by Gwen Mayo
Her answer was an abrupt “No.”
Cornelia opened the car door and stepped out into the morning sunlight. One deep breath to clear the cobwebs from her mind, and then she marched into Sheriff Bowden’s office.
Bowden looked up. “Miss Pettijohn, I wasn’t expecting to see you again. Is something wrong?”
“Nothing new. I came to see Rosemary.”
His eyebrows rose. “You think that’s wise? I mean—under the circumstances?”
“I doubt that it’s wise, but it is important. May I see her?”
Bowden opened his mouth to speak. The resolute expression in Cornelia’s eyes stopped his tongue. One steel wheel of his office chair squeaked as he pushed himself back from the desk and stood up. “I’ll ask. Don’t be surprised if she refuses to see you. After last night, she won’t want anything to do with either of us.”
Cornelia didn’t respond. She was all too aware of the role she played in Rosemary Carson’s confession. There was no reason for her to feel guilty about uncovering the truth. The Carsons were perfectly willing to let her uncle rot in jail for a crime he didn’t commit. Still, she had seen the ravages of savin poisoning on a young woman. If that poison was given to someone she loved—well, she didn’t know what she would have done. She hoped not murder.
Sheriff Bowden closed the door between the jail and his office.
The sound jarred her from her thoughts. “Well?”
“She said she’d see you.” He glanced at the large black leather purse Cornelia carried. “If you have your pistol in there, you’d best leave your pocketbook on my desk.”
“I left it with Mitch,” Cornelia said. She smiled for the first time that he could remember. “I’m not planning to assist with a jail break, I promise.”
Cornelia Pettijohn had the kind of smile that lit her face from the inside. It didn’t make her features attractive by any stretch of the imagination, but the warmth surprised Bowden. If they had met under other circumstances, if he had seen her smile instead of glower at him through every conversation, they might have become friends.
He cleared his throat. “I didn’t think you would.”
Cornelia pointed at the door. “May I?”
Bowden held the door for her. She stepped past him and glanced down the row of cells to the one housing Rosemary Carson. Her husband, William, was standing outside her cell. His suitcoat hung from the back of a wooden chair. One arm was pushed through the bars and wrapped around his wife’s shoulders. Cornelia could see Rosemary’s fingers clinging to his ribs. Neither of them moved.
Part of her resisted entering the windowless room, repressive with the scents of stale sweat and chlorine bleach. She willed her feet forward. Her words were forced, awkward on her tongue. “Hello, Rosemary, Mr. Carson.”
Carson hugged his wife closer and gave her a slight nod of recognition.
Cornelia didn’t know what she had expected. The defeat in their faces hurt more than the anger. “I brought these for you,” she said, as she reached into her bag and pulled out two small bundles of letters.
William Carson recoiled as if she were holding a live rattlesnake in her outstretched hand.
“Rosemary, please—” Her voice broke. “I know there isn’t going to be a trial. Maybe that’s for the best. It would be awful for the children.”
Rosemary gasped.
“Haven’t you done enough harm?” her husband snapped. “Leave us alone.”
Cornelia took a step closer to them. Her voice took on its usual gruff tone. “This stack of letters are to the court, asking for leniency in sentencing, and stating what we know of Mr. Janzen’s actions. Uncle Percival, Mr. Rowley, even Sheriff Bowden’s son want to do what they can to mitigate your wife’s sentencing. These,” she added, as she indicated the larger batch of letters, “are to the governor asking clemency. There will be more; Mr. Janzen’s father is asking the members of his congregation to write on her behalf. Mrs. Minyard left town before we thought of a way to help, but Uncle Percival has sent her a telegram. I am sure she will do what she can. Mr. Rowley is on the telephone contacting members of his unit this morning, asking them to join the effort.”
Rosemary’s mouth gaped open.
Cornelia slapped the letters down in the empty chair and turned to go.
“Wait! Please Cornelia, don’t go.”
Tears dripped down Rosemary Carson’s face. She brushed them away with one hand. “William, would you and the sheriff give us a few minutes alone?”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. “We’ll be fine. Please.” Rosemary slipped out of his embrace and watched as he walked away. When the door closed behind him she moved closer to Cornelia.
“Cornelia, I am so sorry about the trouble the savin caused your uncle. William found it in my bag the night Mr. Janzen died. He was horrified when he realized what I had done. We had an awful fight. He took the bottle and stormed out. I don’t know what he did with it, but when it turned up in your uncle’s room, he said that your uncle would be cleared eventually, and that I should be thinking of my children. I didn’t leave when I should have because I wasn’t as confident that they would free him.”
She lifted her chin and looked into Cornelia’s eyes. “If you tell a soul, I’ll deny everything. I confessed to planting the bottle myself to keep my children from losing both parents.”
Chapter 17
Professor Pettijohn spotted Rowley talking to one of the departing couples outside the lodge. He waited for the young man to finish his business before waving him over.
“Good afternoon, Professor. I hear you are leaving us soon. I suppose the events of the last few days have cooled your interest in property.”
“I enjoyed meeting the jailer. The accommodations left much to be desired, though. I’m getting a little old to be comfortable on a jailhouse mattress.” The old gent’s blue eyes crinkled at the corners when he chuckled. “As for the local real estate, there is one piece of property I was hoping you would show me before my niece returns.”
Rowley’s face brightened. “Which parcel is that, sir?”
“The one you want for your lodge.”
“That isn’t part of the new development,” the young man said swiftly. “The guy who owns the property doesn’t even like seeing all this construction.”
The professor put a hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Rowley, I have no desire to buy the property out from under you. I would like to see the place you want and hear about your plans for the future.”
Surprise, then a smile from the land agent. “In that case, I would love to show you around. It isn’t far from here, but there’s no road that direction. We’ll have to travel by boat. Are you up to that, Professor?”
“I’ve made several boat trips during my stay in Homosassa.”
Rowley’s smile broadened. “I’ll bet none of those trips was aboard a 22-foot runabout.”
The old man’s white eyebrows lifted. “Are you a racer?”
“No, mine is designed for fishing, even has a small cabin, but she’s the fastest thing on the river.”
“Sounds like an excellent way to travel. I would love to get some film of it. Could I impose upon you to bring my camera along?”
“That’s no imposition at all, Professor. The Fisherman’s Dream will be beautiful in your film.”
Professor Pettijohn beamed.
“Are the ladies joining us?” Rowley asked, as they walked toward the professor’s room.
Professor Pettijohn paused to think about that question. “Cornelia left for Ocala early this morning. The water pump for our vehicle was finally replaced. She left us to pack while she was away.” He chuckled. “You can see how hard we are working on that chore. I’m sure Teddy will enjoy the prospect of an outing on the river.”
Cornelia Pettijohn was an awful passenger. Her friend, Miss Lawless, was fun-loving and talkative. Not Miss Cornelia; it was hard to get more than three words from her at a time. She sat in stoic silence, her post
ure rigid, her eyes on the road ahead. Mitch wasn’t sure why he had offered to drive her all the way to Ocala. This morning’s drive to Inverness was dull enough.
Maybe it was guilt. Sticking close to her had given him a wealth of material for his newspaper. Thanks to the Pettijohns, he no longer needed to keep up the charade of being down on his luck and desperate enough to come all the way to Homosassa to find work. The West Coast Development Company was losing him as a driver as soon as he got back from this junket. He needed to get this story finished before someone else scooped him. In the time this drive took, he could have hammered out a good-sized column on events of the past few days. Shoot, thanks to the Pettijohns he had enough material to write a whole series of articles.
He wasn’t sure how much to tell his readers about the professor’s remarkable memory. They might not believe him. He wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t witnessed the old gent in action. Even without that detail, he had plenty to work with: two murders, the rackets trying to muscle in on the new casino, shootouts, arrests—just the thought of putting those things down on paper made him drive faster.
“Easy, Mitch,” he told himself as he shifted down to make the turn onto the Dixie Highway. Hours on the road might pass in a more congenial way with the professor or Miss Lawless along for the ride, but his newspaper wouldn’t reimburse a speeding ticket.
Too bad Cornelia didn’t inherit her uncle’s sense of humor. Was “inherit” the right word? A niece wasn’t a direct descendant, but humor had to be somewhere in the family tree.
“Look out,” Cornelia shouted.
Ahead of them, half a dozen colored men in the familiar grey and white striped prison uniforms worked a few feet apart. Mitch swung wide to avoid hitting the shackled men. “Sorry, ma’am. I should have expected that. Florida chain gangs are always working on the roads somewhere.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Her flat tone gave him no clue of her opinion. They lapsed into silence again. This was going to be a longest thirty-mile drive in history.
They had just crossed the Marion County line when Cornelia spotted another group of prisoners cutting thick vines and underbrush away from the road. The legs of their striped trousers were caked in mud almost to the knees. No doubt they were standing in several inches of water. It looked like miserable work.
“Are those corrugated steel sheds some sort of movable privy?” she asked.
Mitch hesitated a few seconds before answering. “They’re sweatboxes.”
“What?”
“When a prisoner gets out of line or lazy, they put him in the sweatbox as punishment.” He didn’t look at Cornelia. The disapproval in that one word made him want to hang his head in shame. “It’s not so bad in winter.”
Cornelia looked back at the tiny metal box. It couldn’t be more than four feet square and so squat that a tall man would have to stoop to keep from banging his head on the roof. “Not so bad. Indeed. When does it get bad to be stuffed in an airless box in the Florida sun, when the heat turns metal walls into a roasting pan, or when a body is dehydrated to the point of delirium?”
She knew her voice was rising. She didn’t care. Her uncle had fought a war to end slavery. Prisoners had no rights. Slavery was the only word she could think of that fit this barbaric situation.
“Look, ma’am, I don’t like it any more than you do. It isn’t right that men like those built about every road in the state. Some of them are hardened criminals, most are locked up because the county needs land cleared or roads widened.”
“You’re a newsman. Speak up. Do something.”
Mitch fought back the urge to use profanity. He pushed moist locks of black hair back from his forehead. Wind from the open car window blew them back onto his brow. “I don’t own the paper. I just work there,” he said. “Now and then I manage to slip in a line or two that my editor doesn’t strike. Believe me, that’s rare. The paper isn’t going to print stories that rankle advertisers.”
Cornelia fumed, because she knew he was right. When it came to a choice between free speech and paid advertisements, money won. She was angry at her own lack of power to make a difference. She wondered if her upcoming retirement was a mistake. In the wards, she had the authority to change the way her nurses did their jobs. Sometimes she could even influence the doctors, although she did her best to make them think the change was their idea. The rest of the world was a chaotic mess. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for civilian life.
“Miss Pettijohn, I do try.”
His statement jolted her from her thoughts. It took a second to grasp that he was talking about the chain gang. A trace of a smile played at the corners of her mouth. “I believe you.”
The reporter almost laughed. “From you, ma’am, those three words are lavish praise.”
“Is that your boat?” Teddy asked, as they approached the Homosassa dock. The sleek polished mahogany boat she’d pointed out was unlike any boat she had ever seen.
“That’s her,” Rowley said, his voice filled with pride. He shifted the camera tripod off his shoulder and set it up for the professor. “A genuine 1914 runabout. You wouldn’t know it now, but the Fisherman’s Dream was pretty battered when I bought her. I’ve spent most of the past year restoring her to her pre-war glory.”
“She’s certainly beautiful,” Teddy said.
Professor Pettijohn was more interested in mechanics than shine. “What kind of motor does she have?”
“The old engine was beyond repair. I replaced it with one of the new Chrysler Imperial six cylinders. Runs like a dream.”
Teddy climbed aboard the boat and arranged her hat to a more fetching angle for the professor’s film. Cornelia was going to be mad enough to spit when she found out what the two of them had done while she was away. It served her right for leaving them at the lodge while she went gallivanting with Mitch.
Rowley cast off the line holding him to the pier, and joined her on the boat. “You might want to hold on to your hat, Miss Lawless. The professor wants me to take the boat for a turn or two for his moving picture.” He started the engine. “It may get windy back there.”
He backed out of the slip and took a slow turn to head upriver. Just past the fish house, he turned around and started picking up speed.
They cruised past the professor waving, and laughing for the camera.
Rowley slowed down as they neared the bend of the river, made another graceful turn, and brought his sleek motorboat back to where the professor stood filming them. Once he was back in the boat slip, he left the engine idling and climbed out to help the professor with the camera. Soon, the three of them were gliding over the clear spring-fed river past sawgrass marshland and thick cypress groves.
“There it is, Professor,” Rowley shouted above the roar of the engine. “What do you think?”
Teddy looked in the direction he was pointing. A small fishing pier jutted out from the riverbank. Beyond it, the land rose a few feet. An overgrown path led through half a dozen live oaks to a dilapidated house that made Mr. Scroggins’ rustic cabin look well maintained. She was grateful that he hadn’t asked her opinion. The place looked like a good breeze could blow the roof off.
“The important question, Peter, is what do you think?” the professor replied. “When you look up that bank, what do you see?”
Peter Rowley shoved his sandy hair back from his brow. “Two hundred and twenty-five acres of prime hunting land with about every type of game a man could want, a spring-fed river pumping thousands of gallons of fresh clear water into the Gulf of Mexico every day. Within minutes, the Fisherman’s Dream could take half a dozen guests to the Gulf for saltwater fishing. Upstream, there’s fresh water fishing. From here down, the water gets more and more brackish. Every sort of fishing is minutes away. Up there, where the old house is, there should be a lodge with porches so folks can watch the sunset and sunrise. Not one of those fancy lodges for rich folks; one built of real Florida cedar, logs and bare beams.”
H
e stopped talking, and color crept up his neck. “I didn’t mean to go on about the place. I guess you think I’m being foolish.”
Professor Pettijohn reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a thick envelope. “I brought this to purchase a winter property. I think it would be much better spent investing in your dream.”
Rowley’s face paled. “I can’t take your money. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Consider it an investment. We can draw up papers if you want, a loan or a silent partnership. I have spent most of my life educating and encouraging young men to pursue their dreams, to look at what is possible and make it real. You have a good dream. I would be honored to play a part in your plans for this land.” He pressed the envelope into Peter Rowley’s hand.
“I’m hungry,” Mitch said as he pulled into the parking lot of a small restaurant on the outskirts of Ocala. “Can I treat you to dinner before we part ways?”
The hand-painted sign above the entrance proclaimed that they served “The Best Frankfurters and Freshest Seafood in Florida”. Cornelia hesitated as she mulled over her response. The odd combination of specialties didn’t bother her. She’d seen worse.
Her mind didn’t know what to make of Mitch’s invitation. Attractive young men did not, as the French said, invite une femme d'un certain âge to dinner unless she were a near relative. Besides, she would have sworn that Mitch was eager to be rid of her. In the end, curiosity won over her suspicions. She nodded consent.
Halfway through his second plate of fish and chips, Mitch looked up and gave her a sheepish grin. “I did say I was hungry.”
“Indeed.”
“Can I get you anything else? Maybe a slice of their key lime pie?”
Cornelia shook her head.
“Mind if I have a slice?”
“Go ahead,” she said. The truth was she had enjoyed the enthusiasm he’d shown attacking his food. His grin, his tousled black hair, and the constant shadow of a beard reminded Cornelia of her father, except for the dark brown eyes. Cornelius Pettijohn’s eyes had been the same brilliant shade of blue as his brother Percival’s—and her own.