“Thank you, but you can stop bothering these gentlemen and go home right now.” I spoke more sharply than I intended, and Mr. Robinson gave me a quick glance.
“It’s no bother,” Mr. C said while favoring me with a small smile. “Let me show you around the house and gardens first, Rose, since you so graciously came all this way.”
He saw I was about to protest when he pulled Rose up and started immediately to lead her away. “No need to worry, Sarah. I’ll take good care of her; you stay here and take care of our guest.” He was still smiling that smile that fluttered the pulses of so many young girls, and not-so-young girls, as they went into the house.
“How did your husband die, Sarah?” I jumped, having forgotten that Mr. Robinson was still there. Fighting a strong urge to run away, I remained still and the story spilled out.
“He died at the mill eight months ago. The mill foreman came by in the middle of the night and demanded that Tom go in right away and fix some equipment so it would be ready for the morning shift. Tom wanted to refuse, but…” I swallowed hard, guilt almost smothering me. “I told him not to give management an excuse to fire him, because he had stood up to them too many times already. In the morning, the knock came at the door. Someone on the morning shift had found him lying dead on the carding room floor. They said he must have fallen and fractured his skull while trying to untangle some wires near the ceiling, but I don’t know.”
“You’re not sure what really happened, are you?” Mr. Robinson looked at me intently as though he had more questions, but I had to look away. I was fighting the urge to tell him everything, to share with a fellow human being the intense rage that had kept me so isolated from others. But I knew that he must not have suspicions about my motives for being in this house.
“It’s just hard for me to talk about, that’s all,” I said and fled inside.
The next day, I once again heard the two men talking as I walked past the library. One voice, Mr. C’s, was slurred although it was only four o’clock. That was nothing out of the ordinary. But what held me in place was the other voice. Mr. Robinson, who was always so soft-spoken, was shouting. “You are going to do what?”
“I said I am going to fire them all. I give them a job and their homes, and what do they do…? They listen to some radical from the Knights of something or other who tells them to join his union because I’m their enemy. Me… who gives them turkeys at Christmas and pays for their kids’ confirmation dresses.”
“But you can’t do that!” Mr. Robinson responded. “They’ve worked at your mill all of their lives, and where would they live? Besides, if you fire most of your workers, who is going to make your precious cloth?”
“I can do whatever I want; I own these people. Haven’t you figured that out by now? And besides, all I’d have to do is hire a bunch of coloreds. I can pay them less, and they won’t talk back. And as for that damned organizer, we’ll take care of him and his buddies.”
“What are you talking about, Dickie?”
“Well, Eddie, I’m just saying, we may be the Line State, but we still know how to dish out southern justice.”
At this point, Mr. Robinson barged out of the room without seeing me standing there. His face was pale and he looked ill as he almost ran to the side door that led to the garden. I felt sick, too, and wished with my whole being that I had not heard that threat, so I could just go about my day without carrying the burden of this terrible knowledge.
AND SO IT came to pass—I knew what I had to do, and there would be no backing out. I did not save my husband, but I would save Rose. And I would save the innocence of the other young women who Mr. C would have lured into his den. And the lives and livelihoods of those who, like Tom, were trying to give the mill workers a fair wage for their long day’s work. Now, my former moral qualms were quieted. All I wrestled with now were the more practical matters. How would I accomplish this? Find some mushrooms and poison him? Sneak up behind him and hit him over the head with one of his medieval lances? It was ludicrous. After all, what did I know about murder?
But I was surprised how easy it was once the final decision was made. Within two days, I had both a plan and the means, and all I needed was the opportunity and the will. And then it happened.
It was a fine summer night. The heat wave had finally broken, and a cool breeze welcomed us when we had a chance to step outside. Mr. Robinson, who had made himself scarce since the argument, was off to a party in the city. “Don’t expect me back until late,” he had said.
It was Gertie’s night off, and I had been told to stay later to do the evening cleanup. The rest of the help had either gone home, if they had other homes, or were hanging around the kitchen smoking and telling terrible jokes because they knew that Mr. C always spent the evening drinking in the library and rarely emerged before midnight when he staggered to bed.
Because Gertie was not there, it fell to me to bring Mr. C his nightly mug of hot chocolate before I could leave for the night. How easy it was to stir in several capfuls of the sleeping powder I had obtained to get me through the sleepless nights since Tom’s death. Then, wearing the gloves that I used when doing particularly dirty work (how apt, I thought), I entered his bedchamber for the first time, walked to the canopied bed, put my hand under the mattress, and found the gun that all the help knew was there. “He keeps a loaded pistol there,” laughed Mazie, who, young and pretty as she was, had the privilege of joining him in his bedchamber. “He’s really afraid that some large masked intruder will break into his room one night and take off with some of his valued treasures.” I was neither large nor masked, but I guess he did have some reason to fear.
All I had to do then was go back to the library where Mr. C was slumped over snoring, a circle of dim lamplight illuminating little but his golden hair. Hardly the fine figure of a man so admired by the fools of the town. Grunting like a small pig, with spittle running down his chin, smelling of the brandy he had been drinking for hours, he looked almost pathetic. But pity was no longer in my vocabulary. I lifted his right hand, fixed it around the pistol, and moved it to his temple. He opened his eyes in confusion. “Yes, Mr. C, it’s Mrs. Morris. You took my husband, but you can’t have Rose,” I said softly. I put my finger over his on the trigger and fired. It’s really over, I thought numbly, and then I heard the library door click closed.
It was that soft click, rather than the booming retort from the gun, that reverberated in my ears and in my heart as I stood there not knowing what to do. I should scream. I should hide. I should run. Instead, I took off my gloves and placed them in my pocket, picked up the mug, walked over to the large gilded mirror, and stared at my reflection to see if I had somehow changed into someone else and then walked slowly into the hall.
Mr. Robinson was there just down the hall. He stared at me for a moment and then remarked in a quiet and somewhat apologetic voice, “The party was dull, and I came back early.” We both stood there silent for a few moments, and then he said, “So you best be off home, Sarah. I think I’ll turn in myself now.”
As I walked toward the main door, still carrying the mug, he added, “You need to show up here on time tomorrow.” I turned to reply, but he was already walking away.
I REMEMBER LITTLE about the walk home except that I was shivering with cold though the night was warm and balmy. I must have fallen deeply asleep as soon as I reached our home because the next thing I remember is Rose frantically shaking me awake. I was still in my work clothes, and I only had time for a quick wash. There is no point in recounting the anguish I felt while climbing the hill to Calvert Hall that morning. I believed I deserved whatever torment my demons would dish out. However, I was almost paralyzed with the fear of leaving Rose to face the world alone.
By the time I arrived, three police wagons were in the courtyard, their horses churning up the manicured front lawn, and several policemen were dashing in and out of the front door, one of them dragging a red-faced young man who was shouting that his editor woul
d not like one of his Morning Herald reporters being treated like a vagrant. “That Mencken is always poking his nose where it doesn’t belong,” said another, older policeman. So the word was out, I thought. I was allowed to enter after Mr. Robinson came out and gave his okay.
Inside, it was chaos. Police were everywhere, and I could not help feeling anxious about the muddy footprints they were leaving on Mr. C’s fine oriental rugs. Our councilman was there doing nothing useful that I could see, but managing anyway to look puffed up with importance. I joined the group of servants who were chattering excitedly, some with disbelief, others with proclamations that they had seen signs that such a tragic event was coming. Two of the pretty but silly young things, who had frequented Mr. C’s bedchamber and who probably had imagined a life far above their station, were crying and snuffling rather loudly. But Colleen, who apparently had discovered the body, was sitting on a chair white-faced and silent. I am so sorry, Colleen, I thought to myself, but I, too, said nothing.
Mr. Robinson was talking to a stout man in a fancy uniform. I heard only snatches of what he was saying, something about possible despondency over gambling debts and a woman in New York City. The man nodded solemnly and looked over at us and then at one of his men.
“These people are just in the way. Pick one or two to clean up the mess, and send the rest to their rooms or homes or wherever.”
I was surprised that he did not want to speak to any of us, but perhaps he figured that we could not possibly have anything useful to add. I left quietly, knowing with a certain satisfaction that this was the last time I would see Calvert Hall.
My memories of the week that followed are blurred around the edges and reminded me of riding on the carousel as a child, catching quick glimpses that whirled by before you understood what you were seeing. Of course, wherever I went—on the streets, in the shops, and among the servants in the homes where I collected the dirty laundry that I was again washing—nothing was discussed but this unexpected event. It seemed that almost everyone had their own special insight into what actually transpired, with talk of gambling debts, a married mistress in New York, and even blackmail of some sort. I drifted through these conversations silently, my refusal to speak of Mr. C often taken as a sign of deep and heartfelt grief.
Just before the public memorial service that was being held to honor the man who was, in the words of the flyer posted everywhere, “our foremost citizen, whose grace and generosity touched all our lives,” I heard murmurs that snapped me out of my trance.
When I was picking up the laundry from my newest employer, the cook, Katie, told me that Mrs. Bartlett in the haberdashery heard from Mrs. Brown, whose husband worked as a janitor in the police station, that the police were not convinced that such an important and distinguished well-off personage would depart this world voluntarily, especially without leaving a note. The possibility was being raised that some malcontent agitators from the city might have been involved.
“No, no, they mustn’t think it’s murder,” I said before I realized I had spoken. Luckily, Katie, a big, softhearted girl, interpreted this as further evidence that I was in mourning and insisted that I sit while she fetched me a glass of water.
Then later while telling me that he could not let me have any more meat until I had paid off my bill, not even the ham bone I would have used to flavor our greens for that night’s supper, the butcher turned to his assistant and excitedly informed him that the police were still not convinced “that things were really as they seemed.”
Given these rumors, I was not sure that I had the strength to attend the memorial service and in the end went only because Rose insisted that we pay our respects. My soul still bore the weight of what I had done, and my head was heavy with images of the cold jail cell that might await me, but this was lightened because Rose, while saddened, seemed not emotionally scarred by the event. Maybe we could get through this, I thought.
THE TOWN HALL was full. In the back rows, I saw many workers from the mill with their stained work clothes and dusty shoes, shuffling uncomfortably and receiving sharp glances from Mr. Sullivan, my husband’s foreman, who must have herded them there. Appearing more proper in the front rows were the shopkeepers and their staffs, looking quietly pleased at this recognition of their higher status. And seated at a raised table in front were the town notables—church leaders, police chief, and other mill owners.
Our councilman, of course, was in the center, clearly pleased as punch with this chance for such public attention. When he began to speak of how much our town would miss this great man, I saw my Tom’s face instead. The councilman was followed by the parish priest, representatives from other mills, a Baltimore City Hall official, and a few other worthies, all recalling the virtues of the late departed but exhorting us to carry on in spite of this grievous loss.
“And now,” said the councilman, “we are honored in our little town to have as our last speaker, the world-famous poet, Edwin Arlington Robinson, who, as it happens, was a friend of the deceased and one of the last to ever speak with him. He has written a poem especially for this occasion, and we will be the first to hear it.” He was clearly flustered, not knowing whether to shake hands or what, and sat down abruptly. I went rigid and must have been gripping Rose’s hand too hard, for she gave me a quizzical look. I put my hands back in my lap but could not make myself look up while Mr. Robinson started to speak.
“I am honored to be here to speak of my late classmate…. It would be an exaggeration to say we were actually friends,” he started. “But still it is fitting that, as a guest in his house at the time of his death, I should memorialize this awful event. Therefore, I beg your indulgence and will read the short poem I have hurriedly written in his memory.”
It was difficult for me to hear most of what was said over the buzzing in my head and the pounding of my heart. The phrases came by like fish darting around in a bowl: “quietly arrayed,” “glittered when he walked,” “richer than a king,” “schooled in every grace,” “wish we were in his place.”
He then paused, and somehow I knew he was looking at me. I could not help but look up to meet his gaze, my chest so tight that I thought I could never take another breath.
He cleared his throat and then continued with his eyes searching my face, “So on we worked, and waited for the light, and went without the meat, and cursed the bread.” An even longer pause and then, “And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, went home and put a bullet through his head.”
And amazingly, that turned out to be that. Life, as hard as it was, just went on. No more police investigations. No more images of Rose fending for herself while I lived out my life in a cold, dank cell. No more rumors of murder. Because, after all, everyone knows that a poet would never lie.
HAPPINE$$
BY TWIST PHELAN
When you’re rich, the help comes to you—dress designers, hairstylists, masseuses, personal trainers. The scripted embroidery on this gal’s lab coat read EverYoung Botox Clinic. Cosmetic dermatologists, too. It would take a hell of a lot of paralyzing bacteria to erase the lines on Breezy Taakall’s face—lines she got from worrying about losing all her money.
“Thank God the paparazzi didn’t see you,” Breezy said to the Botox lady as they walked down the hallway to the master bedroom. At precisely 6 p.m. the master bedroom would belong to the feds.
I could have stopped them, but I decided to let them go. Breezy wasn’t the defendant, and technically she had the right to be here, at least for a few more hours.
I went to find Don—he’s the other marshal. He was babysitting Nicky and his lawyer in the living room. Today we were doing the walk-through, Nicky’s last chance to gaze upon some of his booty—the penthouse on East Sixty-fourth and everything in it. He’d been under house arrest at a friend’s apartment during the trial, and the judge had allowed him to continue living there until he had to report to prison. This was the only time he’d been back to his place since the indictment.
Nick
y was due at the Big House first thing tomorrow morning. Don and I had two other jobs today in addition to tagging everything for the asset sale and making sure the Taakalls didn’t take anything they weren’t supposed to: first, keeping a moderately arthritic middle-aged guy from escaping, and second, making sure none of Nicky’s victims got close enough to take revenge.
The penthouse’s living room was big enough to seat the New York Philharmonic and still leave plenty of room for dancing. The walls were papered with linen and covered with beautiful artwork. I recognized Picasso, Matisse, Renoir, and Monet, and that was just what I could see from the foyer. Through the alcove was a dining table that would seat at least twenty.
There were red tags attached to everything. Don was refastening one to a silver hairbrush. I heard that Marie Antoinette used to own it. No kidding.
I asked him where Nicky and Gerald were. Gerald Karius was one of the legal laundrymen the financial crowd called in when they got rings around their white collars.
Don looked like a turtle, with a neck that disappeared into his shirt collar. “Lawyer’s out in the hall on his CrackBerry,” he said. “I thought Nicky was with you.” He hunched his shoulders to pull his head back farther into his shell.
I got a funny feeling, like I used to get when I was a cop. I sprinted down the hall toward the master bedroom. The double doors were shut. I opened them.
Nicky was in a lounge chair that had been pushed against the wall. His trousers had ridden up; above a purple silk sock I spotted the electronic monitoring device. His trademark unbuttoned French cuffs hung out beyond his jacket sleeves. He gripped the arms of the chair while Breezy pulled his shirt collar away from his neck. The Botox lady was bent over him with a syringe in her hand.
Breezy looked up at me, her violet eyes wide. The Botox lady steadied her wrist on Nicky’s collarbone. The needle was aimed just to the right of his Adam’s apple. A double dose of that stuff will smooth away a lot of wrinkles—and paralyze a person’s breathing muscles in less than a minute.
Mystery Writers of America Presents the Rich and the Dead Page 26