Truth Be Told

by Carol Cox

  She brought herself back to the moment with a start, realizing her daydream had pulled her to a dead stop in the middle of the boardwalk. Feeling her cheeks burn, she quickened her pace and hastened back to the paper. Surely Homer would be back by now.

  When she reached the Gazette, she pushed open the door, hoping he would be receptive to her apology. She stepped inside the doorway, then stumbled to a halt at the sight that met her eyes. Instead of the neatly organized printing office she left behind, a scene of complete disarray greeted her. The type cabinets lay on their sides, with bits of type scattered all across the room. Sheets of paper were strewn everywhere, and a puddle of ink glistened in the middle of the floor, with footprints tracking through it. Worst of all, the Peerless press had been toppled over.

  And Homer was nowhere to be seen.

  “Homer!” Amelia shrieked his name as she picked her way through the debris. She went first to her office, feeling her heart clench when she saw the contents of the file cabinets dumped onto the floor.

  Whirling around, she raced to the kitchen and then the storeroom. In contrast to what she’d seen in the rest of the building, neither room seemed to have been touched. And there was still no sign of Homer.

  The memory of the brick falling on Homer’s head filled her with panic. Where could he be? She bolted up the stairs and checked each room, but it didn’t appear anyone had set foot up there since she came down the stairs that morning.

  Relief flooded her. Apparently, Homer hadn’t been around when the destruction took place. Returning to the ground floor, she took another look at the devastation. Just putting all the type back into place would be a daunting job. And she couldn’t begin to right the printing press on her own.

  She had to find Homer. He’d weathered plenty of rough times with her father over the years. She needed him to stand beside her now.

  If he had come back earlier that afternoon, only to find her gone, he might have decided to take the rest of the day off. Goodness knew, the man deserved a break. In that case, perhaps she could find him at his cabin.

  She rushed out the alley door and hurried to the little cabin he called home. When she knocked on the door, it swung open to reveal Homer sprawled across the bed, looking like a rag doll thrown down by a careless child.

  Fear leapt into her throat. So the intruders had been here, too! What had they done to him?

  She sprang toward the bed, praying he was still alive. The moment she crossed the threshold, the reason for his ungainly position became clear. The cabin smelled like a distillery.

  “Oh, Homer!” Amelia stood over him, anger warring with despair. “Not now.”

  Maybe he wasn’t too far gone to help her. She nudged one arm and called his name. A low moan was his only response.

  Gripping his shoulders, she gave him a hard shake. “Homer, wake up!”

  His eyelids flickered open, and he lifted his head slightly to stare at her with an unseeing gaze. Then his eyes rolled back, and his head flopped to one side.

  Amelia loosened her grip and looked down at him. Choking back angry tears, she stepped away. Her foot collided with an empty whiskey bottle and sent it rolling across the floor.

  A thought struck her. Homer had been upset at her, no doubt about it. He had obviously spent much of the day trying to drown his feelings with alcohol. Just how angry had he been? Angry enough to create the wreckage in the printing office? The thought stabbed at her heart.

  Stepping out of the cabin, she closed the door behind her, making sure it latched. She had plenty of questions for Homer, but she wouldn’t be getting answers anytime soon. She might as well let him sleep it off. There was nothing more she could do right then, except begin the arduous task of putting the printing office to rights.

  Trudging back to the scene of destruction, she circled around the pool of ink and stood near the overturned press to appraise the damage. Now that her initial panic over Homer had subsided, it was even worse than she remembered. Standing forms holding advertisements already set up for the week ahead had been knocked apart. Every one of them would have to be reset.

  But that meant putting all the type back in order. She walked over to the overturned cabinet nearest to her. Bending her knees, she took hold of the top and heaved. She managed to raise it all of an inch before it slipped from her grasp and thudded to the floor.

  Amelia stepped back and studied the sturdy cabinets. She would never be able to lift them without help. It would have taken strong arms to shove them over and tip the press on its side. How could Homer have managed that on his own?

  Before she could begin sorting the type, she had to clear the loose papers out of the way so she could find the scattered pieces. Pulling her apron from its hook and tying it around her waist, she began picking up one armful of ink-stained newsprint after another and stuffing them into the wastebin.

  With the papers cleared away, she turned her attention to the type. Thousands of pieces lay strewn helter-skelter across the floor, the different fonts and sizes mingled in a chaotic jumble. And every one of them would have to be put back into its proper place.

  But first, she would need to clean up the spilled ink. She fetched a rag from the storeroom, soaked it in coal oil, and set to work soaking up the mess. As she stepped around the edge of the spill, she took another look at the footprints. More than one person had been there. At least two different sizes of shoes had marched through the ink. And neither of them looked like they belonged to Homer. It looked like she had been wrong in leaping to the conclusion that he had created this havoc. Thank goodness he didn’t know of her suspicions.

  A new thought struck her like a blow. Then that meant some outsiders had come in with malice in their hearts and wrecked the printing office deliberately. Her hands flew to her mouth. What if I had been here when they came?

  She darted a glance at the unlocked front door. Whoever had done this might return, and she was in no mood to make herself a target. She strode past the counter to set the lock in place.

  Without warning, the door flew open and banged against the wall. Amelia let out a terrified squeal and looked around for something she could use to defend herself.

  Clara stepped inside with a bewildered expression on her face. “What on earth is going on here? I just happened to glance in the window as I was walking past. Looks like a tornado went through.”

  Amelia sniffled and swiped one hand across her nose. “I don’t know what happened. I was away most of the afternoon, and when I came back, I found it like this.”

  Clara tilted her head. “You aren’t hurt, then?”

  “No.” Amelia sniffed again. “Just a little rattled. I can’t imagine who would do something like this. Clara, I’m glad you stopped by. I need to talk to you about that story in yesterday’s—”

  “Where’s Homer?”

  Amelia flinched. Apparently, Clara was in no mood for an apology. She tried to answer with a steady voice, but it cracked as the reminder of Homer’s condition smote her afresh. “He’s in his cabin, out cold.”

  Clara’s eyes widened. “Someone knocked him out again?”

  Amelia shook her head. “He’s been dipping into a bottle. Maybe more than one bottle, from the looks of it.”

  “So you’re all on your own, then.” Without another word, Clara shook her head and stepped outside again, closing the door behind her.

  Amelia stared, unbelieving. She knew that article had wounded Clara deeply, but she’d hoped her former friend would have seen fit to offer a word or two of comfort. But now Clara had walked away again. Homer was of no use to her at the moment, and Ben was nowhere to be found. She had never felt so forsaken in her life.

  Leaning back, she slumped against the counter and slid down to the floor. Wrapping her arms around her shoulders, she rocked back and forth while her whole body shook with sobs.

  “I tried, Papa,” she whispered. “I really did, but I can’t do this. I wanted so much to carry on your work and make you proud of me,
but I’ve failed. I didn’t get the story you were after, and now I feel so alone. I can’t do this on my own, and I’m sorry, Papa. So very sorry.”

  In the silence that followed, she felt an urging to shift her focus. Her earthly father now lay beyond her reach, but her heavenly Father was always with her, ready to listen. “Lord, I’m trying to trust you, but I don’t know where to turn next. Something is wrong at Great Western—I feel sure of it. But I can’t prove a thing. Every time I try to push a door open, it slams in my face.”

  She mopped at her cheeks with the back of her hand and tilted her face upward. “And maybe that’s the problem, trying to do this my own way instead of yours. I’ve been focused on looking for the truth more to vindicate my father than to honor you, and I want to change that right now. Please give me the strength to keep on and the wisdom to know the direction you want me to take.”

  Little by little, she felt courage begin to seep back into her spirit. “Thank you, Lord. I know the battle is yours, and it isn’t over yet. Please help me keep on fighting.”

  Pushing herself up, she scrambled to her feet and looked around. Where to begin? As Clara said, it looked like a tornado had created a swath of destruction. Not a tornado, she reminded herself. This chaos had been created by human hands.

  By someone at Great Western? She froze when the thought struck her. It would make sense, but why now? Owen Merrick made no secret of his animosity toward the newspaper, but up to this point his hostility had been expressed verbally, never in a physical way.

  She puzzled over the question while she picked up the composing sticks and laid them on the counter. She couldn’t imagine Merrick doing this sort of thing on his own. But he might well have sent someone to perform the deed in his stead.

  What if they came back? Her heart skittered in her chest, remembering she had been in the act of locking the door when Clara burst in earlier. Stepping past the counter, she hastened to complete the task.

  Scooping up a handful of type pieces, she spread them on the counter and began the arduous sorting process. The doorknob rattled, then a fist hammered the door. Looking up, she could see several shadows on the boardwalk. Her knees gave way, and she clutched at the counter for support.

  Chapter 25

  The doorknob rattled again, followed by a shout. “Open up, Amelia!”

  Amelia could have wept with relief when she recognized Clara’s voice. She hurried to unlock the door and swung it open. Clara stood outside with Martin behind her. The two of them were flanked by Jimmy and a couple of his pals.

  “What are you all doing here?”

  Clara shrugged. “It looked like you needed help, so I brought some. Martin can do whatever heavy lifting you need, and I figured these three might come in handy.” She indicated the boys with a jerk of her head. “So I brought ’em along. Just put us to work wherever you need us.”

  While she spoke, the others streamed inside. Amelia stared at her unlikely crew of rescuers.

  “Wow!” Jimmy turned in a circle, his eyes as round as saucers. “This place is a mess!”

  “But not for long,” Amelia said, feeling a glimmer of hope for the first time since she discovered the shambles. “With all of us working, we should be able to deal with it in short order.”

  Securing the lock, she turned back to her helpers and spoke to Clara and Martin. “Before we get started, I want to tell you how sorry I am about the story that ran yesterday. Please believe me when I say I never intended to cause you grief. Homer got an anonymous tip and followed up on it. That’s where those quotes came from. If I’d been thinking straight, I would have insisted on looking into matters further before we printed comments like that.”

  Looking at her friends, she felt her throat swell. “After all I put you through, I can’t believe you’re here to help me now.”

  Clara reached out and patted her on the shoulder. “The way I was feeling yesterday, I would have been surprised myself if you had told me I’d be lending a hand here tonight. Martin’s the one who helped straighten me out.” She aimed a crooked smile at her brother. “You can thank him for us bein’ here.”

  The burly man shifted from one foot to another. “I know those fellows in Prescott, and what they’re saying is just sour grapes. They had as much chance as me to get that contract.”

  “But what if someone believes the things they said? I feel terrible about putting thoughts like that in people’s minds.”

  Martin lifted one shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “If those two are spreading rumors like that, folks were bound to hear about it anyway. Like I told Clara, people will believe what they want to, and most of ’em seem happy to believe the worst. We know what the truth is, so we’ll just hold our heads up and keep on going.”

  Amelia squeezed one of his beefy hands in both of hers. “Thank you so much. I don’t deserve such forgiveness, but I appreciate it more than I can say.”

  Behind her, Clara chuckled. “Honey, that’s what the good Lord calls grace. None of us deserve it, but I’m sure thankful for it. Now, where do you want us to start?”

  “That’s a good question.” Amelia looked around and ran her fingers through her curls. Her gaze lit on the type spread out across the counter. Turning to Jimmy and his friends, she said, “You boys all know your letters, don’t you?”

  The taller of Jimmy’s buddies scoffed. “What do you take us for, a bunch of babies? Of course we do.”

  Smothering a smile, Amelia scooped up a handful of type from the floor and spread it on the counter near the rest. “I need you to sort these—and the others that are all over the floor. See how each has a letter on the bottom? You’ll have to read them backwards to find out what they are. There are a lot of different styles of each letter, and different sizes, as well. You’ll need to separate them into different piles.”

  She nodded toward the cases lying on the floor. “Once we set the type cabinets upright again, you can put each pile back into the section of the case where it belongs.”

  The boys nodded with an air of determination and set to work.

  “What about Martin and me?” Clara asked.

  “You mentioned heavy lifting.” Amelia pointed to the printing press. “Martin, do you think the three of us can get the Peerless back on its feet?”

  “Let’s give it a try.” Positioning himself in the center, he gestured to Clara and Amelia to take their places on either side of him. “On the count of three, everybody lift. One . . . two . . . three!”

  Working together, they strained upward and managed to tip the unwieldy press back into place. “Oh, no!” Amelia’s elation turned to dismay when she saw that one of the gears had been knocked out of alignment in the fall.

  Clara waved her hand as though the damage was of no consequence. “Don’t you worry about that. My brother’s a good hand at mechanical things. I’ll bet he can take care of whatever’s wrong and have it ready to run again in no time. What do you think, Martin?”

  The taciturn man eyed the machinery. “Looks like a simple enough thing. I’ll tend to that while the rest of you go on about cleaning up.”

  Amelia looked at her friends, marveling once again at the wonder of unmerited grace. Then, seeing Clara struggling to lift one of the overturned type cabinets, she grabbed hold of the other corner. Together, they heaved it upright and shoved it back into place.

  While Martin busied himself with the press and the boys continued with their appointed task, she and Clara went about raising the other type cabinet. They had just moved it back against the wall when the doorknob rattled again. Glancing toward the front window, Amelia saw Ben’s face peering through the glass. With a surge of joy, she hurried to let him in.

  When she opened the door, he stared at the hum of activity inside. “What’s going on?”

  His faced hardened while he listened to her explanation of what she found on her return to the newspaper that afternoon. “Do you think it was someone from . . .” Glancing around at the others in the room, he l
et his voice trail off, but the question lingered in his eyes.

  Amelia dipped her head in a tiny nod and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. We can talk about it later.”

  Ben slipped his arm around her shoulders. “Thank heaven you’re all right. That’s the important thing. I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier.”

  She leaned into his embrace, heedless of others’ presence and the openmouthed curiosity from Jimmy and his friends. “I’m just glad you’re here now.” As the words left her lips, she realized how true they were. The printing office still bore evidence of the earlier destruction, and plenty of work lay ahead of them to put it all back in order. But with Ben beside her, all seemed right again with her world.

  A puzzled frown creased Ben’s forehead. “Where’s Homer?”

  Amelia squeezed her eyes shut, then looked up at him. “Passed out in his cabin, with an empty whiskey bottle on the floor.”

  His lips tightened. “How long ago did you find him like that?”

  She looked over at the clock. “It’s been an hour or more.”

  Ben gave a brief nod. “It looks like you all have everything under control here. Let me go see what I can do with Homer. I’ll be sure to lock the back door when I leave.”

  After checking the boys’ progress, Amelia approached Clara. “It’s going to be a slow process sorting the type. If you don’t mind, I could use some help picking up all the files that were dumped out in my office while they’re working.”

  “All right, let’s get to it.” When they stepped into the office, Clara’s jaw sagged. “Have mercy. And I thought it was a disaster out front.”

  “Don’t worry about putting the papers in order. Let’s just scoop them up and set them on the desk so I’ll have room to move around. I can sort through the files and reorganize them later.”