The Devil's Cold Dish (5 page)

“We have another day's haying at Aunt Caroline's,” David said in a flat tone. Rees turned to face David, willing the boy to look up. “Are you going to help? Or are you going to run off? Again.”

“I'm sorry I left. But the constable came for me.”

“If it were only today I wouldn't mind.” David darted a glance at his father. “If you left once in a while I would understand. But you never stay home. It's like you hate being here, hate being with me.”

“I don't hate being with you—” Rees began.

But David overrode him, speaking in a low, furious voice. “And when you do come home you bring a bunch of brats. You leave me behind but bring them home? I'm not good enough?”

“Of course you are,” Rees said. “It's just that—”

But David jumped to his feet, knocking his stool over and spilling the pail of milk on the ground. As he ran around the barn Rees thought he heard David utter a guttural sob.

Rees also got to his feet, although more slowly, and followed his son. David sprinted north, toward the abandoned Winthrop property and its sheltering orchard. Rees knew he had no chance of catching him. After spending a few seconds staring in the direction David had fled, Rees sat down once again and finished milking the last of the waiting cows. He would have to talk to his son. And what would he say? By David's lights, his father had chosen the orphans over him.

Grinding his teeth in frustration—nothing he did seemed to placate David—Rees released the cows into the meadow with the rest of the herd and carried the milk into the house.

“What happened?” Lydia asked when Rees came through the back door. “And what happened to your shirt?”

“Caldwell and I had to make a litter to carry Ward—” He stopped and looked at the children sitting at the table eating their suppers of cornbread and leftover stew pie. They were regarding him with interest.

When Rees had first met them they had been cold, hungry, and ragged. But in the few months since their arrival from Dover Springs in New York, fed as much good food as they could eat, they had all filled out. None of the tattered clothing in which they'd arrived fit and they all wore mismatched pieces cobbled together until Lydia could sew new clothing. “Oh, David spilled a pail of milk,” Rees said instead. Simon, who idolized David, looked up. Rees raised his eyebrows at Lydia, trying to indicate they would discuss this later.

“Put the rest of the milk in the pantry,” she said with a nod of understanding. “It's cool there. I'll take it to the dairy after supper.” Most of this milk was destined for butter and cheese. Like Dolly, Rees's first wife, Lydia was so skilled at dairying that her cheese and butter commanded high prices.

“Are you going to market this Saturday?” Rees asked, pouring some warm water from the kettle into the washbasin. He began to scrub his hands with the rough soap. Lydia hesitated. After a few seconds of silence, Rees turned to look at her.

“Maybe,” she said. To Rees, her smile looked forced. “I really should begin pulling the honeycombs from the hives.”

“What's the matter?” Rees asked. In the beginning of the summer she had loved going to market but lately she seemed reluctant. She held herself very still.

“Here's David,” Simon cried in excitement.

Rees looked at his son, whose eyes were blotched red, and turned back to the basin. The water had gone cold and gray. Rees rinsed his hands and dried them on a linen rag.

“Don't worry about the milk,” Simon said to David, trying to offer comfort.

Rees couldn't help himself; he turned around. Simon was smiling, his face alight with adoration.

“We'll milk again tomorrow, won't we, Squeaker?” David said in a husky voice. “You and me.”

“Yes, you and me,” agreed Simon with enthusiasm.

“Come on, Squeaker,” David said. “I'll take you to the lake and we can go swimming.” No one but David called Simon Squeaker. It was an insulting name but had become one of affection.

Rees glanced through the window. By the fingers of golden sunshine striping the yard and reflecting into the kitchen through the back door, he figured it was about seven. Less than two hours of daylight remained. “Be home before dark,” he said. He felt unexpectedly bereft as he watched the two boys go into the sunshine, play fighting and chasing one another around the yard. Rees knew he had lost his chance for such a bond with David, who had been about Simon's age when Rees had left on his first of many weaving journeys.

Lydia inspected her husband thoughtfully and then turned to Jerusha.

“If you've finished your supper,” Lydia said to the girl, “please take Nancy, Judah, and Joseph upstairs to bed.”

“Do I have to?” Jerusha asked.

“Yes. But then you may go outside. I'll do the dishes tonight,” Lydia said.

With a wide smile, Jerusha picked up Joseph, who was just beginning to walk, and urged the other two toward the front stairs. Nancy started to sob and protested she wasn't tired. Judah, seeing his older sister crying, burst into loud wails. Lydia closed the door to the front part of the house and the screaming faded to a murmur.

“What happened?” she asked Rees as she began collecting dishes.

“Sit down,” Rees said, putting his hand upon Lydia's shoulder and pressing her into a chair. Fatigue etched dark shadows under her eyes. Even with the assistance of Jerusha and Abigail, who came mornings, the effort of caring for the five children and all the other work besides was wearing his pregnant wife down.

“But the dishes,” she began, making as if to rise.

“I'll clear,” Rees said, collecting the small plates left upon the table. He began scrubbing the places where the children had been eating. The amount of crumbs and other spills continually amazed him and if the mess was not wiped up immediately it hardened into rock.

“So, what did the constable want?” Lydia asked, breaking into Rees's thoughts.

“Zadoc Ward was found shot to death,” he replied. Lydia paused for only a few seconds before rising to her feet and approaching Rees. She took his face into her hands and began examining him. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Looking for wounds,” she replied. “Investigating murders always seems to leave you with scars. I suppose I should be happy that this one only cost you a shirt.”

Rees laughed and pulled Lydia into his lap. In the aftermath of his argument with David, Ward's murder had dwindled in importance. “Trouble is there are so many who might want that man dead,” he said and kissed her firmly.

“Will, please. The children.” But she made no attempt to climb from his lap.

“He beat his wife,” Rees said. “She was bruised and limping and the children look half-starved.”

“I'll take a basket over tomorrow,” Lydia said instantly. “What is she going to do? Does she have anyone to take her in?”

“She says her parents…”

Several impatient knocks sounded on the front door. Rees kissed Lydia soundly and then, with a pained sigh, he helped her out of his lap and went to open the door. A frowning Caldwell was standing on the porch. “I have to talk to you,” he said and brushed past Rees.

 

Chapter Four

Rees hesitated for several seconds, not sure where to direct the constable. Despite Caldwell's recent efforts at washing he still smelled powerfully of tobacco and whiskey. Rees did not want to invite him into the front parlor. Although the coolest room in the house, the parlor housed their best furniture. The constable did not wait for an invitation. He began walking down the narrow hallway into the kitchen. “What happened?” Rees asked, hearing the resignation in his voice. He was already armoring himself against bad news.

Lydia had banked the fire in the kitchen but the room was still very warm. At the beginning of July Rees and David had moved the table closer to the back door, to catch every breeze, but Rees doubted it made any difference. Lydia was quickly clearing away the last of the supper things.

“Ale, Mr. Caldwell?” she asked. “Pie?”

“Yes, thanks. Both.” His eyes rested on her belly for a moment and he quickly turned away in embarrassment. “I have bad news for you. Magistrate Hanson doesn't want you involved in the investigation of Ward's death.”

“He doesn't?” Rees looked at the constable in disbelief. “Why not? Besides the fact that Piggy doesn't like me, I mean.”

Caldwell grimaced. “That's the point, isn't it? He doesn't.” Rees hesitated, considering. He'd known Piggy Hanson since they were boys together. Piggy had commonly told on the other boys to the adults and wouldn't let the truth get in the way of achieving his revenge on someone. Still, this seemed a little extreme even for him.

“All right, what happened? What aren't you telling me?” he asked. Caldwell's face worked; he didn't want to answer. “Come on,” Rees said.

“Mr. Farley accused you of murdering Zadoc Ward.”

The plate Lydia was holding clattered to the floor and smashed.

“He can't be serious,” Rees said, not removing his attention from the constable. Lydia stepped over the smashed dish and went to her husband. As he put his arm around her, she peered intently into his eyes. After several seconds she nodded and stepped away to fetch the broom.

“You surely aren't surprised Farley accused you,” Caldwell continued, sitting down at the table. He seemed more at ease now that the truth was out. “He said something on Little Knob. Remember?” He flicked a glance at the cut on Rees's cheek. “What's more, Farley isn't the only one who suspects you.”

Rees remembered Farley's comment but had assumed no one would heed him. “Piggy Hanson is too smart to believe that.”

“He is an especial friend of Molly Bowditch,” Lydia pointed out, bringing the pie to the table. “And she blames you for ruining her life. Besides, I suspect the magistrate resents your interference in his land schemes. Remember, Will, you persuaded several of the local widows not to invest in Mr. Hanson's plan to develop the western lands. And rightly so,” she added, turning a smile upon her husband. “They would have lost everything.”

Rees nodded glumly. “That's true.” He knew that, given the chance to remake the past he would do the same thing again.

“Maybe the magistrate wants to demonstrate his impartiality,” Caldwell suggested. He paused and then, the truth forcing its way from him, added, “I might do the same, if it were me. It's a protection for you too. That way, when I find the murderer and it isn't you, no one will claim you corrupted the investigation.”

Rees grunted and sat opposite the constable. “So, you're going to solve this one on your own?” He didn't realize how insulting that sounded until Caldwell shot him a glare.

“Yes. I don't need your help. And don't go around asking questions,” Caldwell said. “I don't want to hear of that.” Rees shrugged but did not promise. He couldn't push the words out.

“Do you have any ideas at all?” he asked instead.

Caldwell shook his head. “No one stands out. Ward fought with everyone, including Mr. McIntyre who gave him a job and a place to live. No matter how mean,” Caldwell added, catching Rees's expression. “Certainly his wife had reason to want him dead. But as a member of the gentler sex—” Interrupted by Rees's derisive snort, Caldwell stopped. “What?”

“We both know the gentler sex can and will commit murder,” Rees said in a dry tone. “And if Ward had been shot to death in the bedroom, I'd suspect her.”

“I doubt his wife has the necessary skill with a rifle,” Caldwell said.

“Certainly not for making the shot from Bald Knob to Little Knob,” Rees agreed. “That was the work of an experienced marksman. Anyway, her long skirts, and the injuries inflicted by her loving husband, would have prevented her from climbing that mountain.”

“That too,” Caldwell agreed.

“I'll bring her a basket,” Lydia said.

“I'm sure she'll appreciate it,” Caldwell said. “But do it soon. She's burying her husband tomorrow and leaving immediately after. There's no reason for her to stay here.”

“She's going alone? With just the children?” Rees asked.

“One of McIntyre's sons is going with her,” Caldwell said. “As I understand it, her family doesn't live far away from Dugard. Just a day or so south in Massachusetts. Since Augustus couldn't get to the farm soon enough, McIntyre is lending Mrs. Ward a wagon. His son will bring it back.” He paused and then added, “Most people seem relieved, not to say gladdened, by Ward's death.”

“Well, I for one am happy to hear you won't be involved,” Lydia said, turning an anxious gaze upon her husband. “This is one murder you do not need to solve.”

Rees said nothing. Now he would spend his time wondering how the investigation was going, who said what to whom, and to what conclusions Caldwell was coming. And there would be nothing to look forward to, nothing but haying and milking and other farm chores. Rees could not help exhaling a heartfelt sigh.

“Maybe I should bring the basket over now,” Lydia said, looking through the back door at the golden light outside.

“No need,” Rees said. “I'm going to the mill tomorrow to fetch our flour. I'll bring you with me. Mrs. Ward lives in one of Mac's shacks across the road.”

“Don't stop and visit,” Caldwell said to Rees. Although he sounded teasing, his eyes were serious. “I don't want anyone claiming you were her especial friend and she hired you to kill her husband.”

“But I met her for the first time today!” Rees exclaimed.

“Why would anyone say that?” Lydia said at the same moment.

“You know how people talk,” Caldwell said, his eyes shifting away from Rees's.

“Someone's accusing me of that too?” Rees said, horrified.

Caldwell hesitated. “The rumor is making the rounds in the Bull,” he said at last. “And there's already enough chatter about you there.”