Emily nodded. “I will interview Lemke’s relatives, who arrive tomorrow to identify her. Bond will take us to the jail and produce Powers, but you must simply appear there, to photograph the confrontation.”
“Powers and the relatives?”
“Yes, for the Tribune. Duty is not to be recorded.”
He gave her a look. The dog was sound asleep at her feet. “Don’t get up. And go to sleep, please. The door will lock as I leave.”
Emily heard him try the door, to be sure, from the hallway. She turned off the light and thought of William, and home, when she could leave here. He had said to telephone, and she must. She reached to stroke the sleeping dog. Duty barely stirred. She could not sleep: she planned. She would close off this room tomorrow, set up the adjacent room for the interview. It had the smaller bed, a table for dining, a settee. It would be the aunt and the sister, and likely the sister’s husband. Emily would order tea and sandwiches, in case they had not stopped for food.
The night was close. Emily lay in bed, her damp hair cool along the pillow. She was not afraid or distressed. Her thoughts were clear.
In affect, Powers was gentlemanly, courtly. The threat was never sexual, one reason he succeeded with these women in midlife, women likely already ravaged by men or by fortune; they wanted care and protection. They were not heiresses; they hadn’t great riches. They wouldn’t imagine someone murdering and swindling for their savings, going to such trouble, when he’d convinced them he had his own means. And they would not find him out by demanding potency: women of any age were discouraged from making such demands. These women were not young. Youth wanted penetration; young love wanted pierced to the quick. The brain, the heart, the body, wanted sex and love, wanted trust, the equivalent of mother love in one’s lover: unconditional love, passionate, true, at least in the instant.
Asleep, Emily saw and felt it.
Dorothy lay in the earth, trussed in burlap. Her hair was loose about her, fallen from Powers’ hands, for the noose had snapped immediately, not killing her. Roaring at her stunned, bound form, pleasured, he took the secret, small, soft, like a mouse of flesh, from its place. The scream that rent him open was her scream and his own; he used the strap then, pulling it tight around her neck until she died, and then dragged her to the ditch by the long rope of her thick dark hair. Dead, she frightened him when her hair came away in his hands. A moment, an instant: he was terrified. He threw it down upon her quickly, all of a piece.
• • •
Emily woke early to type a first dispatch and found the morning edition of The Clarksburg Exponent slipped under her door. A banner headline proclaimed the known details: Fifth Love-Farm Victim Found, Webbing Strips Lashed Tightly About Her Neck.
An old photo of Lemke graced the front page below the fold, with a caption stating only that police identified the victim as Mrs. Dorothy P. Lemke, of Northborough, Massachusetts. Lemke had not been pretty in her youth, like Asta Eicher, but her eyes were wide-set and her open, indirect gaze almost wistful. Her hair was beautifully done, thick and dark. Emily guessed the portrait was taken on the occasion of Lemke’s marriage to Pressler, whoever he was, and that Grimm had released it surreptitiously, through a contact at the Exponent, just after finding the body. She skipped to the end of the article: The new body had not been buried as long as the first four. A considerable quantity of her jet-black hair was saved as an aid to positive identification. The coroner was quoted indirectly, but no one would mark the word saved, or know what it meant.
She threw down the paper and dressed quickly in a dark suit and sensible low shoes. She trusted Grimm’s pronouncement that the hotel would accommodate Duty, but leashed the dog in her valise regardless, tucking in the finger bowl she’d brought from home. She felt the door lock behind them and stepped to the elevator, which revealed Coley Woods, the Negro porter, elegantly turned out in his braided jacket.
“Mr. Woods, good morning.”
“Miss Thornhill.” He nodded and stepped back to allow her entrance. “I’ll take you directly down, or we’ll be delayed on second and first.”
“Thank you, Mr. Woods. You must be pressed with arrivals. You saw the paper?”
“Oh yes. That woman stayed in your room, night he brought her here. Middle of the night too, not usual.”
Emily turned to him. “Dorothy Lemke? She stayed here, with Powers?”
“No, ma’am. She was alone. Drove up before the hotel, one thirty in the morning, end of July sometime. I went out to get her bags, couldn’t see who was driving. Brought her up here to Room 127.”
“To my room,” Emily said.
“Yes,’m. She only stayed a few hours, left before seven A.M. that same day.”
“Mr. Woods, you’re saying she slept, most likely the last night of her life, in 127? Did someone reserve Room 127 for her, or was it coincidence?”
Woods slid his gaze toward her. “Ma’am? Mr. Parrish can advise on reservations. But you know, it don’t matter. The devil walks abroad. Churches around here? They’re full up.”
The elevator opened on the lobby. She gave him her card. “Mr. Woods, may I speak with you further? Something more may come to mind.” He only nodded as she stepped past him. She saw Eric in the tearoom; he stood to receive the weighty valise, which he placed gently on the floor under their table. “Eric,” she said.
She had wanted to phone William. She was too late.
“My dear cousin,” he replied, taking his seat. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. If so, don’t tell me.”
She busied herself cutting slices of country ham and bits of egg into small pieces. Duty was sitting up in the valise, his head protruding slightly. She filled his bowl, positioning it within.
Eric ate, ignoring her ministrations. “I have the photographs from yesterday, just in on the plane. My assistant stayed up all night, printing them, and released the garage pictures to run with the Quiet Dell story in the Trib. They ran your piece about the Eicher house, the animal graveyard, Annabel’s drawings, yesterday, with O’Boyle’s snapshots. The house is attracting crowds. McKee has posted guards.”
“And the morgue photos?”
“I have them. Not for publication, as Grimm asked. I gave him copies, and the negatives, an hour ago.” He flung open one of a pile of newspapers. “I’ve been to the kiosk and bought them all. They’re compiling a legend for him. Murder Farm Romance. Lady Killer Romeo.”
“Lady killer,” Emily said. “That term again, an homage of sorts to an attractive man successful with women.”
Eric signaled for more coffee. “But successful in a predatory way, purely for his own gratification. It’s an apt word.” He picked up one of the papers, open to an image of Powers in horn-rim glasses, salesman for the Eureka Vacuum Company. “But to look at this short, dull-seeming pod of a man, one knows he was never confident with women until he worked out writing to them. He needn’t even troll for women; they presented themselves and he knew to choose the most vulnerable.”
“They’ve released the letters to the press,” Emily said. “More fodder for the Romeo myth.”
“I have it on good authority,” Eric was saying, “that Powers tracked the progress of a correspondence with an elaborate system of phrases he took from love columns and romance magazines, and articles ascribed to Valentino. He filed letters from women according to a code. Everything having to do with Eicher or Lemke was filed under P-15. It will all be in my story tomorrow.”
Emily felt nauseous.
“It’s so childish,” Eric went on, “the busywork of a boy accountant. He is subnormal, an outcast who couldn’t hold a job. Eureka fired him for stealing vacuum cleaners. Why P-15? P for Powers? Fifteenth time?”
“He liked numbers, and repeating numbers,” Emily said.
“Emily, do eat. And when you can, you should telephone William Malone. I hear he’s trying to make arrangements for the Eichers.”
“What do you mean?”
“To bring them home, Emily
.”
• • •
Bond’s police car assured them swift passage. They sat in the backseat, which was high and stuffed with horsehair. Eric’s camera bag, their valises, and Duty’s carrier were arranged in the deep floor. The car bounced along, raising a great deal of blond dust, very close, on Emily’s side, to the split-rail fences of the fields. Negotiating the turn onto the dirt road to Quiet Dell proved challenging. Bond required his bullhorn; farm trucks, smart roadsters, even carriages, jostled for space.
“Of what is Quiet Dell composed?” she asked. “Are there businesses, a store or gas station further on? Where does the road go?”
Bond neglected to answer, but his detective called back to her. “It’s just farms one after t’other, set far apart mostly, to Mount Clare, ’bout four miles distant. Road just goes deeper in, following Elk Creek, and there’s a right pretty waterfall at the end.”
“The end?” Emily asked, but they had arrived, and she was surprised to see that a fence of tall white pickets stood between the road and the garage property. Cars were parked as far as the eye could see. Onlookers stood in long lines perhaps four across, proceeding first to the front of the garage and then around behind it, to view the long T-shaped ditches and the winch. Entrepreneurs were selling lemonade and sandwiches from carts; one man hawked broadsheets hastily printed with the legend “Bluebeard of Quiet Dell.”
“Deputy Bond,” said Emily, struggling from the car with her notebook and valise, and Duty on his leash, “who has authorized the fence, the salesmen? Does Sheriff Grimm know of all this?”
“Private property,” Bond replied.
“But it’s Powers’ property, isn’t it?”
The garage doors were half open to allow light to penetrate, but police directed onlookers past while Emily and Eric went inside with Bond. The interior was big enough for three or four cars. Brick tile walls, concrete floor, and a basement formed by the foundation walls. A large trapdoor to the rear lay flung open. Rough stairs led below; a broken rope still hung from a rafter above them. Several trunks sat to one side, thrown open. Emily looked only at the objects there, for the idea of the basement made her dizzy. Duty walked back and forth, back and forth, until she pulled the dog to her on the leash. Eric was shooting close-ups of various possessions police had taken from the trunks: Emily recognized photographs of Heinrich Eicher, holding baby Annabel, and formal portraits of the children. Silver buckles and spoons and a graceful ladle lay tumbled amongst children’s clothing and a baby bonnet—clothes the children had obviously outgrown. Asta Eicher must have brought them along as objects of sentimental importance. There were no toys; she’d thought they were going back for the children and their things. According to O’Boyle, Annabel would have brought the rag doll to which she was so attached. But it was not here. Powers’ property seemed mixed in indiscriminately: small, cardboard-framed photos of various women, such as portrait studios send their customers for display proofs. There had to be fifty. The letters themselves had been removed and held in evidence, but Emily wrote down the names on the signed photographs: “your Bessie,” “from Virginia, for ‘Connie’ only,” “fondly, Your Edith.”
The suitcase Coley Woods had carried for Lemke was at the police station; film taken from her box camera was being processed. Emily had imagined a framed photograph of Lemke’s child, in a silver frame such as ladies kept on pianos or mantels, but no. It was too long ago. Any image would be a small one; she would keep a treasured likeness in her handkerchief box or jewelry box, protected. Oh, confused, panicked, had she somehow thought he’d got to her darling boy? Unbound by ropes and straps, she would have lunged for Powers’ throat. Right now, Dorothy’s relatives were journeying to the Romine Funeral Home morgue. They would have driven fifteen hours, scarcely stopping. Emily wanted, suddenly, to be back in her room at the Gore. She looked for Eric, who was packing his camera, and Deputy Bond, who stood at the garage doors, forbidding entrance.
• • •
Emily closed herself in. She could see the lobby of the Gore beyond the carved oak panels and etched glass of the phone booth. Mr. Parrish was at Reception, awarding keys; Coley Woods passed by toward the elevator, laden with baggage. Emily searched her billfold for William’s card. She felt she was in a religious enclosure, like a confessional, and fixed her attention on the heavy black telephone. She held his card, with the numbers. Which was his direct line at the bank? She dialed a number and the line engaged. It rang, a low, neutral signal.
If she were there, left behind, and he were here, she would have paced the cage of their separation, marking out the hours. Don’t be a woman, she told herself. Urgent matters required his attention, including this case. He was trusted, respected. She thought: He is good. What was goodness? Valued, well educated, privileged, did not make goodness. Some trial the soul met, that required surrender and nurture: his wife, her illness, acceptance that her condition defined his, and going on, without bitterness.
She hung up, and tried the second number.
Her grandfather would have said William Malone had “character.” Character did not take advantage, but used power for good. The concept aroused her suspicion. People did not speak of women or laborers as having “character,” though they might be seen as “noble” in their purity of being, like the animals in the fields.
He picked up. “Hello?”
She saw his desk and the phone in his hand. “William?”
“Emily. God. At last. Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes. William, I’m sorry—”
“Of course you’re all right. Forgive me. I have just . . . longed to—”
“—to call you only now. It has been—”
“I know. I can only imagine. I so regret that I’m not there with you. I’ve read all your coverage, of course, and his—”
Eric, he meant. Could he be concerned?
The line buzzed unreliably, but the connection held.
“William,” she said. “I have been so occupied.”
“We’re speaking now, Emily. It’s not important—”
But she went on, in a rush of words. “I felt, hearing your voice at such a distance, that I might be distracted, lose focus.” She was astonished at what she’d said and knew it was true. Separated from him in these horrors, she had put him away from her in order to perceive clearly and quickly.
He said, more softly, “I think of you in every breath. I fight the impulse to fly there on some pretext, but I must not interfere.”
“William, it’s chaos,” she said. “The crowds, the police and press—”
He waited, listening.
“The family are taken from him,” she said. She saw them, each one shrouded and separate.
“Emily,” he said, “we must bring them home. I’ve spoken to police and morgue officials there. Pittsburgh has the closest crematorium. I’ve arranged for Romine to transfer the remains tomorrow by hearse, and a mortuary there will ship the caskets by train to Park Ridge, according to my instructions: Annabel with her mother, and Hart with Grethe.” He breathed. “I would have asked your—”
“I know,” she said, “it’s right that they not be separate any longer.” She closed her eyes and thought, Even in darkness, there is goodness.
“Emily,” he asked, “will you come with them?”
“Of course,” she said. They should not be alone; she would go with them.
“Emily, I must ask your counsel, about something else.”
“Yes, William.”
“It is known here, through the Tribune and small-town papers farther west, that I am involved in the case. I’ve received inquiries from persons who think they recognize Powers. A Henry Kamp, from Belmond, Iowa, and a Mr. Aukes, from Ackley.” He paused. “Is that near your grandparents’ farm?”
“It’s a few counties west.” Iowa. How could it be?
“They are both Iowa farmers, these men, and don’t seem to be in communication. They want to speak with you before talking to police or
reporters.”
“If you could let them know, William, that I will be home in two days’ time, and will contact them immediately.”
“I will, Emily. Soon, then.”
“Soon.”
She stepped into the lobby, leaving their mingled voices in the phone booth.
“Miss Thornhill?” It was Parrish, at Reception. “There’s a telegram for you. I was just sending it up.”
She took the telegram. He would have signed it, “William Malone.” He was with her; he would meet her in Chicago. She looked across the desk at the clerk. “Mr. Parrish,” she said. “I understand that Dorothy Lemke stayed here at the Gore, in Room 127, probably the last night of her life, back in July.”
“Yes,” said Parrish, “the police have taken that night’s register into evidence. I was on night duty, and signed her in.” He added, “I didn’t mark it, really, except that she was alone and it was late, past midnight. I didn’t see her check out—not my shift—but no one spoke with her. She gave the porter her key.”
“Mr. Woods, you mean,” Emily said, to elicit Parrish’s affirmation. “An excellent porter, Mr. Woods. Very professional.”
“Yes, Miss Thornhill.”
• • •
Emily arranged Room 126 for the interview and sat waiting, aware that Dorothy Lemke had slept in 127, Emily’s adjoining room, for a few hours at least, alone, in happy anticipation. Powers had gone home to Quincy Street, to Luella Strother, his wife. What excuse had he given Lemke, to fetch her so early, before breakfast, before anyone but the porter and night clerk saw her or spoke to her?
Grimm knocked and stood aside, and the Lemke family was in the room, a heavy, grieving presence. “This is Mrs. Charles Fleming, Mrs. Lemke’s sister, and her husband, Charles Fleming. This is Mrs. Rose Pressler, the sisters’ aunt.” Grimm introduced them rapidly, and sat in the straight chair to the left, as if to hurry the proceedings along.
The women were big women, while Charles Fleming seemed their overgrown son, thin and jagged in his brown suit. He was wide-eyed, intense.
Having just seen her, Emily thought. They had all just seen her.
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