Small Favors

by Erin A. Craig

  Throughout the church, noses sniffed and tears were pressed into beautifully decorated handkerchiefs—most of them embroidered by Old Widow Mullins herself. She’d had the loveliest needlework in all the Falls, having spent most of her days hunched over a wooden hoop. Her crooked fingers would dance through her supplies, taking obvious pleasure in the creations. The skeins of collected thread were so colorful and dazzling, her kit resembled more a treasure chest than a sewing box.

  I wondered who would inherit it, now that she was gone.

  Winthrop, probably, though I couldn’t picture him knowing what to do with it.

  I had often tagged along with Sam when he’d play at the Mullinses’ house. Winthrop’s parents had died young, leaving him to his grandmother’s care. He’d had little patience for her gentler arts, and she, well into her seventies, hadn’t had the energy to race after children. Their house had always been full of laughter and too many neighborhood boys, drawn to Winthrop and his endless supply of mischief.

  There was a soft rustle across the aisle, and Simon and Rebecca Briard slipped into the pew, eyebrows drawn with contrition.

  “Forevermore,” the parson repeated, his train of thought momentarily derailed as he frowned admonishingly at his tardy son and daughter-in-law. “Let us pray.”

  Everyone’s heads bowed as Parson Briard launched into his invocation, imploring God to grant mercy on Old Widow Mullins’s soul and accept her into the Heavenly hereafter. To my left, Sadie squirmed uncomfortably, and I pressed her hands together in an attitude of prayer. My eyes darted over to Rebecca before I could stop myself.

  I hadn’t seen her in months, not since the morning she and Simon had come over, brimming with accusations. Judging from the curious looks of those surrounding her, no one else had seen her either. Her hands were spread wide over the outrageous curve of her belly, as if trying to somehow press it into a less conspicuous shape. The weight of the prying stares must have been unbearable.

  At least Samuel wasn’t here to add to her discomfort. Half a dozen of Judd Abrams’s heifers had gone into labor, and the promised money was apparently too great an allurement for my twin. Merry had marched over to the ranch that morning and begged for him to come to the funeral with us. Old Widow Mullins had always been fond of Samuel, giving him one of her most prized handkerchiefs on his sixteenth birthday—yellow daffodils surrounding his initials. He’d snorted with derision when Merry had suggested he step away from the ranch on this one day to honor her.

  After a short sermon, the parson invited anyone wishing to share a memory to come to the front. Several of the older members of the Falls came forward, telling stories that best exemplified the widow’s kindness and surprisingly wicked sense of humor.

  “You should go up,” I murmured to Ezra. He sat on the other side of me, shifting back and forth as if his collar was too tight.

  “I wouldn’t know what to say.” He took off his spectacles and polished them as Cora Schäfer headed up.

  “Papa and you were at her house all the time as boys,” I said, recalling stories my father had told of afternoons spent running the then-not-widow ragged. “You used to play so many pranks on the poor woman, but she always laughed it off. Like the time you brought her that pie.”

  Ezra’s lips rose, remembering.

  “But it was just a tin of bees, covered in a cloth.” I paused. “Papa said you were stung so many times.”

  He nodded. “What clowns we believed we were.”

  “Only…” I thought hard, a burr of importance prodding at me. The way Papa had told the story, Ezra had been stung so much on his backside, he could hardly sit the next day. “You’re allergic to bees, though, aren’t you?”

  Ezra stilled, and though he kept his smile, a bit of wariness crept into his eyes.

  “Well…after being stung that much, people develop allergies. It’s a wonder I made it out alive, really.”

  Whitaker’s concern washed over me. He’d insisted something was off with Ezra and Thomas. I’d thought he was only deflecting our conversation, but now I wondered if there wasn’t more to it. Uneasiness pooled uncomfortably in the pit of my stomach.

  “Well…if you don’t want to talk about the pranks…why don’t you say something about the quilt she made for you?” I said carefully, thinking of all the embroidery Widow Mullins had done for the Falls. It was a running joke that despite her pristine stitches, she was a terrible quilter, never having the patience to create something so large and time-consuming. “Papa said she worked on it for months, trying to get the poppies just right.”

  “I could, I suppose,” he said, but he remained planted in the pew. “It was a lovely quilt. Nice and warm on even the coldest nights.”

  I looked back to the front of the sanctuary, my heart galloping in my chest.

  It was possible to develop an allergy later on in life, and I probably couldn’t remember every gift ever given to me in childhood.

  But why not come out and admit it?

  Ezra’s lies didn’t prove anything exactly, but it also didn’t look good.

  I decided to try one last thing.

  “What about the time when you and her daughter Betsy got caught out by the Greenswold? What was it she said to you?”

  “Ellerie, my memories of her are from so long ago. I’d rather listen to those who knew her better.”

  “Well…we should at least give Betsy our condolences after the service,” I pressed, waiting for him to guess my game.

  “Absolutely.” He nodded and turned his attention back to the front, unaware of my discomfort.

  Old Widow Mullins had never had a daughter.

  She’d had one son, Winthrop’s father. Christopher. He and Ezra had been especially close before my uncle had disappeared.

  It was possible to forget all sorts of things, but remembering a girl instead of your best friend seemed unlikely.

  As Cora returned to her seat, Violet Buhrman slipped up the steps. She adjusted the collar of her dark shirtwaist with fidgety hands.

  I tapped my foot unconsciously, hoping Violet would say her piece quickly. I couldn’t wrap my mind around everything, with so much noise going on around me. The stories, the sniffles. I needed somewhere quiet to think through why Ezra would lie.

  Not Ezra, a tiny voice in my head whispered. He’s not Ezra.

  “Widow Mullins was a dear old soul, and she will be greatly missed,” Violet began. “She was always kind to me and Calvin…and I think everyone knows Amity Falls will be a little less without her presence.”

  “Of that we can all agree,” Parson Briard said, sensing the crowd’s attention was beginning to flag.

  “A true Christian woman,” Violet continued. “Never putting others down, never judging—and she certainly wasn’t too high and mighty to come have dinner or a drink at the tavern. Not like some.”

  Several people around me shifted in their seats, sneaking surreptitious glances at Prudence and Edmund Latheton. It was no secret the Lathetons were teetotalers and often butted heads with the tavern keepers.

  I snuck a glance at Ezra, examining him with fresh eyes.

  Martha McCleary had said he was the spitting image of my father, a Downing through and through, but as I studied his jawline and the curve of his cheekbones, even the shade of his hair, it was all wrong. A close approximation, but not quite right.

  Violet’s eyes burned brightly with anger, her fingers digging into the sides of the lectern. “Not like some,” she repeated, “who would dare to take and destroy things that aren’t theirs, who would hurt and maim defenseless animals.”

  “Animals?” The parson’s echo was laced with confusion.

  “That shrew murdered my nanny goat!” she screamed, sending a shock wave across the congregation. All my thoughts of Ezra disappeared as Violet struck her palm against the pulpit.

&nbs
p; “My wife would never do such a thing!” Edmund Latheton said, jumping to his feet half a beat after Prudence prodded him in the ribs.

  Parson Briard held up his hands. “Can you tell us what happened, Violet? I’m sure we can get to the bottom of this.”

  Her nose flared. “No need to get to the bottom of anything. I know who did it and I want retribution! The Elders need to—” She stopped short, looking about the sanctuary. “Where are the Elders?”

  We looked about, noticing their absence.

  “Amos said he’d be here soon,” Martha McCleary answered. “Said something needed tending to.”

  The Elder had not been seen since the market day in February, and a dark conspiracy was whispered among some that Amos had died and the other Elders were covering it up, giving them time to plan for his successor.

  “We have things that need tending to,” Violet said, jumping onto the older woman’s words. “Calvin—tell them!”

  Her husband stood up, peering anxiously about the congregation. “It’s true—someone did slaughter our goat in the night. When Violet went out to milk her this morning…” He swallowed deeply, unable to continue.

  “I opened the door and was greeted by her head on a spike. Nearly scared me to death! Just like she wanted,” Violet hissed, glowering at Prudence.

  “That’s an unfortunate situation—” Parson Briard began.

  “ ‘Unfortunate’ doesn’t even begin to cover it, Preacherman,” Violet snapped.

  “But you can’t make accusations on conjecture and hearsay,” the parson continued.

  “I know it was them. Tell them about the hammer, Calvin! Tell them!”

  He scratched at the back of his head. “The weapons were left behind. A handsaw and a strange little wooden hammer. Looks an awful lot like a carpentry mallet.” He glanced meaningfully at Edmund.

  “Those tools were stolen from my workshop weeks ago!” Edmund roared. “I haven’t been able to finish any of my projects!”

  Prudence narrowed her eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised if those two stole them, then killed the goat in the middle of a drunken escapade.”

  “Now, look you here—” Violet started, launching herself down the steps. Parson Briard caught her before she reached Prudence, and lashed his arm about her waist as she struggled. “Unhand me, Preacher! This isn’t none of your concern!”

  “By accusing Prudence Latheton in front of all of Amity Falls, you’ve made it my concern,” he said, wincing as she threw a bony elbow into his gut. “Now, calm down and we’ll discuss this like rational adults.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss. I didn’t do a damn thing!” Prudence insisted, fighting her way into the aisle. She charged up, pointing her finger like a dagger at the tavern mistress.

  “Enough!” Parson Briard’s voice boomed into the rafters. “Accusations and curses hurled in the house of the Lord! I will not tolerate it! Stand down before I throw both of you out myself!” He wiped a trembling hand over his ruddy cheeks. “This is no way to behave, not here, not ever. May I remind you you’re at a funeral? What would Ruth Anne say if she could see what’s going on?”

  Violet pressed her lips together, looking almost remorseful.

  Prudence folded her arms across her chest, clearly unwilling to let the matter die away. “She’d be appalled,” she quipped. “Just as I am. I came here to mourn the passing of my good friend—”

  Winthrop let out a soft snort. The Mullinses and the Lathetons had openly squabbled over minor annoyances for years.

  “My very good friend,” Prudence insisted, more loudly on her second attempt. “And this is how I’m treated? I won’t stand for it.”

  She turned on a sharp heel and stormed out of the church without a backward glance. After a moment’s pause, Edmund excused himself from the pew and trailed silently after his wife. The door closed behind him with a dull thud that settled over us all as we uncomfortably waited to see what would happen next.

  Parson Briard trudged to the pulpit. Running fingers over the open Bible, he took one deep breath, then another, as if struggling to recall what he was meant to be doing.

  “I know…,” he began, then cleared his throat. “I know tensions, and nerves, have been…frayed as of late.” He smiled at his understatement. “We’ve all suffered unimaginable hardships this winter. Lack of supplies, failed crops.” He let out a small, humorless laugh. “There was certainly no shortage of trials. Which is why…” He paused, thinking. “Which is why my family and I would like to host a social, this Saturday, on the town green, to celebrate the resilience of the Falls. We will roast chickens and a pig and…invite anyone able to bring their favorite dish to pass and share.” He brightened. “Thaddeus McComb—will you lend us your fiddle?”

  The farmer nodded.

  “Excellent. There will be songs and dancing, a true celebration of God’s unfailing abundance.” His face was radiant with inspiration. Then he faltered a step, looking out over the sea of black mourning clothes. “If no one else has any other words…we will now adjourn to the burial site.”

  * * *

  Mounds of freshly turned dirt dotted the sacred ground of the church cemetery, reminders of all the townsfolk who had not made it through the winter. The earth had been too frozen for the bodies to be buried, so they’d been kept in a little shed farther down on church property, waiting for spring.

  So many people had been buried in the last month, there had been no coffins ready when Widow Mullins had died, and hers had had to be hastily assembled. The wood was so green, it still bled sap as the four pallbearers carried it to the site. Corey Pursimon tried to wipe the sticky residue from his hands after they’d lowered the box into the gaping maw, and ruined his best dress pants.

  “We shall all receive the due reward of our deeds,” Parson Briard said, casting a gimlet eye over all who’d gathered. It landed and lingered on Violet Buhrman, appraising her thoughtfully.

  Winthrop Mullins, eyes red and wet, was the first to throw in a handful of dirt.

  It landed on the pine box with a thud as loud as cannon fire, signaling the start of the burial. We all came forward to say one final prayer at the foot of the widow, then scooped up a handful of rich black earth and dropped it into the depths. With quick work, the coffin was covered, and most of the townspeople headed to the Gathering House for a shared luncheon, leaving the heavier work for Simon Briard to finish.

  “Let’s go home,” Merry said, watching the crowd wander away. “I’m exhausted, and now we’ve got to make something for a picnic, tomorrow? Doesn’t the parson know no one has anything to make?”

  “We can think about it on the way home,” I said, privately agreeing with her.

  “Oh,” Ezra murmured, waylaying us as we slipped out of the graveyard. “Ellerie, you wanted to speak with Betsy Mullins, didn’t you?”

  “Who?” Sadie asked, cocking her head curiously at him.

  Ezra’s expression faltered for a quick second, and as our eyes met, recognition flickered over his face.

  He knew I knew.

  But what was it that I knew?

  Ezra had lied about so many things. Things he should have known.

  Things he should have known if he was…

  If he was Ezra.

  “It’s fine,” I said with a forced smile. “I’m sure I’ll see her at the social.”

  The man who was not my uncle nodded and stepped through the gate, heading back toward our farmhouse.

  He said something to Merry to make her laugh, and as I watched them go, a dark bloom of dread unfurled within my chest.

  If he was not the man we’d assumed he was, if he was not Ezra, not my uncle, not a Downing, then who the devil was he?

  “Lunch?” Sadie asked hopefully the moment we returned home.

  I started toward the kitchen, then stopped. I ought
to change out of my black dress first.

  I turned for the loft but stopped again.

  I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to be around anyone. I needed a moment to myself, but the house felt fuller than ever.

  Ezra wasn’t who he claimed to be.

  Which meant Thomas wasn’t either.

  “Is there anything we can do to help, Ellerie?” my not-uncle asked, standing in the middle of the doorway, appraising me.

  Neither of them were who they said they were, and I—an absolute fool—had welcomed them into our home with open arms.

  I shook my head and changed my mind again, going into the kitchen. I backed into Thomas and nearly jumped out of my skin.

  They were everywhere, impossible to escape.

  “How about scrambled eggs?” Merry offered, giving me a strange look.

  She was worried.

  Good.

  “With the mushrooms I found yesterday,” Sadie suggested.

  Merry shook her head. “I threw them out this morning. They were already black with rot.”

  Her face fell.

  “I know,” I began, my voice sounding octaves too high. “I think I saw a couple of jars of Mama’s bean soup in the barn. Where Papa was storing the extra stock. I’ll grab one.”

  Merry had to have known I was lying. We’d scoured every inch of the farm looking for supplies when we’d drawn up our first inventory. The barn had been empty of food.

  I hated to speak falsely, but I couldn’t stand to be trapped in the house any longer. I needed to think. Needed to plan.

  How would I get these men out of our home?

  “Why don’t you come with me?” I asked, trying to steady my tone. I was certain Ezra knew something was wrong. “It would be good to have you hold the ladder, Merry.” I froze, realizing this left Sadie with the strangers, all on her own. “And, Sadie…the hens need their lunch. Will you check for eggs while you’re out there too?”