Marry in Haste

by Susan Van Kirk

  Grace scribbled on her notepad. “So that means the father died at age sixty-six, and Charles Lockwood was thirty-six when he came into his inheritance.”

  “Correct. Your math is excellent, Grace.”

  “This must have been around the time he also began to build Lockwood House. I know attorneys didn’t make all that much income back then, so I assume the inheritance was substantial.”

  “It was enormous for the time. I imagine Charles hired someone to manage the dry-goods store. But he lived in a period where corruption was rampant, and he was in a position to take advantage of that. He was appointed a circuit judge in 1885, and that’s when he commissioned the house at 402 East Grove Street. Once the amazing edifice was built, he needed a wife, so he courted Jane Spencer in 1888, and they moved into the new house after their honeymoon. She was, I believe, twenty. When you look at your social pages in the Register, Grace, you’ll note all the pictures of the couple at the opera house, the Lenox Hotel Dining Room, and other society weddings. Lots of pictures of the young, influential couple. Study their faces in those photos, and you will think they are having the time of their lives.”

  “But it wasn’t the case?”

  “Rumors abounded. Many sources from the town—diaries and journals—attest to the idea that Lockwood had a fondness for the madam of a local whorehouse on South Mercy Street, and he was whispered about when it came to corruption. He had a lot of rich friends, so he ran in fast circles and bought a great deal of property in the town.”

  “That would include, besides the inherited brickyard and railroad stocks, the pottery and lumberyard, right?”

  “Correct. And, of course, when it came time to pave the streets, which brickyard won the bid but that of Judge Charles Lockwood?”

  “What about the conflict of interest thing?”

  “Didn’t exist back then. And, I imagine, with Lockwood’s inclinations, his young wife spent many nights at home by herself . . . until, of course, she did finally get pregnant.”

  “But that didn’t last either.”

  “No. You would think she would have a happy ending, but she didn’t. She died in an accident—fell down the huge stairs at the front of the house while she was pregnant. Both of them—she and the baby—died of her injuries.”

  “But it was an accident, right?”

  “Maybe. The local coroner was also the family physician—Dr. Milton Brown. He called a rapid, efficient, coroner’s jury, and the unanimous verdict was that her death was an accident. But people still talked and speculated.”

  “Didn’t this bother the judge?”

  Sam shook his head. “No. Life went on and he moved up the ladder. In 1891, he was appointed a federal judge. His mother had died the year before, so he no longer had that responsibility. Time for the bored Charles to consider politics on a higher level, but he needed a wife by his side. Word was he might want the governorship.”

  “That was when he met Olivia Havelock?”

  “Yes. She was a young thing, just seventeen, and fresh off the family farm from a small town south of here.” He sighed, and a troubled look came over his face.

  Grace chimed in. “Then he wined her, dined her, and married her.”

  Sam’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Yes, you can read about it in my book or in the social pages of the Register. Tuesday, September 26, 1893, at Lockwood House—the wedding and a levee—that’s a dance—afterward.”

  “In the ballroom?”

  “Of course. You’ll see photos in my book.” He got up and came over to Grace, turning corners of pages with practiced assurance. “See—there on page 214. You can read the description of her dress.”

  Grace read, “ ‘The bride wore a white silk dress with three lace flounces, a veil of lace and tulle, and a bouquet and hair wreath of white roses and orange blossoms.’ Sounds quite traditional.” She turned a page. “ ‘Lockwood House was splendidly decorated with ferns, flowers, and tall vases of roses at the front entrance and at the ballroom door.’ ” She looked up at Sam. “Quite an exquisite wedding, Sam.”

  “Oh, yes. The best. And—to top that—a honeymoon to the Columbian Exposition of the World’s Fair in Chicago—all the way by private railcar.”

  Oh my, thought Grace. She did get her wish to ride on a train.

  “If you turn a few more pages,” Sam said, “you’ll see a photograph of the couple taken after their honeymoon. They had celebratory teas and the expected dinner with Olivia Lockwood’s parents.”

  Grace stared at the photo of the couple. Judge Lockwood was in a dark suit with a pocket watch and gold chain. Olivia was in her wedding dress. There was also an exquisite ring—an heirloom ruby with pearls on either side. How beautiful she looks, thought Grace. Her hair is up in a fashionable set of curls as befits a married woman. She stands so stiffly in her corset. The delicate lace of her bodice goes up to a high collar. She looks happy . . . Her goal as a woman has finally been reached. She doesn’t realize her husband will be dead in months. How strange to look at this photo and know what lies ahead.

  Sam’s voice brought her out of her reverie. “And again, rumors, strange absences of the young wife from social events, whispers of abuse, and his frequency at the saloons on South Mercy Street. I kept seeing rumors of those thoughts braided through several diaries of the time.”

  “I’ve seen pictures of her in the social pages. As you say, she was both hauntingly beautiful and also innocent looking.”

  “Yes. And it’s probably a story for another day,” he said, glancing at the clock. “See. I did say I could go on forever. You’ll find more about the second marriage in my book. Another un-pretty story.”

  “But you did say something about a mystery,” Grace said.

  “Ah, yes. That’s in the book too. Maybe you can solve their secrets. The deaths have been real subjects of speculation. What happened to his second wife—period? The judge’s money did not end up with local charities, which makes me suspect she lived on elsewhere. How did the judge die? Someone he had sentenced looked for revenge? Poison? Still more questions.”

  “I’m going to try, Sam. I’ll bring your book back, and we’ll see if I’ve managed to figure it all out.”

  “After your ‘figuring’ about those murders last summer, you just might be able to do it,” Sam said and chuckled. “Don’t believe everything you read on the social pages of the Endurance Register, Grace,” he warned.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Those were dark times, especially for women.”

  “Thank you, Sam. I appreciate your help with this.” She took a deep breath. “And, since you’ve been such a great help, I have a secret to tell you.”

  He looked up, a huge smile on his face and his eyes twinkling. “Great. I love secrets.”

  “Olivia Lockwood left a diary.” The shock on his face made Grace laugh with glee.

  “Wh—at?” he stammered.

  Grace stood up and walked over to him, putting her hand on his arm. “Don’t have a heart attack on me, Sam. You heard me right.”

  “How—how do you know this?”

  “Jeff and I found it in the house, secreted away under a floorboard.”

  “Grace! I—I don’t know what to say!” He paused. “You must announce this to the world.”

  “Not just yet. I’m reading it—carefully, with gloves on. I suppose it is Jeff’s property, but I’ll ask his permission to let you read it when I’m done. I’m sure he’ll be fine with it.”

  “I take back what I said about you figuring this all out the hard way.”

  “Oh, come on. Don’t be a poor loser.”

  “Grace, that’s fantastic. I can’t wait to see it. I’ve spent years wondering about the missing details.”

  “You won’t have to wait much longer. Now, I have to go, and you have to get back to work. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

  “Gets me away from grading exams, Grace. But you know all about that, too, I suppose.”

 
; She smiled and gave him a quick hug. “Uh, yes.”

  “Call me if you have questions. Be glad to help. And Grace—”

  “Yes, Sam?”

  “Read fast!”

  “I will, Sam. Thanks for your help.”

  Grace walked down the hallway, deep in thought about Sam’s ideas concerning the Lockwoods. About the time she passed the college president’s office, a few groups of bundled up students in winter gear—but also some of them barefooted in flip-flops—came down the hallway. Grace looked at their young faces, as they talked energetically to their friends and laughed.

  They’re about the same age as the Lockwood wives, Number One and Number Two, thought Grace.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Grace checked with TJ, and the detective told her she could see Emily Folger at the hospital. So the following Monday morning she was walking down the third-floor corridor of Endurance Hospital when she saw a familiar face. He was a well-muscled aide pushing a patient in a wheelchair. Andrew Weathersby. His locker was right outside my classroom his sophomore year. One day I heard a commotion and walked out to the hallway. It was a girl fight—the worst kind of fight. Andrew nonchalantly leaned against the wall and pointed out his twin sister, Ally. “She’s the one on the top, beating the crap out of Lisa Watkins.” Then he leaned forward and shouted, “Hit her again, Ally!” Alphabetical propinquity. That year my hallway was a war zone. It was quite the entertaining year, but the following year their lockers were moved to the lower junior hallway, and all was quiet once again. At least he was using his muscles in a good cause now.

  Grace shifted her bundle of pink roses and checked the room numbers to make sure she was in the right place at Endurance Hospital. 332. She thought about what she might say to Emily Folger, took a deep breath, and stuck her head in the door. It was a double room, but the first bed was empty. Walking in, she passed the unused bed and peeked around the privacy curtain at Emily Folger. She was sitting up in bed, staring out the window, but her eyes were empty. Her face was still a little swollen, her left eye had black and blue bruises around it, and her neck had still more bruises. Her left arm peeked out from a hospital gown, and Grace could see dark-purple bruises on her upper arm.

  “Emily?” Grace said, quietly.

  Her head turned, and Emily stared at her old teacher. Then, briefly, recognition showed in her eyes. She looked back toward the windows.

  “Hi, Emily. It’s Grace Kimball. You do remember me, right?”

  Emily turned toward Grace, blinked twice, and said, “Yes,” in a flat, disinterested voice.

  I wonder if she’s still medicated, Grace thought. “I brought you some flowers from All That Blooms. I remembered pink was your favorite color, and they had pink roses. Shall I put them over here on the ledge where you can see them?”

  After a long pause, Emily mumbled, “Sure.”

  Grace set the flowers down, pulled a chair over, and kept a distance between them. Instinctively, she figured her long-ago former student would not want her too close. She needed to take Emily’s hand, but didn’t think it was the right thing to do in her present state. Grace watched Emily look at the roses, and eventually her gaze came back to Grace. But she didn’t say a word. Emily pulled up her blanket, and Grace looked down at her hands—her fingernails were ragged, and she had bitten them down to the quick.

  “I know you’ve been through a terrible experience, Emily. I can’t remember the last time I saw or talked to you. I feel guilty. Can I do anything to help?” She waited. “Who has your children? I saw their pictures in Con—”—she stopped and corrected herself—“at the bank. Can I help you with them?”

  For at least half a minute Emily said nothing. Then she seemed to gather her thoughts and said, “What will I do, Ms. Kimball, with Conrad gone? Where will I go? How can I ever manage without him?” Her voice trailed off into silence.

  Grace leaned forward a little. She thought about what her best words might be. Before she could even speak, Emily said, “I tried to do things right.”

  “I’m sure you did,” said Grace. “This was a terrifying experience. Have you been able to talk with anyone about it?”

  Emily looked up and answered unemotionally. “The police. That woman detective, TJ Sweeney. She’s . . . been helpful. The problem is I can’t sleep. I’m so tired. When I close my eyes I remember how horrifying it was . . . seeing him there. All the blood. I can’t remember much when I’m awake, but when I close my eyes it’s so frightening.”

  Grace could tell from Emily’s lack of vocal inflection and her slumped shoulders that she was still in a cloud of confusion. Then, for a moment, Emily sat up, leaned forward toward Grace, and said, “People think I did that. How could I? He was everything. I can’t remember what happened. I’m so confused. I don’t even remember how I got here to this hospital.”

  Grace leaned over and patted her hand. “You will, Emily. It will eventually come back. I imagine the confusion is from drugs. They’ve probably had to keep you sedated. The mur—experience was a terrible shock to your system. You need to get some rest and give yourself time. Do you have any friends who can help?”

  Emily thought a moment. “No.”

  “What about your parents? They don’t live too far away.”

  “They’re coming.” Another long pause. “They’re going to take Caitlin and Conrad back to their home.”

  “That’s good—to get them away from here for a while. The children know their grandparents, and they will feel safe there.”

  Suddenly, Emily repeated, “I tried to do things right.”

  “Oh, Emily, I know you did,” Grace answered, somewhat confused.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do . . . where I’m going to go.”

  “I don’t think you need to worry about it yet. You’re safe here in the hospital.”

  Just as Grace reassured her, Will Folger came in the door quietly.

  “I’m back, Emily.” He smiled. “Oh, hello, Ms. Kimball.”

  “I think you can call me Grace, Will.” She noticed the curly hair from the bank was now disheveled, and his anxiety was more evident in his quick handshake.

  “Grace.” He smiled and turned toward Emily. “How are we doing today, Emily?”

  “Will, I don’t know what I’m going to do. What am I going to do without Conrad?”

  Will walked over toward the side of the bed opposite Grace. He took Emily’s other hand and said, “Don’t worry, Emily. We have everything well in hand. Darlene and I will help you however we can, and she’s at home with Caitlin and Conrad right now. We’re waiting for your parents to come, since you’d like them to keep the children. I think that’s a good idea. I went to your house and picked up some things for the children to take with them. No need for them to go to the house.” Will spoke with concern, but his voice was confident, as if he had a new purpose.

  A single tear slid down Emily’s cheek. “What happened, Will? How can Conrad be dead? Who did this? Did I do this?” She shook her head and put her hands over her eyes. “I can’t remember.”

  Grace glanced at Will’s eyes, which darted toward her and then back to his sister-in-law. Emily became agitated, her hands shaking, so Grace said, “We don’t know yet who could have done such a horrible thing, Emily.”

  Slowly, Emily said, “I think I did it. It might have been me. I can’t remember. I remember all the blood, everywhere, all over me and the floor. I was there.” She shook her head slowly. “Oh, why can’t I remember?”

  Will, his voice reassuring, said, “Try not to think about it right now, Emily. Let’s talk about some other practical items. I checked at the bank, and everything is in Conrad’s name. This means your money will be frozen until all of this—situation—is straightened out. Darlene and I will set up an account and put money in it for you so you’ll be able to pay for food and other things when you go home.”

  “Home? How can I go home? All that blood . . .”

  “Will,” said Grace, “I’ll be
glad to help clean the house up or make arrangements for carpet cleaning, if it’s all right with you. I imagine you’re really busy at the bank. I have the time, and I can do it. I’ll wait, of course, until the police say it’s all right.”

  “Grace, you’re wonderful. I appreciate your help. As you say, the bank is a mess. With the president gone so unexpectedly, the board will need to name someone, even as an interim, to get bank business straightened out. Reputation is so important for a bank, and we need to clean up any vestige of concern. I’ve hardly had any sleep myself because I’ve been at the bank going through all the papers. I know Emily thinks the world of you, and I’m sure Conrad did too. I’ll be in touch with you about keys and all. Yes, we’d appreciate your help.”

  Then he turned to Emily. “Now, Emily,” he said, his voice taking on a new urgency. “I’ve hired a lawyer who will be in to see you later today. His name is Aiden O’Malley. He’s the best that money can buy. You need to trust him, and tell him what you can. He is your lawyer, and he can’t reveal what you tell him to anyone. Obviously, when you feel better you’ll be able to deal with this and him more clearly. But do not—I repeat—do not talk to the police without Mr. O’Malley with you. Understand?”

  Emily sagged back into her pillow. “The police again? A lawyer? Why?”

  Will glanced at Grace. He reached over and touched Emily’s hand. “Let’s just say it will be better to have some representation with you. No one knows what the police will do or ask. It’s better to have a lawyer with you if the police should want to talk to you.”

  “I think the lady detective, TJ Sweeney, has already talked to me. But it’s all so hazy.”