by Harper Lin
“Thanks, Linus. Hey, you wouldn’t want to whisk me away to Willie’s for a couple of spins around the dance floor instead of sitting with my cousin for lunch, would you?” Becky whispered in Linus’s ear. She’d seen him more than once at Willie’s, always with a different girl on his arm, always with a big fat cigar.
“You know I would, but I’ve got to work,” Linus replied. He was old enough to be Becky’s father, but he enjoyed an innocent flirt nonetheless. “There you go breaking my heart. Well, maybe next time.”
Becky squeezed his arm before letting go and sauntering up to her mother and Fanny. They were seated at a table right smack in the middle of the room.
“What happened to our window seat?” Becky asked. Normally when she came to downtown Savannah with her mama, they would have lunch at Maxwell’s, sitting by the window to watch the people go by.
“Fanny said she was feeling a little head heavy and thought the sun shining on her might aggravate her condition,” Kitty answered. “It was the only seat available. Had I known you were going to dress the way you have today, I might have suggested a table in the far corner. As it is, several of the ladies of the Women’s Auxiliary are here and have already taken notice of us.”
“Aside from all that, I am famished,” Becky said, ignoring her mother. “I think I might just order myself some fried chicken. All Fanny’s talk about it has made me grow a craving the size of a catcher’s mitt.”
“Don’t you dare!” Kitty gasped. “Fanny was just telling me about how they frown on such things in Paris like eating poultry with your fingers. I don’t think they even serve fried chicken here.”
“I was just joking, Mama.” Becky shook her head. “I’m going to get my usual: tomato soup and crab cakes.”
“As I was telling Aunt Kitty, at the restaurants in Paris, it is offensive to leave a tip of any kind. They find us Americans truly silly for such a tradition.”
Fanny continued talking, although Becky wasn’t paying particular attention. She wasn’t being rude. That would do nothing except upset her mother. But suddenly Becky became keenly aware of what Fanny was saying.
“I wouldn’t turn around to look, but this woman has just walked in wearing a long coat that is completely out of season. Now, if she were in Paris, I doubt anyone at any respectable café would seat her. You just don’t do things like that.”
Becky had her back to the entrance and didn’t dare turn around. But she was sure that was the description of Mrs. Tobin. Was it really possible that two women were traipsing around town in long, heavy coats when it was a comfortable seventy-five degrees outside?
“Oh, I do believe I see Mrs. Penbroke with her husband. I just must say hello. Fanny, have you met the Penbrokes?” Kitty asked. “They just adore Becky. Why, Mrs. Penbroke thinks she’d make a fine wife and mother and has joked how terribly wonderful it would be if she were to settle down with one of their kin. We’d be related.” Kitty giggled.
“Mama, have you been drinking?” Becky asked.
“I’m going to go and say hello,” Kitty said, pushing away from the table.
“May I join you?” Fanny asked. Of course she’d want to meet the Penbrokes. Who wouldn’t? After all, if they adored Becky, they’d just explode with hysterical fits of passion for Fanny.
“Are you coming?” Kitty asked Becky.
“I’ll be there in just a moment, Mama. I think I have a snag in my trousers.”
Becky smiled awkwardly as her mother rolled her eyes and walked across the restaurant. All eyes were on Fanny. She made sure of that by swinging her hips like a pendulum. Becky could have ripped her trousers completely up the back, exposing her bloomers for the world to see, and no one would notice if Fanny were within ten feet of her.
“Miss Becky.” It was Linus. “A young lady asked me to give you this note. She wouldn’t stay or give her name.” He handed Becky a small, folded piece of paper. Inside was a warning.
The fire was just for show. It wasn’t an accident. But I’m afraid of what we’ve started. Don’t go near the rubble. Stay away from it, me, and everything.
If Mrs. Tobin thought her message would deter Becky from helping her, she was wrong. Now Becky was determined to check out not only the site of the fire but Mrs. Tobin’s homestead, too.
Chapter Ten
After arriving home from a grueling day of playing nice with Cousin Fanny just for Mama’s sake, Becky felt as if she’d swum the length of the Mississippi River. Her shoulders ached, her legs were like lead, and all she wanted was to rest in the quiet of her room. The idea of going out that night didn’t even appeal to her, especially if Fanny was going to be tagging along. Of course she wanted to see Adam, but the thought of him twirling a swooning, clinging Fanny Doshoffer in his arms made Becky shudder. How could he be so easily taken in by her when he had such a good head on his shoulders otherwise?
“Oh, I can’t think about it anymore. I’ll give myself a case of hives,” Becky grumbled as she pushed open her bedroom door and proceeded to flop down and sink a good three inches into her down comforter. Her entire body relaxed. She could have lain there for days.
“Knock-knock.” Fanny poked her head in.
Becky cursed her absentmindedness for not shutting the door. “Yes, Fanny?”
“I was just curious if you knew what plans there were for this evening? I was going to wear my new dress if you thought the occasion was special enough.” Fanny had purchased a bright-pink number that shimmered with every step. It was pretty and looked wonderful on her. Becky hated it.
“I think you’ll be on your own. I’m happy right where I am,” Becky replied, closing her eyes.
“Oh, I do hope you haven’t decided to pull yourself up tight like a little clam on account of me dancing with Adam last night?” Fanny pouted.
Becky’s eyes popped open, and she looked at her cousin but said nothing.
“He just wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“That’s fine, Fanny.” Becky closed her eyes again and folded her hands over her stomach as if she were lying in a casket for final viewing. All she needed was her rosary beads woven through her fingers.
“So you aren’t going out this evening?” Fanny prodded.
“Nope.” Becky thought she was telling enough of the truth to satisfy her cousin. Actually, Becky had plans to go out, but if Fanny thought the Crazy Calico was too rough and real, she certainly would have no desire to go to the ashy remains of the Ruthmeyer homestead or hop down a few miles to the Tobin farm.
It was well after eleven when Becky shinnied down the trellis wearing her slacks, a heavy sweater, and her hat to keep her disguised as well as warm. The temperature had dropped. It was a rare occurrence to have such a cold night before tobacco harvesting had started. Her breath came out in little plumes of steam as she took the same dirt road that Hugh Loomis had driven down when they first saw the smoke above the trees.
Thankfully, unlike the other night in the cemetery, all the creatures of the night were conducting their routine symphony. Crickets chirped to each other across the grass. High in the trees, the hoot owls serenaded the moon. Had she not been going to the scene of a grisly death, this would have been a lovely walk.
By the time she reached the remains of the Ruthmeyer house, she was sweating. There was nothing left of the structure except some beams and part of the front porch steps. In the small bit of light coming from the half moon, Becky could see some pipes jutting out of the foundation and what looked like a sink. There was also a good number of what looked like metal washtubs. They were blackened and bent, but there were quite a number of them. Why would anyone need so many washtubs?
“Of course. He was brewing his own hooch,” Becky said while snapping her fingers. “That’s the only reason anyone would have that many washtubs. And from the looks of it, you were a very busy man, Mr. Ruthmeyer. This many tubs could make a man a very pretty penny. Or get him in trouble with the already established rum runners.”
Be
cky decided she’d seen enough. There wouldn’t be any further digging into this death by the police. It was sure to have already been ruled just an unfortunate accident. What did the police care if one low-level bootlegger got burned alive? That was one less bootlegger they’d have to chase down. If an “accident” made their job easier, all the better.
Now that she had stopped walking, Becky was starting to feel a chill creep over her shoulders. Without lingering any longer at the Ruthmeyer property, she headed in the direction of the Tobins’ homestead.
Just the way Judge Mackenzie’s tobacco fields butted against John Ruthmeyer’s property, so did the Ruthmeyer property butt up against the Tobin property. The property lines were divided by a fence at the furthest end of the plot. It was no different from Judge’s fence. But unlike the relationship of mutual respect between Judge Mackenzie and Mr. Ruthmeyer, Mr. Tobin and Mr. Ruthmeyer were sworn enemies. Why? No one knew for sure—except maybe Mrs. Tobin.
Becky couldn’t stay on the road all the way to the Tobin farm without being seen from a dozen different angles. The house was built on a hill, surrounded by some rather unruly scrub and dense trees. By the time Becky reached a place where she could see the house clearly, she was sweating again. In order to maneuver silently through the trees and tall grass, Becky moved slowly. Reaching for the thin trees and using them for balance before taking a step made the procedure painfully tedious but as silent as snow falling.
More than likely, inside the house, there was a shotgun by both the front door and the back. A man who lived on a piece of property like this was ready to confront any trespassers. He’d be completely within his rights to shoot first and ask questions later.
Still, Becky was worried about Mrs. Tobin. She was afraid that Mr. Tobin was going to do to her the same thing he had done to Ruthmeyer.
But you don’t know he did anything. You don’t know he had anything to do with it. Just because they didn’t like each other, just because there were rumors floating around doesn’t convict a man of murder.
Becky shook her head. What was she doing out here? This was the craziest idea she’d had in…well, at least a couple weeks.
Finally, panting and sweating, she made it to a tall pile of kindling that was just a few short paces from the house. Crouching in its shadow, she was able to get a good look inside through the opened windows.
It was a huge house, with three levels including the attic. But from what Becky could see through the open windows, there were no pictures or wallpaper on the walls. It was as drab as could be. Becky thought going to sleep and waking up in that dreary place had to be a continual heartbreak. If it were her, she’d risk a beating to paint the walls bright red. But then she remembered she wasn’t there to offer any kind of interior design advice. It was Mrs. Tobin Becky was concerned with.
After taking a deep breath and holding it, Becky darted toward the house. She reached the side of the front porch and waited. Only when she was sure no one had seen her did she slowly let her breath out. The porch light was no greater than that of a candle.
The smell hit her first. It was a pungent smell of maybe garlic, maybe onions in with something she didn’t dare consider lingering behind it all. As she looked through the slats in the porch fence, she saw a couple of mason jars. Some were filled with clear liquid and reminded Becky of the moonshine Hugh had been drinking. Others were filled with something foul that Becky didn’t even want to guess at. Why would anyone have that on their porch? Unless they wanted to make sure no visitors or snake-oil salesmen paid them a visit.
With her hand over her nose, Becky slipped along the side of the house. Taking just a few steps, she reached the cellar doors and was below what she assumed was the kitchen window. She froze as she heard someone clanging pots and pans around. Why would they be cooking at this late hour? In fact, why were so many of the lights on in the house?
“What are you doing?” a female voice hissed.
Becky froze.
“I’m going to check the generator,” a man snapped back.
“The generator’s fine.”
“It’s my house! If I want to check the generator, I’ll check the generator!”
Suddenly Becky regretted not doing what Mrs. Tobin had instructed. What was she doing out here? Mr. Tobin would kill her if he saw her. She was frozen, pressed up against the house and listening to the man scream at his wife.
“Is this your house?” the woman taunted.
Just then, Becky heard something she’d never forget. Mr. Tobin started weeping. He began to apologize, to stutter and trip all over his words as if his tongue was being held between two fingers.
“There there, boy. Haven’t I taken care of you this far? Do you think I won’t take care of you until I die? Or until you die?” She chuckled sadistically.
Mr. Tobin said yes over and over. He said he loved her and trusted her and always would. He was hardly the masher Becky had been sure she was going to discover. If anything, Mrs. Tobin sounded like the bruiser. Could that be why she had discouraged Becky from snooping around?
The front door opened, and Mr. Tobin went marching off into the woods. Becky stood stone still. She tried to melt into the siding of the house and blend seamlessly into the shadows. The light from the kitchen cast a square of yellow onto the grass a few feet away. But in a flash, it was snuffed out. Becky listened and was sure she heard the soft padding of feet throughout the house.
Sure that she was alone, Becky continued searching around the house. There were more strange bottles of some kind of liquid Becky didn’t dare guess at. In addition to that, she saw strange and ugly statues, some no bigger than a walnut, others the size of an ear of corn. They had flat, dead-looking faces carved in big heads with spindly bodies contorted into gruesome poses. Something inside Becky told her not to touch them or get near them. It felt as if they were screaming at her without making a single sound.
Without any clear reason, Becky’s heart began to pound. Other than the fact that she was trespassing on the Tobin property, there was no reason she should be panicking so. It was as if her body knew something was amiss, but her eyes had yet to lock in on it. She looked around but saw nothing in the moonlight.
The question that had been nagging Becky since she first saw the Tobin house was, what did she expect to find? What did she think was going to materialize? She had no answer, and now that she was back where she’d started, at the front of the house, she had nothing to show for it except the strange smells and homely statues she’d have forever stamped in her memory.
So the Tobins were strange. Mr. Tobin probably started the fire at Mr. Ruthmeyer’s. But there is no proof.
Becky was frustrated. Her gut had led her here. She couldn’t go home empty-handed, even if she was the only one who knew she had paid the Tobins a visit.
When she was about to head back in the direction she had come, she saw a tiny light. She wouldn’t have seen it when she’d first dashed to the house. It was a flickering lantern near a small shed. She was sure Mr. Tobin was deep inside the woods. The problem was that there was nowhere for her to hide until she reached it.
The light flickered, beckoning her. She looked to her left, to her right, her heart pounding in her chest, and after a big deep breath, she bolted toward the glimmer. Each stride made her feel exposed. The dim light from the half moon felt like a spotlight. She was sure a shotgun explosion was going to freeze her in her tracks. But there was nothing. Nothing but a horrible smell.
You numbskull, Becky, you snuck up on the outhouses, she thought.
But she quickly changed her mind when she saw the window. Outhouses didn’t have windows. Who would ever think a window on their outhouse was a good thing or even proper? Becky knew she was a little wild at times, but even she felt that would have been a stone’s throw from sinful.
So if this wasn’t the outhouse, what was it? And why did it stink?
Carefully, Becky pressed her back against the wall. She had to breathe through her m
outh in order to prevent herself from gagging. As much as she hated to admit it, some of the shanties she’d gone to with Martha and Teddy had also had peculiar odors. Becky knew some people lived much harder lives than she did. She knew what an outhouse smelled like. This was not an outhouse, and that smell was not from the natural movements of the human body. It was something worse. If Becky had had to describe it, she couldn’t leave out the word “evil.”
The sounds of the night were clear and sharp in her ears. Becky heard the crickets and a soft breeze that brought no relief from the smell that surrounded this structure. Part of her wanted to just go. She’d seen enough to know the Tobins were strange. She’d heard enough to see she had been wrong about who was the tough guy in the family. And her nose wanted to pull itself off her face and run away from the smell. But still, she had to look in the window.
Small plaques with symbols carved in them grabbed her attention as she looked over the shack. A thick padlock hung on the door, and more strange tiles that looked like angry children had made them adorned all sides of the structure.
“It’s too dark. You probably won’t even see anything,” she muttered as she inched her way to the window. It was filthy, with streaks of grime on the inside and out. She cupped her hands over her eyes and squinted inside.
What she saw stopped her heart.
By the light of a single candle, she spied two mounds like fresh grave plots. A hand was protruding from one. It moved.
Becky clamped her hand over her mouth and ran back to the main house, where she slipped into a shadow and stayed there for what felt like hours. She wanted to dash back to the woods, but Mr. Tobin was in there. If she ran into him, her goose would be cooked.
As she tried to collect herself and muster up enough courage to run to the safety of the woods, she heard a scratching noise in the wall behind her as if something was trapped or scurrying between the insulation and the siding. It stopped and started. Becky remembered hearing the same thing in the pantry at home. A mouse had gotten stuck between the inside and outside walls. Either it had shinnied itself loose or the creature had died. Either way, the scratching had eventually stopped.