Quiet Dell: A Novel (53 page)

“Overruled!” Judge Southern replied.

Gretchen, the letters in her hands, looked up, emphatic. “It is not her handwriting! It is not!”

Law stated, “Exception.” He waited a moment, as though to adjust his tone, and rose for the cross. “Now, Mrs. Fleming,” he
began, as though calming a skittish horse. He pointed out that Gretchen had identified her sister’s endorsement on the two Massachusetts bank checks, and held out the checks.

“Yes, sir, and that is her handwriting.”

Law gave the audience an exasperated look, and moved on. Now, did Mrs. Fleming have personal knowledge as to whether Mrs. Lemke was in Clarksburg . . . in the fall of 1930? The truth was, hadn’t Mrs. Lemke done a good deal of traveling?

Yes, she traveled about with the lady, part of her job as companion. But no, Mrs. Lemke would not go away for a long trip; the lady needed her. For the trip with Pierson, she gave the lady two weeks’ notice.

Law drew near to Gretchen. “You state she never told you about having known a man by the name of Rogers . . . or a man by the name of Cecil Johnson . . . though she might have known them both and not mentioned it to you.”

Gretchen paused and said clearly, “I doubt that.”

Yet, Law pointed out, Mrs. Lemke had corresponded with Cornelius Pierson beginning in January 1931, and did not mention him to her sister until late June. “Then,” he concluded, “she did
not
tell you everything that she was doing, did she?”

“Everything, almost everything!” Gretchen shouted the words, defiant, tears in her eyes.

Dismissed, Gretchen moved toward the wings. Emily saw her expression assume a beseeching sadness.

Law called Powers back to the stand. “Mr. Powers, I will ask you to state if you did kill Mrs. Lemke at any time or place, as charged against you in this indictment.”

“No, sir.”

“Did you ever see her in Harrison County, West Virginia, at any other time except in the fall of 1930, when you met her, as you say, on the street?”

Powers blinked. “That was the only time I saw Mrs. Lemke in this county.”

Would this be the lunch recess? No, for the state called a Mr.
Hufford, owner of a gas station, who testified that Powers had purchased gasoline from him at Wilsonburg, evening of July 31. On the paved part of the road, Hufford asserted, that leads to Mount Clare and Quiet Dell. Another witness to refute Powers’ flimsy alibi, but Emily must go to the Gore. The letters from Grimm would be there at noon. The witness was saying he noticed the Chevy coupe, a nice one. Powers bought chewing gum and cigarettes, Hufford said. A heavyset woman was in the passenger seat.

•   •   •

It was very cold, nine degrees according to the ornate thermometer by the hotel entrance. Emily went directly to Reception. “Mr. Parrish, good day. Is there a package for me?”

“Miss Thornhill, let me see. No, doesn’t appear so.” He saw her concern and turned to search again. “Ah, yes, in the wrong place, but safely delivered.” He gave her an envelope marked, “Emily, Room 127.”

She sighed with relief, went to the elevator, and let herself into her room. The dog barked his breathy noise in greeting, and she threw off her coat, looking through to see Mason, cutting clippings at his table. “There you are. So much to file, yes?”

“An awful lot.” He came to her room and sat on the bed. “Is it the noon break?”

“No, but I must quickly write something crucial, to file this afternoon.” At her desk, she spilled two letters from the envelope and put her hand upon them. She turned to him. “Sorry I’ve been here so little. Hope you haven’t been lonely.”

“It’s all right,” he said. “I ordered lunch, and I’ll get it when they knock.” He gave a shy wave and went back to his room.

“Thank you, Mason.” She must be more astute: deprivation of her presence was nothing to sleeping behind a hotel. Grief opened one to the true meaning of loneliness. She felt it in the letters: both from Iowa fathers whose daughters had disappeared. Had Powers, in his travels to Chicago, foraged through Iowa, not so far from
Oran and Sumner, from Wilko Drenth? Only one letter mentioned Charlie Rogers.

She fell to writing, but would file at the close of today’s session, when there might be more to include on the topic of Rogers.

•   •   •

She returned to the trial, the completed story in her valise. Powers was on the stand, to refute Hufford.

Eric leaned toward her, to catch her up. “Powers purchased no gasoline from Hufford, and no chewing gum. Surprised?”

Law paced the stage, affecting irritation. “He states also that you purchased some cigarettes from him at that time.”

“I do not use cigarettes,” Powers said.

Dorothy did, then, in private. Confident, relaxed, she smoked in Powers’ car, riding along country roads where no one would see.

Morris began the cross and stood just below Powers, as though to engage in conversation. “How much money did you have on your person when you left Clarksburg to go up to see Mrs. Lemke and bring her back?”

“I had something like one thousand, eight hundred and seventy-five dollars. . . . I had that money . . . I had saved that money from my work.”

“What was your business or occupation at the time, Mr. Powers?”

“I was working at home.”

“And you were carrying that money in cash about your person. . . . I presume you must have been afraid of the bank?”

“I certainly was,” Powers said.

Then why, Morris questioned, had Powers deposited two thousand dollars cash on August 11, and seventeen hundred sixty dollars on August 21, a total of three thousand, seven hundred and sixty dollars?

“Well, we intended to use that money . . . that was only to be there temporarily, just for a few days.”

Morris looked at the jury. “And it was there until you were arrested, wasn’t it?”

“That is true.”

“And then what was left in that account you turned over by check to your wife?”

“I did.”

Morris persisted. “And that was a check for three thousand, six hundred and fifty-seven dollars and sixty-three cents?”

Emily rounded the figures: five hundred plus of Dorothy’s money for their expenses, Northborough to Clarksburg, including her last night at the Gore; one hundred or so to Law, for his services did not come cheap, and the rest, over thirty-six hundred, windfall for Luella and Eva Belle.

“I reckon that is correct,” Powers was agreeing. “I haven’t the cents, the amounts.”

“The fact of the matter is, Mr. Powers, you have gone under the name of Rogers.”

Emily sat forward. The entire press section was still.

“Never have,” Powers said.

“Do you remember when they had the Boyd Robinson trial out at West Union, some time ago?” Morris looked up at him.

“No, I don’t recall that.”

“Did you attend the trial of Boyd Robinson?”

“No.”

“Wait a minute.” Morris held up a hand, as though to caution him. “In the circuit court of Doddridge County, at West Union?”

“I have never been in that courthouse in all my life,” said Powers.

He was fond of that phrase, Emily noted.

Morris seemed to abruptly change course. He restated Powers’ testimony concerning the contents of Mrs. Lemke’s trunk, scattered around his Quiet Dell garage on August 20 or 21. “I presume you thought some person had unlawfully entered the garage and done that?”

Powers said, oddly, “I did not know what to think of it for a little while.”

Morris walked to center stage. He faced Powers only to deliver
questions, turning to the jury as Powers answered. “It was not done with your permission?”

“No, I did not give any permission for that.”

“You did not change the lock on the garage?”

“No, I had my opinion as to who done it and that was all.”

“Who did you think had done that?”

“I think either Rogers or Johnson.”

“Johnson did not know where the garage was, as far as you know?”

“No, but that was my opinion.”

“And Rogers was the only one that had a key to the garage?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you did not notify officers that someone had burglarized your garage?”

“I did not know that it had been done,” Powers said. “Rogers had a key to it and he could get in any time he wanted . . . he had some things to store.”

“Who stored the Eicher things in there?” Morris moved close to him. “The fact of the matter is, you took them out there.”

“I did not,” said Powers, like a child.

Morris leaned in, nearly shouting. “Did you meet Rogers or anyone else, or give them permission to store them there?”

“He could store anything he wanted,” Powers said.

“Did you have an agreement of some kind with this man, Rogers?”

“Just a verbal understanding was all.”

Morris turned away, speaking rapidly. “I asked you earlier if you attended the Boyd Robinson trial in Doddridge County. I ask you now if you attended the trial of the case of
State versus Boyd Robinson
at the March term, 1930, of the criminal court of Doddridge County in the old courthouse building?”

“I don’t recall that I did . . .”

“Well, answer yes or no if you can.”

“I will say no.” He seemed slightly fatigued.

Morris called out, “Is Mrs. Alice Bartlett here?”

Sheriff Grimm spoke from the right side of the stage, behind the wings. “Yes, sir, she is here.”

A short, full-figured woman walked onto the stage. Her calf-length dress, apricot brocade or satin, too celebratory for a court appearance, shone in the lights. She was fifty or so, very fair, with the blue eyes and pink cheeks of a bisque doll, her hair completely covered with a black cloche hat. The ruched V-neck of the dress drew the eye to her full, well-supported breasts. She gazed at Powers.

Morris addressed him. “Mr. Powers, I will ask you if you know Mrs. Alice A. Bartlett, who is standing at your right.”

Powers glanced at her. “I do not believe I am acquainted with the lady.”

“Did you ever see her without knowing who she was?” persisted Morris.

“I don’t recall,” Powers said.

“I will refresh your memory . . . and ask you again if you attended the Boyd Robinson trial . . . and if you sat next to or near Mrs. Bartlett at that trial.”

Powers looked about him, sensing that he must tread carefully. “What was this man, Robinson, charged with, and maybe I could recall it better.”

Sheriff Grimm, standing just out of sight of the stage, called in, “Stealing chickens.”

“I don’t recall,” Powers said, though Morris hadn’t asked.

Morris dismissed him, and called Mrs. Bartlett to the stand. She waited as Powers took his chair, watching him openly, then moved forward to put her hand on the Bible and be sworn. She sat as though pleased, shrugging her cropped, dark coat to her shoulders. Her ample breasts moved in the dress. She wore a large oval locket on a beaded gold chain.

Morris walked about the stage, asking her to recall the trial of the
State versus Boyd Robinson,
Criminal Court of Doddridge County, in the neighboring town of West Union, March term, 1930.

Yes, Alice Bartlett answered. She did recall.

Morris reminded her: this trial was one in which Mr. Robinson was accused of stealing chickens from the farm of C. O. Young.

Law pushed back in his chair at the counsel table. “Objection!
What have we to do with a chicken thief?” He opened his arms to Judge Southern, provoking ripples of laughter in the gallery.

Southern glowered. “The court will be the judge of that. Overruled! Proceed.”

“Exception!” proclaimed Law, writing.

Morris established that Alice Bartlett lived in West Union, and asked why she took an interest in the Robinson trial.

She went by herself to the trial that afternoon, Mrs. Bartlett said, “because I met Boyd Robinson’s sister on the street and she remarked to me that she felt so bad that none of her neighbors, or none of the women she knew, was taking any interest in the trial.”

And where was Mrs. Bartlett sitting in the courtroom? Morris asked.

“I was not sitting very far back,” she said, “in the place reserved for the audience.”

Morris approached her, his hands clasped behind his back. “I will ask if you know the defendant, Harry F. Powers?”

“Well,” she replied, her hand at her neck. The gold locket gleamed up at her clavicle. “I saw him there that day; I recognized him from the newspapers, as being at the trial.”

Did she mean that she saw Powers in March 1930, at the Boyd Robinson trial? And recognized Powers in his newspaper photo, and so came forward, to testify here today?

“Yes.” She looked at Powers, across the room. “He is the same man, and he was at the trial that day.”

“Where did he sit, with reference to where you were?”

“He came in and sat right down by the side of me.”

“Mrs. Bartlett, I will ask if either of you started a conversation.”

Alice Bartlett leaned forward. “He did. The first thing he said, he asked me if I was a witness, and I said, ‘No,’ and then he said, ‘Rogers is my name.’ He says, ‘I am very well acquainted with the Youngs.’ He says, ‘I buy lots of stock of them.’ He says, ‘I have a big stock farm and store, and I am manager for an electric sweeper company.’ And I turned around and remarked to him, ‘That is nice,’ and when I turned around to make him that answer I saw he
had laid his arm on the back of my seat, and I moved toward the edge of the seat, and then he reached over and asked me my name. I replied by asking him to take his arm down off of the back of my seat, and I said, ‘See now that you do it.’ ”

“Did either of you move away from the other?” Morris asked.

Alice Bartlett pulled at the fingertips of one gloved hand with the other. “He took his arm down then and only remained a very short time . . . until he got up and stepped to the back in the courtroom, or went out, I don’t know where. I did not see no more of him.” She touched her throat. The gold locket winked as she moved; it was large, nearly two inches round, and set with a stone, a diamond, from the catch of the light.

“Mrs. Bartlett,” Morris said. “Are you sure of your identification of the defendant?”