by Jo Goodman
“I suppose you’re referring to me again.”
She shrugged. “There’s an expression about the shoe fitting . . .”
“Mm.” He half stood to remove his jacket before he swept his hat from his head. Out of habit more than necessity, he plowed his fingers through his hair to give it some semblance of order. “Would you like me to take your coat? I meant to put it up in the lobby but Mr. Butterworth was full of talk tonight.”
Ridley let him help her remove her coat but would not part with her bag. It remained on the floor at her feet. A waitress wearing a black cone-shaped skirt, a white blouse with leg-o’-mutton sleeves, and sporting a stiff black bow at her neck accompanied Ben’s return to the table. She took their drink orders and told them their available meal choices. Without consulting each other, they made it easy for her by ordering identical dinners: beef stew with dumplings, cucumbers dressed in vinegar and oil. Ben asked for beer. Ridley asked for coffee, changed her mind, and also asked for a beer.
Ben thought she looked vaguely guilty. “Wondering if you made the right choice?”
“Did I?”
“If beer is what you want, then you should have it. No one will think anything about it, even after they all learn you’re a doctor. Doc regularly promoted the medicinal qualities of alcohol.”
“As a disinfectant, perhaps.”
“As more than that.”
She chuckled. “All right. I don’t doubt it. It’s still an opinion that’s widely held even among learned men.” She fingered the stem of her spoon, drawing it even with the stem of her knife. “There are things I would like to discuss with you. Can we do that now?”
Ben looked around the dining room to gauge their privacy before he nodded. “I imagine that Hamilton Salt figures pretty high on your list.”
“Indeed. That little boy is at the top of it.”
Chapter Eight
The humor that often left its mark on Ben’s smile or brightened his blue eyes was absent now. His expression was grave and the grim shadow that passed over his features made him seem older than his years.
“You realize, of course, that he had help breaking into your home,” he said.
“I do realize that. Was it his father who was his accomplice, do you think? Or his brother?”
“His brother.”
“How can you be sure? Didn’t I hear Mr. Butterworth say Mr. Salt did damage at the mercantile?”
“You heard right. You asked me, and I’m telling you. It was Clay and Ham who made a mess of the surgery. If I press Clay, he’ll give me the truth, but I’m not sure I want to shame him into taking back that story about breaking bottles down by the creek.”
“He was quick with that story.”
Ben thought there might have been a hint of admiration in her tone. “He was, wasn’t he? And you and I know he did it for Lily. He told me Mickey Mangold gave him drugs from the apothecary, and it seemed reasonable at the time, but I should have realized that Clay wouldn’t tell Mickey why he needed the drugs. Clay keeps the secret as well as Lily.”
“But he told you what happened to his mother.”
“Because he didn’t have a choice. He was trying to prevent a murder.”
Ridley’s eyes dropped away. She stared at the tablecloth, smoothed the edge of it with her fingertips.
Ben said, “You have to understand that Clay could only hear what was going on in his parents’ bedroom. He imagined the worst, and he wasn’t wrong to be thinking it might end with Lily’s death. He couldn’t intervene so he sent for me.”
Ridley lifted her eyes, searched his. “Has he tried to step in before?”
“A couple of times. And yes, he’s been knocked around for it, but not in an intentional way. The boy’s no bigger than a minute. In my mind, I see Jeremiah brushing him away like a pesky gnat.”
Nodding, Ridley said, “So Clay takes it in his head to help his mother by stealing drugs Doc left behind.”
“That’s what I figure.”
“What accounts for the broken bottles and jars?”
“Hamilton.”
“To what purpose?”
Ben chuckled. “He’s four. He doesn’t need a purpose.” He paused, sitting back a little as their waitress delivered their beers and steaming bowls of stew. He thanked her, and when she was gone, he continued. “I can’t know for sure, not without talking to Clay, but I think it’s likely that when he decided to leave the house to carry out his plan, his mother told him to take Ham along. The boys are often seen about together, and it would have been hard for Lily to have Ham underfoot feeling as poorly as she did.”
Ridley unfolded her napkin in her lap and pressed it flat with her palms. “The little one is a dervish.”
“That’s my point. Clay couldn’t control him. Maybe the first bottle was broken by accident, but then . . .”
“Yes, he’s four.”
Ben grinned, picked up his spoon, and tucked into the stew. “Careful. It’s hot.” He fanned his mouth.
She stared at him as he fanned, put in mind of any number of impulsive rascals she had known. “No wonder you understand the boys so well. You have a year, maybe two, on them.”
Ben took another spoonful but blew on it first. “Are you trying to insult me?”
“Not at all. I was stating a fact.”
“All right. Just so we’re clear, because I wasn’t insulted by it. There’s nothing wrong with trying to get inside the heads of the criminals.”
Ridley almost choked. She swallowed hard, and her eyes watered. She blinked several times to clear them and tapped her throat with a hand. “Very well. Tell me why Ham was barefoot.”
“You’re not going to trip me up with that. Everybody knows the boy hardly ever wears shoes.”
“Of course,” she said softly. “I have a lot to learn.”
Ben did not comment on that. It was true enough, but she’d said it more to herself than to him. He could tell she was deep into her thoughts and he let her keep them private. He dug into his dinner, and when he wiped the bowl clean with a thick crust of bread, the waitress appeared to whisk it away and put down a second bowl. She would not listen to Ben’s protests, and he figured she had her marching orders from his mother. He sighed.
“You don’t have to eat it,” said Ridley, pointing to his bowl with her spoon. “I suppose that’s your mother looking after you.”
He nodded. “At the risk of confirming your worst opinion of me, my mother thinks I’m nine, not twenty-nine.”
“Who said that was my worst opinion?”
Ben chuckled. “Who indeed.” He thought he saw the doctor’s mouth twitch, but it was such a narrow thing that he couldn’t be sure. Ben picked up his beer and drank and spoke over the top of the glass mug. “Tell me about the cuts on Lily’s arm.”
“Arms.”
Shaking his head, Ben set down his beer. He pushed the bowl of stew toward the middle of the table. “Is it her aim to kill herself?”
“I don’t think so.” She finished her dinner, and when the waitress appeared to take it away, no second bowl replaced it. “I’m not entirely comfortable having this conversation with you. As I told your mother, Lily is my patient.”
“I understand, but I have a duty to look after folks, and Lily is one of my folks.”
“I appreciate your desire to do right by her, but it doesn’t trump my oath. Her wish for secrecy runs deep. You’ve explained that yourself. I’ve likely said too much already.”
It was Ben’s estimation that she had not said nearly enough. “So that’s it?” She was quiet for so long that Ben did not think she had any intention of responding.
When her answer came, her voice was hardly more than a whisper. “Perhaps we could speak in broad strokes.”
Ben frowned. “How’s that again?”
She did not explain. “During hospi
tal rounds, I’ve seen women who present with horizontal cuts on the underside of their forearms and on their inner thighs. Most often these women have scars that indicate that the cutting is not anything new. Sometimes, depending on the husband or parents and the recommendation of the treating physician, these women are discharged to an asylum. It is rarely the cutting that brings them to the hospital. That behavior is hardly known to the people closest to them, but when it is discovered, the information is shared and decisions have to be made. I have known patients who were released to their families and were never admitted again.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
She shrugged. “There is no way to know. I was unable to follow the progress of those who were released. I know the asylum offered no real sanctuary except from their abusers.”
“Did any of the women kill themselves?”
“Yes, but rarely by their own hand. They were all vulnerable to mistreatment. By their caretakers. By the physicians. By the other inmates.”
“But the cutting by their own hand? What do you make of that?”
“Few women will talk about it. I’m not sure that they understand it themselves or have the words to describe it, but those that can put something into words explain the self-inflicted pain as relief. Sometimes as release. You have to know, Sheriff, that what these women have in common is a history of abuse at the hands of a husband, a father, a brother, a mother. The crimes against these women are ugly and relentless; do not judge them harshly for wanting to find relief.”
“I’m not judging them. I would never judge Lily.”
“We were not speaking of Lily. We were speaking of women like Lily.”
Ben nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Broad strokes. Yes, I understand.”
“How long can you keep Mr. Salt locked up?”
“This afternoon I was thinking I’d have to release him tonight, but I suppose I can stretch it another day. Maybe two. Keeping him locked away only solves the one problem. His family needs the money, and whatever else Jeremiah is, he’s always provided for them. You heard that he has jobs waiting.”
“Yes,” she said dryly. “There’s that oven door.”
“I know. It’s a trivial thing in your eyes, but it’s business as usual. It has to be. That’s for Lily’s sake, too. You don’t have to like it, but you do have to appreciate that it’s true.”
Ridley sipped her beer. “What can you do to protect her?”
“From herself? Not a damn thing. From Jeremiah? I can promise him that I will stop by regularly, but not so regularly that he’ll see me coming, and I can talk to Buzz Winegarten about not serving Jeremiah past three drinks. Can’t say how that will go over, or maybe I can and I just don’t care.”
“Are you really going to ignore what Clay did?”
“No. Wish I could, but I can’t allow him to think he got away with it.”
“You won’t tell his parents?”
He shook his head. “Never. I can’t promise they won’t find out. There’s Ham.”
“I don’t know. He might surprise you.”
The edges of Ben’s mouth turned down. It was more of a sad smile than a frown. “One can hope.” He finished his beer, set the mug down, and pushed back from the table. “Let me walk you home. I need to let my mother know I’ll be wanting something to take back to the jail for Jeremiah.”
“You don’t have to walk—” She stopped. There was no point arguing. For all that he was a frustration, at his core he was a gentleman. “I suppose you do.”
“That’s right. I do.”
Chapter Nine
Ridley stood inside the doorway and watched him go. He did not turn back or even glance over his shoulder. She wondered why she thought he might. She had not invited him inside and he had not seemed hopeful that she would. They’d said good night, and except for his promise to show her how to fire up the stove come morning, they’d left it at that.
Ridley climbed the stairs to her room. She had chosen the one at the front of the house, the larger room by a few feet on each side, and the one that faced the street. Her godfather, judging by the cracked shaving mug and worn leather strop he left behind, had slept in the bedroom at the rear. It seemed an odd choice, given that the street was quiet and the windows faced south and west. She imagined that morning light would ease into the room. It would be a pleasant way to wake, though perhaps Doc required an eastern perspective to give each day a punch of light.
She did not linger on the thought. After closing the curtains, Ridley stripped to her cotton shift. In the morning she would be appalled by the careless way she discarded her clothes, but just now it was all she could manage to unfasten the hooks and ribbons and shimmy out of everything that confined her and, if the sheriff were to be taken at his word, defined her.
Ridley removed a sheet and coverlet from the linen cupboard and snapped them over the bed. She fell on top and pulled them close around her. It was not quite the cocoon she wanted, but it served, and only moments passed before she was asleep.
And only moments later, or so it seemed, she was sitting up in bed, heart pounding, wide-eyed and disoriented. She looked around, frantic to make sense of her surroundings, to find something that would ground her. She heard voices, one of them very loud and grating, the other softer, but firm and vaguely familiar.
Ridley strained to identify it. The sheriff? That put her in her place better than any landmark could have. Bound as she was by the covers, she inched toward the edge of the bed and tried to stand. She stumbled before she was able to throw off the coverlet and had to yank on the sheet to keep her footing on the way to the window. Ridley parted the curtains only far enough to peek through the opening. The front porch overhang prevented her from seeing straight down and there was no activity on the street. The voices lifted again, and this time she realized they were coming from the back of the house, closer to the surgery entrance.
Ridley threw off the sheet and replaced it with her robe. She remembered that she had not unpacked her slippers, but because she also recalled the spray of glass on the floor of the surgery, she took the time to find them and put them on.
“I’m coming,” she shouted, though with little expectation that she could be heard. She swept her spectacles from the bedside table and put them on as she hurried down the stairs. “Coming!” By the time she threw open the surgery door, the voices had quieted, but that was because Ben Madison was standing on the lip of the stoop with a man in a headlock. She set her hands on her hips. “What are you doing? What is this?”
“This,” said Ben, nudging the man in the restraint, “is George Hotchkiss. He got himself in a tussle over at the Songbird at closing and now he thinks he needs to see the doctor.” He loosened his hold on George’s neck. “That sound right, George?”
George nodded. He tried to speak but his voice was strangled.
“I told him it could wait until morning, that he could sleep off whatever was ailing him in the cell beside Jeremiah, but that made him rowdier, so I explained that I’d escort him here, figuring I could talk him out of it, but you can see for yourself that I couldn’t.” He shrugged. “And, well, here we are.”
Ridley shook her head, not quite believing what she was confronting. Sighing, she stepped aside and ushered them in. Unfamiliar as she still was with the surgery, it took her some time to find a lamp and then light it. Ben did not release George until they were at the examination table, and then he did so slowly.
George Hotchkiss was a narrow fellow with long arms, a short trunk, and legs that seemed to extend from just below his armpits. He had a youthful countenance, more battered than bloody, and a crooked smile that indicated he was just that much ashamed. He eased himself onto the table, those stilt-like legs dangling over the side. “Think something’s got broke,” he said, slurring the words ever so slightly. “Want to see the doc.” He looked straight at Ridley. “You
fetch him and tell him what I told you.”
Ben sat on a nearby chair, folded his arms across his chest, and extended his legs. He nodded at Ridley. “You fetch the doc like he said.”
The look she gave him was full of lethal intent. “What’s the something that’s broken, Mr. Hotchkiss? Can you be more specific?”
He pointed to his nose. “I wasn’t born this way. You be sure to tell the doc that.”
“I’ll tell him.” She cupped her hands over his considerably bent and swollen proboscis. “May I?” When he nodded, she positioned her thumbs on either side of the bridge of his nose and snapped it into place. He yelped and nearly unseated himself but a moment later was breathing easier. “Anything else?”
He pointed to his right shoulder, which was another obvious injury. It sagged several inches below his left one.
“Second time tonight that I’ve seen this,” said Ridley. “Who did this to you?”
“Holden Anderson.”
“So it wasn’t the sheriff.”
“Nah. He didn’t make it feel no better, but he didn’t snap me neither.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Ridley caught Ben Madison’s smug smile. “Not for lack of trying, I’ll wager.”
“No, ma’am. Not for lack of it, that’s for sure.” He craned his neck around to get a look past the surgery into the doctor’s office. “Now, about the doctor. He’ll be along directly?”
“I have a notion he will.” Ridley felt along her patient’s collarbone. The fact that he tolerated her touch as well as he did inclined her to believe it was the shoulder that was out of joint, not a broken clavicle. “It will help if you can relax.”
“I’d relax a mite better if the doc were here.”
“I understand.” She rolled her shoulders and then her neck. “Stay loose. I can’t promise this won’t hurt, but—” She stopped talking to concentrate, taking him by the affected side’s elbow and bending it at a right angle to his body. Gripping the elbow in both hands, she applied traction, and then moved one hand to his forearm. She rotated the elbow and repeated the process until she heard a popping sound as the ball joint found the socket.