Tupper’s thoughts were interrupted by the foreman who’d ridden his horse close to him while he was rigging a block and tackle to a stump.
“Mister Durant’s expecting guests next week an’ the lady says they’re low on ice,” the foreman said. “Told ’em when they built the place they shoulda made that icehouse bigger. In comes the money, out goes the common sense, I always says,” the man added with a chuckle. “Seems they always run short come late August, September. Anyways, need you ta go on over ta Blue again, fetch back a wagonload.”
Tupper didn’t mind. He figured maybe he’d look up Owens and have a beer or two. He enjoyed the solitude of the long ride, and agreed to set out early the next morning with a large wagon specially prepared to keep the ice insulated. As he drifted off to sleep that night, Tupper was content. Work was good. He was settling into a routine, feeling comfortable, secure and farther than ever from the city.
The next morning Tom and Mike had their talk. They’d walked down to the lake and taken one of the guide boats. Tom rowed while Mike talked. He held nothing back, but Tom was disappointed anyway. There was nothing in what Mike told him about Lettie, no spurned or jealous lovers, no enemies that Mike knew of, no unwanted advances from supervisors.
Tom had hoped Mike could somehow point to a suspect, but he and Lettie had not gotten too deeply into the details of their lives. They’d shared much, but if Lettie had had any dirty secrets she didn’t share them.
The man who murdered Lettie Burman may have known her or not, may have loved her or not, may have worked with her or not. All that remained was that Mike had been with her last, had been intimate with the girl and would have to remain the primary suspect for anyone investigating the case. Though Tom had doubted at first that Lettie had been the victim of a murderer, he’d come to see it as the most likely scenario, after his examination. So, if it was murder and it wasn’t Mike who’d done it, there had to be something pointing to the one who had. Tom had one clue, but a small piece of charred cloth was not enough.
Later, Tom and Mike trudged back up the slope to the hotel, no closer to the truth than they were to the sun. They noticed a shay draped in black parked near the black pile that had been the barn.
“Wonder if that’s the sheriff,” Tom said with a glance at Mike, “not that I’m in any hurry to find out.”
“I’ll have to talk to him sooner or later,” Mike said with a shrug.
Tom eyed the two men who stood beside the shay. It was too far to get a look at their faces, but he somehow doubted they were the law. “You’re right. But the more time we have before that happens, the better armed we’ll be. No rush right now.”
Mary and Rebecca were out when they got back. There was a note just inside their door when Tom opened it. It was written on hotel stationary. Tom read it and frowned.
“What is it?” Mike asked.
“Says to go to the telegraph office. Man by the name of Clark’s got information on that escaped prisoner from New York.” Tom looked around the room. “Good thing your mother isn’t here. She doesn’t much care for the idea of me following up on this, but…”
A few minutes later Tom walked to the telegraph office in town. It had been set up by William even before the Prospect House was built. It was a modest, one-room affair, but it served its purpose as the only link to the outside world. “You Clark?” Tom asked as he came through the door. The man behind the only desk in the room looked up.
“And you’d be?”
“Braddock. Thomas Braddock. You send me this note?”
Mr. Clark pushed back in his chair, looking at Tom as if measuring him. “Funny thing about this telegraph, Mister Braddock,” he began. “This here’s an open line. Means I hear all sorts o’ chatter. Everything from here to Pine Knot to North Creek,” which he pronounced “crik.”
“Saw the one you got yest’day. Natural ’nough, I took it down.”
“What’s that to me?” Tom said.
“Nothin’, nothin’ a-tall, ’cept my friend over ta Pine Knot, he sees it, too.”
“You’ve got my attention,” Tom said with a puzzled grin.
“Glad o’ that, sir,” Clark grinned back. “Anyhow, I got a clickety-clack this mornin’ from Pine Knot sayin’ they got a new man workin’ there these last few days. Indian fella, goin’ by the name o’ Littletree.”
Tom couldn’t help raising an eyebrow. Remembering the description in Chowder’s telegram, he said “Black hair, cut short?”
“Not sure on the hair, cap’n,” Clark replied.
“Hmph,” Tom said. “Got a pad and pencil?” Tom wrote a quick telegram to William Durant. “Get this out to Pine Knot immediately, if you will.” Tom took a silver dollar out of his pocket and slapped it down on the desk. “Keep the change, and let me know as soon as you get a reply.”
The telegraph key was clicking before the door closed behind him.
Mike went out a few steps before Tom, letting the screen door slam on its squeaking spring. Tom’s hand was on the knob when he saw Mike look to his left. He was hit an instant later.
Tom saw only the fist at first, saw it hit Mike on the side of his face. Another followed as Mike reeled back. There was no other sound, no curses, no shout, just a silent attack seen through a screen door.
By the time Tom opened it, Mike was fending off blows and covering up as best he could, staggered by the sudden onslaught.
He backed across the front porch of the telegraph office, his attacker pressing him hard. As Tom rushed out the door, Mike managed to get in one solid blow to the man’s middle that stopped him for a split second. Tom grabbed the man’s left arm as it dropped. With a tremendous heave, he pivoted away, dragging the attacker back and around, slamming him into the wall. He drew back his fist but did not strike.
The man, probably not much older than Mike, slid to the floor, his hands to his face. He started to sob between moans of pain. He sat there not moving, weeping uncontrollably. Tom and Mike stood over him. Mike rubbed at his face, smearing a trickle of blood off his eyebrow.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“You all right?” the telegraph operator said, poking his head out the door.
“I guess,” Tom said with a look at Mike. “Who the hell are you, mister?” he said, realizing this was one of the men he’d seen by the shay.
The man looked up, his red eyes fixed on Mike. He pointed and said, “Killed my sister, you sonofabitch! Killed my little Lettie,” he sobbed. “I know who you are, you fucking murderer. I swear to God Almighty I will strike you down for it.” He tried to get to his feet but Tom put a foot on his thigh, pinning him to the floor. He put a hand out to hold Mike off, as it looked like he wanted to kick the man right through the wall.
“You don’t want to get up just yet, son,” Tom said. “What’s your name?”
“Lester. I’m Lettie’s older brother. Get your goddamn foot offa me,” he cried, slapping at Tom’s shin. Tom crouched down in front of him. “You’ve got no right to do this, Lester. My Mike, he didn’t kill your sister any more than you did.”
“Bullshit! Ever-body says it was him!”
“That’s not true!” Mike cried out. His face was red and his hands were balled at his sides. “That’s a fucking lie!”
Tom held up a hand to silence him. “Listen to me, Lester. Look at me!” he said, catching his eyes and holding them, “We understand how hurt you are. Mike here is hurting, too.”
“Now who’s lyin’?” Lester spat. “Huh? Who’s doing the lyin’ now? You’re all the same. Goddamn downstaters, use our women an’ go home scot-free.”
Tom shook his head in exasperation.
“Sonofabitch!” Mike shouted. “I loved her!”
Both Tom and Lester looked at Mike and for a moment nobody said a word. Tom let Lester roll to his feet.
“That don’t mean shit, you lyin’ bastard. You love her so much, why’d you kill her, huh? Answer me that?”
Mike said nothing.
Lester spat at his feet. Mike stepped toward him, picking up his fists.
“Thought so.” Lester scowled at Tom. “You’re gonna lose your boy, here mister. How’s that feel like?” Lester turned and stalked away. Tom let him go.
Mary and Rebecca were back in the rooms when Tom and Mike returned. “What happened to you?” Mary said when she saw Mike’s face.
“Lettie had a brother,” Tom told her. “He jumped Mike outside the telegraph office.”
Mary got a washcloth and wet it before putting it on Mike’s bloodied eyebrow. She let out a deep, exasperated sigh. “Good Lord, when is this going to end? Are you all right, Mike?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. This is nothing,” he said, holding the washcloth to his face.
Mary looked at Tom. “Is this nothing?”
Tom just shook his head. There was no answer that would serve.
“And what were you doing at the telegraph office?” Mary added.
Tom looked at Mike and shrugged. “Got a lead on the whereabouts of that escaped murderer. Can’t very well ignore it,” Tom said in a way that didn’t invite argument.
“No, I suppose not,” Mary said, though she was clearly not happy with the idea. She changed the subject and said, “Did you tell Mike about the other evidence you found?”
“What other evidence?” Mike asked.
“The evidence other than these,” she said, holding out a pair of pantalets for them both to see. Mike went from white to a bright red. “I found them in his drawer,” Mary said to Tom. “Mike, there’s blood on them!”
“I know. I know,” Mike said. He sat on the bed, rocking back and forth. “I didn’t do anything. She gave them to me. The blood, it’s…”
“What?” Tom said. He was so appalled he could hardly speak. He looked from the blood stains to Mike and back again.
“I’d never hurt her. You have to believe that,” Mike said with an intensity that made the words burn. Tom looked at Mike, not sure now what to believe.
“She said I should keep them, like to remember, you know? Said she was getting her friend. That’s what she called it, getting a monthly visit from her friend. She noticed after we finished and she didn’t want to put them back on.”
“Jesus, Mike. You know how this looks? You know how goddamn dangerous this is?” Mary said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I can’t decide whether you’re crazy or just plain stupid.”
“Mike, you should have told me right away!” Tom said. He started pacing the room. “That doctor sees this, or the goddamn sheriff, whenever the hell he gets here, and you’re a dead man. You think they’ll believe she gave them to you? Hell, I’m not sure I believe it myself. Jesus, what were you thinking?”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Okay?” Mike said, putting his hands against his temples as if his head might burst. “I know I should have told you, but at first I was embarrassed, and then I was afraid of what you’d think. I know it was stupid. I know. I know. I know,” he said, bouncing off the bed and going to stare out the window.
“Jesus, Mike. How do we trust you now? You just keep tearing us down, son, whether you mean to or not.” Mary put a hand on Tom’s arm, stopping his pacing.
“Let’s just deal with this, Tommy. Mike’s telling the truth. You can see that,” she said, concerned about where Tom was heading. “It wasn’t smart but it was innocent. Look at him, you can see it.”
Tom knew she was right, or at least trusted her judgment. He didn’t want to believe anything more. He didn’t even want to entertain the idea. Mike was no murderer. He was sure of that.
“We’ll make this go away,” he said at last. “That’s it. We’ve never seen it and it never existed.
“I suppose you ought to know the rest now, the other evidence I found,” Tom said after a long pause. He had been dreading having to get into this with Mike. “You remember I stayed to examine the body?” he said with an almost lecturing slowness. “Well I found something in her mouth, Mike—a bit of cloth.”
“You looked in her mouth?” Mike said with a grimace.
“Whose mouth?” Rebecca asked from her room, where she’d been busy listening.
Mary, looking flustered, strode to their connecting door and closed it, saying. “You mind your business, Miss Nosy-pants.”
“In her…” Mike couldn’t continue.
The color drained from his face. His eyes went blank in his ashen face, seeing Tom examining Lettie’s corpse. He’d known that Tom would look at Lettie, but somehow the image of him rummaging about in her mouth, and everywhere else, left him weak and sickened. Mike wandered over to the bed and let his knees go slack. He sat with a small bounce, his back to them, framed by their open window, the lake, and the mountains.
Tom had been afraid of Mike’s reaction. It was why he had been reluctant to speak of what he’d found unless he had to.
“I’m sorry, Mike but it had to be done,” Tom said in a soft voice. “I wasn’t about to rely on that doctor.”
Mike was shaking his head, but he took a deep breath and said “What about this piece of cloth?” His voice was strained and it was only with a visible effort that he managed to get that much out.
Tom started to explain what his theory was, but he didn’t get very far. A knock on their door interrupted him.
“Mail, sir,” a clerk said when he opened the door, handing him a large envelope. “I was told you’d want to see any mail immediately.”
Tom tipped him a quarter and was ripping at the envelope before the door was closed. He looked at the copied forms, the information from Fat Bess, and the coroner’s report on the body of the steward from the Albany night boat.
“Good God!” he growled.
“What?” Mary said. “What is it?”
Mike swiveled about to look at them. Tom went over the information again and scanned Chowder’s note while Mike and Mary waited, frozen.
“The same man! Damn it all to hell. It’s the same man!” Tom shouted, slapping the wad of forms against his thigh. It cracked like a bullet. “I have to go examine Lettie’s body again. I have to see the head wound,” Tom said. “Damn, I wish I had that magnifying glass!”
Seventeen
The Eagle Society’s ceremony is regarded as most sacred, in this respect next to the Great Feather Dance, O’stowä’gowa. It is believed that the society holds in its songs the most potent charms known.
—ARTHUR C. PARKER, THE CODE OF HANDSOME LAKE
Tupper was confused by his reception at the Prospect House kitchen.
“Can’t give you no ice! For the last time, I don’t care if it is for Mister Durant. I have been instructed to use no more ice than I have to for our guests. Period. You’ll have to try Merwin’s or the Blue Mountain House.”
Tupper didn’t care much where he got the ice, just that he got it, and plenty of it. Coming back empty would likely get him fired. He got back on the wagon, clucked to the team, and was off toward the Blue Mountain House on the other side of town. The Blue Mountain House was smaller and decidedly more rustic than the Prospect, more a collection of added-on buildings in a variety of styles, from log cabin to Victorian.
They catered to a slightly less well heeled crowd who liked to feel as though they were enjoying the simple pleasures of the outdoors, unadorned by the flubdub of the grand hotel across the lake. Tupper got as much ice as the manager thought he could spare. The guarantee of compensation by William West Durant opened the icehouse door quicker than “open sesame.”
Still, Tupper’s wagon wasn’t full. He drove on up the steep ridge at the foot of the mountain to Merwin’s. It was the last place he could hope to find ice in any quantity. Merwin’s was much like the Blue Mountain House, except that it had a spectacular view of the lake. Perched hundreds of feet up the foot of the mountain, it was a favorite of those who preferred hunting and hiking over the diversions of the lake. Tupper inquired in the main office, a small log building that had been the original hotel, boasting just four, tiny guest
rooms upstairs. Again, Durant’s request was honored and Tupper was dispatched to the icehouse cut into the side of the mountain to take what he needed. He got to work with a large pair of tongs and an ice pick.
Tom was almost to the telegraph office when a boy came running out, heading for the hotel. “Whoa, son, where you off to in such a hurry?” Tom called.
“Got a message for Mister Braddock,” he answered.
“I’m him,” Tom replied, holding out a hand for the telegram. He read it quickly, then turned and ran back to the hotel. Bursting into their room minutes later, Tom retrieved his pistol as he told Mary what he knew. The metallic snick of bullets sliding into the cylinder punctuated his words.
“Littletree was at Pine Knot! He’s been sent here to fetch ice. He’s probably here right now!”
“God, be careful, Tommy,” Mary said. “Don’t go alone. Get someone to go with you. If you’re right about this man, he’s already killed three people.”
Tom hesitated a moment. He’d been ready to go after Littletree, so anxious to clear Mike that caution did not occur to him, not that it often did. He gave a shrug and a brief, sheepish glance to Mary.
“Mike, run down to the boathouse. See if you can find Mister Busher. Tell him to bring his rifle and meet me in back as soon as he can. I’m going to take another quick look at Lettie’s head wound first. I want to be sure about something.”
Mike slammed the door on his way out. His feet could be heard pounding down the hall. Tom tucked his pistol into his shoulder holster and turned to Mary.
“Don’t worry, I won’t take any chances.”
“Make sure you don’t, Tommy,” she said, then, in an attempt to ease the tension, added, “Of course, this might not even be the man.”
The Empire of Shadows Page 19