A dory was tied to the wharf, its oars neatly stashed in the bottom. I peered at the company name painted in small letters on the side. As I’d thought, it was a Lowell Boat Shop dory, a sturdy and well-built open craft constructed in Amesbury’s own boatmaking shop. A skiff floated next to it, and a larger fishing vessel was the last, full of nets and traps and ropes. The nearly high tide slapped gently against the sides of the vessels.
I was about to speak to the man when the sound of girls’ voices made me turn. Hazel and another girl her age sauntered toward the wharf, arm in arm. Hazel tucked a curl behind the other girl’s ear, making her blush.
Curious. Hazel’s touch and the other girl’s reaction looked more like the acts of lovers than of platonic friends. They clearly hadn’t noticed me watching.
When Hazel pointed at the dory, the other girl’s smile disappeared and she pulled back. She shook her head. Hazel faced her and seemed to be trying to convince her.
The wharfmaster snorted in his sleep, which must have aroused him. The front feet of his chair hit the planking, and he moved his hat back to the top of his head, then jumped to his feet.
“Oh, hullo, ma’am. Apologies. I didn’t see you there.” His face was weather-beaten but his smile was a warm one.
“It’s not a problem.” I glanced over at the girls. Why wasn’t Hazel at work at the tag factory?
Hazel looked up and saw me. She glared for an instant from under a straw boater. She composed her expression back to neutral just as quickly, and took her friend’s elbow, nearly marching her the last few yards.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Dodge,” she said when the two neared us. “Greetings, Mr. C. We’re going to take my dory out for a ride.”
“I don’t really want to,” the other one said plaintively.
“I know what I’m doing, don’t I, Mr. C?” Hazel asked.
“That you do, Miss Bowman. You’re in good hands, miss.”
Hazel whispered in the other girl’s ear, who nodded.
“Enjoy the water, ladies.” He tipped his hat to the girls.
Hazel handed her friend into the boat, then lifted her skirts and climbed in opposite her. The wharfmaster untied the rope and tossed it in after them.
“You be careful with the tide going out, Miss Bowman. Could be hard to row back in.”
“Yes, Mr. C.” She rolled up the sleeves of her shirtwaist, revealing strong, tanned arms, and fitted the oars in the oarlocks. “This isn’t my first time out on the water, you know.”
The other girl let out a high-pitched laugh as Hazel rowed them away.
“The Bowman girl.” Mr. C shook his head. “She’s going to come to no good one of these days.”
“What does thee mean?”
“I’ve known Hazel Bowman pretty much her whole life. She’s always been a headstrong thing and won’t take no for an answer, not even from her papa. Not that he says no very often, he dotes on her that much.”
Goodness, he was revealing a lot to a stranger like me. Maybe he was simply a gossip.
He tore his gaze away from the water. “Can I help you with a boat or something, ma’am?”
“No, but I thank thee. I’m out for a stroll. I’m visiting West Falmouth for several days. A pity about the girl who drowned last week, isn’t it?”
He removed his hat and held it over his heart. “Young Frannie Isley, may she rest in peace. She was another spirited girl, but there was nothing mean about her, not like . . .” His voice trailed off as he watched Hazel’s boat get smaller and smaller in the distance.
“Hazel can be a bit nasty, can she?” I murmured.
“Yes, she can, and no mistake.”
“Were she and Frannie friends?”
“Used to be. Lately their friendship had seemed to go sour.” He redonned his hat. “Indeed it had.”
“I suppose thee works here every day.”
“Yes, ma’am, I do, every day but the blessed Lord’s of course. You’ll find me right here from dawn ’til five, leastwise until the cold weather comes. When it’s dark and chilly, folks needing help don’t go out on the water, only those who make their living from the sea.”
So he would have been here the morning Frannie was killed. But what if she’d gone out before the sun came up? It couldn’t hurt to ask.
“Did thee happen to see Frannie go out on a boat the morning she died?”
He squinted at me. “So you knew her, then. Calling her Frannie and not Miss Isley, as you did.”
“She was my aunt’s ward. Unfortunately, because of distance, I didn’t know her well.”
“I see. Well, that detective fellow already asked me the very same question as you posed. And the sad truth is I did not see her go. I wish I had. Who knows, I might have had a premonition and been able to warn her. I have a bit of a sixth sense, don’t you know?” He shoved his hands in his pockets and rolled back on his heels. “Miss Bowman, though, she took her dory onto the water that same morning.”
“You saw her go out?” I tried not to sound too eager for the answer and wondered if he’d told the detective this bit.
“No, but I was here when she came back. Told you she was headstrong. Going rowing alone before it’s light? It’s a foolhardy thing to do, make no mistake about it.”
Chapter Forty-two
An oar could easily have made the kind of injury to Frannie’s head that Edwin had reported. Trudging away from the dock after I thanked Mr. C, I caught sight of a stooped-over old woman tending the blooms flourishing in front of a small cottage. The house had a direct line of sight to the wharf. I hoped Edwin or one of his men had already queried her in case she had witnessed Frannie going out on a boat. It wouldn’t hurt for me to ask a few questions, too.
I waited until a large carriage passed, then I crossed the road and approached the woman. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Thee has a splendid garden.” When I reached her, I saw she was the little old woman I’d spied in the market a few days ago.
She set a hand on the small of her back and straightened. The top of her kerchiefed head came barely to my shoulder.
“Why, thank you, dearie. It’s my primary joy, producing beauty.” She plucked off a faded zinnia bloom surrounded by a riot of color. She squinted up at me. “Move over here, will you, so you don’t have the sun behind you.” She ushered me toward a bench under an ancient dogwood, its boughs bending with grace to provide a corner of shade. She sat, dusting her hands off on her apron.
I perched next to her.
“You’re not from these parts, am I right?” she asked.
“Thee is correct, ma’am. My name is Rose Dodge.”
“And I’m Effie Bugos.” Her eyes were a faded golden brown a shade dimmer than the goldenrod blooming behind her. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Dodge.”
“And I thee, Effie. I hail from up north near the New Hampshire border, but I’m down here seeing my aunts for a few days.”
“Which would be Miss Tilly and Miss Drusilla. I offer my condolences on the loss of their plucky girl.”
“I thank thee. We buried her yesterday and we’ll be holding her Memorial Meeting for Worship tomorrow afternoon, if thee wishes to attend.” A honeybee buzzed to a jasmine bloom and made its way inside, while a showy golden butterfly alit on a yellow aster. “Thee has an excellent view of the harbor from here.” Mr. C had resumed his snooze. Coots and terns bobbed on the sparkling water near a fisherman standing and casting from a skiff, while a cormorant balancing on the gunwale of a rowboat extended its mountain-shaped wings to dry.
“Yes, I do,” Effie said. “My father was wharfmaster before that lazy bum over there. You never would have caught my daddy sleeping on the job. Anyway, the man who owned this tract of land deeded the cottage to my father. I was born here, and I expect I’ll die here.”
“Did thee marry?”
“Oh, yes, and I had quite a happy life. My boys are grown and gone, though, and my dear husband slipped off this earthly coil twenty years ago. It’s only me an
d my flowers now. Well, that and keeping track of what goes on around here.”
Keeping track. This could prove useful. “What does thee mean?”
“I don’t sleep much, you see. I spend a great deal of time in my chair at the window just there.” She gestured over her shoulder with her thumb at the window to the left of the front door. “I see the dalliances between the young, and between the young and the old, too. I watch industrious fishermen set out before dawn, and the laggards who drag themselves out on the water later than they should. You name it, I’ve witnessed it. And my hearing is as sharp as it ever was.”
“Then perhaps I might ask what thee saw last Seventh Day before dawn.”
She raised a single pale eyebrow. “I thought you might ask me that. Your reputation precedes you, Mrs. Dodge.”
“It does?”
“My, my, yes. It most certainly does.” Her laugh was a gentle wave of tiny bells ringing. “Mrs. Gifford and I are friends. She told me all about you.”
“Sadie’s a lovely and caring person. She’s been watching over Tilly this week.” Better than Dru or I had, in truth.
“Yes, I know.”
“I would be happy for thee to call me Rose.”
“Pshaw.” She batted the air. “I won’t be taking such a liberty, Mrs. Dodge. Mrs. Gifford is always after me to address her as Sadie. I tell her every time, I’m having none of it. I might be an old lady gardener, but society has its strict code of conduct for a reason. What would come of us if no one showed proper respect?” She blinked and held up a lined hand. “Excepting you Quakers, of course. Even with your Christian-name ways, I’ve barely met a one of your lot who acts with disrespect.”
Barely. I wondered who the exception was. I’d opened my mouth to ask when Effie beat me to it.
“That Mr. Latting, now. I’m surprised you all still let him come around to your meetings of a Sunday.” She wagged her head, her smile gone.
“I’ve heard more than one person mention certain of his proclivities,” I murmured.
She snorted. “Proclivities is hardly the word for a man who diddles the girls. He’s living alone now, though, isn’t he?” She sounded satisfied.
I’d neglected to ask Sadie why Abial hadn’t been at least eldered for his preying on girls. On the other hand, he was a widower, no longer married, and sixteen was of the age of consent. Perhaps, especially because of his standing in the community, West Falmouth Friends disapproved of how Abial conducted himself but didn’t have grounds on which to expel him.
Effie gave herself a little shake. “But Abial Latting’s disgusting activities isn’t what you were asking about. I do declare there was a surprising amount of activity at the wharf on Saturday before the sun came up. The moonset should have provided more light, as it was full the very next night. But my eyesight in the dark isn’t what it used to be, and clouds covered the moon, you see. Everything I tried to observe was murkier than it might have been.”
Like this confounded case. Murky was the watchword of the week. “Did thee happen to see Frannie go out on a boat with anyone?” I was stabbed with an idea. No one had raised the possibility Frannie might have gone out alone, perhaps because the fish bit best at dawn. What if, like the man fishing in the skiff, she had stood to cast and slipped? Could she have fallen into the water, hitting her head on the gunwale on her way down? It might have caused the contusion and knocked her unconscious. Edwin had said the injury was crosswise on the back of her skull. Perhaps it was a suspicious death but not actually homicide.
Effie continued. “As I told the nice young policeman, Frannie might have gone out on a boat, with someone or alone, but I can’t guarantee it was her I saw.”
“But you saw someone wearing a skirt get into a boat?” I peered at the wharf as if I could see into the predawn five days ago.
“I believe so. Possibly more than one.”
“Two girls?” I pressed.
“I really can’t say, Mrs. Dodge. I’m terribly sorry. I will tell you I heard a female voice among male voices in boats. Sound carries so well on the water, don’t you know?”
Chapter Forty-three
As I retraced my steps away from the wharf, frowning, I barely saw where I placed my feet. What a disappointment Effie hadn’t been able to see the comings and goings clearly. I knew two things for sure. Effie, with her keen hearing, had detected a female voice. And sometime after Mr. C was on duty, Hazel had come back alone in her dory. What if she hadn’t gone out alone but had convinced Frannie to go for an early ride to watch the full moon set, clouds or no clouds? Since Frannie had spurned her for Reuben’s affections, Hazel’s rage could have led to murder on the water.
I’d neglected to ask Mr. C if he’d told the authorities about Hazel. If he hadn’t already, Edwin needed to check the boat for blood, for evidence. Or maybe finding hard evidence was the lead he’d mentioned to me this morning. I’d better go straight to his temporary office and tell him what the wharfmaster had related.
But as I neared where the railroad tracks crossed the road, I decided to first stop and inquire if any new telegrams had come for me. One never knew, and if David had written and not marked it Urgent, the office could be holding it for me.
In the station, the telegraph clerk handed me the yellow paper. I thanked him and turned away, unfolding it.
Am delayed by sick horse. Arrive tomorrow noon. Love, Daddy
My heart sank. I’d been so looking forward to seeing my father tonight, talking with him, feeling his comfort. I’d have to accept the delay. He wouldn’t be here until the morrow. I was on my own until then. I’d offered to switch places with Tilly and Dru and let them have their house back, but they’d insisted on staying with Sadie until Daddy and I went home. Dru had confirmed my thought that it would still be too painful for Tilly to be at home with all the reminders of Frannie.
Once outside again, I gained the road and resumed my mission of seeking out Edwin. A train approached from the south. From the platform, the station master blew his whistle, waving a red flag at the road, cautioning people on both sides to halt. The engine, which was pulling passenger cars, puffed slowly past then pulled to a stop. To my surprise, Currie was the first person to alight.
Settling his bowler on his head, he strolled whistling toward the road with one hand in his pocket, carrying a slim leather case in his other hand. I didn’t think he’d seen me, so I stepped forward.
“Hello, Currie. What brings thee to West Falmouth?”
He stopped short. Did I glimpse panic on his face again? A clock in town chimed three times.
He shook off whatever reaction it had been. “Rose, my dear.” His voice shook slightly, and a tic beat next to his lip, just like I’d seen on Clarinda’s face at the reception. He pressed a finger to it, not answering my question.
“It’s a fine afternoon,” I said. “Does thee have business to conduct here in town?” I hoped he wasn’t here to prey on more girls.
“Why, yes, I do.” He glanced down at his case.
“I’ll walk with thee.”
“Very well.” His smile was perfunctory, but he extended his elbow in a gentlemanly gesture.
“No, I’m fine, thank thee.” We crossed the tracks and strolled toward Main Street. “Currie, thee might not have heard we are holding a Memorial Meeting for Worship for Frannie tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock. I can’t remember if thee said thee knew the girl. Either way thee is welcome to attend.” In fact, I’d never asked him if he knew her, only if he’d had intimate relations with her. A question he hadn’t answered. I gazed at him, curious about his reply.
“Ah, thank you. I, ahem, might be tied up tomorrow afternoon.” He didn’t meet my eyes.
“I thought, as thee missed our Meeting for Marriage, thee might find it interesting to witness how Friends worship.”
“I will check my schedule, Rose.”
We reached the main thoroughfare, which was busy with vehicles of all sorts. A high-stepping stallion pulling a sl
eek buggy passed a plodding workhorse hauling a wagon full of freshly sawn boards whose perfume tickled my nose. The scent soon vanished when the workhorse deposited a load of manure as it went. Two men in knickers cycled by sitting atop the big-wheeled bicycles known as Columbia penny-farthings. They managed to avoid the steaming pile just in time. When a fringed surrey full of gaily clad young women in boaters passed, Currie’s face lit up. He waved to them and doffed his hat, receiving a chorus of titters and waves in return.
“What is thy first destination?” I asked as we paused at the intersection.
“I shall stop by the Union Store.”
Which was right beyond Gifford & Co. But why would Currie travel to West Falmouth to visit the store? Unless . . . “I’ll accompany thee partway. Is thee planning to place handbills for thy show on their board?” I’d seen a board near the door of the market where various notices were pasted up.
“As a matter of fact, I am.” He kept his chin high. “It’s part of my employment, you see.”
“Of course. Thee apparently decided against going to thy ailing mother?”
“I did, yes. I simply can’t get away.”
If he were in financial straits, of course he would need to stay and do the work he was paid to do. Also, it might be hard for him to readily forgive Clarinda for past hurts. As we neared the law office, I had one more question for him. I slowed my gait. “Currie, does thee know if Wesley Stewart ever met Frannie?”
Currie stopped short and turned to me, eyes wide and mouth downturned. “Mr. Stewart? Why in the world do you ask?”
What a curious response. “I thought perhaps thee could inform him about the Meeting tomorrow.” I kept my tone mild. “In case he wanted to come and pay his respects.”
“Oh.” He blew out a breath, his relief as obvious as if the word was written on his forehead. “Well, the answer is, I don’t know.”
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