Marry in Haste

by Susan Van Kirk

  “Maybe it won’t come to that. I trust you to figure out the real killer, TJ.”

  “Working on it. As we investigate, we’ll look for other possible suspects. But, as I said, the clues are mostly headed in Emily Folger’s direction.” She shook her head. “It’ll be an uphill battle for her, I’d say.”

  “No one should have to live in fear, TJ, and especially from someone who is supposed to love her. She doesn’t deserve this. I know she could never have killed Conrad, abused or not. And, by the way, why is it everyone believes she did it when they don’t have a clue about her situation? Why don’t people ask why her husband was allowed to abuse her—evidently for years? How come he gets away with that and isn’t thrown in jail? I’m going to work on clearing her, TJ, if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “That’s the Grace I know, always out there helping the underdog. But I seem to recall your own curiosity put you in jeopardy once before. Don’t poke your head, hands, or even your little toe into a viper’s nest this time. Got that?”

  “I won’t, TJ,” said Grace, but she had already concocted a plan in her head and crossed her fingers behind her back.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  After TJ left, Grace continued to think about Emily Folger. From what she had researched about Olivia Havelock, she could see such parallels in the lives of both women. And so much was about appearance versus reality, both then and now. How many people live their lives worried about what others might think of them, and so their public lives don’t necessarily reflect what is happening at home? I’ll bet TJ sees that all the time.

  She considered how radically the times had changed when it came to the law and domestic violence. But still, Emily Folger had lived in such terror during her married life. Grace shook her head. How sad so many women find themselves in that position and, even in this day and age, believe there is no way out, especially when it comes to supporting their children. All right, Grace. Banish those thoughts. It’s time to go back and see Olivia at her finest, when she is still happy and not yet married.

  July, 1893

  What a modern place Endurance is. The town council has begun to put bricks on the streets instead of dirt, but alas, the bricks are only near the square so far. As I walked to the library today, I noticed all the milliner and notions stores, and the gunsmiths, livery stables, and law offices. It is hard for me to imagine what stores will be in these buildings a hundred years from now. How amazing to consider that people then will walk here where I am walking and imagine what the stores might have looked like in my time. I noticed several attorneys’ offices, and I am sure people will always need lawyers. I told Mr. Quinn that.

  On the way to the library and reading room I must pass several banks. The Second National Bank, which belongs to a family named Folger, is on the square. Sometimes I see a gentleman—perhaps Mr. Folger himself—come out the front door, glance at his pocket watch, and make a terrible face. I do not believe he is a happy man.

  I examined the novels at the library and checked out one by Louisa May Alcott, called Little Women, and another called Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte. I also borrowed a biography of President Washington to make Aunt Maud happy. She considers biographies of heroes the proper reading for ladies. I may have to sneak the novels into the house. I was also able to read newspapers from New York City and Boston. Of course, they were a week old, but still I find this exciting, since I could not read such newspapers in Anthem.

  I found an article about a woman named Lizzie Borden who was found not guilty of the murders of her stepmother and father in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Their murders were gruesome. Imagine: Her trial took a full fifteen days—over two weeks to discuss the details of such a horrendous act. Since I was curious, I looked at the map of Massachusetts and found New Bedford, clear at the end of our vast country, nestled near a cove of water called Buzzards Bay. What a picturesque name. Perhaps sailors died there, and buzzards picked at their bones. Aunt Maud would say, “This is not suitable material for a young lady to peruse.”

  I spoke with Mr. Quinn about Lizzie Borden. Walking home from the library, I saw him on the other side of the street, leaving the courthouse. He waved and crossed the street to walk me home. He knew all about Lizzie Borden and was able to supply me with more details of the story. He was neither surprised nor censorious about my choice of newspaper reading or my novels. He seemed pleased to talk with me about events of the day. It was so easy to talk to him, and we fell into mutual silences without dismay.

  Still, Aunt Maud has been in communication with Judge Lockwood, and she is planning our luncheon at the Lenox Hotel. She sings his praises—his stables and horses, his huge mansion, his notable standing in the community, and his correct bereavement behavior after the death of his first wife. Compared to Mr. Quinn, she says, the judge has an impeccable list of future stability and finances.

  Luncheon with Judge Lockwood: We walked to the Lenox Hotel, and since Aunt Maud was nervous to make a good impression, she stopped to check her shawl and finger the necklace at her throat. She had brushed my hair until it shone, and I wore one of my new dresses—a lavender confection with lots of lace around the collar and sleeve cuffs.

  When we entered the hotel he was waiting for us and shook hands with Aunt Maud. To me, he bowed slightly and acknowledged my name, “Miss Havelock.” The dining room was all linen tablecloths and shiny silverware, and the tables had vases of flowers. The judge had already “taken the liberty” of ordering our luncheon. As we began on the various courses of soups and meat, Aunt Maud looked at me as if I were being naughty. The judge must have thought my mind wandered, and I was not following the conversation. But my blasted corset oppressed my breathing, and filling myself with food would simply make it worse. So I nibbled at the edge of each course. We had relishes, fresh fish and a filet of beef, followed by bread and churned butter. By the time the waiter brought ice cream—a delicacy I have only read about—I could scarcely breathe. No wonder Aunt Maud says gentlemen like ladies who are restrained in their appetites.

  Judge Lockwood did not look so old and scary when I sat across the table from him. His eyebrows were bushy and dark, but without a sign of gray. His hair was thick and black, and he had long sideburns on either side of his face. His dark eyes gazed around the room, taking in everything, and occasionally they settled on me. His stare disarmed me, but I followed Aunt Maud’s admonition to say little and keep my eyes on my food.

  He and Aunt Maud talked about the weather, how the crops progressed at the summer midpoint, the dusty streets from lack of rain, and the recent shipment of goods from France for his dry-goods store. Then he inquired about my horse, Lightning, and asked about my parents and their agricultural holdings. As I described my brothers, I fought hard not to shed a tear because I suddenly realized how much I missed them. He handed me a handkerchief with his monogrammed initials. Then he explained he has stables on the edge of town, and I am welcome to use one of his horses if it would help my homesickness. I thanked him, and Aunt Maud’s face resumed its only slightly anxious look.

  The luncheon went well, and Aunt Maud has sung the judge’s praises ever since. But deep down inside of me—in a place Mama always told me to heed—a feeling grows that, despite his lovely manners and his many possessions, the judge makes me uncomfortable. I cannot decide what makes my insides feel this way. Perhaps I only imagine it because I am tired and unsure of this new world in which I’ve been placed. When I consider how these rituals—courtship and marriage—are worked out between families and eligible men, I feel like one of my father’s lambs that marches to the slaughterhouse with no knowledge of what lies ahead.

  Grace’s eyes were heavy, and she decided it was time to go to bed, but her mind couldn’t shut down her thoughts about Olivia Havelock. What a little rebel she was at first. It was weird to read her diary and know the future. Life isn’t supposed to happen that way. Obviously, Olivia will end up marrying the judge, but what happened to the young man she met so soon after s
he arrived—Tyler Quinn? He wasn’t part of Sam Oliver’s history book at all.

  How like the old Emily Folger is Olivia Havelock. She is filled with intellectual curiosity, and is funny and smart. She listens to her intuition and realizes when things are not as they should be. How strange Olivia should meet a relative of Conrad Folger. But all of her strength and intelligence will not keep her away from marriage to the judge, any more than the same attributes kept Emily from marrying Conrad Folger. Grace thought about Deb’s words as she turned out the light and took the diary back upstairs: “Marry in haste, repent at leisure.” Ben Franklin was one smart man.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Grace finished unloading the dishwasher in Emily Folger’s kitchen. It hadn’t taken long to clean the sun-filled room since crime techs had mostly left it alone. Will had called a couple of hours ago and announced that a local company would deliver a mattress for the king-sized bed in Conrad Folger’s room. They would take away the old mattress so Emily wouldn’t have to see it. Grace had picked up two sets of bed sheets and four pillows for Emily’s bed and the bed in Conrad’s room.

  She spent most of Wednesday at the house, dusting away fingerprint powder, and rolling up crime-scene tape. She hadn’t known what to expect when she went upstairs in Emily’s house. It was a beautiful home, she thought, as she looked out over the banister at the expensive chandelier and the living room downstairs.

  That was Wednesday. The carpet cleaning company TJ recommended had come and gone in the afternoon, and now on Thursday the carpet looked normal again and was almost dry. Grace was surprised they could work such magic, and she decided to keep their business card for future wine—not blood—stains at her own house. The Folgers’ upstairs no longer displayed any sign of death, and she would just finish up before Emily arrived home in a few hours.

  She had washed the new sheets and pillowcases at her house last night and brought them with her. As she made the king-sized bed with deft, quick strokes, she thought about what had happened in court yesterday. Emily had been arrested in the morning for the murder of her husband. TJ broke the news to Grace herself because she knew her old teacher, mentor, and now friend, would be terribly upset. And she was. Emily had been fingerprinted and taken to the city jail and booked. Her lawyer, Aiden O’Malley, was with her, but Emily didn’t have to spend more than a few hours in jail. O’Malley accompanied her and the police escort to the Douglas County courthouse, where she was arraigned and charged with second-degree murder. TJ explained to Grace that the DA, Sharon Sorensen, didn’t think she could prove intent and planning, so first-degree murder wasn’t a feasible choice.

  TJ said Judge Cyrus Forrester ruled there was probable cause to hold Emily and try her for the murder. That was when Aiden O’Malley showed his legal experience and talent. Grace was so relieved Will had the money and connections to hire O’Malley. His office was in Woodbury, but people all over the area knew of his legal prowess. He argued successfully that Emily was no threat to her children or the community, and she had no passport. She also didn’t have any financial ability to leave because all of the family money was tied up with Conrad’s name on the accounts. O’Malley entered a not-guilty plea and asked that a reasonable bond be set since she wasn’t a flight risk. He also explained he wanted a forensic psychologist to evaluate Emily’s competency to participate in her defense, and to evaluate her mental state at the time of her husband’s death.

  Fortunately, Judge Forrester ruled in her favor, and he ordered a $500,000 bond and a pretrial release only under the condition she wear an ankle bracelet and check in weekly with the Department of Corrections. He also approved having Emily’s mental competency examined. Will put up the bond, and before Emily could be released today, she would have an ankle bracelet attached. Fortunately, the hardware now had GPS so she could leave the house. Of course, thought Grace, she might not want to leave for a while since she doesn’t know what people might say.

  It was unfortunate the Woodbury Sentinel’s editor was fanning the flames of local opinion. He had worked at other newspapers but was new in Woodbury, a town of thirty thousand just east of Endurance. Grace figured he was intent on upping the readership of his paper. She had picked up Emily and Conrad’s edition of the newspaper on their front steps that morning, and also had cleaned up three earlier papers lying in the snow. When she opened the most recent newspaper, the headline was “Alleged Murderess Goes Free.” Then it directed readers to the editorial page. Grace’s blood pressure shot up, and her scowl could have sunk the thousand ships Helen of Troy launched. “How dare he?” she muttered out loud and sat down in a kitchen chair. She even read the editorial out loud, though no one was around to hear her.

  “In a gross miscarriage of justice (according to this humble editor), Judge Cyrus Forrester ruled that a wife who allegedly murdered her husband can go home, scot free. Emily Petersen Folger, wife of Conrad Folger, noted president of the Second National Bank of Endurance, was charged with second-degree murder in the death of her husband. His body was found Saturday, January 7, 2012, at the family residence east of Endurance. While no information has been forthcoming from the police department, this editor has been told Folger’s throat was slashed, and he bled to death in his own bed. No one was apprehended at the scene except his wife, who was taken by ambulance to Endurance Hospital’s ER. She appears to be in good condition.

  “Ms. Folger was arraigned on murder charges and spent only a few hours in jail before she was allowed both bond and house arrest. She is represented by the noted Woodbury attorney Aiden O’Malley. Riding on the coattails of his recent ‘not guilty’ verdict for Andrew Stirkes here in Woodbury, he will now take on a huge challenge representing Ms. Folger, especially since she is the widow of a prominent bank president. This editor attended the arraignment and noted that Ms. Folger appeared with her attorney and didn’t answer or look around at anyone in the gallery. Mr. O’Malley pleaded her ‘not guilty.’

  “It has come to the attention of this editor that her husband, the late Conrad Folger, is remembered for many of the philanthropic causes he supported in the small community of Endurance. He spearheaded the drive for United Way, was a major subscriber to the Endurance free concerts at Endurance College, and underwrote costs for the after-school program for boys and girls in the primary grades in the Endurance school district. He will be sorely missed for his good works.

  “If this is the case and Ms. Folger alone was apprehended, unharmed, at the murder scene, why is she treated differently from other citizens charged with murder? Why is she free to walk the streets of Endurance, granted, with an ankle bracelet, so she can be monitored? If you or I had been charged with such a murder, fellow citizens, we would be sitting it out in the Endurance jail: No expensive lawyer for us and certainly no pretrial release. What is happening in our legal system that an accused murderess is free to leave jail? Money appears to talk once again.”

  Finished with her coffee, Grace threw the newspaper down and trudged up the back stairs. “Geez!” yelled Grace out loud. “This makes me sick. How can he write such flagrantly one-sided slop?” Maybe I can get Jeff to write an editorial that will mute some of this hogwash, she thought. Unfortunately, people often believe everything they read in the newspaper, and a lot of people in Endurance take the Woodbury newspaper.

  She finished making the bed, plumped the pillows, and looked at her work. Good, she thought. It didn’t look like a room someone had been killed in. She would hide the newspapers in a bag and take them home with her.

  “I could hear you swearing at Editor Shumacher clear downstairs,” TJ said, coming into the bedroom.

  Grace jumped and turned around. “Oh, TJ, you surprised me. What are you doing here?”

  “Just stopped to check and see if you were done. Will should be on his way here in about ten or fifteen minutes with Emily. Passing through the kitchen, I could see you’ve read Shumacher’s trash. Well, not everyone reads it, but with or without it, I have a feeling Emily will n
ot be welcomed back into the bosom of her community, so to speak. I’ve heard too much talk downtown.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Grace said. “What are people saying?”

  “In the coffee shops and at The Depot, the general consensus is she did it. After all, no one else was there. And somehow the story of the alarm and the locked door got out. I think Ms. Simmons has a loose tongue. No one seems to be buying the self-defense idea, and no one seems to be buying Conrad Folger as an abuser, or, if they do believe that, they have no sympathy for a woman who stays with her abusive husband and subjects her children to all that. No, I think there may be hard times to come.”

  “I’ll talk to Jeff and see if he can get some accurate and rational stories in to calm things down. Let’s go downstairs. I’m done up here.”

  TJ took a look around the bedroom, nodded, and started out the door toward the stairway. Then she turned and said, “I know you’re sure Emily is innocent, and I’d like to believe that. I’m afraid we have an awful lot of evidence to the contrary.”

  Grace sighed. “I know. But I’m someone she’ll talk to, and maybe, as she remembers what happened, I can help her get to the bottom of the murder. The Emily I knew could never have done this.”

  “Grace, I keep mentioning, she isn’t the Emily you knew ‘back when’ anymore,” said TJ, and she walked on down the stairs.

  Grace noted the blue, yellow-ringed eyes staring out of Emily Folger’s face. She was pale, bedraggled-looking, and wore some clothes TJ had dropped off at the jail for her. They were at least two sizes bigger than a “small.” She sat quietly at the kitchen table, her hands in her lap, waiting for the coffee to finish heating. Grace pulled out cups and saucers from the just-filled cabinets.