, in St. Paul?” Emily was writing, but they said nothing. She tried again. “She appreciated another chance.”

“St. Paul was never her home,” Aunt Rose said carefully. “After her boy died, she had a hard time. It was polio, and she nursed him one whole summer. He wasn’t but four years old.”

Emily followed an instinct. “Was Dorothy herself ill, then, from the strain, and came home to you?”

“She was much preoccupied.” Aunt Rose took an envelope from her purse and gave it to Emily. “She wrote her will. That is her true voice, that we want people to know.”

“The will must be quoted exactly,” Grimm said.

“Of course,” said Emily.

“What it doesn’t say,” Aunt Rose added, “is that everything reminded her . . . of her boy. She used to say she saw him before
her, just as real, and knew not to move, or he would disappear. Oh, it was terrible.”

“But she got better,” Charles Fleming said. He looked at his wife.

“Of course she did,” Gretchen Fleming agreed. “That was only at first. She worked at the library, she did companion nursing—not because she had to, for she had her own funds, and a home with Aunt Rose, but she liked to. She was a good companion, capable and steady. She might have gone on as such.”

“I knew.” Aunt Rose looked before her. “I had a fever and saw Dorothy, looking up through a narrow opening and begging for her life. But I told myself I was ill, and worried for her.”