Billy leaned forward and held the ribbon up to the light of the fire. He looked at me. “Do you think this is the same fabric?”
“I can’t be sure. No one remembers colors exactly without a sample. But my instincts tell me it is. It’s too similar, and Agatha’s dress was made of fabric Ma ordered from Boston. It isn’t a fabric that makes its way to Wisconsin all that easily.”
Billy whistled low. “If this is made from Agatha’s dress, how did it come to be in that little girl’s hair?”
“Exactly,” I said.
Billy turned it over in his hand, then gave it back to me. He shrugged. “They could have cut it off the body—salvaged a piece.”
I frowned, unable to dismiss the ribbon as Billy seemed to have done. “I need to go back. I need to ask about this ribbon.”
Billy pushed his hat up. “No, Fry. This is as far as we’re going to pursue it. We’re going home now.”
I met his eyes. “What’ll it hurt?”
“Remember what happened to Agatha? If those people are at all connected with that, you and I are not enough. We’d need a posse.”
“We’ll wait until Mrs. Garrow is alone.”
Billy put his hands out. “Hold it right there, Fry. Yes, this is odd—I readily admit it. Another girl with auburn hair gone? And from a household where a similar fabric was found? But we’re not returning.”
Then Billy stopped and looked down at his hands. “I understand, Fry. I do. There were moments—back there—when I thought her alive.”
He raised his head and looked me squarely in the eye. “You have no idea how much I want her to be alive.”
He exhaled and continued: “But hope muddies up reason. Think about this reasonably. First, how could Agatha and Darlene meet? It would be the chanciest of chance meetings. Her ma said Darlene didn’t leave their hilltop much at all. Also, we’d have to believe that Agatha sold or gave away her dress. You and I both know she thought the world of it. And then there’s the problem of Darlene eloping with this Morgy. That’s two people gone missing, which means two families are saying that their children eloped in secret. The elopement makes sense to those families. Sure, they’re angry, but they’re not worried. And two people traveling together don’t come to trouble as quick as one.” He shook his head. “When I think about Agatha going off alone and endangering herself …”
His eyes met mine again. “One body was found—a body wearing your sister’s dress. This ribbon? Probably a coincidence. But even if your hunch is correct, it’s most likely that you’d be discovering only what happened before—or after—Agatha died. Does before or after truly make any difference to you? Is it worth getting shot at? Your sister, Agatha, is dead.”
Without warning, he scooted around so that his back was to the fire and put his head between his knees. I heard a halfstrangled sound and then Billy began to sob.
I fidgeted for a moment. People don’t come to me for comfort and consolation. I don’t know why. They don’t, is all. But it had led me to conclude that I had no talent for it. Right then, though? I was it. Buck up, I said to myself. I went over, sat down next to him, and laid my hand on his shoulder (like I’d seen others do).
“I can’t get her back,” he said into his knees.
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled in my best imitation of a soothing tone.
I sat there, patting his shoulder awkwardly, and in the meantime, two things became clear to me. First, no matter what he’d said to the contrary, Billy McCabe could not marry Polly Barfod. Billy was in love with my sister. He’d need time to ease the pain.
The second? Tomorrow I would leave Billy. I had my Bechtler gold dollar coins (reflexively my fingers brushed the five lumps beneath the split skirt’s waistband). I could also travel wherever I wanted. Long Ears listened to me now. I’d learned to speak the language of sugar cubes.
Tonight I needed sleep. But tomorrow morning I’d be awaiting my chance. I imagined that sometime midmorning, when Billy and Storm got so far ahead I could barely see them, I’d make my move. Long Ears and I would go back the way we’d come—back to the Garrows’. By the time Billy realized I was gone, I’d have an hour’s head start. At that point, Billy could choose to follow me or go home. I did not care. I’d get my chance to talk to Mrs. Garrow. I had to find out about the ribbon.
Billy wiped his nose on his sleeve, and gave me a little grin. I smiled back, stood up, and went to my seat on the other side of the fire.
When I sat down, I said it like I meant it: “Let’s go home.”
“You mean it?” he said, turning around.
For better or worse, one skill I’ve acquired by growing up in a store is the ability to sell. I am not proud of what I did that night, but at the time I thought I needed to convince Billy that I wanted to go home, and I sold him on it: “Yes. It is crazy that there’s this other redheaded girl gone, and that there’s this ribbon, but it is not enough to suggest that my sister might be alive. As you said yourself, this Darlene Garrow situation involves two people—not one. I think Mrs. Garrow told us the truth about that. So I say we remember all of this, and when we get home, we’ll tell your pa. We’ll see what he makes of it.”
I did feel bad about lying so baldly, but if Billy suspected I had any intention of going back, he would keep an eye on me.
Billy nodded. “Good. We’re going home.”
I stole a glance at Billy then. The firelight played on the underside of his hat, and along the side of his jaw where his beard started in.
Billy caught me watching, and smiled.
I looked away.
Billy chuckled. “You found out more than Pa did. I’m sure of it.”
I blinked.
Billy continued: “Pa would be the first to say it. If Pa had found any connection between the pigeoners and the Garrows, he would have told me. And removing that ribbon like you did? Using the licorice stick? That was smart.”
Was Billy McCabe complimenting me again? I grinned.
Billy grinned back. “And you did a job on your face. I’ve never seen a bruise so encompassing.”
I put my hand to my cheek. The heat pounded. My left eye was now swelled tight. “There’s an entire marching band inside my head.”
“I bet.”
Feeling bolder, I let my one open eye linger on Billy, sipping him in, taking my time. Yes, he was well made. I would give him that. I thought about how we’d walked side by side into Garrow Farm, how he’d made me laugh, and how I made him laugh too. I thought about how I had known him all my life. He called me smart! I was wrong about Billy McCabe. He wasn’t half bad. And before I knew it, I said: “You can’t marry Polly. You’re still in love with my sister. Maybe you should wait it out. Maybe if you waited long enough, someone like me would come along.”
Had I said that out loud? My breath went shallow. Of course, I regretted it.
Billy’s eyes got wide. This was swiftly replaced by that amused twinkle. After much exertion to contain himself, Billy said: “That’s sweet, Fry. But I need to start my life now. I’m gonna marry Polly. I didn’t mean what I said about using Polly to bring Agatha around. I’ve got a temper. You made me mad and I said it, but it’s not true. Not anymore, anyway. I love Polly. Polly’ll be a fine wife for me. Better than I deserve.”
It was a misery sitting there listening to him defend Polly. What had I been thinking?
And had Billy called me sweet?
Billy smiled one of those smiles and said: “You are, by far, the best part of this journey.”
“Oh,” I said. It was all I could manage.
I felt utter gratitude when Billy asked for “that book” I’d brought along. I never moved so quick! I pulled The Prairie Traveler out of my saddlebag and handed it to him. Billy opened the book, shifting so firelight illuminated the page.
“You didn’t tell me this was written by a captain of the U.S. Army,” he said. I saw he’d turned to the back of the book to read the biography.
“You didn’t ask,” I said.
He didn’t look up from the book as he replied: “There is no peace with you, is there, Fry?”
I could have answered, but why? Anyway, it seemed he was already deep in that book. I stood up and brushed off my split skirt. “I’m going to climb this hill. Come after me in fifteen minutes if I don’t return,” I said.
Billy paid me no mind, which was fine by me.
Yes, I would have slept if I could. But my heart raced. I do not propose marriage every day.
The half-light made those forty feet an easy climb, but my puffy, closed left eye did not. More than once I had to use my hands to steady myself. After five minutes of struggle, I reached the top, turned around, surveyed the view (impressive), and noted that Billy was still reading. I had never taken Billy McCabe for a reader, but he was engrossed in The Prairie Traveler. So I decided to explore the back side of the hill. Not a natural choice for a walk—it was thick with brambles, bushes, and tall trees—but I found a tiny path and followed it down.
The moon came out, and moonlight reminded me of cougars’ eyes. The hairs on the back of my neck rose to alert. I heard something snap.
I swung around, and when I put my right foot down, the entire ground gave way.
Down I went—bump, bump, bump—with a whole lot of tree branches and rubbish. New aches piled on old pains. I grasped at anything at all—rocky walls, moss, dirt, and pine boards. (Pine boards?) I stopped suddenly and heard my last thump echo. Damp air brushed my face. It smelled musty.
A cave.
Dark as an inkwell too. Agatha may like the muscle and bones of the earth, but I prefer the skin. Sky above and grass below is my motto. I won’t even go into a root cellar willingly! My hand skimmed one of the sharp corners I’d bumped against and I realized it was a stair. Stairs? In a cave?
I didn’t know what this place was or why people spent time in it but I wanted out. My right hand lay on something papery. I ripped it in my effort to get standing, and scrambled up those stairs as quickly as I could go.
By the time I made it back, I was truly exhausted. I plopped down in front of that fire and realized my right hand was in a fist. I opened up my hand and stared at what I held.
Billy didn’t even look up. He’d heard my arrival, though. “Listen to this,” he said. Then he read:
The same Indian mentioned that when a bear had been pursued and sought shelter in a cave, he had often endeavored to eject him with smoke, but that the bear would advance to the mouth of the cave, where the fire was burning, and put it out with his paws, then retreat into the cave again.
“Now, how could that be?” Billy gestured at the book like he could convince letters to rearrange themselves into something more reasonable. “No bear does that!”
When I didn’t say anything at all—no comment, no “Uh-huh,” no laughter—Billy finally looked up. He squinted at me. “Again? Oh no, Fry. What kind of mess have you gotten yourself into this time?” he said. Then I saw him look at what I held in my hand. “Where did you get a five-dollar note?”
I looked down again at what I held and frowned.
“In a cave,” I said.
Where do five-dollar banknotes come from? Five-dollar banknotes grow inside caves, right at the point where rough-hewn pine stairs meet rocky floor. They are found bound up in stacks and tossed amidst dirt, dried leaves, and tree limbs (debris left from an earlier bruise-rendering entry).
I know this because Billy made up a torch and I led him to that cave. Billy shoved aside the remaining branches with his right foot, and without so much as a “Here we go,” Billy plunged down those steps into pitch blackness. I watched the torchlight ring the sides of that cave and swore Billy was walking into someone’s oversized gullet.
As soon as the torchlight left, night closed in behind me and I thought, Cougars. So gullet or not, I scampered down the steps after that light.
Moments later I was where I’d been. There lay several bundles of five-dollar bills. The paper collar on one of the bundles was ripped. The dollars were splayed out and scattered across the ground.
No one keeps money in caves. It’s either the mattress or the bank. We have a currency shortage in Wisconsin, but looking at the amount of paper money in this cave, a body would never know it.
I saw Billy inspecting another pile of banknotes. “One-dollar notes,” he called. He picked up a bundle and ran his thumb over the edge.
Then he stood up. He held the torch against the dark, and light illuminated the space.
Nausea slammed into me. It was a cave all right—as big as a ballroom, but lacking a ballroom’s regular angles. There’s no pretending a cave is a proper room—it’s the belly of the whale, the innards of a clam, a bubble, a rock-hard belch. Everything is poured out and dried sideways or upside down. To my right, several columns of slick rock seemed to drip upward. There were knobby clusters, columns looking like gigantic candle-wax drippings, and a wall that folded in on itself. The torchlight wavered and shadows stretched until Billy turned and the light jerked to another spot. A fissure in a nearby wall caused me to consider that trees grew out of the cave’s ceiling—which is so dadgum wrong (not to mention heavy).
I escaped suffocating sensations by sitting on the last pine step and focusing on roomlike elements. I saw a stool, a table covered with an oilcloth, and, on the floor, squarish mounds under tarps. I concentrated on their regular angles.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Billy make his way to the farthest point. He held out his torch to light a dark hole. In chorus, mouths screeched.
I screamed and dropped to the cave floor as bats swept over my head and up the stairs.
“My apologies,” called Billy.
I crawled back to the step and sat down again.
Billy moved into the middle of the chamber. He lifted the torch high above his head with his left hand. With his right, he took hold of a corner of a tarp covering one of the squarish mounds and pulled. The tarp snapped and hung in the air a moment before whirling to the ground. Billy pulled another and another and another.
Agatha spinning in Billy’s arms, the skirt of her blue-green dress snapping in the air with every turn around the Olmstead Hotel’s ballroom.
The New Year’s ball was only five months ago. It felt like decades, but truly, it was the shortest amount of time.
I began a countdown in my head. Four months ago (February), Billy had proposed marriage to Agatha. Three months ago (March), the pigeons had migrated over Placid, and Agatha had spun underneath them. Two months ago (April), Mr. Olmstead and Agatha had courted, and the pigeons had nested. One month ago (May), Agatha had kissed Billy, and the nesting had broken, along with Agatha’s ties to Mr. Olmstead. Agatha had been angry with me, but I’d honestly thought—and I hesitate to admit this—that it was all over. Life would return to the way it had been previously. Agatha would have no other choice but to run the store with me. So only one month ago, I’d felt relieved.
But Agatha had run off nineteen days ago. Six days ago, my family had held my sister’s funeral.
Seemed like I’d lived two lifetimes already. My first thirteen years took an uneventful forever, but this second lifetime? Why, it took all of three days: Billy and I had left on a Saturday night. I’d met a cougar on Sunday. I’d been in Dog Hollow on Monday. And today was Tuesday. On Tuesday, I’d been to the nowhere place and Garrow Farm, made a marriage proposal, and found money in a cave. Would this Tuesday never end?
But Tuesdays end when they will and not a moment before. I squinted at what Billy was uncovering. Then, frustrated by how little I could see from my seat on the stairs, I took a few unsteady steps around the chamber. I saw a stack of paper, and a paper cutter. What had looked like a table was, in actuality, a printing press.
“Fry, come see this,” said Billy. He held the torch up.
I put my hands against the wall—a bulging, earthy wall that caused my stomach to turn over—and made my way to him.
I saw it: four printing plates. I squatt
ed and turned one over. What I saw was the reverse image of a one-dollar banknote.
I ran my hand over the engraving. “How do they make this? It’s so detailed.”
“They get an engraver. Or one of them is the engraver. You’d have to be an artist to produce anything like that. If they bought it, it cost them two legs and an arm. All I know is that if you want to catch a counterfeiter, you’ve got to catch him with the plates. Counterfeiting plates are a find. Pa would sure appreciate this.”
“Mr. Garrow is a counterfeiter?” I said. It was all coming together.
“Looks like it.”
“Remember how he said there was no road up this way? He didn’t want us up here,” I said.
Billy frowned. “But were those pigeoners also counterfeiters?”
I do believe Grandfather Bolte would have been proud of my deduction. It takes one business owner to understand another (legal or not). “No,” I said slowly. “If those pigeoners met Mr. Garrow, they met him to purchase false notes. Mr. Garrow probably sold the notes at some percentage of the face value. Maybe forty percent? A one-dollar note would cost the pigeoners forty cents. That way, Mr. Garrow didn’t have to risk passing false notes himself. He’d still make plenty of money.”
Billy looked at me with genuine admiration. “I swear, Fry.”
“I do work on the account books at the store. It’s not all scrubbing pigeon defecation,” I said. Some people think that my youthful age precludes me from responsibility. It is irksome.
Billy did not respond to my fit of pique. Instead, he stood upright with a jerk. “We’ve got to get out of here. We’ve got to put out that fire. We have to clean this place up, and our camp too. It has to look like we’ve never been here.” Panic flooded his voice. “They’ve probably seen the smoke from our fire. They’re coming. We need to leave now.” Billy started pulling tarps over piles with the hand that wasn’t holding the torch. One-handed, he couldn’t get them straight.
“Fry, help me!”
While I pulled tarps on top of piles, I began to see Billy’s point. How had I overlooked that these were criminals? My heart started to pound in time with my face.
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