by Amy Stewart
“What would you have done? I really do think it’s over now. This man George Ewing, he was working for Mr. Kaufman. He’s back in prison and—”
“But think about it, Constance,” Francis said. “Whether they convict him or not doesn’t matter. There will be another one after this, and another one. Don’t you see? You’re easy marks out here. Three girls, living all alone, wealthy as far as anyone can tell.”
Rich, lonely women in the countryside. Is that how we looked to those men? I got a little queasy when I tried to see us through their eyes. “And I suppose you think we’d be safer with you.”
“Of course! That’s what I’ve been telling you all along. Move in with us and you’re living in a neighborhood, not out on some dark road. We have a police officer living down the street from us, and a firefighter. Besides, I’ll be there.”
“Oh, you’re going to protect us? I don’t think Henry Kaufman and his gang would be afraid of you,” I said.
“They only go after people who provoke them. And I won’t.”
Through the window I could see Norma strapping a basket of pigeons to Dolley’s backside. She was going to ride away and leave me to handle this on my own. Fleurette’s record skipped and she started it again.
He pushed his chair back and stood to leave. “You can’t afford to keep this place without an income. You know I’m right about that.”
He was. We’d spent hardly anything all winter, but our savings were dwindling.
“At least send Fleurette to us,” Francis said. “She’s the one they’re after.”
“Fleurette stays with me.”
He bent over and said in a whisper, “Shouldn’t mothers be more concerned with keeping their children safe?”
I leaned back and stared at him. “What do you think I’ve been doing?”
He went to the door, and I looked at the seam along the back of his coat, freshly restitched in Bessie’s hand. He already had the slight stoop of a man who bore too many burdens. “Do you remember how Mother used to be when something happened on the street?” I said.
He paused and turned back to me, still aggravated.
“One time you and I were out with her,” I said, “and a boy was running past. He tripped and spilled a bag of onions all over the sidewalk. Do you remember that?”
He shook his head.
“I stopped to pick one up, but Mother yanked my arm and told me not to touch it, like it could be some kind of trick.”
“She was like that,” Francis said, leaning against the door. “She didn’t trust anybody.”
“That’s right,” I said. “And for years it never occurred to me that other people would stop if you dropped something, and hand it back to you. Some people—like the men who pulled our wrecked buggy off Fleurette—would run straight toward a disaster, not because they were heedless of the danger, but because they were prepared to do something about it.”
Francis shrugged. “Mother had her reasons. It was a different time.”
“That’s exactly right,” I said. “It was a different time. We don’t have to hide anymore, and we don’t have to run away.”
Francis raised his hands in surrender. “Then don’t. But you know you can always—”
“I know we can turn up on your doorstep,” I said. “I thank you and Bessie for offering. But we’ve done just fine standing up for ourselves, and I’m glad we did.”
He nodded and left. I sat in the kitchen with my eyes closed and listened to the churning of that distant French orchestra on the Victrola, and the sweep of Fleurette’s slippers across our uneven parlor floor.
What I didn’t say to Francis was that when Lucy grabbed me on the street in Paterson that day, I couldn’t understand how anyone would take hold of a stranger and pour out their troubles. But now I realized that people did it all the time. They called for help. And some people would answer, out of a sense of duty and a sense of belonging to the world around them. That’s what Sheriff Heath and his men did, lying in wait in our freezing barn, their guns drawn, to get the man who was trying to get us.
If I could give something to Fleurette—if I could give her one silent gift from a mother she didn’t know she had—it would be this: the realization that we have to be a part of the world in which we live. We don’t scurry away when we’re in trouble, or when someone else is. We don’t run and hide.
She watched Mother and learned her ways just like I did. But I hoped she would watch me too, and learn something different.
47
A WEEK LATER, just after dinner, a knock came at the door. I opened it to find Sheriff Heath and Deputy Morris, dripping wet on my front porch. They’d removed their overcoats and stood shivering in their vests and shirtsleeves, the fabric stuck to them like a coat of paint.
They both spoke at once. “We’re so sorry to bother you, Miss Kopp,” Deputy Morris said.
“Please forgive us, but could we—” Sheriff Heath began, as I opened the door wide and ushered them in.
“We realize we’re barging in late,” Deputy Morris began again.
“It’s all right,” I said. “What happened?”
Norma and Fleurette came in from the kitchen, and Norma went off to find towels and blankets for them without waiting for an explanation. Fleurette fussed over both of them, insisting that they kick off their wet shoes and stand by the fire. They crowded around the hearth. The smell of moss and river mud rose off them as their clothes warmed.
Norma returned with a stack of towels and disappeared again to heat the coffee. Fleurette added a log to the fire and settled down in front of them as if anticipating a dramatic recitation. “Do tell us everything,” she said. “Were you chasing our Mr. Kaufman out of the creek? Shall we get our guns?”
Deputy Morris shook his head. “No, miss. We were after another crook tonight. A house thief. He stole some jewelry and money and gave the lady of the house a terrible fright. We rounded up some men in the neighborhood, and we’ve been out chasing him all afternoon, but we lost him when it got dark.”
“And then you went for a swim?” Fleurette said.
“Not much of a night for a swim. The fellow we were chasing shot at the sheriff here, and we both fell backward into a creek. We were going to go straight home, but the road—”
“You’ve been shot?” I said around the hard thing that had leapt into my throat and lodged there.
Sheriff Heath had been looking at the fire while Deputy Morris spoke. He turned to me and said, “No. It just put a hole in my overcoat. He surprised us, that’s all.”
Fleurette looked up at me and frowned. “There’s a tear in his vest.”
“Let me see that.” I moved toward him but he pulled away. I grabbed him roughly by the arms and turned him to face me. He blinked at me in surprise. “Miss Kopp, I—”
“Stop that,” I said. “I think you’re in shock.” I picked at the tear in his vest and came away with a hand covered in blood.
“You’ve been shot,” I said quietly, pulling him closer to get a look at the wound. “It’s too dark in here. Fleurette, get some bandages and soap and things. See if we have anything that will fit a man. The sheriff’s going to need another shirt.”
He tried to protest. “No, we only stopped because the road—”
“Never mind about that. We’re going to get a look at your shoulder right now.”
Norma was coming out with coffee as I led the two men to the kitchen. She saw the blood seeping through his vest as we moved into the circle of light cast by the lamp.
“Let them have their drink,” I said, “and put on some more water. Light the other side of the stove so Deputy Morris can get warm.”
She did as I asked, and I pushed a protesting Sheriff Heath into a chair. Fleurette returned with the bandages and a bundle of Francis’s old clothes. She helped me ease the vest off his shoulder. He groaned when we raised his arm to remove it.
“Bend over the table so we can see it in the light,” I said. “We’re not go
ing to touch it. We’re just going to look.”
His shirt was soaked in blood across the shoulder and down the back. I lifted it carefully off his skin and Fleurette cut it away with scissors. Underneath was a wide and shallow wound obscured by half-congealed blood.
“I think you’re all right,” I said under my breath. “It looks like the bullet just grazed you. We’ll clean it so we can see better.”
He nodded but didn’t look up at us. He was gripping the edge of the table with his hands, his knuckles pale.
Norma brought a towel and a bowl of hot water, and Fleurette supplied the soap. I washed the edges of the wound as carefully as I could without actually touching it. The bullet went deep enough to strip away the skin but didn’t seem to expose any bone. As I cleaned it, the natural color of his skin returned, pink and white from the hot water. On his shoulder were a string of brown freckles, five of them in all.
He was breathing long, noisy breaths like a captive animal.
“Now we need to wash the wound itself,” I said. “Lean back so we don’t make a mess.”
Without loosening his grip on the table, he eased back toward Fleurette and me. I looked down at him but he didn’t meet my eyes. The hair on the top of his head had just begun to dry. Two locks lifted away from the rest.
I squeezed a trickle of water over his shoulder and Fleurette pressed a towel against him to catch it. The water ran bright red, but the wound looked clean. I peered at it closely, breathing in the metallic smell of fresh blood.
“This will have to be sewn up. It won’t close on its own.”
He pulled away from us and tried to cover himself with the torn remnants of his shirt. “I don’t need a doctor,” he said.
“Sir, I think the ladies are right,” Deputy Morris said. “Shouldn’t someone take a look at you tonight?”
He shook his head and tried to stand up. “I’m not going to get a doctor out of bed for this.”
“Then sit down,” I said, with a tone of authority in my voice that surprised him. “You’re not leaving without a bandage and a clean shirt.” He sat down wearily and Fleurette and I set about wrapping his shoulder. It was a difficult spot to cover properly and impossible to pin in place. Fleurette sewed a few stitches through the bandage to hold it. Then she produced our brother’s old nightshirt. Sheriff Heath removed himself to the washing room to exchange his ruined shirt for Francis’s. When he returned, he nodded at me.
“I need to speak to Miss Kopp for a minute.”
I opened the kitchen door and he followed me down the hall to the parlor. The fire we had fed a few minutes earlier was now blazing brightly. I encouraged Sheriff Heath to sit but instead he stood in front of it.
“I’m not quite dry,” he said, leaning over the hearth. I took my seat and waited for him to speak. The room was dark except for the fire, but I didn’t want to go to the bother of lighting any lamps.
“I can’t get Ewing to budge,” he said. “He’s still claiming responsibility for all the letters and the shots fired and everything.”
“All of it?”
The sheriff attempted a nod and then grimaced and laid a hand on his bandage. Behind him the flames hissed and threw sparks on the hearth. He stepped aside and the orange glow illuminated him from below. He looked like an apparition in the flickering light.
“I’m afraid so. If we can’t get him to change his story, the prosecutor’s going to drop all the charges against Henry Kaufman.”
“But why would Mr. Ewing claim responsibility for crimes he didn’t commit? He might have been in Mr. Kaufman’s gang, but he didn’t do it all himself. He couldn’t have.”
Sheriff Heath shrugged, and then winced from the pain of moving his shoulder. “Money. I think Kaufman has offered him a sum of money in exchange for confessing to crimes he did not commit. It’s worth at least a thousand dollars to Kaufman, not to mention the exposure.”
“Or he’s threatened him.”
“Maybe a little of both. I have to assume Kaufman knew that Ewing would get caught. He’s the weakest animal in the pack. Easy to sacrifice.”
I leaned back and closed my eyes. I couldn’t believe that, after all that had happened, Henry Kaufman might get off without so much as a rebuke from the courts, simply by bribing someone else to take the blame.
“But I have one bit of good news,” he said. “We’re calling in a handwriting expert from New York. William Kingsley. He’s an authority on the scientific study of penmanship. He’s going to look at the letters and try to connect them to Kaufman.”
“I don’t see how that could help us,” I said. “They were all printed in block lettering.”
“Oh, he’s got a method, even when someone tries to disguise the handwriting. He’s winning cases. There’s just one thing. He wants us to gather writing samples not just from Ewing and Kaufman, but from other parties involved in the case. I’d like all three of you to come down and give a sample.”
“But why would we write the letters?”
“He just wants to rule out anyone who might be accused of writing the letters themselves to create a sensation.”
“And would we be accused of throwing bricks through our own windows? Running down our own buggy?”
“It’s only a formality.”
The kitchen door opened, and Norma, Fleurette, and Deputy Morris shuffled down the hall. They looked half asleep.
“I’m sorry we kept you,” I said, rising to my feet. “You must be wanting to get home.”
“I thought there was some trouble with the road,” Fleurette said. “Shouldn’t they stay the night?”
Both men stiffened in surprise at the suggestion, as did Norma.
“Thank you, Miss Fleurette,” Deputy Morris said, “but that won’t be necessary. The road is very slow going because of all the ruts in it and the new moon. But now that we are warm and dry, the drive will be more tolerable.”
As they went out the door, Sheriff Heath thanked Fleurette for her services as a nurse and Norma for the coffee. To me he said, “Tomorrow, Miss Kopp.”
48
WE WERE WAITING ON THE FRONT PORCH when Sheriff Heath arrived the next morning. The sun had come out, and the air, while still cold, smelled damp and green.
“I don’t approve of us riding around in automobiles,” Norma said.
“I should like to learn how to drive one, and I wonder if the sheriff would teach me,” Fleurette said. “I was just looking at a charming motoring cap in one of my magazines that I think would suit me.”
“Don’t bother the sheriff,” I said. “He’s doing us a favor by bringing us to the station himself. I’m sure he’s very busy.”
Sheriff Heath brought the car to a stop in our drive and jumped out, grinning, to open the door for me. Norma and Fleurette settled in behind us.
“You’re in high spirits for a man who was shot last night,” I said.
“We got him. And now he faces an assault charge for shooting at an officer of the law.”
“You caught the thief after you left our house last night? In your condition?”
“Oh, not Morris and me. No, we went right home to bed. But one of the men in the posse tracked him all night and brought him in just before dawn. I deputized that fellow on the spot. We could use more like him.”
“I’m sure you could.”
The men from the dairy were taking advantage of the sunshine and finishing the work on the road, spreading a new layer of crushed stone and pressing it down with a roller. They stepped aside to let us through, although I know that the tires of the automobile only made the road more rutted and pitted. “We should get the county to come out and oil this road,” Sheriff Heath said, half to himself. “This macadam is only good for buggies and bicycles.”
“If you know a way to get the Board of Freeholders to pay for it, I’d like to hear about it.”
“I wish I did. I’m fighting them for every penny right now. They put up that jail at a cost of six hundred thousand dollars but
didn’t finish it. I had to petition them for sanitary drains and windows that can’t be picked open with common tools. There’s no laundry facility and no money for me to issue uniforms to the prisoners. You can’t imagine what a mess it is.”
“Haven’t the Freeholders seen it? Aren’t any of them on your side?”
“I haven’t offered them a tour,” he said, smiling.
“Well, perhaps you should. Or show them some pictures. Doesn’t anyone have a camera?”
“I suppose I do.”
We drove along in silence for a minute. When we bounced over a large pit in the road, his face wound up in pain.
“What did the doctor have to say about your shoulder?”
He didn’t look away from the road. He probably wanted to forget being subjected to the amateur nursing efforts of the Kopp household last night. Finally he said, “Mrs. Heath has examined the wound carefully and given it a fresh bandage.”
“And she approves of you going right back to work today?”
“She does not.”
I wondered what it must have been like for Mrs. Heath to awaken in the night and find her husband shot in the shoulder.
“I think I agree with your wife. You should have stayed home today.”
He shrugged and grinned. “The criminals don’t stay home, Miss Kopp. You know that. Mrs. Heath knows it too.” Nothing could ruin his good mood. It was amazing to see what catching a fugitive could do for his disposition. I was cheered myself by the news.
The sheriff turned around to speak to Norma and Fleurette. “This is merely an exercise to satisfy Mr. Kingsley’s rigorous method. No one suspects the Kopps of writing the letters,” he said.
“I would think not,” Norma said.
“His method is very scientific, the way he looks at each letter and how it’s made. He can tell how hard a man presses a pen against the paper, and he knows the difference between how you write a letter at the beginning of the word or in the middle of it. He’s winning all kinds of cases in New York. This is all we need to get our Mr. Kaufman convicted.”