“Was Annabel close with the grandmother?”
“Very, and very like her,” O’Boyle said. “Lavinia encouraged her tableaus and plays and dioramas, made up fanciful games with her.”
“Fanciful,” Emily said. That word again.
“It was a source of tension, a bit, between Anna and Lavinia. Annabel was so imaginative. Anna was concerned that she . . . accept her grandmother’s death, not idealize her or pretend to communicate with her.”
“She pretended that kind of thing?” Emily was writing.
O’Boyle made a dismissive gesture. “Lavinia was the sort who would have said, I’m always with you, or something similar, to comfort the child. I don’t know that, but I surmise it. The Christmas play—Annabel wrote pageants for every occasion, starring Hart and Grethe, and even the dog—had a Grandmother character, in the person of Annabel’s very old rag doll, Mrs. Pomeroy. She took that doll with her everywhere.” He laughed, and for a moment his face relaxed.
“She sounds delightful,” Emily said.
“Yes,” said O’Boyle, and fell silent.
Emily glanced quickly at Eric, who prompted her with a back-to-the-point expression.
But O’Boyle came to the point. He offered Emily a third photo, a copy of a studio photograph, it seemed. “I didn’t take this, of course: Anna, as a young woman, before her marriage. Lovely gray eyes and though you don’t see it here, a smile of such warmth and welcome.”
Emily, silent, reflected that yes, she might have been lovely, but looked almost fearful, or too knowing. The times, perhaps, in Europe; the shadow of the Great War. She seemed happier in the later photograph, despite her age and struggles, and Lavinia’s recent death—pleased with her children, protective, fondly at ease with the photographer. “Charles,” Emily said, placing the photographs on the table between them, “you mentioned her situation, that Christmas, and a determination, on your part . . .”
“She was dear to me. We were very close. I could not let her lose her home, for it was my home, in my heart, as Anna was—” He spoke to Emily alone now, his eyes naked. “I asked her to marry me, I begged her to accept—” he looked away—“my fidelity, my means, my life.”
There it was. Emily realized she was holding her breath.
“She promised to consider my proposal, not to come to any decision, about her finances, the house, without consulting me. She was under enormous stress. Emotional issues, self-blame about her husband’s sudden death, came to light.”
“Self-blame?” Emily tried to breathe the words so lightly that O’Boyle might hear them as his own questioning thought.
“Completely unwarranted, arising somehow from the history of the marriage—they were both artists, supported by family money to a point, but he was the breadwinner. All that was years past. I told her I awaited her answer; I looked forward to a future together. I would be patient, and stay in frequent touch. I knew nothing about any letters, or Pierson, until I phoned in late June. Abernathy said she was away. Had they heard from her? Only postcards. I had to phone a neighbor, Mrs. Verberg, to get his name.”
“I’m sorry,” Emily said. “This has been much, much more difficult for you than I could have realized.”
“She deceived herself,” said O’Boyle in a dead tone. “That man used her every disappointment and hope against her.”
Emily took the rolled drawing from her bag. “Mr. O’Boyle, Charles—perhaps you’d like to have this, as a keepsake.” She smoothed the paper before him.
“One of Annabel’s drawings,” he said, “from her room.”
“Duty found it in the playhouse, actually, on the floor. It’s a bit bedraggled—”
O’Boyle touched the textured surface. “It’s so like Annabel. No, you keep it, Miss Thornhill. She made me several presents of her drawings. And keep the snapshots, as well, for publication. The family should be seen as I saw them, in happy times. I can do that for them, at least.” He stood then. “I’m afraid I must ask you to go. My cab will be here quite soon.”
“Of course,” Emily said. “We thank you. You mentioned leaving; we didn’t mean to keep you. Work can be diverting at difficult times; I hope you find it so.”
“I suppose,” he said absently, “but I am going to Mexico. I don’t want to be here, as all of this comes out in the newspapers. It’s another world there.”
“It is,” Eric said. “Where do you go?”
They were moving to the door.
“A small village.” O’Boyle didn’t look at him. “I’m sure you wouldn’t know it.”
• • •
Eric offered Emily his arm, as before. It was dusk. They were in the car before they spoke
“My god,” Eric said. “And this is only the preamble.”
“I have coffee at my place,” Emily said. “And food packed for the car.”
“Black coffee,” he said, “lots of it.”
• • •
Duty, fed, watered, walked in Chicago, was asleep in his basket; the rest of the backseat was taken up with their typewriters, briefcases, bags of food, a thermos, suitcases. It was full dark, two hours into the trip, and raining lightly. The wipers kept time: swik, swak.
Swak, thought Emily, was a legend people wrote on valentines. She had fallen asleep, almost. “Eric?” she murmured.
“Emily?”
“What do you make of him?”
Eric only looked, dejectedly, into the windscreen of the coupe, the wipers crossing in tandem, the wash of rain flowing off.
“Eric, we have formed an alliance for a common purpose. You must tell me, always, what you think.”
“I think you might not know how dangerous it is, Emily, how wearing, to deny one’s deepest impulses, one’s birthright, to live with the constant threat of exposure and calamity. Not murder, necessarily, though yes, that too, in certain quarters, but loss of home, family, respect, work, the ability to make a living—the difficulty in forming any lasting intimacy, ever, with another human being.”
“Understand me, Eric. His letter, only his letter, will be published. I will not refer to him, publicly or privately, in any other light. Nor will I discuss him with anyone but you. This we promise, between us. Lives depend on these secrets. Yes?”
Eric nodded. “Yes.” Rain misted around the car. “Lapsed Catholic,” he said quietly, “always worst. Mother’s son. Never married. Travels frequently. Vital, repressed. Angry at himself. Covert. Tries to stop, can’t. And so takes enormous risks with strangers. I’ve known so many men like him. I can recognize them across a room.”
“So you knew immediately?”
“The moment he looked at me, over your head. It’s a look others literally don’t see. I was watching you, as well, to see when you’d realize.”
“It wasn’t the first thing that occurred to me.”
“And when did you know?”
“When you lit the cigarette.”
“I was making sure you knew. Just as between us, earlier today, I let you realize, when I might have deflected you. You were thrilled with your powers of deduction, but I decided I liked you, could trust you, wanted to work with you, and I walked you in. I’m a faultless judge of these things—survival instinct.”
“The thing with the cigarette,” Emily said. “You did it beautifully, like a kiss. I thought you were comforting him.”
“Perhaps I was. It was just after the drop moment, wasn’t it. But I would never have made that gesture in mixed company.”
Emily looked into the dark, which parted quickly before them, pierced by the headlamps. The drop moment. She’d not heard the expression. But yes, O’Boyle had just said, The monster has killed them, acknowledging what he feared. She went on, testing her thoughts. “Still, he proposed to her, Eric, and feels desperately guilty that he didn’t know about Pierson, didn’t save them. O’Boyle loved her, and the children.”
“Yes, I think he did.” Eric turned to her. “I could love you. It wouldn’t change who I am. He believed he c
ould ignore what he needed, and they were a way out for him. He might have saved them; they might have been his life. But she knew better.”
“Oh, no, not better.”
“I mean that she recognized the truth between them. Perhaps they were even open with one another. And he’s right. She was, for reasons of her own, cruelly deluded by this Pierson, who may seem entirely commonplace, but will prove to be very skillful. But also deluded, for he’s gotten caught. We don’t know yet what he did, but we will soon be much occupied with it.”
“And what of Charles O’Boyle? Why can’t he be more like you, Eric?”
“Because he’s not like me. He lives bereft of any community. Not having a double life, he has almost no life, except in dark forays that he knows to be dangerous.”
“It seemed you were moved by him.”
“As were you. We are, I’m sure, the only people in whom he’s confided, and we are now sworn to a pact, to protect his experience and his guilt.”
“But I can’t help him. Could you?”
“Christ, Emily, I don’t know.”
“But didn’t someone help you, at some point? Show you how to manage—well, a life inside a life?”
“Is that what it is? No, it’s my life, all of it.”
VII.
ROOMER WAS SUSPICIOUS
OF STRANGER
O’BOYLE CALLED POLICE
WHEN ACTIONS OF MULTIPLE SLAYER
CAUSED HIM ALARM
O’BOYLE, IN HIS AMAZING LETTER, GIVES DETAILS OF THE STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE OF THE PARK RIDGE WIDOW AND HER CHILDREN; OF THE INVESTIGATION HE PERSONALLY MADE THAT LED TO THE ARREST OF POWERS BY THE PARK RIDGE POLICE; AND OF THE RELEASE OF THE MASS SLAYER BY THE POLICE IN THE ILLINOIS CITY. IT IS TOUCHING AND PATHETIC IN ITS DETAILS.
—Special to The Clarksburg Telegram, September 5, 1931
A Chicago man . . . has volunteered to supply the state of West Virginia with a rope with which to hang Harry F. Powers (alias Cornelius Pierson), mass slayer. He is Charles O’Boyle, former roomer in the Eicher home. . . . He writes: “Herewith is my statement of my connection with the ‘Bluebeard’ Powers case . . .
“Five or six years ago I came to Park Ridge as a foreman for the J. H. Dunnegan Company . . . I had difficulty in locating a place to room. . . . My own home having been broken up by the death of my mother, Mrs. Eicher consented to provide me board and room. . . . She had three young children, Grethe, Hart, and Annabel, and on account of their being such well-bred children, I became greatly attached to them.
“On June 29th, 1931, I called Mrs. Eicher’s home from Chicago to . . . learn that Mrs. Eicher had gone to Clarksburg, W.Va., on business, with a Mr. Pierson. It was so extremely unusual for Mrs. Eicher to leave her children that I was very greatly surprised. . . . Neighbors said they could throw no light on her whereabouts. . . . I felt that something was wrong. . . .
“On or about July 15th . . . Mrs. Eicher’s neighbor informed me by telephone that Pierson was on Mrs. Eicher’s property and I left at once for Park Ridge. . . . I found that he had entered the garage, locking the door behind him. . . . I noticed a car with a West Virginia license, a Chevrolet coupe. . . . Mrs. Eicher’s radio was lashed on to the back of this car with a half-inch rope about sixty feet long, which I had intended to use to make a swing for the children. . . .
“I knew that Mrs. Eicher would not give anyone authority to open my tool box and Pierson or Powers had to enter my luggage to procure this rope. . . . I locked the garage from the outside and proceeded to the police station. . . . I had promised the police that Pierson or Powers was locked in the garage and we were greatly surprised not to find him. . . . Events prove he was probably there all the time. . . . We returned to the station and a detail of police officers was sent to keep watch. . . .
“I had been gone five minutes when Pierson appeared and was arrested. . . . I arrived at the Park Ridge police station the next day and was very greatly disappointed to find that Pierson or Powers had been released. . . . I went to the Eicher home and after reading a bundle of letters which he had dropped in his haste I urged the Chief of Police to get in touch with the West Virginia authorities. . . .
“The rope, which belonged to me and which he [Powers] took with him, I will make a present to the state of West Virginia for hanging purposes, if he is convicted, which no doubt he will be. Am enclosing snaps of the family. If you need me wire.”
Asta and children, Thanksgiving ’30
Eicher children, Annabel, Hart, Grethe, Christmas Day ’30
VIII.
Quiet Dell No Longer Quiet—Quiet Dell was the noisiest and busiest place in West Virginia yesterday. Thousands of automobiles were parked for miles along the Clarksburg–Buckhannon highway. No accurate estimate can be made of the numbers who have visited the “Murder farm.” State policemen say they were too busy handling traffic to attempt to count the automobiles but there must have been 50,000 at least, yesterday and Saturday night.
—The Clarksburg Telegram, August 30, 1931
Late August, Early September 1931
Clarksburg and Quiet Dell, West Virginia
Discovery
The Gore Hotel was an imposing yellow-brick edifice on the corner of West Pike and Second Streets. Eric pulled up in front of the red-and-white-striped awning.
“Let me get the other bags in and then come back for Duty,” Emily said. “He fits in my valise, in case there’s a no pets policy.” She turned to the backseat and moved the dog’s pillow from the open basket to the floor. “Now, you’ve been walked and fed. Wait quietly, and don’t jump about.”
“He understands your every word,” Eric said dryly, but Duty settled on the pillow. “Isn’t it a problem, in and out with the dog?”
“I’ll speak with the manager. I must explain that he is not a pet. He’s an extremely important material witness.”
“Next you’ll have his paw on a Bible.”
“Animals don’t require oaths, Mr. Lindstrom; they are already God’s creatures and do not engage in deception. Now, let us proceed. I’m sure you want to be rid of us.”
“I’ll come in with you, and say we’re related. Make sure you’re settled.”
“Can’t we just be colleagues?”
“Best to be both.” Eric was out of the car, motioning a porter who appeared at the broad revolving door. The porter’s dark red jacket matched the awning, and his sleeves were cuffed with gold braid. A Negro gentleman, he seemed the epitome of genteel Chicago.
Emily, carrying briefcase, handbag, grip, went ahead into the hotel. The lobby was posh, comfortable, sedately furnished with dark green leather-upholstered settees and armchairs. An ornate phone booth stood in one corner near a rack of newspapers on rods; their pages hung down like newsprint flags. Emily perused them: morning editions from Clarksburg, Huntington, Pittsburgh, even The Washington Post.
Eric, at the desk, made a point of reading the clerk’s name tag. “Good day, Mr. Parrish. I am Eric Lindstrom, and this is my cousin and colleague, Miss Emily Thornhill. We are journalists from the Chicago Tribune. I am staying down the street at the Waldo, but Miss Thornhill, I believe, has a reservation here.”
“Yes, Mr. Lindstrom. You’ll find the Waldo just down the street, corner of West Pike and Fourth. Miss Thornhill has Room 127 here at the Gore, private bath, and 126, as well; there’s a door through. Reserved by a Mr. Malone, for the Chicago Tribune.”
“Indeed.” Eric shot Emily a glance. “That is correct.”
Emily stepped over to the clerk, smiling, and noticed a stack of bound newspapers on the long mahogany desk. The word Widow jumped out at her. Decomposed Body Uncovered near Quiet Dell Garage read the headline. She took a copy as the room seemed to darken around her, and held it out to Eric.
Eric snapped it open. “Sir, this is the evening paper?”
“Just delivered.” The clerk scowled. “A bad business, a very bad business.”
“Mr. Parrish, I would be obliged if you would direct us
to Quiet Dell. It’s nearby?”
“Very near, four miles or so. Take Second to Main, which becomes the Buckhannon Turnpike, and drive straight along. You’ll see the crowd.”
“The crowd?”
“Oh, yes, I’m afraid so.”
Eric nodded his thanks and was out the door. Emily looked for the porter and extended fifty cents. “Mr.—your name, sir?”
“Woods, ma’am.”
“Mr. Woods, please deliver these to my room? I will be back presently.” She heard his “Yes, ma’am,” behind her as she pushed her way through the revolving door. The car was running. It was nearly six in the evening of a beautiful summer night. They had two hours of waning daylight.
Emily looked at the words: Body Uncovered. So he had buried them, all of them, surely. Eric drove along nearly deserted, brick-paved streets. The sidewalks presented occasional passersby and the Victorian architecture seemed almost a stage set; there was money here, a vaguely Southern sensibility more akin to Baltimore or Cincinnati than Atlanta. Yet it was like nowhere else; she had never been to such a place, with such verdant, encroaching hills and small, brilliant skies.
“It seems a rather nice little town,” Emily said.
“Oh yes, very nice. Do you have the paper there?”
On the highway, he drove faster. Hills rose steeply on the right; small, fenced fields to the left, a creek, a few cows raising their woolly heads at the sound of the car. Beyond the rolling land and meandering creek, as far as the horizon, forested mountains rose in line after heightened line.
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