“Miss Thornhill, you have messages.” Parrish put them in her hand.
“Mr. Parrish, I want to order room service dinner for four, tomorrow evening at seven. May I order from the restaurant menu?”
“Of course, ma’am. Simply write your order, and sign it.” He produced the menu and a sheet of Gore Hotel stationery.
“It will be my nephew and me, and the two gentlemen from Chicago, Mr. Malone and Mr. Lindstrom. I shall write notes to be delivered to them. Is that all right?”
“I shall see to it, ma’am.”
She opened her own messages: a note from Eric: Survived flight. Must repair psyche. Dinner tomorrow? The second was from Grimm. I have news. Tearoom, 8 p.m. It was eight now. “Mr. Parrish,” she said across the desk, “I need to meet with an associate. Might I send up hot chocolate for Mason?”
“Of course, ma’am. Mr. Woods will take the order up, and let the boy know you are delayed.”
She nodded her thanks, aware that Grimm’s news likely concerned Mason. The boy had left home nearly two months ago, but she must know how to contact the father. Last week, in the calm before the trial, she’d taken Grimm into her confidence. He liked Mason and was certainly the one to advise her. She could not leave Mason here, and must seek his father’s permission to do otherwise.
• • •
Grimm sat at the table in the corner, tea service for two before him. Their meetings here were no longer confidential; numerous tables were occupied.
“You’ve been out in the weather.” He stood to take her coat, then sat, openly appreciative, watching her.
She shook the snow from her hat, a fox hat in the Russian style, and wondered with whom Grimm spent nights such as this. He had a woman, more than one, she was sure. She sipped her tea, and regarded him. “So, Sheriff Grimm? Did you find Mason’s house, in that place?”
“Near Coalton, up a hollow from the town. I’ll tell you straight out, the father is dead, was dead for some days when we found him. Snow was blown onto his bed. That a child should live in such a hovel, with a drunken father whose filth was piled around him even before he froze to death—”
“You’re certain? The man was Mason’s father?”
“The county sheriff was with me, and knew him. Neighbors identified him as well.”
“Is there anything, to be given Mason?”
“From that shack? I think not. They were tenants, and the father had smashed what they had. There’s a marked grave behind the house. The mother, neighbors said, died last fall. We helped a neighbor bury the father beside her, and finished as the snow began.” Grimm folded his hands and looked at Emily. “Mason is an orphan. He will likely go to Pruntytown, if you don’t take him.”
“What is Pruntytown?”
“Industrial School for Boys. They’re taught a trade, but it’s no orphanage. Young thieves, beggars, grifters.”
Emily squared her shoulders and leaned forward. “Of course I will take him. Can you help me? I must be responsible for his care, his schooling.”
“If you’re certain, a legal guardianship is easiest to arrange. There will be documents to sign. The Randolph County clerk will search files for record of Mason’s birth, and I have copies of the parents’ death certificates. No siblings, and no known family.” He paused. “Will you tell him of his father’s death?”
“Yes, I must,” Emily said. “It’s terrible, though will be a relief to him, surely, but I must have an alternative to offer before giving him such news.”
“I’ll let you know when the papers are drawn up. Dissuade him from going back there. The state of the place—”
“Of course. I understand.” She stood.
“You know, gratitude can be a heavy weight. You might consider that trouble could arise at some point.”
She took up her coat and hat. “I consider what Mason endured. Thankfully, he knew a mother’s love. I look forward to hearing from you.”
“Yes, soon. We must accomplish this before the trial.”
“Good night, then. You know . . . how sincerely I thank you.”
His frank look was his reply. She felt his gaze as she walked away, and a mild chill as she gained the hotel stairs. Walking the two flights up, she thought of Dorothy Lemke, ascending with Woods in the Gore Hotel elevator, and Asta Eicher, who’d likely not seen Clarksburg at all. Powers, never broaching the physical except in words, had sustained their hopes over months and hundreds of miles. These women were vulnerable, but they were not stupid. One false move would have spooked them. Powers was a chameleon, a consummate actor whose skills merged perfectly with his desires. No one saw, in September’s shambling prisoner, the man his victims experienced.
Grimm had spoken early on of Powers’ brainless, childlike, continual denial and mild, objective interest in the crime scene: Emily had noted the phrases. Mild objectivity did not seduce women to his will. Perhaps his present alias was apt. She saw his eyes flash out at her, that day in the jail; his pupils had seemed to constrict sharply and his irises flared. She remembered an illusion of lit pinwheels spinning, pulling her sharply in. Then it was gone.
She stood before the door to her room and turned the key in the lock. No one would glimpse his capabilities, in the courtroom: Powers would make certain. She wondered what guise he would adopt.
• • •
Dinner in Room 127 was a small celebration: William and Mason stood beside her as she opened the door for Eric, who grasped her by the shoulders like a brother.
“Eric, come in.” William indicated Mason. “This is Mason, Emily’s assistant. Or archivist, I should say.”
“Emily is assisted? Hello, Mason. William, you’ve recovered, I hope.” They shook hands, and Eric turned to Emily. “Believe me, we are on a first name basis, for we nearly perished together. Cousin, I was on the brink of religious conversion.”
“Only the brink, Eric?” Emily affected surprise. “Mr. Malone, can you testify to this?”
“Call me William, please.” His gaze took them in, especially Mason, whom he warmly included. “Yes, the plane dropped and tossed, but it was the landing, actually, coming to rest against the trees, that seemed most miraculous.”
“Just so,” Eric agreed.
“We were anxious about the storm, weren’t we, Mason? But you are here, and we’ve ordered dinner. Come and sit down, both of you. Mr. Malone—William—has brought a wonderful cognac from Chicago.”
“Happy to hear it.” Eric sat beside Mason on the settee and took a package from his briefcase. “Libation was on our minds. Emily, I’ve brought your favorite sherry, and something practical as well. Mason, how are you getting on with Duty?”
“Duty is very good,” Mason said. The dog jumped up and settled between them. “He knows all kinds of tricks.”
“He does indeed. This is for him. Emily?”
“Give it to Mason. He’s in charge of Duty.” She stood behind William’s armchair, resisting the desire to put her hands on him, for she’d left his bed not two hours before.
Mason, smiling, reached into the sack Eric offered and held up a small red garment, thickly knit and oddly shaped.
“Is it a scarf?” Emily asked.
Eric laughed. “Note the four armholes and generous chest. It’s a serious coat, hand-knit for a bulldog type, and the collar rolls up or down, to shield his ears.”
“Will he wear it?” Mason asked.
“He might, for you, Mason,” Emily said.
“What do you mean? We are marooned in the Arctic, and Duty is no fool.” Eric stood to turn the sweater right side round in Mason’s grasp, and show the shawl collar to best effect. “It’s wool, quite warm and pliable. There’s a technique for putting it on. I’ll show you later this evening. For now, he’s meant to lie upon it, so that it smells of him.”
“Why don’t you take everyone to your room, Mason, and show them your work desk? Mason’s made quite an organized archive.” There was a knock at the door. “Our dinner,” Emily said. “Go now,
while I put everything on the table.”
She waved off their offers of help and answered the door. The roast pork smelled deliciously of caramelized apples and parsnips; she’d ordered corn pudding and carrot slaw, and pumpkin pie for dessert. Mr. Woods laid everything out quickly. She was glowing, she knew, for it was going well; masculine voices rose and fell companionably in Mason’s room.
“I’ll leave the salver covers on the dinners, and the cart, with the pie.” Mr. Woods paused to inquire, “Is everything well, Miss Thornhill?”
He was her ally, Emily knew. “Very well, Mr. Woods.”
“Ring for the coffee, and the whipped cream for the pie, when you’re ready.” Discreetly, he shut the door behind him.
Emily walked through to Mason’s room to see him seated at his table. William and Eric stood to either side, perusing the scrapbooks of clippings. “Gentlemen,” she said.
Eric looked up. “Smells delicious. But I do want to read through all this. Mason has given me leave, after dinner.”
“Yes,” Mason said quietly, looking up at him. “And you know, I remember you from last summer. I watched your car—while you went into the grocery.”
There was a beat of silence.
“In Broad Oaks,” said Mason, “on Quincy Street.”
Now Emily remembered. The boy with his dark hair in his eyes, long hair, unkempt, but not as long as when she found him in the alley. She was so taken up with confronting Luella Powers, she’d barely glimpsed the child. And Mason was so changed now. Eric did not recognize him.
“Of course,” he said, “and you watched it well, I’m sure.”
“You gave me a quarter.” Mason’s voice dropped. “I thank you very much. You drove off fast. I couldn’t say it then.”
“We were rushed,” Eric said easily, “but you’re very welcome, Mason, and it’s good you said something. I’d never have remembered. You’ve grown since then and acquired numerous responsibilities, not to mention a haircut and appropriate dress for an archivist.”
Mason stood, tugging his vest to straighten it; he’d worn his suit to dinner. “Emily—Miss Thornhill—wanted me to wear professional-looking clothes.”
“Yes, he’s been such a good sport about it,” Emily said quickly. “We’ve said he’s my nephew, to satisfy any queries.” She must know, she must ask, or the others would wonder. “Mason, how curious, that we met before. Did you remember me, as well?”
“I do now,” he said apologetically. “But it was mostly the car I was looking at, and he was driving it, and he looks just the same. I knew he was with a lady, but you got out on the other side, and I didn’t see your face. After, he put you into the car so quick.”
“I certainly did,” Eric said.
Mason looked at Emily, his eyes alight. “I can’t believe it was you!”
“Yes, Mason, I was there.” She felt, unaccountably, bathed in happiness.
“Well, then,” William said. “Shall we dine?”
She stood aside as Eric and Mason preceded her.
Mason turned to Eric. “Everyone was following the reporters to Broad Oaks. I thought I might get a ride home. You flicked the quarter right into my hand.”
“So I did. And where is home, Mason?”
Emily saw him blink, and the slight, involuntary flinch. “Out to Coalton,” Mason said. “I’m helping now, for the trial.”
“You’re one of us, then,” Eric offered.
“And I’m very glad,” Emily said. William, close behind her, kissed the back of her neck, and she walked quickly to the dinner table.
“Lovely spread, isn’t it, Mason?” Eric was seated beside him. “Puts the restaurant downstairs to shame.”
Emily sat by Mason, for he still watched her in company, to be sure of table etiquette. She put Mason’s glass of water before him and indicated William’s chair. “William, do sit there, by Eric.”
“Certainly, Emily. Thank you.”
“Salvers,” Eric said. “I do like a good salver cover on my plate, don’t you, Mason?”
“I do like a good salver, Eric.” Mason removed his salver lid and held it over his head like a trophy, beaming as Eric immediately followed suit.
“All right then,” Emily said. She stacked lids and trays on the cart.
Eric called for the sherry and cognac. “We must have a toast to celebrate our community.”
“You’re very droll,” said Mason shyly, as though offering great praise.
“I quite agree, Mason.” William was pouring. “Emily, sherry? Eric, cognac for you?”
“Most certainly. William, where was this bottle of good cognac while we suffered that infernal airplane ride?”
“In the belly of the plane,” William said. “On the way back, I shall have a flask in my pocket.”
“Don’t let’s think of future plane rides,” Eric said. “I propose a toast, and everyone must join in.”
They looked at one another, all warm glances.
Eric raised his own glass. “To our very fine dinner. To Emily’s home away from home, Duty’s new coat, Mason’s skills, and William’s good fortune in all things.”
Together, they drank, and ate their dinner, like a family on good terms. They remarked on the continuously drifting snow and agreed it was well the Gore had drawn up the red-and-white summer awnings, for the snow would certainly have broken them.
• • •
The sky was a brilliant blue. Emily walked with Eric and Mason through streets increasingly crowded for the trial, toward the park. Duty stayed to the cleared sidewalk, for the drifts to either side were waist high.
Eric was taking what he called set shots: buildings, streets, scenes. “One cannot mistake Clarksburg for the South in December,” he said. “Chicago will be confused by all the snow.”
Emily dropped a little behind. She liked to see them together, and considered Eric’s comment. West Virginia was not seen as Southern in the South, nor forgiven for siding with the Union seventy years ago, but had seemed the South to Emily last summer. Clarksburg was nearly snowbound this winter. Snow gleamed by day and shone at night, brighter than the gaslights. Today the town ladies circulated in the crowds, handing out leaflets about their historic downtown district.
“Is that your favorite camera?” Mason asked, and drew Duty closer on the leash.
Eric paused. “Best for stills in daylight, and certain trick shots. One may appear to photograph a small frame but actually include a wider view.”
“Why?”
Eric showed him. “To look closely at a wider context, or include a reluctant subject. There will be plenty during the trial. You’ve a bustling little town here, Mason.” He waited for Emily to fall in beside them. “I’m sure you know the whole story, Emily.”
“Named for a general in the seventeen eighties. Railroad money, mining boom. A river, for shipping goods. The usual tale, I suppose.” Immigrants and the children of struggling farmers worked in the glass factories by the river; established modest enclaves, including Broad Oaks, where Luella Powers and Eva Belle Strother ran their storefront grocery. These weeks, reporters and the curious bought their products as souvenirs; the sisters charged inflated prices for small tins of mustard and baking powder.
Last summer and fall, veritable motorcades of cars had proceeded to Broad Oaks, then out Main Street to Buckhannon Turnpike and the dirt road that led to Quiet Dell. Entrepreneurs had looted the premises of anything they could carry.
The three of them approached the park. A man on a bench near the entrance displayed a scrawled sign: Powers Murder Relics. “Here,” he called out to passersby. “Only here.”
He thrust something at Emily.
The thing was in her gloved hand: a plain white envelope. She drew from within a paper scrap inscribed in pencil script, Piece of soundproof board, used by Harry Powers during his notorious Murdering, Aug. 1931. The board itself, a small dense square about as thick as the sole of a man’s shoe, was marked Harry Powers in purple ink. The number
3 was legible on the surface.
“How did you come by this?” Emily asked the man.
He wore his hat pulled low, and his soiled dark scarf was around his mouth. Only his dark eyes gleamed out. “That’s not for you to know, missus.”
Emily asked the man, furious, “Why is it marked with a 3?”
“Because each is numbered. They is only two hundred, and this one here is number 3.” The man looked around her at Eric. “Do ye want it or not?”
“I do not,” Emily said, “and you should not be selling it. Who gave you leave to tear apart a scene of terrible suffering?”
“I got to make a dime,” he said.
“Then perhaps you might seek honest labor.” She turned to move away.
The man addressed Eric. “You want it?”
“No,” Eric said. “But I will give you fifty cents to photograph it, there, on the bench beside you.”
Emily pulled Mason on, but he looked back to watch Eric lay out his white handkerchief, and position the object for the shot. “Why is he taking a picture?” Mason asked.
“To prove that men can be so low. That man may need to make a dime, but he does not care how.” They passed through the gates of the park. “He is a thief, for taking the object, and worse than a thief for selling it to others like himself.”
“Eric is not a thief,” Mason said decisively.
“No, he is doing his job, and journalists must sometimes pay an unsavory source for the greater good of documenting what is happening or has happened. And Eric will photograph the man”—she turned to glance behind her—“and report him to police for profiteering.”
Quiet Dell: A Novel Page 34