When she turned the corner onto Main Street, she looked at the tidy storefronts with swept sidewalks and attractive window displays. She sighed and allowed herself a private smile. It was good to see it all again.
But when she walked into Dilworth’s, she remembered that not everyone would be glad to see her. A couple of other women shopping in the store whose faces were vaguely familiar saw her and put their heads together to begin whispering.
She knew this would be a test of strength she might no longer possess.
Sylvia Dilworth herself eyed Amy from behind the counter where the shelves were lined with all sorts of goods—buttons, hairbrushes, cans of beeswax polish, bolts of fabric, and trims. A woman in her fifties, she was bound up in a corset that made her look like an overstuffed sausage that bulged at both ends, and her mouse-colored hair had been tortured into curls that matched the look, one that was about twenty years out of style. She didn’t seem surprised to see her, so as Amy supposed, news of her arrival had spread quickly. “Mrs. Jacobsen. I didn’t expect you to come back to this town again. And not to this store.”
Amy swallowed and forced herself to rise to her full height. “I used to come in often. I spent a lot of money here when I last lived in Powell Springs. And if I remember correctly, my sister took care of you and your husband during the influenza epidemic.”
Behind her, Amy heard the door open but she didn’t look up to see who else was going to witness her humiliation.
“Yes, she did. A fine woman, your sister, and Cole Braddock is a good husband to her.” Sylvia narrowed her eyes. “I’m glad they discovered the dirty trick that was pulled on them to separate them from each other.”
Amy paused, unable to think of an answer to the charge. Had Cole and Jessica told everyone what had happened? She supposed they hadn’t needed to. At last, in a low voice, she said, “If you feel that strongly, perhaps I should take my business somewhere else. Based on what I’ve seen, you have a lot of competition from similar establishments now.” The other two women watched the proceedings like avid spectators at a public hanging.
“Well, since you’re here, you might as well get what you came for. Money is money, even if it’s yours.”
Amy Layton would not have tolerated this rudeness for two seconds. But that confident person was gone, and now Amy Jacobsen handed her list to the old hag, able only to wonder why she didn’t turn on her heel and leave this place. She realized it was because she feared she would only suffer the same treatment everywhere else. It was her fault. Everything was her fault and she deserved what she got. Hadn’t Adam impressed that upon her often enough? In his anger, which showed itself more and more frequently, even he threw her disloyalty in her face. His own offenses—spying on his innocent neighbors and reporting them as traitors to the government during the war, frequenting the local prostitute, working to ruin Jessica’s reputation—faded to minor transgressions. Her memory raked through every unkind word he’d uttered, every viselike grip on her arms or wrists, every derisive insult about her hair, her intelligence, her body, her appearance, her behavior. Just when the change had come about, she wasn’t certain. Gradually he’d turned into a different man than the one who had courted her so fervently in Mrs. Donaldson’s living room. When he’d changed, he’d remade her as well.
“Did you bring a marketing basket?” Sylvia demanded, after she’d gathered everything on the counter.
“No, you always wrapped up my purchases with paper and twine before.” She tipped her head toward the big roll of brown paper in a holder next to her order. She’d selected a number of small items such as spools of thread and cards of buttons that would get lost and be impossible to balance with everything else she had to carry if they were loose.
“We have a new policy. I’ll have to charge you an extra dollar for that.”
“A dollar! But—”
“Wrap up her stuff, Mrs. Dilworth. You don’t charge extra for that and you know it. And I’ll take a bottle of ink when you’re finished.”
The audience cast eager eyes at this new player in the drama.
Sylvia looked past Amy’s shoulder and gave the man a gray-toothed smile. “Nice to see you, Bax.”
Amy glanced back, surprised to see him standing there and even more surprised that he had intervened. Thank the stars she hadn’t bought underwear here, too. He didn’t return Sylvia’s smile, and hers faded. Grumbling under her breath, she wrapped up Amy’s purchase and tied it with twine.
Amy paid her, and with only a quick look at Bax, she scuttled out of Dilworth’s, trying to hold up her head but feeling like a whipped dog. Outside, she drew a deep breath to steady her nerves and hurried down the street, vowing never to return to that horrible place again.
Bax watched her leave and frowned at Old Lady Dilworth. He got his ink and emerged from the store in time to see Amy about a half block away, heading toward the house. He needed to get back to work, but something made him call her name. “Mrs. Jacobsen—Amy!”
She turned and paused, showing him only a three-quarter profile and looking around like a trapped bird. He trotted up to her before she could get away. “I wish that hadn’t happened back there. Most of the time that old bitch—um, battle-ax—is rude to me, too.” As he listened to himself, he couldn’t help but wonder what had gotten into him to even bother with this.
She wouldn’t look directly at him, but he could see the tears edging her eyes. He also noticed that furious-looking bruise near her throat that her collar didn’t quite hide. Clearing her throat, she managed a crisp, “Thank you, Mr. Duncan.”
“Bax.”
“Yes, well, Bax. Thank you. If you’ll excuse me, I have to be on my way.”
As he watched her walk away, she tried to square her shoulders and straighten her back. He let her go without another word, still wondering why he’d stuck his nose into that scene. He supposed it was because he thought he knew how she felt. The outcast, the one everybody shunned, including his own family, even the woman he’d planned to marry. It was lonely, and sometimes solace could be found only with complete strangers. Or with people in the same circumstances.
The spring-sparse tree branches cast slim shadows across her small frame as she passed. Whatever she had done to get to this point in her life, she didn’t look as if she’d prospered from it.
Aw, what the hell—he shrugged and with his bottle of ink turned toward the sheriff’s office. It was none of his business. They had finally released Winks Lamont this morning, and he hoped the place was aired out by now.
“Do you think you can find her?” Adam Jacobsen asked a man who looked as if he’d crawled out of the gutter. He handed him a photograph of Amy that had been taken shortly after they left Powell Springs. She looked better kept in the picture, but it would have to do. She’d let herself go over time, turning scrawny and tired-looking all the time.
He had arranged to meet Milo Breninger here at Porter’s Café, a working man’s lunch joint down the street from the café where Amy worked. Or had worked. No one there had seen her in days and they were surprised that he hadn’t either. Amy was as dependable as a railroad watch. He’d left with their concerned good-luck wishes ringing in his ears and a hot ember of rage burning in his gut.
They sat at a table in a dark corner with a rough-sawn plank floor, sipping gin hidden in coffee thanks to Prohibition. A few well-placed inquiries around the neighborhood had led him to Milo. He had a huge, ragged mustache and the diary of a hard life on his weathered face. He might have been in his early or midthirties, but it was hard to tell by the look of him. His nose appeared to have been broken a few times, and beneath the black scruff of a two- or three-day beard, old scars crosshatched his rough features. With his cheap, rumpled suit, he looked like someone who would kill a man for the gold in his teeth. But what could he expect? Adam asked himself. He wasn’t talking to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This was a sha
dy, under-the-table arrangement.
The man studied the photograph. “Yeah, I might be able to track her down. But why ask me? Why don’t you go to the police?”
“I’d rather keep them out of it if I can. For my wife’s sake.”
“What if someone kidnapped her? Wouldn’t you want the law on the bastard who did it?”
“Of course, I’d want that . . . or maybe something else done about him. I thought you might handle it if that’s the case.”
Milo sat back in his chair and looked at him from beneath brows almost as bushy as his mustache. “What’s really going on here, mister? Did she run off with some other fella and you just want revenge? I don’t have a problem with that, but I need to know the straight goods or I won’t touch it. I don’t like surprises or walking into something unprepared.”
Adam put on the expression of a wronged husband and sighed. “Yes, it’s very possible there’s another man involved.” He doubted it but it sounded better. “But she also took something very valuable to me. That isn’t part of the deal. If you find her, I’ll find what she took.”
“So what you really want isn’t your wife. It’s your property.”
Adam signaled a waiter to bring two more cups of “coffee.”
“I want both. After all, she’s my property as well. You only need to send me a wire care of Porter’s to let me know where she is. I’ll take care of the rest. Of course, depending on the circumstances, I might have other work for you. But trust me, you’ll be well compensated for your time and expenses.” The cups were set before them. “Well,” Adam continued, “are you interested in the job?”
Milo took a long swallow of the gin coffee, leaving a fringe of droplets on his tobacco-stained mustache. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and let out a rumbling belch. “How well compensated?”
“One thousand dollars. One-third down right now, in cash, if you agree.”
Milo nearly choked, and put down the cup. “By God, you’re not fooling around here.”
“No, I’m not.”
“And you say I wouldn’t have to do anything but learn where she’s hiding out?”
“Ideally. If you encounter obstacles, I’d expect you to take care of them. But otherwise no, unless I find that I need more help, for which I will pay extra. And you must be discreet about your business. If she discovers you and she’s scared off, you’ll forfeit the rest of the money.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m pretty good at dodging trouble.” The man sucked on his lower front teeth—the upper ones were missing—until he found whatever was stuck in them. He gestured with a spoon he picked up from the table. “When the law got too close to my trail a few years back, I just ducked into the army and went to war. It was a risk, but a better one than life in prison.”
Adam replied, “I would have made sure there was no one left who could tie a crime to me to begin with.”
Milo gazed at him with obvious amazement. “I never would’ve figured you for such a cutthroat. You look more like a schoolmaster or a preacher or something in your plain, prim clothes and with that baby-smooth face.” He shook his head once. “Well, you’d better give me what details you have so I’ll know where to start.”
With the agreement made, Adam volunteered just enough information to get Milo headed in the right direction. He kept his tone direct and unsentimental.
Milo fingered the three hundred thirty dollars that Adam had given him in an envelope, then looked up. “I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be your wife or her fancy man when you catch up with them. Nope, I surely wouldn’t.”
Adam drained his cup. “I imagine not.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Harlan, all you do is work. You put in so many late nights, and now you’re leaving again,” Tabitha Pratt Monroe complained.
Harlan Monroe stood in front of a full-length mirror and knotted his tie. “Now, Tabbie, you know I’m a busy man. I have details to attend to. I’m paid well but Robert Burton demands a lot for his money. It’s hard to believe he’s retired—I can only imagine what he was like before he started running his lumber business from his office at home,” Harlan replied, buttoning his vest. Moving to the marble-topped dresser, he picked up a pair of silver-backed hairbrushes and buffed his dark hair into place. Then he fastened a sterling stickpin in his necktie. He had dressed in his own bedroom but saw to the fine details here so he could reinforce his expectation that she spend her day with effective purpose.
He glanced at Tabitha’s reflection in the mirror. They had been married for just over a year and she was still getting accustomed to acting as the lady of the house. She sat against ornate bed pillows and pouted in her satin-and-lace bed jacket just as the maid, Elsa, brought her breakfast tray of tea, a poached egg, and toast with specially imported rose petal preserves. Tabbie’s bobbed blonde hair looked like an abandoned bird’s nest after the night they’d spent. At least she was a willing lover, if a rather dull one. He faced her and gestured at the beautifully appointed bedroom, with its tall leaded-glass windows and French hand-carved furniture purchased from Gevurtz Furniture, one of the best stores here in Portland. “You can’t say that you’re unhappy with your lot. After all, you may have admirable social connections, but you were trapped in that schoolteacher’s job until I rescued you.” He tipped a smile at her and her pout disappeared.
“I know. I never dreamed I’d live on Park Place, on the same street with the Ledbetters and Washington Park.” She sighed. “I just would like to share more time with you in this grand home you’ve gotten for us.”
“You have all that luggage we bought—we’ll take a trip later this year. And summer will be here soon. We’ll have dinner on the veranda and you’ll be cheerful again. Which reminds me, don’t forget about that dinner party we’re hosting here tomorrow night. I’ve taken care of the liquor and wine. I hope you’ve gone over the menu with the cook,” he said, taking one last look at his reflection.
“There are a few things left to settle.” She adjusted her ostrich-trimmed bed jacket with an impatient huff. “I wish the Burtons would host a dinner once in a while. Their house and grounds are so much more . . . aristocratic than ours with that beautiful view of Mt. Hood. And they have more servants.”
They hosted many dinners. The Monroes weren’t usually invited, a situation Harlan was working hard to change.
“Excuse me, Mr. Monroe.” Elsa reappeared at the door. “The car has been brought around.” They didn’t have a chauffeur, but one of the gardeners did odd jobs like this one.
He reached for his coat. He had just recently taken delivery of a Chandler Metropolitan sedan. It wasn’t as imposing as a Cadillac or a Lincoln, but it certainly turned more heads than one of Ford’s proletariat vehicles. “Thank you, Elsa. And try to help Mrs. Monroe find something useful to do today.”
“Yes, sir.” The maid withdrew.
Tabbie stirred her tea and gave him a stony look. “Harlan, really, I wish you wouldn’t talk to me like that in front of Elsa. She won’t respect me.”
“She will as long as she knows that you’re her superior and not someone to share gossip with. We’ll continue to do well, but your role in this is just as important as mine. You can’t lollygag around the house all day, just puttering.” He considered an overcoat and then looked toward the window to see if it was raining. The sun had emerged so he abandoned the idea.
“Puttering!” She sat up straight against her pillows. “I have a number of responsibilities and things I tend to. The Rose Society is meeting today, and that alone takes a lot of my time. I’m the recording secretary, and you know we’re in the midst of planning the annual Rose Celebration. Putting together the rose show alone is a herculean task, and that doesn’t even begin to address the parade. Those women are impossible to deal with. They won’t listen to a single suggestion I make even though they know I’m right. I know the correct process fo
r everything. After all, I was a teacher—I went to normal school.”
Harlan often thought that she had probably been at the bottom of her graduating class. Dogmatic, arrogant, and full of herself, but certainly not academic. Now and then he had to bring her down a notch, and that wasn’t an easy thing to accomplish. But then, he hadn’t married her for her intellect or for love. She was an old-maid cousin to an established Portland family. They’d been eager to marry off this highly opinionated biddy who’d been living on their charitable sufferance, and they had just enough influence to help him on his way to a life of power and wealth. That was the dowry that Tabitha had brought with her, although she didn’t realize it. Power was important, but wealth, that was the icing on the cake. If one had money, one could easily acquire power. Thus far, she’d proven herself worthy on that note.
“Do you know anything about roses?”
“No, but our gardener does. Besides, that’s not the point!”
“Do they know anything about roses?”
“Harlan, I’m talking about proper procedure and—”
“Do they know anything about roses?” he demanded.
She gave him a venomous glare. “Yes, of course the flowers are beautiful.”
“I don’t care if they’re growing flowers or weeds, but isn’t that the objective of the society? To help establish and protect new varieties of roses? That was what I heard.”
A frown scored her brow. “But those people simply don’t follow procedure. There are ways of doing things that cannot be ignored.” Her mouth thinned to a slit in her face before she continued, and he felt a twinge of sympathy for any child who’d sat in her classroom. “I could make nagging them a full-time job if I thought there was any hope they’d finally admit their ignorance, accept that I’m right, and learn what I’ve tried to teach them. They barely know the difference between meeting minutes and old business. I don’t know why I bother wasting my valuable experience on them. They should be paying me for my knowledge.” Her mouth thinned out again.
The Fire of Home (A Powell Springs Novel) Page 4