Carried to the Grave and Other Stories

by Leslie Budewitz

  “The Piegan. One of the Blackfeet tribes?” She’d seen Indian families a few times since her arrival, first from the train, then when they’d taken the Model T and camped in the brand-new Glacier National Park, christened this past May. Some people feared the Indians, called them savages or worse, but she saw no reason for that kind of talk or distrust. A band of Menominee had lived near her grandparents’ farm and her grandfather had often traded with them, and let them hunt in the woods down by the creek.

  “That’s right. London wanted to roust ’em, but they were no more than a couple of families doing no harm.” Paddy cradled the thick white mug. “This does a body good, Kate, your fine tea and your cake. The air’s beginning to take on a chill, and tramping around like that, never sure what we’d find . . .”

  He pressed his lips together and shook his head, and she was grateful she’d been able to give him some comfort, slim as it might be.

  “Will you join the search again tomorrow? In the daylight?” she asked. Daylight. The word kept pestering her.

  “Not me. The shop won’t run itself. I’m good for identifying who’s been in and out, who’s new in town, but I’m not so good at reading signs and trails of men on the run.”

  She didn’t believe that for a minute. Far as she could see, Paddy Murphy could do anything he put his mind to.

  “They’re long gone by now, I expect,” he continued. “Spending the night in a camp deep in the woods, or in an old homesteader’s shack.”

  She thought of the two loggers who’d been in the Mercantile today. Not that she suspected either of them. But there were plenty of men on their own in these parts, working for themselves, living alone or in pairs, some quite rough. They came into Jewel Bay or Somers, the mill town across the lake, to sell their labor and pick up supplies, and otherwise went unaccounted for, except by a sharp-eyed shopkeeper. Not like life back in Baraboo.

  “Paddy, about Grace.”

  She felt his blue eyes on her.

  “We have to keep her, Paddy, until it can be decided what’s to be done. She has no family to speak of. Her father’s people are all gone. Her mother died three years ago, and the only relative she knows of is her grandmother, who blamed Reverend Haugen for her daughter’s death and wanted nothing to do with him or Grace. I’ll write to her, of course, if we can find an address, but it could be weeks before we hear. I know quarters are tight, and it’s another mouth to feed, but we’ve got to do right by her. I can’t let the sheriff send her to some orphanage in Helena or God knows where. She’s just a girl, Paddy, a smart, sweet girl alone in the world.”

  Paddy set his mug on the table, stood, and wrapped his arms around her. “Darling Kate. Your heart is bigger than you are. We’ll keep her as long as need be. And don’t worry about feeding her. You married a grocer.”

  “And the dog?” Buster had raised his head at the disturbance, then lowered it again.

  “And the dog.”

  Kate felt her body soften, her heart open, tears flow as she embraced this man. Her husband. Who grew up with so little and was so determined to make a life for her, for them, to make their shop the beating heart of this rough diamond of a town.

  ∞

  Kate sat up. What was that sound? Was someone lurking outside?

  She ran a hand over her forehead, brushing back the fine hair that had escaped her braid. Yesterday’s events came back to her, a rush of tangled memories. The thieves. Reverend Haugen, dead on the altar of his church.

  The girl. Grace.

  The dog.

  That’s what she was hearing. Kate slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb Paddy, and pulled on her dressing gown. She found their guests in the kitchen. At some point during the night, Grace had wakened, no doubt surprised to find herself asleep on the Murphys’ sofa, fully dressed except for her shoes. She’d changed into her nightgown, visible under her coat, her feet bare inside her shoes, as she attempted to work the pump over the iron sink to refill Buster’s water after his predawn trip outside.

  “Let me help you,” Kate said. “It sticks sometimes.” It was a long reach for a short woman like her, and naturally, this was the moment that the handle decided to get good and stuck. Finally, using all four hands, the two managed to raise the handle and set the water flowing. Grace filled Buster’s bowl and Kate filled the kettle, and between them, they managed to get the handle down, then traded looks, stifling giggles.

  That’s where they were when Paddy walked into the kitchen, in pants and undershirt, his mustache damp.

  “And what female shenanigans do we have going on here?”

  Grace’s brow wrinkled and she bit her lip, but Kate could see Paddy’s eyes were twinkling.

  “Sit, you two,” she said. “Out of my way while I get breakfast on.”

  At the word “sit,” Buster sat. So did Grace, still wrapped in her coat, in Paddy’s chair. Paddy disappeared and Kate began cracking eggs and frying ham. She enjoyed cooking, though the kitchen was small and cramped, and the cookstove temperamental. Memories of mornings in her mother’s kitchen came unbidden, the chaos of four girls, her big-bellied father grinning as they teased and poked each other. What did Grace remember of mornings with her mother? What would she remember of her father, and of this painful time?

  Paddy returned with a wooden crate, which he placed at the side of the table with a gesture that made clear that would be his seat, and Kate gave him a grateful look. At her direction, he chopped leftover roast and potato for the dog. The collies at her grandparents’ farm had eaten table scraps and chewed on bones not meant for the soup pot. They’d have plenty for the sturdy brown critter. Then Paddy poured Grace a glass of milk—they didn’t keep a cow but bartered with a neighbor, and the pitcher was running low, so she’d have to take care of that.

  The water boiled.

  “When I was a lad,” Paddy said to Grace as he made the coffee, “my ma and pa eked three, sometimes four days of brew out of one pot of grounds. That’s how poor we were. By the fourth day, the stuff was so weak you could see right through it.”

  Kate glanced over her shoulder and saw Grace smile.

  “And I told myself,” he went on, his brogue growing thicker as the tale grew taller, “that when I was a man, I’d make my coffee so strong you could walk across it.”

  Grace’s smile widened.

  Kate set plates of fried eggs and ham on the table and took her seat. Paddy perched on the crate and reached for her hand, then Grace’s. The girl hesitated, then took it.

  “Bless us, Lord God,” Paddy said, “and this food we are about to eat, thy gift. Thank you, Lord, for keeping young Grace safe from the evil that took her father from her. From us. He was a good man, and we know you are welcoming him to your flock. We ask you to guide Deputy Gibson and his men as they continue their search, so we may have justice in this world as well as the next. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Kate repeated, and heard Grace echo the word in a small voice.

  ∞

  Breakfast over, Paddy finished dressing and left for the Mercantile. Kate let Grace wash and dress in their bedroom, no bigger than it needed to be but more private than the front room, then took her own turn, putting on a dark burgundy skirt Alice had made for her and a white blouse. When she came out, Grace was sitting in the kitchen, Buster at her side, her book open on the table. She’d washed the plates and forks and left them to dry on a towel on top of the cabinet beside the sink.

  “I didn’t know where you keep the dishes.”

  “That’s just fine, Grace.” Kate poured herself the last of the coffee and added a splash of milk. It wasn’t as strong as Paddy liked to claim, but close.

  But the moment she sat across from the girl, a wave of despair struck her. As the third of four, Kate had not spent her own childhood looking after younger ones. She’d watched Alice’s children many times, but they were small. Not eleven like Grace, her mind and body changing by the day, orphaned in shocking circumstances. Kate and Paddy wanted children
, naturally, but she expected—her mother and Alice had assured her of this—that she’d learn by doing when they came along.

  So that’s what she’d have to do now.

  First task, baking. Three pies—one for Miss Lang, and at Grace’s suggestion, another for Mr. Gregory and his nephew. The boy lived with his uncle during the week so he could attend school—he was a year ahead of Grace—and went home to his parents’ farm on weekends. Grace chatted easily as they peeled and sliced the apples, but after Kate placed the last top crust and slid the pies into the oven, she saw that the girl’s eyes were moist, her skin pale.

  “Do you want to tell me about your father?” she asked. “He seemed like a good man.”

  “Oh, he was, Mrs. Murphy. He was the best father in the world,” Grace blurted. “I don’t care what my horrid old grandmother says about him. He loved my mother and he loved me, and everything he did, he did for us. And for God, but for us first. Is that a terrible thing to say?”

  “No, not at all.” She led the girl to the table, where she sprinkled two bowls of sliced apples with sugar and poured in the last of the milk. “I think taking care of the people closest to us is the best way to serve God. We can’t help others until we do that, can we?”

  Arval Haugen, she learned, had been orphaned as a small boy and farmed out to distant relatives, good godly people by his daughter’s account, who had never met the couple, now long gone, except through her father’s stories. He’d been cared for, loved even. It was a common enough story, but her heart ached to think of the cycle repeating itself with Grace.

  “What happened to the farm?” she asked. Perhaps it had remained in the family, a family who would welcome his only child.

  “It was lost in the Panic.”

  The Panic of 1893, which had changed so much for so many. Kate had been small herself then, but she’d heard talk.

  “And he met your mother in church, playing the piano?”

  “In Chicago, during his theology training. His classmate was engaged to her best friend, and invited him to go along to her church for services. They stood up for each other at their weddings.”

  Might this couple take her, if the grandmother didn’t come through?

  “They’re missionaries in Africa,” Grace continued. “They write to us about the people they meet and the strange plants and animals. I got to tell their stories to the other kids when we studied Africa in geography class.”

  So they could not take the girl. But she should write to them as well.

  They finished their fruit, and Kate asked the question she’d been dreading. Better that she know the answer before Deputy Gibson questioned the girl.

  “Grace, did anyone dislike your father? Except for your grandmother. What is her name?”

  “Agnete Swensen. My mother was Freya, and I’m Freya Grace.”

  “A lovely name. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm him? Anyone he argued with, or who threatened him?”

  “He didn’t argue with anyone, Mrs. Murphy.” Grace clasped her hands in front of her. “No one.”

  But clearly, someone had taken their rage out on the reverend. It was good that the girl had been protected from that evil. But if she didn’t know, who did? Kate did not believe that any thieves smart enough to know the value of two silver candlesticks would carry out their bold burglary when they were likely to be seen. When the presence of the dog and bicycle suggested that someone might be in the church, even if they didn’t know it was the reverend himself.

  “Did he seem worried?”

  Not that Grace knew. There had been no unusual visitors. Mr. Peterman had come by to discuss church finances, and Miss Lang had dropped in to ask if there were any funds to pay her brother for doing odd jobs. Grace thought the answer was no; most church work was done by volunteers. If any volunteers had seen anything suspicious, they would tell the deputy. Whom Kate prayed would find the killer soon.

  While the pies cooled, they tidied up. Then they packed Paddy’s lunch and the pie and headed for the school. It was impossible not to pass by the church. Grace walked very close to Kate, who took her hand and squeezed it.

  They found Anne Lang seated at the desk in her empty classroom, her pupils playing in the yard between school and church. Smells of chalk and woodsmoke mingled in the air. At the sight of them, she rose.

  “Mrs. Murphy. Grace. I didn’t expect to see you today.”

  “We brought you a pie,” Grace said and held out the basket with the warm pie, wrapped in a white tea towel. A plain towel. Kate dare not share her ragged embroidery with this accomplished woman, beside whom she felt young and awkward.

  “Thank you.” The teacher took the basket. “Frank will be particularly pleased. I manage a decent Sunday roast, but pie is beyond my meager kitchen skills.”

  Kate had seen Frank Lang in the post office across the street from the Mercantile. One shoulder was lower than the other and he dragged one foot behind him as he walked. She guessed him a few years younger than Anne, but it was hard to tell.

  “We were also hoping to pick up some schoolwork for Grace,” Kate said. “So she doesn’t fall behind.”

  “Little chance of that. She’s one of my best pupils. But I’d be happy to find a book or two. Grace, why don’t you fetch your slate, so you can practice your sums? You can take a fresh piece of chalk from the cupboard.” The girl obeyed and the two women moved toward a bookcase on the far wall.

  “How is she doing?”

  “Well, I think. She’s talked about him, and her mother, and cried a little, which I think is good. Less than I would have, but she seems a stoic child. If that’s the right word.”

  Anne Lang nodded. “It’s good that she’s with you. You’re kind, but no-nonsense.”

  Kate wasn’t entirely sure that was a compliment.

  “Not that I would expect any nonsense from Grace. She’s eleven,” the teacher continued. “Almost a young lady. I am not of the opinion that children should be protected from unpleasant truths that affect them. They simply need to be spoken with in a way they can understand. Grace is intelligent and imaginative. Her mind will fill in what she doesn’t know, and what she imagines may well be worse than the truth.”

  Kate shuddered. Anne Lang had not seen the body. She had.

  She took the books. “Grace told me that you came to see her father a few days ago. Possibly to ask about employment for your brother—she wasn’t sure.”

  Anne’s jaw tightened and her shoulders stiffened.

  “Did he seem worried to you?” Kate continued. “Did he mention any—oh, disagreements?”

  “You’re asking if I know who might have wanted to kill him.”

  Kate felt herself flush.

  “And no.” The teacher’s tone softened. “As I told Daniel Gibson, I don’t know who could possibly have done such a wretched thing.”

  At the sound of footsteps, they turned to see Grace, holding her slate against her chest, her gaze darting from one woman to the other.

  “Mrs. Murphy, I’ll take your students for the rest of the week,” Anne Lang said, then smiled at Grace. “We’ll give your star pupil a few days off.”

  Kate handed Grace the books and the girl sat at the nearest desk, turning pages.

  “I’d like to keep her out of school another day, if you think that’s advisable. She can make a fresh start on Monday. You’re sure she has no family other than the grandmother?”

  “I’m sure. Have you spoken with her about the funeral?”

  Kate had barely thought about that. Anne touched her arm. “Don’t give it another thought. The sexton and church members will take care of everything.”

  But as Kate gathered up her young charge and started off for the Mercantile, she thought of little else.

  ∞

  Woman and girl made their way to the town’s growing business district. At the north end stood the Jewel Bay Inn, built earlier in the year, a two-story white frame structure with a high false front and
a porch that spanned the width of the hotel.

  On the west side of Front Street stood the Jewel Bay State Bank, as impressive as any back home. A man on his way out tipped his hat and offered his condolences, as did others they met. Word of the reverend’s death had spread like the fires of last August.

  An empty wagon parked in front of the Mercantile reminded Kate that Paddy might need to make deliveries this afternoon, requiring her to keep shop for a few hours. Even when he hired a delivery man, he was counting on her to work by his side. The prospect was both exciting and frightening.

  “There’s my bride,” Paddy cried when she pushed open one of the double doors. “There’s my Mrs. Murphy.”

  A cheer went up from the men clustered in front of the hardware display and Kate knew her skin was betraying her.

  Then Paddy caught sight of the girl. “Hush now,” he said. “It’s Reverend Arval’s girl she’s got with her and we want to show the man our respect.”

  The hubbub stilled. One of the men stepped forward and stood in front of Grace. “Aye, lass,” he said in a thick Scottish brogue. “Your father was a good man, doing good work. Never a harsh word, never a quarrel.”

  There was a general murmur of agreement. But had that been true, Kate asked herself, one hand on Grace’s thin back. Had the man been killed for a reason, a quarrel, none of them suspected?

  The place was busy. Kate set the basket with Paddy’s lunch on the steps to the tiny office under the eaves. Showed Grace where they hung their coats, then plucked her apron off another hook.

  “What a beautiful day,” she said to the girl. “The season will be changing soon. You might sit on the bench out back and read one of the books Miss Lang gave you. Keep the mule company.”