Quiet Dell: A Novel (42 page)

“Good day,” Emily said. “We need to outfit my nephew. He’s outgrown his things completely. Please show him what you have that works with brown, and he will choose.”

The clerk nodded. “Young man, the dressing room is in the back.”

Mason came out, finally, in a brown suit that set off his dark hair and eyes. Emily could not help remembering that Hart Eicher was not yet into his first long pants, when Powers took him away. “Splendid,” Emily said.

“And now,” said the clerk. “Leather brogans for indoors, and warm boots. Snowstorms here go on for days.” She looked over at Mason. “The skating pond is frozen already.”

Emily remembered Hart’s ice skates, still in her valise. Mason was slighter than Hart looked in photographs. “Can one rent skates, at the small park there?”

“Oh, yes, miss, when the kiosk is open.” The clerk looked from Emily to Mason. “Young man, I’ll call the salesman who deals with men’s shoes. And I’ll bring several overcoats.”

Emily watched her go. “Do you like the clothes, Mason? I think your mother would be very pleased, to see you dressed well.”

He sat up a bit straighter.

The shoe salesman came to measure Mason’s feet, and Emily stood to peruse a rack of men’s scarves. He must choose one himself, and a warm winter cap.

“Ma’am?” The clerk presented Mason, in a winter coat of brown herringbone. He wore a matching cap, with earmuffs that pulled down.

Emily asked, “Which scarf do you like, Mason?”

He looked at them. “The white one,” he said.

“Excellent.” Emily paid cash. “Please deliver the boxes to the Gore Hotel. Here is my card.” She took the clerk’s hand. “We thank you so much.”

Mason, noting her gesture, shook hands as well. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Outside, Emily gave Duty’s leash into his gloved hand and straightened the collar on the coat. “There,” she said, “you look professional and handsome. More important, are you warm?”

He nodded shyly and walked with her back toward the Gore, to the large newspaper kiosk across from the police station. Construction on the new courthouse progressed despite the weather, and tall stacks of yellow brick, covered in canvas, lay inert as monuments. She glimpsed the town library, and determined to take Mason tomorrow to get a library card. He could go on his own then.

“Mason,” she said, turning to the kiosk, “we will learn the proprietor’s name; you must always address him formally.”

They stood before the large display of magazines in racks, and stacks of newspapers. “Sir?” Emily called up to the man in the stall. “Do you remember me from last summer? Emily Thornhill, journalist from the
Chicago Tribune
? I’m here to cover the Powers trial, and this is my nephew, Mason Phillips, who will be assisting me.”

The man put his cigar aside. “Ma’am,” he said, “Murphy.” He touched her fingers over the distance, and Mason’s as well.

“Mr. Murphy, we will need the newspapers on this list, morning and evening editions, starting today.” She took the list from her purse. “Mason will be picking them up, morning and afternoon, on my account, and I will need a weekly receipt. I’d like to pay you now for the first week.”

“He’s your clipping service, is he?” The man peered down.

Emily nodded. “Your enterprise here is impressive, Mr. Murphy. You have everything through the East and Midwest, and even West Coast papers. Do you sell sandwiches, as well?”

“Just hot pretzels, coffee, hot chocolate.”

“I’m sure, in this cold. Mason can order whatever he likes. Just put it on my account.”

“I recommend the hot chocolate,” said a voice behind her.

She turned to see Sheriff Grimm, clad in a long dark overcoat. “Sheriff Grimm. Of course, you’re just across the street.” She felt her gloved hand enclosed in his, and turned to Mason. “This is Mason Phillips, my nephew. He has time off from school to assist me, and collect the newspapers from Mr. Murphy.”

Grimm looked at Mason. “You’ve brought the dog, and your nephew as well. Good to meet you, Mason.”

Mason offered a serious expression, shook Grimm’s hand, and said nothing.

Emily was glad they’d gone to the haberdasher’s first. She prayed Grimm would not ask Mason the name of his school, or any number of things she could not anticipate.

“Murphy,” he called up to the proprietor, by way of greeting. “We’ll have three hot chocolates. And I know you’ll show these visitors every consideration.” Grimm regarded Emily with the inclusive gaze that seemed to take her measure. “You’re here well in advance, Miss Thornhill.”

“I came down by the station to see you yesterday,” Emily answered, “but it was . . . crowded. I’ll call for an appointment.”

He was reaching for the cups of hot chocolate. “Starting tomorrow,
no one goes in or out but my officers. Law will conduct press interviews from his office, as will the prosecutor. Powers is back in custody, and all other prisoners are at the county jail. The curious persist in gaping, but if the press is elsewhere, the curious may follow.”

“I’m sure,” Emily said. “Mason, careful, the chocolate is steaming. Thank you, Sheriff. Just what we needed.”

He turned to Emily. “Miss Thornhill, I suggest we meet at the Gore in an hour. I hope you’ll allow me to buy you lunch.”

“Of course, Sheriff.” Emily signed her account and paid Murphy cash. She watched Grimm approach the police station; the group clustered by the door parted at his approach.

“Master Phillips,” said Murphy. He handed over a cloth sling bag of newspapers. “My newsboys carry these. Bring it each day and I’ll have your papers ready.”

Mason slung the bag over his shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Murphy. And you can call me Mason.”

The man would watch out for him, Emily knew.

They walked back to the hotel through hastening snow. “It’s good that we ran into Sheriff Grimm,” Emily said. “He knows your name now, and has made it clear to Mr. Murphy that he must deal fairly with us. I mentioned that you don’t carry cash—I don’t want anyone bothering you. But do stay in this general vicinity. I realize you know the area well, but I need to know you’re safe.”

“All right.”

They’d reached the shelter of the Gore Hotel awning, which snapped overhead like a flag, and were inside quickly.

“Miss Thornhill, and Duty.” Mr. Parrish greeted her from the desk. “And who is this?”

“Mr. Parrish, good day. This is my nephew, Mason Phillips. He’s assisting me through the trial. He’ll be in Room 126, adjoining mine. Please bill my account.”

“Very well. Your age, Mason?”

“Twelve,” Mason said, “on Christmas Eve.”

“A Christmas birthday. And not so far off!” Parrish smiled approvingly.

Emily was about to congratulate Mason on his auspicious birthday but caught herself. She would know her nephew’s birthday.

“Miss Thornhill, numerous parcels are delivered for you. The porter is here.”

Coley Woods was piling the parcels on the cart; they followed him to the elevator and then to the room.

Mason looked shyly up at him.

“Mr. Woods, I was unaware that you were acquainted with my nephew, Mason Phillips. I want to thank you for your kindness to him in the past.”

Woods merely inclined his head. “No need to speak of it.”

“Mason,” Emily said, “would you lay the newspapers out on your table? I’ll be right in.” She waited a moment. “Mr. Woods, I’ve hired this boy to help me, and given him a place to sleep. Do you think I’ve made a mistake?”

Woods’ attentive gaze fell over her. “No, ma’am. I think he is a good boy. And better off with you, than in the alley behind the hotel. I hope it works out, ma’am. It don’t seem he has anyone, here.”

“No. Though I’m . . . not thinking ahead, beyond the trial.”

“Course not. No sense crossing a bridge until you feel your feet on the planks. But no one will ever know from me, ma’am, that he was sleeping in the alley.”

She moved to press a folded five-dollar bill into his hand. “Please take this, in some thanks for your kindness to him.”

He stood back. “No thanks is due for charity, ma’am. I thank you for taking him in. I could not do it myself.” He was gone before she could reply.

Emily felt a bit light-headed and went to the window. The child’s birthday was Christmas Eve. Where would he be, and with whom? Surely not with his drunken father. She opened the window wide to feel the snow on her face.

“I’ve got them ready,” Mason said behind her.

She turned to him. “I was getting some air. I love snow, don’t you?”

“Sometimes. It can be awful cold.”

She shut the window. “Let’s see what you have.”

He led her into his room, where he’d put the newspapers on the long table. Emily gathered scissors, glue, and tape, and stacked the large scrapbooks she’d packed for clippings.

“Pull the armchairs over, Mason. You must be comfortable. Start with the local papers. Harry Powers is Cornelius Pierson; that was a name he claimed, an alias, so you will see both names, and his real name, Harm Drenth, but he is charged as Powers. See?”

Mason lay the open paper flat before them. “He bought them ice cream.”

Emily sat beside him. “You needn’t read everything, only enough to organize the clippings.” She saw him scanning the words, so sat beside him to read the article. What had Powers to do with ice cream?

SLAYER GOT OUT OF CAR IN NORWOOD Local Barber Identifies Powers from Photographs:
A witness . . . saw Harry F. Powers, alias Herman Drenth, mass slayer, in an automobile near Clarksburg, Harrison County, with the three children of Mrs. Asta Buick Eicher. . . . “Powers drove up to the Norwood confectionery store,” said Eugene Averill, barber of Hazelwood Avenue, Norwood. “Powers purchased three ice cream cones. . . . He then drove away with the children in the direction of Clarksburg.”

She told herself he would have followed the case regardless, living in the town. “Does it bother you, reading the clippings?”

“No. It’s like a detective story. Here is another, with the Powers name.”

“Yes, it’s about Powers’ attorney—his lawyer.”

“Look, this one says about Sheriff Grimm.” Mason outlined the newsprint borders of the story.

Plea for Powers Uncertain, Third Degree Alleged:
J. Ed Law, Clarksburg attorney for Powers . . . said he had obtained a court order . . . for removal of the prisoner from Grimm’s custody.

“What is this word? And,
third degree
?” Mason asked.

“
Alleged
means ‘unproven,’ ” Emily said. “Mason, I will get us a dictionary. It’s good to look up words and see the meanings. As for
third degree,
Law is saying the police were . . . too forceful.”

“Law is the lawyer? Because of his name?”

She saw merriment in his eyes. “I know! It’s happenstance, or a coincidence. Law must know Powers is guilty, but . . . Law might say he is defending the law! Do you suppose?”

Mason smiled widely.

“Look,” Emily said, “here’s one more item in the
Telegram
.”

Trial of Powers, alias Herman Drenth . . . will be held in
Moore’s Opera House
on South Fourth Street . . . use of the building is $500 a week. . . .
Moore’s Opera House
has a rear entrance back of the stage which can be used in taking the prisoner to and from the scene of the trial. The Opera House has a seating capacity
of at least
1,250.

“It must be very big!” Mason said.

“Yes. So, they’ve decided on the opera house, and they plan to hold the trial onstage. That is so completely wrong.”

“Why?” Mason asked.

“Because it is a trial about the loss of five lives, not a play or musical review. Do you see?” She sighed. “I condemn them, but I myself will take my place in the audience.”

“Will I go?”

“I will take you inside, but not to the trial. Bad enough that you will read about the case. Now, I must go. You have the room service menu. Order if you get hungry. I shall be back in an hour or so. Let’s see how long you need for this lot.”

•   •   •

Grimm sat at their usual table, at the rear of the tearoom, his hat and folded topcoat on the chair beside him. He stood as she arrived. “Miss Thornhill.”

“Sheriff.” She took off her own hat and smoothed her hair, taking her notebook from her valise. “Thank you for updating me. I’m
sure you’re busy. I saw that the opera house is engaged for the trial, and that Law is, shall we say, actively defending Powers.”

“Law is sharp and somewhat conniving, and interested in public office. He was state’s attorney for a number of years, but wins more attention and income with high-profile cases. He will take a self-righteous tone on behalf of blind justice. The prosecutor, Will Morris, is able, if not as ambitious.” He signaled the waiter. “The ‘special’ is chicken croquettes. Acceptable?”

“Certainly, thank you. Law won’t succeed in his charges, I assume.”

“Law is setting a tone for the press, to open the trial with a smoke screen of protest, which Judge Southern will acknowledge and dismiss.” Grimm stopped speaking, discreetly, to address the waiter. “The special, for both of us, and hot coffee.” He looked pleased for a moment, and sat back expansively. His open jacket revealed his vest and watch chain, and his powerful torso.

“So,” he said.

The word was a subtle breach. She glimpsed a slim shoulder holster and derringer fit tight to his waist, and steeled her expression to meet his gaze. Grimm was almost professionally discreet, but he would see her with William during the trial, in proximity to William on the street or across a room, and know; he took her temperature with every glance. Regardless, his counsel was essential. Inside the case, they shared a dark ethos. She did not care that Powers was beaten, that Grimm had supervised or skillfully beaten him; she knew what Powers was. And Grimm, despite the slow mechanics of charges and trial, posturing and show, took personal responsibility: he would see the case won.

She remembered Mason, upstairs. “Sheriff Grimm, might you have a dictionary you could lend me? It’s useful for Mason to look up words he doesn’t understand, in the newspapers.”