Quiet Dell: A Novel

by Jayne Anne Phillips

  “How long since you’ve been here, Emily?”

  “Almost ten years.” She’d not been back since selling the farm at Fairbank in ’22, after the last funeral. Her solicitor put the funds in gold; she’d not lost it in the Crash. Even now, she dreamed of buying back the farm, but for what?

  “We will find Drenth’s father,” Eric said, “get a corroborating photo, and go by your grandparents’ farm. Where is Fairbank?”

  “Fairbank is quite near. We can file there. It’s larger than Oran. Do you see, Eric? How beautiful? The fields, the black earth. Acres of corn lit up in bright patches or shaded in miles of cloud. Nothing stands up but windmills, silos. Do you see those trees, off in the distance? They are cottonwoods. They can grow a hundred feet tall, but only live seventy years or so. They’re prone to decay.”

  “They are not pistons, which live forever.” Eric smiled. “Cottonwood. I’m ignorant of cottonwoods.”

  “There are male and female trees; the male trees flower in April, and wind scatters the pollen. The female trees bear fruit, a seed encased in a fibrous pod that bursts open. The white fluff flies everywhere, like wisps of spring snow.”

  “Like cotton,” Eric said.

  Nothing so beautiful, she was thinking. Every year, after her father’s death, she’d arrive in May, alone, on the train from Chicago. Her grandparents met her in the wagon, at the station. The old mill was just behind, and the stream; the cottonwoods, a grove of them, knotted the ground with their roots. She could see, from the train windows, miles away, the white fluff drifting past, whirling in the blare of the steam engine. When she was young, in the first years after her father died, her mother would send a trusted maid along on the journey. The train windows were open despite the dust and cinders. Emily would lean out as far as she could in the noise and clamor; the maid clasped her legs tightly, lest she lose the child. Emily no longer remembered the maid’s name or face, but the feel of someone pressed close, a clinched face hard against the backs of her thighs, arms pulling down on her as she arched away into loud, rushing air, was a first erotic memory. The smoke of the engine curled behind as the train rounded the curve to Fairbank, and she saw the station ahead, in the snow of the cottonwoods. Women walked the wooden sidewalks with parasols, to keep the floating wisps from their bonnets.

  “How will we find them?” Eric asked.

  “We shall ask at the post office in Oran,” Emily said, “for the Schroder farm.”

  • • •

  Oran’s one broad street was paved with gravel and featured a dry goods store, a blacksmith and garage with gas pumps, a fire station with a steam-engine pumper, a restaurant and drugstore. The post office was a small building with a storefront window and hitching post.

  Inside, a tall woman whose light hair had gone gray distributed mail into post office boxes. The glass doors were numbered, on two of the four walls, from the floor nearly to the ceiling. The postmistress wore a U.S. Mail apron, and rubber thimbles on her fingers; she sorted mail from a deep canvas bag held open on a wooden frame.

  “Good day,” Emily said. “I am looking for Evert Schroder. I’m told that he lives near Oran. Can you direct me, please?”

  “Why would you be looking for Evert Schroder?” The woman didn’t look up, but went on sorting mail.

  “Why, I used to live near Fairbank,” Emily said, “on the old Thornhill place. I believe he knew my grandfather, Frank Thornhill. I’m here visiting.”

  The woman turned to look at her over bifocal glasses. “Frank Thornhill, you say? He was one of the biggest landowners around here. That was quite a farm.”

  “Yes, I know. I spent every summer there, and sold the place when they were gone. I’m Emily Thornhill. I live in Chicago now.”

  “Why, come in. I’m ill accustomed to strangers, but you are not a stranger. Frank Thornhill. My older brothers grew up with his boy, spent more time at John Thornhill’s place than they did at home, my mother always said.”

  “Yes, John was my father.”

  “Course he would have been. I’m remembering now, they had the one boy, and we had such a crowd, the boys slept three to a room. My mother liked your grandmother. She used to say, ‘Take some of mine.’ And your grandmother would tell her, ‘I can’t do it, Marta, you know you would want them back. Just lend me them for afternoons and dinner, after their chores this summer.’ She didn’t want her boy growing up an only child.”

  “She nearly died in childbirth, and couldn’t have more children.” Emily walked close to the counter and looked into the woman’s weathered face. She was sixty-five, perhaps, but strong, her gaze direct.

  “Baertman was our surname. I’m Marta Baertman, like my mother; I never married. Did your father ever mention the Baertman boys?”

  “He died when I was seven. But my grandmother was fond of them, I know.”

  The woman had pushed up her glasses, and regarded Emily kindly. “And your father? He must have died young.”

  Emily only nodded. “You know the Schroders, then? They are Dutch, as well, I think.”

  “Oh yes, Oran is a small place. Evert and Wilko are just moving from their farm to a bigger one. I saw them drive by in the wagons not an hour ago. Keep going, past the church. Take the dirt road on the left, a mile or so. You will know the place by the faded yellow barn.”

  “I thank you, and I’m very glad to meet you.”

  The woman grasped Emily’s hand in hers. The pliable thimbles on her fingers felt cool and nearly silken, they were worn so thin.

  Later, in the truck, Emily found her wrist marked with dark smudge, and was suddenly aware of the grave news she was bringing. The hurried nature of the search had preoccupied her, but the truth about Powers cast long shadows. The prodigal son they feared had come home; now he could not remain a mystery. To know one’s son a murderer, abnormal, perverse, violent, a man who talked his swindler’s game and had his twisted way, was mournful, deathly knowledge. What sort of man was Wilko Drenth? And Schroder, the son-in-law? What had they to do with any of this?

  • • •

  Eric stopped the truck. The farmhouse, across the pasture, was a two-story frame structure with a broad front porch; the barn, more distinctive, was dark yellow, faded to a gold tinge. The high peaked roof promised a deep interior; above it, the copper weather vane, gone blue-green, was still.

  They walked up the dirt path to the barn. A wagon with a wide, flat bed stood empty, angled into the open double doors of the barn. Two men were putting in the hay. They’d ripped open the roped bales, and pulled the hay apart with pitchforks. One man stood hip deep in loose hay, forking hay to the other, who pulled it into the mow.

  The older man must be Drenth.

  Both men, dressed in overalls, work shirts, utilitarian wide-brim hats, were short of stature, like Powers, but they were muscular, fit; Drenth was stocky, his white hair and Vandyke beard neatly trimmed. Darker in coloring, Schroder wore wire-rim glasses that magnified his brown eyes.

  Emily approached and smiled at Drenth gravely; he turned an open gaze to her, and a look of surprise. His eyes were bright blue, like Powers’ eyes; he glanced quickly at Schroder. The two men were working partners in a successful enterprise; even now, in difficult times, they were moving to a bigger farm. Twenty years in America, among Dutch friends and acquaintances: they had worked hard, despite setbacks. This was not the fantasy farm near Cedar Rapids, the easy life Powers advertised, but they had prospered.

  She must begin. “Mr. Schroder? Mr. Drenth? I am Emily Thornhill, from the Chicago Tribune, and this is Mr. Eric Lindstrom, also from the Tribune. We’re sorry to interrupt, but we are here on a matter of importance. It concerns the Harry F. Powers case in Clarksburg, West Virginia, and Harm Drenth. We want to interview you for the Tribune.”

  The men exchanged a phrase in Dutch. Wilko Drenth continued working with the pitchfork, moving great forkfuls of hay to Schroder, who turned them in midair, into the mow. The work was practiced and powerful, rapid. Drenth
looked to be in his mid-sixties, but he matched Schroder in strength and speed.

  “May we show you a photograph?” Emily asked. The hay whirled past her, smelling of grass and dust.

  Eric stepped closer. “Have you heard of the Powers case? Do you see the Chicago papers, the Cedar Rapids papers, perhaps?”

  “No,” Schroder said. “We are moving stock, machinery. We must move this hay into the mow, and go back for the stock.”

  “Mr. Schroder, we don’t mean to interrupt. May we talk to you as you work? What a beautiful barn. How many acres have you?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “I grew up in Fairbank, in summers, on my grandparents’ farm. Not far from Oran.”

  “We had a hundred and sixty acres other side of Oran. This farm is over three hundred.” Schroder kept working. Then he asked, “How did you find us?”

  “Powers, who is arrested in West Virginia, told his minister that he has a sister called Greta Schroder.”

  Schroder looked away from her. “There are many Greta Schroders. Why have you come here?”

  They know, Emily thought. “One of your late wife’s relatives by marriage, a Mr. Aukes, recognized photos from the newspapers. Another farmer from Kanawha, a Mr. Kamp, said he employed Harm Drenth on a farm, some years back. Your family originally settled in Kanawha, from Holland. Is that right?”

  “In Kanawha, Ackley, Oran. Up to Wisconsin and Minnesota,” Schroder said. “Twenty years. Hard work.”

  “Yes, on good land, it is still hard work.” Emily turned to Wilko Drenth, who looked at her through the hay as it turned between them. “We must ask you, Mr. Drenth, as Harm Drenth’s father, to identify the photo.”

  Drenth spoke to Schroder in Dutch.

  “Mr. Drenth,” Schroder said, “does not speak much English. He does not read English. And better he knows nothing of this. My wife’s brother took money from the family and disappeared, years ago.”

  “I know, Mr. Schroder. No one asks anything of you, but that you identify the picture. I believe the man is his son. He has hidden his identity for many years. The family is not responsible in any way, but the police must identify him, and that is why we are here, from Chicago.”

  Wilko Drenth continued looking at her through the falling hay, as Schroder translated. He spoke, finally, in a booming voice, as though he was hard of hearing. “He has . . . other name?”

  “Yes,” Emily said. “He is arrested, in West Virginia, under the name Harry Powers. He is accused of murder—”

  “Murder?” Drenth stabbed the pitchfork into baled hay that was shoulder high beside him. He stood quietly for a moment, looking down into the layered hay, then motioned to Schroder. “Let us see this picture.”

  “Emily,” Eric said, “come to the door of the barn. Let Mr. Drenth sit down.”

  There was a milking stool at the barn door. Wilko Drenth sat and Schroder came to stand beside him. Emily gave them the Tribune, folded to show photographs of Powers. Murder Farm Romeo Confesses ran the headline. Just below was the Quiet Dell garage photo Eric had taken, with the police lined up in front, Duckworth in his white hat, and Grimm in suit and tie: Garage Where Five Lives Were Taken. The caption under the photo said all:

  This is the garage near Quiet Dell, West Virginia, where Harry F. Powers, operator of a mail-order matrimonial bureau, strangled to death two women and three children, according to his confession . . . locked them in dungeon chambers . . . then taking their lives.

  Eric quickly took photographs, but Emily stood watching the men, noting every nuance, for these were reticent farmers whose faces showed little. Schroder looked fifty but might be younger; he was clearly protective of Drenth; the men, widowers, were raising the grandsons, running their farm without help, without women.

  Schroder seemed almost angry. “It looks like him, but until it is proven Powers is Harm Drenth, no one can call him a murderer.”

  Drenth stared at the picture. He looked up as though puzzled. “Where is this Virginia?”

  Emily felt she could not answer.

  Eric asked about Aukes’ stories: the robbery of the family store in Holland, the mother’s words about her son’s return.

  Drenth and Schroder spoke rapidly in Dutch, and Schroder responded. “None of that is true. Harm left the family in Cumberland, Wisconsin. We heard he went to New York, then to South America. He learned the English language very fast, he spoke very well . . . better than any of us.”

  A wishful version of events, Emily thought. Another Harm in a faraway country, who had not done these things. “He was jailed, years ago, at the state prison in Waupun, Wisconsin. Do you know why?”

  Drenth didn’t answer directly. He spoke in phrases, which Schroder repeated in English. “Harm was smart but wouldn’t go to school . . . he was never married when we knew him . . . he was cruel.”

  “What do you mean, cruel?” Emily asked.

  But the men went on, Drenth speaking in quick Dutch, Schroder translating. “There must have been about four thousand dollars left to pay on the farm in Minnesota, but Harm took the money and we lost the farm.” They were Drenth’s words, but Schroder added, “He wanted nothing to do with work, and once tried to kill his father.”

  Drenth studied the pictures. Powers’ studio portraits, five years ago, and more recently, as a heavier man, in suit coat, bow tie, portrayed him as a successful businessman. He looked unkempt and battered in the cell photograph. Drenth could not read the caption under the garage photo; Schroder would need to tell him later, about the children.

  Schroder, reading over Drenth’s shoulder, blinked rapidly behind his glasses and gripped the rough door of the barn. Dutch words burst from him. Kinderen was among the rush of sounds. Schroder had said part, if not all.

  Wilko Drenth said quietly, “He was not a good boy. He has been gone so long—I believed him dead. It were better so.” He stood and gave the newspaper to Emily. “If he did this, killed all these . . . why feed him? Hang him.”

  The silent barn, the piled hay, seemed to witness the words. Apology or condolence seemed too small a response. She could at least warn them.

  “There will be more reporters,” Emily said, “over the next weeks. If you have a gate to close, at the road, you might—”

  They were turning back to the work, taking up the pitchforks. “We have no gate,” Schroder said. “We needed no gate.”

  “Schaamte, schaamte, schaamte,” Drenth was murmuring, “God help me,” he said to Schroder in English.

  “What was that?” asked Emily.

  “Het meer, het meer—” Drenth said, piercing the sharp tines of the fork deep into the hay. “Ik wist het toen.”

  “He saved Harm from drowning when the boy was twelve,” Schroder said. Hay was flying at him, for Drenth was throwing great forkfuls so quickly that Schroder had only to touch their whirling projection to direct them into the mow.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Eric said, and took Emily firmly by the arm.

  • • •

  They walked back to the truck. “The town will close ranks around them,” Emily said.

  “Tell me you will not send Grimm word of Powers’ record in Wisconsin until I get this film back to the Tribune,” Eric demanded. “We must break this story, not Grimm.” He was behind the wheel, looking at her, waiting for her response.

  “It is nearly noon. Drive, Eric, please. If Grimm had the news right now, it would take some time to contact Wisconsin, exchange fingerprint evidence, and ascertain certainty. The news itself would not appear until tomorrow’s local editions, and in any case, we have the photo. In fact, we cannot claim that Powers is Drenth, without evidence based on fingerprints, which only police can request. Aukes’ story is hearsay.”

  “We shall quote his story as hearsay, and let the police corroborate it, following our lead. What difference does another day make: Pierson is Powers is Drenth. We did not come all this way to hand Grimm a notch in his belt. Let police in Park Ridge make the ID. It is where Asta Eicher and her
children lived.”

  “It is also where no one stopped Powers or questioned him. West Virginia has the case and must prove the case. Let us not delay justice, Eric, or take credit from where credit is due.”

  He drove, silent. “Do you have a deal with Grimm?”

  “I make no deals, Eric. I am surprised you ask. I do what I feel is called for, according to my own ethics and the demands of the situation.”

  “I assume you are in frequent touch with him?”

  “I phone him if I have reason. I told you at the service, that I asked him to search Powers’ car, to pull out the backseat.”

  “And?”

  “He called back that evening, to say they had found Annabel’s doll. He is sending photographs, to be identified by Charles O’Boyle, but he prefers that O’Boyle come to the trial, and identify the doll on the stand. O’Boyle mentioned the doll in our interview: Mrs. Pomeroy. The name is in my notes.”

  “But isn’t it true, Emily, that we have no story to file at this moment? We will compose that story on the flight back to Chicago, and publish it in tomorrow’s edition with the photograph. Isn’t it true that Grimm made you his confidante, because he knew you were in position to aid him in the case, and because he likes looking at you?”

  “Eric, do pull over. I said, pull over. We must agree on a direction before going further.” She braced herself against the bouncing dash of the truck and turned to him. “I am more than a passenger on this drive.”

  He did not pull over, for they were the only vehicle on the road, and oncoming traffic in either direction was visible for miles. Eric merely slowed the truck to a stop, cut off the ignition, and turned to her. “Cousin, I’m listening.”

  “Grimm likes looking at me, yes of course, and I do not consider it unethical to use his attentions to my advantage, especially as he is quite aware that I am doing so. You do the same with the girls at the office who do you favors, and with women you interview. And men would rather speak to a tall well-built blond gentleman who can reveal a superior education or not, depending on the need, than a fat cigar-smoking pundit. Do you agree?”