Birdie's Nest

by Linda LaRoque

  “Yes, ma’am.” He walked to the door and called the other officers in. They avoided looking at the irate woman as she threw verbal insults at them. Ethan turned to Birdie and the others. “We’ll work in teams of two. You know what we’re looking for. Be thorough, but don’t leave Mrs. Wallace’s home in a mess.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They started upstairs. Birdie went through the chifferobe in the Wallace’s bedroom. A gray wool suit hung far to the back. She lifted it to her nose and sniffed. No stale cigarette smoke odor. That was a good sign. She examined the buttons to see if one had been replaced recently. The fabric was close enough to their clues, so they bagged the garment to inspect more closely at the station. Before closing the wardrobe door, she went through every pocket—suit coat, vest, and trousers. Either Jim Wallace kept his wardrobe neat or his wife did it for him.

  The front door banged open. She heard Mr. Wallace’s roar. “What in thunderation is going on here, Rachel?”

  “You will lower your voice in my home, Jim.” She must have pulled him into the parlor and closed the door. A few minutes later he bounded up the stairs.

  “Ethan, this is preposterous. Take your thugs and get out of my house now.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Wallace. You can either submit to our search peacefully or we’ll do it the hard way. We’re trying to keep it quiet so no one will know what’s going on. You raise a ruckus and the neighbors will be peeking out their windows. Plus, I’ll have to arrest you.”

  She heard paper rattle as Wallace sputtered, “How can you begin to think I committed crimes like those described in the warrant?”

  “We have several pieces of evidence found at the scene that could incriminate you. Truthfully, I don’t think you hurt those women, but every possible suspect must be scrutinized carefully.”

  Forceful footsteps descended the stairs but they were measured and controlled.

  Birdie studied the shaving items below the mirror on the chifferobe. A bottle of Fougere Royal sat on top of a scarf with embroidered edges. Beside it lay a comb and brush. She took the cologne, ensured the cap was on tight, and placed it in a separate bag. It’d be a shame to spill some of the expensive stuff, not as bad as having to wear it on your person, though.

  She rifled through the drawers of the chest looking for a knife. Most men of this era wore or carried one—if not in their boot, then in their pocket. But Jim Wallace wasn’t a boot wearing man. They’d have to question Wallace.

  She and the other policeman moved on to the other bedrooms, but came out empty handed. Ethan and his helper exited the attic, shutting the door behind them. They carried a couple of large bags.

  He nodded to the three policemen. “I want you to go out the back door and search the stable and any other outbuildings on the property.”

  Downstairs Birdie and Ethan joined the Wallaces in the parlor and Ethan closed the door behind them. Mouth in a grim line, Mr. Wallace sat on the sofa with his arm around his distraught wife. Birdie had to give her credit. She was obviously upset but not weeping and wailing like some women do.

  Ethan waved at a chair. “May we sit down? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Jim nodded. Birdie sat in a chair opposite Ethan’s and watched the body language of the suspect. “Do you own a knife, Mr. Wallace?”

  “Of course I do.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife measuring probably four inches, folded, and tossed it to Ethan.

  The detective opened it and tested the edge on the blade. “Not very sharp. What do you use it for?”

  “Cleaning and trimming my nails, cleaning the dirt off my shoes…” He shrugged. “Stuff like that.”

  “You don’t have any other knives—a hunting knife or something bigger than this?” He tossed the blade to Birdie. She caught it and placed it in a separate bag.

  “I have a penknife at the bank but rarely use it anymore.” He shook his head. “No hunting knives. Never developed a taste for the activity.”

  Ethan stood. “All right then. That’s all for now. We’ll take very good care of the items we’ve taken from your home.” He started for the door and then turned back. “By the way, do you happen to smoke cigarettes?”

  “No. I do enjoy a good cigar on occasion.”

  “I’m sorry to have upset your day. If your neighbors ask questions about us taking so many bags out of your house, feel free to tell them you offered to donate clothes for the needy, a special project instigated by the department this year. We won’t contradict you.”

  * * *

  Ted Bankston’s palatial, corner lot home sat atop a berm comprised of two five-foot thick, back-filled cement walls where steps leading up to the sidewalk provided access to the high porch. The lawn was groomed to perfection. It might be winter, but the shrubs around the building gave it a distinguishing air, as did the white Grecian columns across the front. Birdie gazed across the property as they stood on the front porch and waited for someone to open the door. A large gazebo graced the sprawling yard on the left side of the house and from what she could tell, the home boasted a stable as well as a barn.

  The door opened. On the threshold stood an extremely attractive middle-aged man. “Yes, officers. May I help you?”

  “May we come in, Mr. Bankston?”

  “I can’t imagine whatever for, but please do.” He stood back and after he shut the door crossed the shiny wood floors to what appeared to be the men’s parlor. “Have a seat.” He sat in a wingback chair near the fireplace.

  “Thank you, but first, I have this for you.” Ethan handed Bankston the search warrant and then sat in a chair beside Birdie.

  The older man read for a moment before in eyebrows rose in disbelief. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “I don’t believe so, but in truth, that’s for you to say. The warrant says we are to go through everything in your home and outbuildings looking for evidence which might incriminate you.”

  Bankston’s outer demeanor appeared calm, but fury burned inside him. His eyes narrowed and he pinched his mouth closed. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled and then barked, “Well, get on with it then. If anything is damaged the Waco Police Department will be held responsible.”

  “Understood, Mr. Bankston. Now, a few questions first. Do you smoke cigarettes?”

  “On occasion, yes.”

  “A specific brand?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. Duke of Durham.”

  “Do you own any knives?”

  “Of course I do. I have an entire collection.” He stood, crossed the room and unlocked a mahogany cabinet. “I have to keep this locked because my niece and nephew are rather precocious, and their mother doesn’t keep them in line.” He stepped back out of their way so they could get a good look.

  Probably more than a dozen knives lay in velvet pockets designed for their exact size. “They are—” Hearing her own voice, Birdie shut up, then cleared her throat and added in a rasp—“beautiful”

  “My good man, do you need a touch of brandy to ease your throat?”

  Ethan covered for her. “My partner lost his voice with the flu last week and is just now getting it back.”

  “Nasty, stuff, that flu.”

  “Where did you acquire your collection, Mr. Braxton?”

  “They were passed down to me by my grandfather. He collected them while serving in Her Majesty’s Navy.” He rocked back on his heels. “We’re rather proud of them in the family.”

  Birdie lifted one from its velvet bed and ran the blade down her finger. Blood welled on the skin. “Watch it!” Bankston said. “They’re extremely sharp.” She hadn’t felt the blade slice into her. The cut now began to sting. Mr. Bankston rushed to a teacart by his desk and grabbed a napkin, which he handed her. She wrapped it tightly around her finger until the bleeding stopped.

  “Sir, is your collection intact?” Ethan inquired. “Are any pieces missing?”

  He made a cursory check and then shook his head. “All are accounted for.”

>   “Well, then, we’ll be making our way through your home. Any items we take will be returned to you in due time—if you’re not guilty.”

  They left with a bottle of the expensive cologne, a suit coat, and little else.

  * * *

  John Samuelson lived on Seventeenth and Washington in a beautiful brick home similar to Frank Lloyd Wright’s Prairie Style. Birdie liked it immediately, especially the stained glass window in the front door. When Samuelson opened the door, his gaze moved from Ethan to Birdie and then to the three officers at the street.

  “What’s going on here, Detective Ethan?”

  “May we come in? We need to speak with you.”

  “No you may not. I’m busy right now and about to leave for a church meeting.” He tried to shut the door but Lloyd’s foot kept it open. He shoved his way in. “Now see here. This is a violation of my rights. I demand an explanation.”

  “You’ll get one, John, as soon as you cool down and sit down. You don’t want what I have to say aired on your front porch for your neighbors to see and hear.”

  Samuelson peered left and right, and then nodded to the men at the curb. “Bring those men in also. I don’t want people seeing them stopped in front of my house. No telling what kind of lies they’d make up.” He plopped his stocky frame down on the sofa.

  Ethan gestured to two of the officers to come in, the other remained in the buggy to protect the evidence previously collected. “Where is Mrs. Samuelson, sir?”

  “She’s already at the church, no doubt wondering where I am.” He made to rise but Ethan placed a hand at his chest and eased the man back down.

  “Hold on, John. This is a warrant to search every room in your home and all your out buildings.”

  Color rose in the older man’s face. Shaking a fist, he yelled, “Over my dead body!” Like a raging bull he jumped from the sofa and lunged at Ethan. His efforts were to no avail. Ethan popped him in the chin, stunning him. Before he landed on the sofa again, the two officers had him cuffed and on his way to the buggy.

  Before they left the Samuelson home, they’d run across the smoking gun—a receipt with one corner torn off. The following day, Samuelson was arraigned. He entered a plea of not guilty and the court set a trial date of August 1, 1891.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Birdie, a vision in white, appeared in the narthex on Joseph Hellman’s arm. Bethany and Maggie blocked Tad’s view somewhat, but what he could see of his bride stole his breath. Radiant in her simple, off the shoulder gown with a slimmer skirt than was fashionable, she glowed. The veil trailed past her shoulders and framed her hair and face. How had he gotten so lucky? She could have married anyone, but chose him. His throat clogged and moisture blurred his vision.

  James poked him and whispered, “Close your mouth, you’re drooling.” Tad chuckled. The comment was just what he needed to distract his emotions and ease the tension.

  Tad knew he was grinning like an idiot, but he couldn’t help it. He tried to catch her eye, but she stood chewing her bottom lip, glancing quickly, nervously, around the room. He hoped she wasn’t looking for an escape route. No doubt she’d rather face a gang of cattle rustlers than stand before this large crowd in her wedding finery. If it’d been up to her, they’d have had a small, at-home wedding but she’d conceded to make Mother happy. At last her gaze lifted to him. He winked. She beamed, her features relaxing.

  The music began, and Bethany started down the aisle, then Mrs. Hellman, several paces behind. Shock hit him as he studied his sister in the rose colored dress, one designed for a woman, not a child. She’d grown up while he’d been preoccupied with Birdie and the ranch. Dang, it wouldn’t be many years until he’d be giving her away to some man. His tie threatened to choke him, and he tugged at his collar. Panic gripped him. He didn’t know anyone worthy of his sister. Relax, Tad. She may look like a woman, but she’s still a girl.

  The organist pounded a chord, and the congregation rose to watch Birdie make her way down the aisle.

  Unable to wait, he walked forward and took her hand drawing her to his side. When they reached the altar, he leaned down and kissed her lightly on the lips.

  The reverend cleared his throat to hide his laughter. “Now’s not time for the kiss, son. That comes later in the ceremony.”

  The congregation roared with laughter. A guffaw ripped from Tad’s mouth as he hugged Birdie. Her face reddened, but she chuckled.

  The preacher looked down at them. “Are we ready to begin?”

  * * *

  Birdie, glad of Tad’s arms holding her close as they waltzed around the room, snuggled closer to him. Her past life seemed millions of years away. She missed it horribly, but she loved Tad and would be content to live forever in this fairy tale past. Obviously she was here for a purpose, exactly what, she didn’t yet know. Most likely it had something to do with her home or it could be she was here to be a mother to Nathan.

  Olivia had outdone herself in overseeing the decoration of the ballroom at the Pacific Hotel. As they twirled, the many mirrors on the walls reflected the twinkling of the glass teardrops in the gas chandelier and the multitude of candles placed on every surface. She had to hand it to her new mother-in-law. She’d given them a wedding to remember their entire lives. A photographer had taken their pictures immediately after the ceremony. The picture would add to the memory and beauty of this day.

  Tad whispered in her ear. “I’m ready to call it a night, love. How about you?”

  “Yes! I’m ready to get out of these shoes and into something more comfortable.”

  He arched a brow. “I’m more interested in getting you out of this dress, lovely as it is, and the contraption underneath.” His lips touched her ear sending a shiver through her body. “I want to see what lies beneath, touch every inch of you and make you mine.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it is.”

  She stopped in the middle of the dance floor and took his hand. “Let’s go say goodnight to your mother.”

  Olivia smiled as they approached. “I can see you two are ready to leave this crowd.”

  Birdie took both of Olivia’s hands. “Thank you for all you’ve done. The wedding was beautiful, more than I’d ever hoped for.”

  “It was my pleasure, dear.” She cradled Birdie’s face in her hands. “I’m so proud to have you as part of our family, as my daughter.”

  Birdie’s voice cracked with emotion. “I couldn’t be happier, Olivia. I’m proud to be a Lockhart.” She slid an arm around Tad’s waist. “You did a good job raising this man.”

  “All right, you two. Enough of this emotional stuff.” Tad kissed his mother’s cheek. “Good night. We’ll see you at breakfast.”

  * * *

  They could hear Nathan’s wails as they stepped off the elevator on their floor. Tad had booked a suite of rooms, two bedrooms with a sitting room between, so that Nathan and Sarah could be with them.

  “Oh boy, we better see what’s happening or people will be complaining to management.”

  “I don’t think there are many other people on this floor.” They stopped in front of their room. Tad removed the key from his pocket, the small piece of brass so different from the key cards of her time, and unlocked the door. “At last, Mrs. Lockhart, you are mine. When we cross this threshold, our life together begins.” He kissed her, his lips a mere whisper against hers. “I promise I’ll do all in my power to keep you happy.”

  Before she could reply, Tad lifted her off her feet and carried her across the threshold of their suite.

  “You don’t have to do this. This is a hotel room, not our home.”

  “Well, you’re going to get carried across the threshold again then when we get home.”

  This man was too good to be true, so different from modern men, or at least the ones she knew. Yes, they loved their spouses, but they didn’t treat wives like princesses. She’d have to work on that. She didn’t want Tad to mollycoddle her. She didn’t think
he would. He respected her independence and wouldn’t try to hold her back—in most things. An image of him discovering “Detective Jenkins” made her smile. He’d get used to her behavior in time.

  Tad took her hand. “Do you mind if we go in to see Nathan for a while?”

  “Not at all.” His wails had turned into whimpers, suggesting Sarah had picked him up. Maybe this new environment bothered him. He’d been moved twice already. It was hard to know what took place in a baby’s mind, but she wouldn’t discount the notion.

  Tad knocked on Sarah’s door before turning the handle. Sarah looked frazzled as she walked Nathan up and down the room.

  Brow furrowed, she said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s eaten and been burped. It’s too soon for him to be teething.”

  Tad’s large hand stroked Nathan’s head. “What’s wrong, little man?” He reached for the baby. “Come to Daddy for awhile.” Tad lifted him to his shoulder and rubbed his back as he walked. He sang softly, the words Birdie didn’t recognize.

  Sarah’s wearied expression changed into a smile. “You’re a natural, sir.”

  Birdie had to agree. Within a few minutes, Nathan had quieted and his eyes drifted closed. Birdie stood behind Tad and stroked the baby’s head. The dark hair felt soft and downy. She wondered if it would darken when he grew up. “He’s a precious baby, Tad.” She leaned in and kissed his forehead.

  “Thank you Birdie…for everything. Not many women would have accepted Nathan into their homes.” He turned around to face her. “It would have killed me to give you up, but I couldn’t give my child away.”

  “I know.” She caressed his jaw, enjoying the warmth of his skin and the subtle scent of his shaving soap. “I couldn’t have loved you if you had, Tad.”

  * * *

  Tad loosened the row of buttons on the back of Birdie’s dress, and pushed it down her shoulders to her waist. His hands shook as he caressed her soft skin. “You are beautiful, Birdie.” He placed a kiss on the nape of her neck, her shiver fueling his love and desire for this woman. Her breasts filled his hands as he explored the curves under her chemise. With his palm he circled her nipples feeling them pebble in response. Her head dropped back against his shoulder as he pushed her dress down over her belly and hips.