The Best American Mystery Stories 2014

by Laura Lippman (ed) (epub)

“And God’s mercy on you, sir.” Croft’s voice was almost lost in the wind.

  The waters of Offatts Bay had swamped the beach, so Croft had dropped Wendell near where the Avenue O sidewalk began. By now it was raining in earnest, the large drops lashing at Wendell as he walked briskly along the avenue. As Amelia feared, the streets had become torrents as the high sidewalks focused the runoff like a river canyon’s walls. About the only ones out in the weather were the children playing in deep puddles, splashing each other as they chortled with delight, their clothes muddy disasters. Yes, I’ll take a cab home from the station, Wendell decided. Clean, dry clothes; that’s the ticket. I’ll have the driver wait while I change, to witness my movements.

  He glanced at his watch again: 11:12 A.M. When he came to Twenty-ninth Street, by the southwest corner of the Garten Verein, the social center and gardens for the city’s German population, Wendell turned south. Just ahead he saw his destination, the home of Archibald Kenyon Tate.

  The man had crossed the line of propriety and needed to be taught a lesson. Wendell was determined to tutor him personally.

  Decades earlier, Wendell had come to Galveston with a stake from his wealthy father back in Philadelphia and an innate cunning for managing business deals. Now he ruled over a network of interests: cotton exports in the South, Kansas granaries, fruit farms in California, and Texas cattle stockyards and lumber mills. He’d even invested in docklands for Galveston’s neighbor and rival, Houston. The two towns were fighting to be the financial and population center of the state, though the latest census figures showed Galveston pulling away, having grown 30 percent in the past ten years. Wendell didn’t mind exploiting Houston for profit, even if he could never imagine living there. While Galveston could be beastly hot, it was a gleaming gem on the sea compared to dusty, unrefined Houston.

  Tate’s holdings and personal wealth mirrored Wendell’s in size, but the men themselves were polar opposites. The gossip was that Tate had simply been Archie Kenyon when he emigrated from England and that he’d worked his way up from poverty through some shady land deals that involved quick exits from towns. Twelve years earlier, he’d arrived in Galveston with the Tate attached to his name and a small fortune that he soon parlayed into a large fortune. Back in Philadelphia, Tate’s nouveau-riche background would have left him shunned by society, but Galveston was a uniquely accepting town. German, Jew, Irish—it was no hindrance. Even skin tone didn’t preclude opportunities.

  Tate’s arrival coincided with Wendell’s courting of Amelia Baumgartner. The daughter of one of the oldest Galveston families, Amelia had “come out” at a ball held at the Artillery Club, which was for men only but opened its doors to women on such special occasions. Wendell was immediately bewitched by her beauty. He managed to dance with her several times, and within days he’d gained her father’s approval to squire her about town. Wendell took her to dances, concerts, and lectures, the main sources of entertainment.

  During the two years Wendell courted Amelia, Archie Tate had presented himself as a possible rival. With his dark eyes, chestnut hair, and strong chin, Tate was a focus of attention for the ladies of Galveston. Yet he’d set his eye on Amelia, cutting in on Wendell at dances and always grabbing a chair close to her at the lectures. Then, on New Year’s Day in 1890, Wendell proposed and Amelia swiftly accepted. After that, Tate left them alone. Wendell was grateful for Tate’s sensitivity and eventually put the rivalry out of his mind.

  Until Monday night.

  Wendell was accompanied to the Artillery Club by Jamieson Maret and his son, Donald. Maret was an elder statesman of the business community who had helped Wendell when he was building his companies. Now Maret was grooming Donald to take over his investments. Wendell felt a kinship with Donald, who was only a decade younger than him. Besides their business dealings, Wendell and Amelia often socialized with Jamieson and his wife, Margaret, before she passed away the previous year.

  “Donald has an idea you may want to invest in,” Jamieson had told Wendell earlier in the day.

  “I’m always open to a new idea. How about joining me for a drink, and I’ll listen to Donald’s proposal?”

  “In vino veritas?” Jamieson said, chuckling.

  “Hopefully,” Wendell said, grinning himself.

  He’d put in a full day in the office despite being alone, thanks to the federal holiday enacted six years earlier. As they settled in their seats, Maret said, “I still don’t understand it. Giving people a holiday simply because they labor? I say an extra day of work would be more fitting.”

  “After that Pullman strike,” Donald said, “Congress had to mend fences with the labor vote. Window dressing, that’s what it is.”

  It was Jamieson who noticed Tate at the bar. “Archie’s knocking back bourbons. Doesn’t surprise me. I heard his slaughterhouse in Dallas burned to the ground last night.”

  Wendell felt sympathy for Tate. He’d faced his share of setbacks himself. But unlike Tate and most other businessmen, who maximized their profits by ignoring insurance, Wendell always fully covered his endeavors. He turned to Donald.

  “You have a proposal for me?”

  “Yes, sir. I have a vision for a chain of nickelodeons across the South—”

  “Ah, my old friend Asquith,” a slightly slurred voice said.

  Wendell looked up. Tate was approaching his table.

  “Tate,” he said, acknowledging him with the briefest of nods.

  “Had another wonderful day making money?” Tate pulled back the fourth chair at the table without invitation and slid into it. He plunked down his bourbon-filled glass, sloshing the liquor over the rim. Wendell stared at the offensive brown spot despoiling the expanse of white linen tablecloth.

  “We’re having a business meeting here, Tate.”

  “Why aren’t you home with your honey, ’Dell? If I had Amelia at home, I’d find it hard to leave for work every morning.” Tate took a sip of his drink. “My God, you don’t know what a lucky bastard you are, ’Dell. Your greatest treasure warms your sheets at night.”

  Wendell’s voice turned chilly as an arctic breath. “I think you’ve drunk enough tonight, Tate.”

  Tate was oblivious to the piano-string tightness of Wendell’s words. “You’d best live a long life, ’Dell, ’cause I’ll tell you what: If you weren’t here anymore, I’d be calling on your widow the moment she could take off the black. I’d woo her and wed her like I should have a decade ago, then I’d take her to my bed—”

  “You go too far, sir!” Wendell didn’t realize he’d slammed his hand on the table as he spoke. Everyone in the room was staring at them.

  “I should have gone farther. Fought for her.” Tate’s voice was filled with regret. He drank down the remaining liquor and rose to his feet. Before shuffling away, he repeated, “Yes, I should have gone farther.”

  Mortification poured over Wendell like lava. Jamieson and Donald had the sense to avert their eyes. Not that it mattered. Wendell knew the scene would spread throughout Galveston society like a spilled bottle of India ink. Jamieson’s comment came back to him. There was truth in drink, and the truth was, Tate still harbored an obsession for Amelia—had for the past decade. It left Wendell stunned.

  Wendell only half listened to Donald’s proposal. Instead he turned over scenarios in his mind. His honor, as well as Amelia’s, had to be restored. He dismissed Donald with a “Let me consider it” and had a second cognac after they left. Once a plan formed in his mind, he headed home.

  “Amelia,” Wendell announced at supper, “I think it’s time we visited your cousins in Fort Worth.”

  The raindrops were now thick missiles flying almost parallel to the land as Wendell entered the alley behind Tate’s house. Swirling in the flood were shingles stripped off roofs along with horse dung and sodden scraps of paper. Wendell opened the door and slipped inside Tate’s stable. With its raised floor, the barn had only a few inches of water covering the cement floor. Tate’s horses whinnied and circl
ed nervously in their stalls. Wendell walked to the door that led to Tate’s backyard and set his bag on a hay bale. After stripping the clothes from his upper body and hanging them on nearby nails, Wendell withdrew from his bag a rough cotton shirt and slipped it on. It was a worker’s shirt, far different from the silk shirts men of Wendell’s class wore. Setting a soft tweed cap on his damp, windblown hair, Wendell now looked like a laborer. The polluted flood and mud had robbed his trousers and shoes of their luster of wealth. No need to change them.

  Lastly, Wendell knotted a large kerchief behind his neck and raised it to perch on his nose, covering his lower face.

  There’d be gossip that he’d hired a thug to exact revenge for Tate’s drunken display Monday night. Wendell, though, knew he had to do it himself, for honor’s sake.

  Wendell was familiar with Tate’s habits. After working from 6 A.M. to 11 A.M. on Saturdays, Tate returned home for a nap on the chaise lounge in his front parlor, then lunch at the Tremont Hotel, since he gave his staff Saturdays off. The nap time in the house deserted of staff was the perfect moment to strike.

  He dashed across the backyard and up the steps to slip inside the kitchen. With the roar of the wind and the rain exploding against the wooden house, stealth was unnecessary. He could have wandered the downstairs banging a bass drum and still gone unnoticed.

  In the parlor Wendell found Tate slumbering. Grabbing the poker from the fireplace’s tool stand, he approached Tate, raising the iron bar above his head.

  At the last moment, Tate’s eyes popped open. He managed to raise an arm to block the first blow. The poker connected with a satisfying, bone-shattering crack.

  “You don’t covet another man’s wife,” Wendell panted, punctuating his words with blows to Tate’s chest.

  It may have been his voice, or perhaps Tate saw something in his eyes, visible above the mask. Tate whispered one word, his tone filled with disbelief.

  “Wendell?”

  He’s recognized me! He’ll denounce me!

  Fear gripped Wendell. The next blow struck Tate’s forehead, cutting a bloody line in the flesh.

  And then all of Wendell’s pent-up rage exploded and he roared as he raised the poker. Another blow. Another. Another.

  Wendell stared disbelievingly at the carnage. The gore-encrusted poker dripped blood onto the carpet, and scarlet ribbons had sprayed across the floor and onto the walls, his shirt, his face. Wendell stumbled backward, dropping the poker. What have I done?

  Then a ghastly smile twisted his face.

  I’m not here. I’m on the train.

  His laughter nearly spiraled out of control, but then his ruthless discipline reasserted itself. He saw Tate’s watch fob extending from his vest pocket. Careful to avoid the splattered blood, Wendell grabbed the shovel from the fireplace tools and brought it down hard on the pocket. There. The broken watch would set the time of the attack—a time that Wendell could establish he was not in town. Now I must get to the train station and complete the charade.

  After wiping the blood from the shovel and replacing it in the stand, he retraced his path through the house.

  In the stable he found a basin and fresh water. He washed himself before dressing again in his own clothes. Wendell dumped the basin into the deepening flood and watched the crimson-toned water twist in the flow before disappearing. He checked his watch: 12:14. Now to make his way to the station.

  As he stepped outside into the alley, the wind lifted his bowler and sent it flying away. Wendell glanced down at the bloodstained shirt, kerchief, and cloth cap in his hand. He’d planned to dispose of them as he walked to the station, but instead he raised his arm. The wind ripped the clothing from his hand and sent it flying to join the anonymous debris of the storm.

  The umbrella was now only a partial shield against the stinging rain. He headed for the station, slogging through the flood. An apothecary sign sailed past his head, soaring like a kite. North of the Garten Verein, the wind ripped the umbrella from his hands. Wendell raised his coat collar above his head and grasped it closed below his chin, like a shawl. He kept moving.

  Wind battered him while the waters clawed at his legs. While the flood receded as he reached the highest point on the island, the wind and rain redoubled their attack. He had to bend low, shuffling sideways, fearing that at any moment he could be ripped from the earth and sent sailing like his hat. Past the crest, the waters rose, swamping the sidewalks, reaching his waist.

  When the terminal appeared through the driving rain, the scene stunned him. Out to the west, the inbound train stood stalled on the tracks. Steam poured from the engine’s swamped boiler. Lines were strung between the train and the station as men helped the women and children through chest-high waters to the terminal.

  There would be no afternoon train, no escape from the island.

  Wendell felt something bump against him.

  It was the body of a young woman, floating facedown in the water.

  The trip south to his mansion was an excursion through the nightmare landscapes of Hieronymus Bosch. Collapsed houses, a trolley abandoned on the street, dead animals, and in the midst of it all a plague of small toads, thousands of them, clinging to the debris in the water.

  And more bodies.

  He could no longer establish his alibi. But could anybody challenge it? He could say that when the train died, he left his compartment and headed directly home. He’d wait out the storm and catch the next train to Fort Worth.

  Yet gnawing at his brain was the knowledge that he was a murderer. Tate was dead at his hand. He might insulate himself from charges, but he’d never escape that condemning knowledge.

  He plowed through the water. Then he was dropping, lost in a crater scoured away by the waters, submerging him in the vile mixture. He fought for the surface, finally breaking into a twilight world, brightened only by lightning.

  It was sweet relief when he trudged up the steps of his home. The waters outside had not yet reached within the house, thanks to the pilings it was built upon, like most of the houses in Galveston. Wendell found a lantern and lit it, using its light to climb to the second floor. He stripped to his skin in the upstairs bathroom, leaving his clothes in a sodden, stinking pile. They were ruined, fit only for burning. Only his pocket watch was salvageable.

  After drying himself, Wendell went into his bedroom and dressed. He stretched out on his bed, meaning to rest for a minute. But after the trials of the day, Wendell was asleep when his head touched his pillow.

  He looked up and saw Tate above him, his face smashed and bloody. Tate’s eyes glowed a hellish yellow as they gazed down at Wendell. In Tate’s hand was a poker. Wendell watched as it rose high above him, and then . . .

  Wendell cried out, waving his arms to block the blow. His eyes popped open and Tate vanished.

  Still, Wendell woke into a nightmare. The rain outside sounded like a million nails being driven into the walls. The room’s windows had imploded, allowing a tornado of wind to roar inside. The walls groaned and twisted as Wendell watched.

  Grabbing the lantern, he ran to the upstairs landing. He couldn’t take in what he saw. The downstairs was submerged beneath black waters. Waves lapped at the top staircase steps.

  Is this my fault? Is this storm mirroring my own loss of control? Then the floor rose beneath Wendell’s feet, bucking him back into the bedroom. Again it heaved, and with a final shiver the house floated free of its pilings.

  He fought his way through the lashing wind out of a window, grasping hold of the roof. The house jerked and twisted in the flood. Then his piece of roof ripped free of the house, swirling away in the waters. Looking back, Wendell saw his home crumple as if God’s hands were wadding it up like a piece of paper.

  The only light came from lightning flashes. What he saw confounded him. He could have been in the middle of a storm-tossed ocean, except for a few houses still standing, with their second floors and widow’s walks rising above the waves.

  “I’ve been a
fool, Amelia,” he shouted, hardly hearing himself above the wind. “Why did I leave you? Why did I lie? I’m sorry. So sorry. But I—”

  He never saw the shingle whipping through the air. It simply appeared embedded in his chest. Blood whelmed up around it. He tasted blood in his mouth. Can’t breathe. Then his body went limp and he fell backward off the raft.

  So cold, he thought as the waters covered his fading eyes. So dark.

  Amelia looked up at the knock on the parlor door of the house she’d rented in Fort Worth. Arthur entered, followed by Donald Maret, both wearing grim expressions. The butler held a letter along with a small box.

  “The report has come, Mrs. Asquith. I summoned Mr. Maret from his hotel so he could hear the news as well.”

  She remembered when Arthur had told her on the train that “young Mr. Maret” was also a passenger, traveling on business to Fort Worth. Arthur had seen Donald in the dining car while getting a tray for Amelia. It seemed a lifetime had passed since that Saturday, yet it was only three weeks.

  “Quite right, Arthur,” she said, taking the letter and box from him.

  The first reports they’d heard placed the death toll at five hundred—a horrendous number but still a small fraction of Galveston’s population. But as time passed the number kept rising until it was unimaginable. Yesterday the paper said the final death toll would never be known but could be over ten thousand. With Arthur’s help, Amelia had dispatched a private detective to search for Wendell and Jamieson in the ruins of Galveston.

  Amelia opened the envelope and withdrew the report, unfolding it carefully. She read it aloud:

  Sept 25th, 1900

  Houston, Tex.

  My dear Mrs. Asquith,

  Per your request, I traveled to Galveston. Train service is still restricted since the trestles have collapsed, but I found a man here with a sailing boat. He said he was from Virginia Point and had made it to Houston just before the hurricane. When we sailed past, we saw that Virginia Point had been wiped away.