Joe stopped and took a deep breath. “He said that Fiona killed a man.”
Ellen’s hand tightened her grip. “That’s what he said?”
“Yes. A man named Chester J. Peabody. He sounded like an important fella ’cause he put Mister in front of the name.”
“That doesn’t make sense to me,” Ellen said. “If Fiona did that, then surely Mr. DeQuille, Dr. Taylor, or Mrs. Hamilton would have heard about it.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Joe said, shaking his head in confusion. “But I have to believe that old man McCarthy was telling me the truth. Besides, I know Fiona, and she wouldn’t have abandoned our daughter unless something terrible had gone wrong.”
Ellen thought about it a moment, then said, “There are only two explanations. One is that Mr. DeQuille, Beth Hamilton, and the doctor didn’t make the connection because Fiona was using your last name, Moss, instead of McCarthy. And the other is that no one knows for sure who killed Mr. Peabody.”
“Somebody knows,” Joe said. “Otherwise, Fiona wouldn’t have had to run for her life.”
“That’s right. That’s exactly right. So we need to find out who knows about this death and what this all means for Fiona and your daughter.”
Joe removed his hat and sleeved his sweating brow. For some reason he felt drawn to the cemetery. “Maybe Peabody is lyin’ in his grave right over there. Maybe it would tell us something.”
“Headstones don’t usually state the cause of death, but we can hike over there and take a look,” Ellen suggested. “We have time to do that before sundown.”
Joe stared hard at the church, almost as if his eyes could penetrate those red brick walls and see his little girl at last. But they couldn’t, of course, so he shrugged and said, “Let’s go ahead and try that. The walk to the cemetery will help clear my troubled mind.”
Ellen took his hand and they headed off, but neither one of them was optimistic that the cemetery would hold the answer to this tragic mystery that had just turned all of their worlds upside down.
22
IT WAS AN even bigger cemetery than Joe had thought after viewing it from a long distance. There were, of course, separate sections for the Catholics and the Protestants, and a third section off in the back that was on the steepest, rockiest ground where Indians, Mexicans, and the Chinese were buried.
“We’ll start in the Protestant section,” Ellen said as they stepped through the wrought-iron gate and entered the cemetery. “If we don’t find a Peabody there, we’ll go to the Catholic section.”
Joe thought that sounded like a reasonable plan. He didn’t feel comfortable hanging around in a cemetery no matter what the former faith of the people it held. But as they moved around in the Protestant section, he began to appreciate how dangerous and unhealthy it was to be a deep-rock miner on the Comstock Lode.
“Almost all of these graves are only two and three years old,” Ellen observed. “And most of them are as humble as apple pie. Look, Joe, many of the tombstones tell the story of where these poor people came from, and a few even tell why they died.”
“William McCord,” Joe read from a headstone. “Born in County Cork, Ireland, in 1838. Died of a mine cave-in. Bill was a friend to all.” Joe shook his head. “Poor Bill Mc-Cord was just twenty-four years old when he died.”
“Most of these men were only in their twenties,” Ellen said, her expression sad. “Mine cave-ins, mine floods, poisonous gas, and pneumonia.”
“And some died from drinkin’ like McCarthy,” Joe said.
“Quite a few, in fact.”
“And look,” Ellen said, “how many are from England and Wales.”
“Here’s a young woman named Nora,” Joe said. “And she’s buried beside her baby, Andrew Parks. Looks like she was just a girl herself and her poor child wasn’t but a day old.”
“Nora Parks died in childbirth, Joe. It happens all the time because the unborn baby is turned the wrong way or there’s bleeding that can’t be stopped. Maybe other things that I don’t care to explain.”
“At least Fiona didn’t die havin’ Jessica,” Joe said, trying to boost his low spirits. “And I sure wish that I’d have been there at her side.”
“Women don’t want men at their side in childbirth unless they have no choice.”
“They don’t?”
“No,” Ellen said. “When bringing a child into the world, a woman wants another woman who knows what to do and how it feels.”
“How would you know?”
Joe instantly regretted the question for he could see the hurt in Ellen Johnson’s eyes. “Sorry,” he said.
“That’s all right. I never was blessed with a child, but I did help bring many a baby into this world kicking and screaming. And a few that were stillborn, too.”
Joe nodded with understanding, and then he heard a wagon coming and turned to see that it was a black hearse pulled by a black horse. The driver was dressed all in black with a top hat, and the hearse was followed by several people on foot. One of them appeared to be a grieving widow. Joe watched the hearse and mourners shuffle past and then enter the Catholic section. A grave was waiting with a fresh mound of dirt ready to toss over the dead husband.
“Here is our Mr. Peabody!” Ellen called, bringing Joe’s attention back to the matter at hand. “That’s quite an elaborate monument. Much more impressive than any others nearby.”
“Impressive” was an understatement. Chester Peabody’s monument stood at least six feet tall with a cross at the top and a lot of fancy engravings of flowers and angels on the wing. Joe bet the thing probably cost more than a horse and wagon and that it easily weighed a couple of tons.
“And look what it says, Joe. Read it out loud.”
“Chester J. Peabody, born Dec. 12, 1821 in Philadelphia, Pa. Died March 21, 1862. May our brother Chester’s soul sing in Heaven and may his murderer’s soul burn forever in Hell.”
“What’s ‘Pa’ mean?” Joe asked.
“Pennsylvania,” Ellen answered. “So Chester was murdered and it’s obvious that his family is very hurt and bitter.”
“Ain’t too surprisin’,” Joe replied. “But the question I want answered is, who are these family people and do they think that my Fiona murdered their Chester?”
“I would guess that the family would not be difficult to locate. The grave is only a few months old and the headstone is expensive enough to tell us that this family has a good deal of money.”
Joe studied the tall, impressive headstone and the mound of dirt decorated with small quartz rocks and protected by a very ornate iron fence of solid construction and intricate design. Joe put his hand on the fence, which had little spikes every foot, and said, “This fence will last a couple hundred years, at least. And the headstone will last even longer.”
“Yes. And those flowers by the headstone aren’t more than a few days old, Joe. So that means that someone is visiting this grave often.”
Joe sighed. “I sure don’t see how Peabody’s murder could be connected to Fiona.”
“But it must be,” Ellen said. “And we just need to ask around to find out where we can find the Peabody family.”
“I expect so,” Joe replied, seeing an old man with some wilted flowers trudging up the path toward them. He limped through the gate and came to one of the graves nearby, where he removed his battered hat, lowered himself to his knees, bowed his head, and began to pray. Joe could see tears on his wrinkled cheeks, and when he was through praying, the old man placed the wilted flowers on the grave, which bore only a simple wooden cross.
When the old man was finished, he looked over at Joe and Ellen and said, “You come to pay your respects to Mr. Peabody, did you?”
“I’m afraid we never had the pleasure of knowing the man,” Ellen replied. “But he must have been quite prominent and successful. His monument is the largest in this cemetery.”
“He was a very rich and important man. A family man and very much respected here on the Coms
tock Lode. I guess he belonged to about every organization in Virginia City and he was always generous with his charity. When he was murdered, the whole town turned out for the funeral. Even the volunteer fire department marched by his hearse and the Masonic Lodge was out in full force. There was a marching band and a lot of words of farewell. Must have been fifty bouquets of flowers sent all the way over from Sacramento. So many they covered Mr. Peabody’s coffin and then his grave.”
The old man bit his lower lip and swallowed hard. “I am ashamed to say that the day after Mr. Peabody’s funeral, I stole a big bouquet of flowers and placed them on my sweet Emma’s grave. Guess that makes me a thief.”
Ellen hurried over to the grieving old man. “No, it doesn’t. And I’m sure that Mr. Peabody, God rest his soul, was pleased to give your Emma flowers for her grave.”
Ellen’s words were so kind that the old codger began to bawl. Joe didn’t know what to do, so he turned and looked away while Ellen comforted the man and got him calmed down.
“I’m sorry,” the man said. “I just haven’t been able to get over losing her. We were married for forty-three years. I never should have brought her up here to Virginia City. It’s freezing in the winter and blazing hot in the summers. Bad water. Bad ground and bad people, for the most part.”
“How did Mr. Peabody come to meet his death?” Joe asked, unable to contain his curiosity.
“He was murdered one night. His body was found outside a little shack up on D Street where a woman by the name of Moss lived with her young daughter.”
Joe grew very still. Ellen took his hand and squeezed it hard saying, “Sir, could you tell me any more about the murder?”
“Why do you want to know?”
Ellen said, “Because this is Joe Moss and he was . . . is . . . looking for his . . . wife.”
The old man stared at Joe. “Peabody’s murderer was your wife?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Joe said, not wishing to tell the man that he had deflowered Fiona while leading her family westward in a wagon train.
The old man shook his head and his voice turned hard with anger. “Your wife, sir, was a whore and a murderess. I am sorry, but as God is my witness, she murdered poor Mr. Peabody and gave up her child to flee for her life.”
Joe started to protest that Fiona would never have done such a thing, but Ellen cut him off saying, “Joe Moss is a good man who had nothing to do with the death of Mr. Peabody. He has come to claim his child, who we understand is a girl now in the custody of the Catholic nuns.”
“That’s right. And they’ll bring her up to eat mackerel on Fridays and pray for the Pope, but she’ll never be a whore and she’ll never murder anybody like her mother did to poor Mr. Peabody.”
“How do people know for certain that it was Mrs. Moss who murdered Mr. Peabody?” Joe finally was able to ask.
“Who else could have done it? There was blood all over the inside of that woman’s shack, and even a bloody butcher knife resting on the table. She stabbed him to death and he must have tried to get away, but she stabbed him in the back until he collapsed outside her door.”
The old man was getting upset, and Joe didn’t want to hear another lying word out of his mouth, so he just turned and headed down the path toward Virginia City.
Sometimes, a man had to step away from something before he took it in his hands and killed it for being a lie.
23
JOE DIDN’T SLEEP at all well that night. Once, he had gotten up and crept silently out on the porch to sit in the rocking chair and stare down at the lights of Virginia City. Most of the lights had been extinguished, but there were enough to remind him of a swarm of prairie fireflies. The hills surrounding the town were dotted with the dying campfires of the men who lived out in the brush unable to pay for a bed and a roof over their heads. And down on C Street, the impressive Bucket of Blood, Silver Dollar, and Delta saloons were always busy. Even from a quarter mile off, Joe could hear the faint tinkling of out-of-tune pianos and coarse, drunken laughter. Once, he heard a ragged scream followed by two rapid gunshots. Joe was pretty sure someone new was going to soon take up permanent residence in the Virginia City Cemetery.
To Joe’s way of thinking, things just hadn’t gone all that well since he’d arrived on the Comstock. Oh, sure, he and Ellen had fallen into some luck by getting this fine place to live and to board their three horses. That had been a true stroke of good fortune, but it paled beside the fact that his Fiona was missing and now considered a murderess. Almost as distressing to Joe was that he had a little girl that he might not be able to claim as his own flesh and blood.
The more that he thought about it, he realized that he had no proof whatsoever that little Jessica Moss was his child. He had no marriage certificate binding himself to her mother. No one down at that Catholic church had ever even seen or heard of Joe Moss. True, Fiona had taken his last name, yet Joe doubted that would stand up in any court of law as proof that he was Jessica’s father.
So he rocked in the moonlight and he smoked and thought about sneaking into Beth Hamilton’s kitchen and getting that half-filled bottle of whiskey. If he drank it all, he might eke out a few hours of sleep, but he’d have bloodshot eyes in the morning and his head would be full of wet wool.
About five o’clock in the morning, Joe went back to bed and managed to sleep until seven. Then, clear-headed but tired and fretful over what was to come later, he got dressed and trudged downtown, where he had a solitary breakfast, then got a shave. When the stores opened at nine o’clock, he bought a new shirt and pair of pants. Then he trudged back up to the mansion and took a bath.
“I’m ready,” he announced about eleven o’clock that morning. “Might as well go down and face those pious mackerel-snappers.”
“We’re going with you,” Ellen announced. “Beth says that although she is not Catholic, she does know Father O’Connor and has a nodding acquaintance with several of St. Mary’s nuns.”
“All right,” Joe agreed, glad to have their company. “Then let’s get to it. I’ve waited a long, long time to see my child.”
Beth Hamilton grabbed her bonnet and shawl although the morning was not that cool. “Joe,” she said, choosing her words with care, “you are the girl’s father, but Ellen and I would like to do most of the talking and explaining.”
Joe was instantly annoyed. “Why?” he demanded. “Don’t you educated ladies think I’m good enough to stand on my own damned feet and claim my own blood?”
“No, no!” Ellen said, trying to placate him. “That’s not it at all.”
Joe stubbornly shook his head like a big dog with a bone. He banged on his chest with a closed fist. “Look! I’ve had a bath so I smell good. I’ve had a shave that cost me two bits and I’m wearin’ these stiff new duds that feel like newspaper. Why, I even polished my new boots!”
“You look very nice,” Beth told him. “Very handsome indeed. But . . . .”
“But what!” he snapped, eyes blazing.
“Joe,” Ellen said gently, “Beth and I have been talking about this all morning and trying to think of the best arguments to make for you getting legal custody of Jessica. And one of the things that we’re sure of is that the clergy down at St. Mary’s will be very concerned about the religious upbringing of your daughter. In fact, that will probably be their greatest objection to giving her up to you.”
Joe was angry, but he had to admit the truth of it. “Well,” he said with a troubled expression, “I won’t tell the Catholics that there isn’t a God, because there just might be. And I won’t tell them Holy Rollers there ain’t no Devil, because I’ve seen Satan’s work many a time in my own sorry life. But I ain’t gonna buy that child no rosary beads or Bible and—”
“Joe, listen to me!” Ellen interrupted. “Beth and I agree that, if we’re to have any chance of getting that child back to you, that you’re going to have to agree to become a Catholic and bring Jessica up in the Catholic faith.”
“The hel
l you say!” Joe bellowed in shock and outrage and stomped the floor with his boot so hard the dishes danced. “Ain’t no way that is ever gonna happen!”
Beth and Ellen exchanged glances before Ellen said, “Then we will probably have to get a lawyer, and that will be expensive and most likely futile.”
Joe glared at them both. “Are you sayin’ that unless I become a Catholic I might not ever get Jessica back?”
“That’s exactly what we are saying,” Beth told him as she folded her arms across her ample bosom. “And we think it’s important that you understand that before you face Father O’Connor and his order of nuns.”
Joe swore under his breath and turned away, feeling like he wanted to punch holes in the walls or maybe kick a few stray dogs and cats. Instead, he turned around and said, “Ladies, I’m a sinner through and through, and I just don’t think I can ever join any church, and most especially the Catholic Church.”
Ellen’s face was pinched and set. “You just might have to, Joe. You might have to if you want your little girl.”
Joe tore off his hat and slapped the wall a few times in frustration. “Dammit, the talkin’ is done here. Let’s go see Jessica.”
The heavy double wooden doors of the church were wide open to let in the fresh morning air, and Joe and the two women stood in the front of the church looking down the aisle toward the altar as a small nun in her fifties came to greet them with a gentle smile.
“Why, Mrs. Hamilton,” she said. “So good to see you. It’s been a long time.”
“Yes it has. Sister Barbara, these are my friends.”
Joe looked up toward the impressive altar, admiring it and smelling the many candles that were burning in red jars. There were a few people already kneeling in the pews prayin’ for all that they were worth, and Joe figured that their sins combined weren’t anything compared to his own. He saw a big organ up front and lots of statues of saints. This was a holy place, and the anger that had been building inside of him all the way down the hill evaporated.
The Mother Lode Page 15