by Jo Robertson
Perhaps ten or fifteen minutes later, she'd loosed one corner and started to work on the other. Her nails were bruised and bloody from the task and beginning to sting from the pressure she exerted, but she wouldn't give up. The second fastening worked loose easier than the first and at last Emma swung the lid open with some effort and leaned it against the beam of the alcove.
A immediate stench rose from the contents, something she couldn't quite place – a heavy perfume – yes, but beneath that the fecund odor of bodily flesh and fluids. Carefully, she reached into the opening and touched upon smooth fabric, silk perhaps and beneath the material, the soft, squishy give of human flesh.
She jerked back her hand. A person lay doubled over in the interior of the trunk, knees and head nearly meeting. Hands shaking, Emma forced herself to examine the body again and worked her fingertips upward until she reached the fleshy face and long, unloosened hair of what was surely a woman.
Her fingers touched something moist and damp and she pulled them away to hold them beneath her nose. A distinct coppery smell assailed her nostrils.
God, a dead body! And unless she was seriously mistaken, a great deal of blood covered the woman's face and neck.
#
The Ralstons spun the same tale as the Knights, although with much more concern for Emma's well-being. She'd left her house during the late afternoon, saying she was going to The Gazette office. But, of course, Thomas Gant confirmed that he'd neither seen nor heard from her this day.
He and Stephen had finally returned to the newspaper in the hopes that Emma would show up later or that they'd learn something new. But nothing.
Malachi stared at Stephen and Thomas gathered around Emma's desk, a sense of panicky guilt gripping him so hard he couldn't maintain reasonable thought. If he had allowed her to go with them to Bakersfield, she'd be safe now. Instead, he'd left her behind and now had no idea where she was. Fear for her safety nearly paralyzed him.
The worried looks on their faces mirrored Malachi's sinking feeling that Emma might be in grave danger again. Danger that he'd seriously miscalculated.
"We must trace her steps," Stephen insisted, shifting uneasily in the hard-backed chair he'd sunk down on.
Malachi could not cease his pacing. He'd walked the length of the back office a dozen times now, each stride increasing his frustration and fear. Here were the three men to whom Emma meant the world and none of them had an inkling as to her whereabouts.
He bottled his worry and thought furiously. It stood to reason that she might return to the source where she'd gotten the most information. He turned to Thomas. "Would she go to Mrs. Henderson again?"
Thomas muttered sheepishly, his aged face a mass of worry. "I already checked with her." He shook his gray head. "Nothing."
"Where would she go for information similar to Mrs. Henderson's?" Stephen asked.
Thomas scratched his chin and pursed his lips. "Don't rightly know, Mr. Knight. All those years ago, Mrs. Machado was one of the hens who liked to stir up the rumors. She didn't get the attention she wanted from her husband's money. But then after Joseph was born, she sorta dropped outta the limelight."
Stephen passed Malachi a fearful look. "Mrs. Machado? Would Emma have gone to that house?" Emma's uncle looked horrified at the possibility.
"She doesn't know about Aaron's death," Malachi murmured.
"God," Stephen whispered.
"She went once already to interview the sister Phoebe," Malachi said, "and was safe enough."
"Everything's changed now," Stephen said. "What if – "
"What if one of the family is guilty of something, like the murder of Aaron Machado?" Malachi interrupted.
He cursed himself silently. He'd been so bent on proving that Aaron Machado was the culprit, if indeed someone other than Alma Bentley were responsible for Joseph's death, that he'd almost forgotten the multiple motives the entire Machado clan had to do grave harm to anyone threatening to make their secrets public.
"You know something," Stephen said.
"Maybe," Malachi answered hooking his jacket from the chair back and stuffing his arms inside the sleeves, "but let's get over to the Machado house now. I'll tell you on the way."
"Yes," Stephen agreed. "Thomas, remain here should Emma return."
But in their hearts they knew she would not.
By the time they arrived at the Machado property, Malachi had recounted everything that he knew about the family, all that he'd previously held back, as well as Emma's suspicions surrounding the birth of Joseph.
Stephen drove the roadster right up to the first outbuilding sitting back a ways from the road and right of the house proper. Several horses chomped idly on grass in the corral while a young man raked up muck at the open stable door. He looked longingly at the Olds before nodding respectfully and returning to his work.
Malachi approached the young worker first. "Is Mr. Machado home?"
The boy removed his hat and scratched his face before looking straight at Malachi's chin. "Uh, dunno, sir."
Malachi took in the wide vacant eyes of a slow-witted boy and feared he'd get little useful information from him. "What about Mrs. Machado or Miss Phoebe?"
A wide grin split the boy's face at the mention of Phoebe and he gestured toward the back of the big house. "There."
Instead of knocking at the front entrance, the two men walked around to the back, noting the disarray the grounds had fallen into, even as another worker, an older Mexican man, pulled weeds in the large garden area.
"What do you think, Stephen?" Malachi asked.
"I haven't been out here in years. I'm surprised to see how poorly kept the property is."
"I didn't know the family before the trial." Malachi paused and raised his hand to the back door. "Are the family quite wealthy then?"
"Ah, yes, richest people in the county, besides my brother, of course." Stephen snorted. "Not that their money made any difference in Bigler County."
"How so?"
"No one really accepted them. Money can only open so many doors, m'boy. After that, it's pedigree." He pierced Malachi with a knowing look. "You should know that better than anyone."
Malachi nodded shortly. "But is it enough to kill for?"
"Men have done far worse for less compelling reasons."
They stood side by side on the back landing, a rectangular cemented area that ended in dirt and weeds. The worker in the garden paid them no heed, but steadily pulled weeds and placed them in a rusty wheelbarrow.
"I wonder why the boy said Phoebe was out here?" Stephen pounded on the back door at some length, rousing neither the worker nor anyone in the house.
"No one's here. That's odd, don't you think?" Malachi said, staring out toward the endless expanse of fruit trees behind the Machado property.
Stephen shrugged. "This orchard is small compared to the crop Machado owns. Maybe they're all at one of his larger properties."
"All three of them?" Malachi scoffed. "The mother, daughter, and father? Not likely I'd say."
"Unless the three of them have business away from their residence."
"Together, the three of them?"
Stephen nodded. "Business they want to keep private."
Malachi extrapolated in an instant. Emma had approached one of the three remaining Machados – here in their home – and, foolish girl that she was – she'd accused someone. "Christ, Stephen, she's in danger again. Do you know where Machado's other property is?"
"No, but it should be easy to find out. Do you think Emma's there?"
Malachi's mouth tightened in a hard, determined line. "Yes, and I imagine she's in a world of trouble."
#
Emma jerked back her hand as though she'd touched a writhing mass of maggots. In truth, the person in the trunk hadn't been dead very long, for although the body was cool, some slight warmth emanated through the shoulders and chest. She madly searched her mind for answers.
If she had harbored any doubt that her attacker mea
nt her harm, it quickly fled. They intended for Emma to meet the same fate as the unfortunate woman in the trunk. But who was the dead woman?
Emma forced herself to examine the body. A woman, she knew this already by the fullness of the chest, the soft layers of flesh beneath the clothing. Her fingers spanned the length of the trunk. A fairly short woman, doubled up to fit inside the trunk. But fleshly. She probed the woman's limbs and noted the thickness of wrist and ankle. A large woman, then.
Mrs. Machado and Phoebe both were stout women.
Did one of them lie in this ignominious grave? But which one? And why? And who would've done such a thing?
Emma believed Aaron's account, and according to him, Mrs. Machado rejected the infant Joseph from the moment of his birth. Else, he'd said, Aaron would've left the day the child was born. But he remained, making sure Joseph was safe and cared for. By his estimate, Phoebe became the surrogate mother.
Regardless of her slyness and morose behavior, it was clear to Emma that Phoebe would not have harmed Joseph. The woman might be unpleasant, but Emma did not doubt her devotion to her brother. Might Phoebe have learned something new that made her a threat to the true killer of Joseph Machado?
Silence descended in the house above her like the quiet of a long-abandoned tomb. The already damp basement room took on a bone-chilling coldness that seeped deep into her muscles and numbed her hands and feet. She rummaged in the smaller piece of luggage and pulled out bits of discarded clothing, which she tore into strips and wound round her hands and feet.
There was nothing to do now but wait until Malachi rescued her. She comforted herself with thoughts of him ranting about her foolishness in venturing out on her own again, her carelessness in running directly into the clutches of murderers.
But who were these murderers?
And what did they intend to do with her?
Chapter 29
"a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing" – Macbeth
"We're missing something, Malachi."
Stephen walked with Malachi back to the front of the property and now sat on the leather seats of the motorcar. The sun had set thirty minutes ago, but neither the Mexican gardener nor the stable boy had left. Both continued their slow, but steady labor. No one had returned to the house, and it appeared as empty and desolate as when they'd arrived over an hour ago.
"Do you speak Spanish?" Malachi answered in a non sequitur?
"What?"
"If you do, I'll talk to the boy. You can take the gardener. I'm not averse to applying pressure to them." He glanced at the driver's seat where Stephen appeared to contemplate the significance of his words. "Well?" he prodded.
"I'm not a man much given to violence, but if it will help find Emma ... "
Malachi shrugged, wishing there were another way, wondering if he should ride back into town and talk to Nathan Butler before they did anything foolish ... or illegal. "I have a feeling we don't have much time to waste."
"Let's do it then." Stephen opened his door and strode toward the back of the house.
Malachi moved more slowly and stood watching the boy continue the same repetitive work he'd been doing for over an hour. Was he waiting for something? Or someone? By the look of him he hardly had enough intelligence to perform his menial tasks, yet alone perpetrate any kind of deception.
"When is your mistress due?"
"Uh." The boy scuffed his boots in the dirt and squinted off into the horizon. "Umm, mebbe, soon?"
"When we asked you about Miss Phoebe earlier, you pointed to the rear of the house."
"Uh, yeah." The boy gestured toward where Stephen had disappeared.
"But Miss Phoebe isn't in the back," Malachi persisted. "Do you know where she's gone?"
He could tell by the puzzled look on the boy's face that he'd spoken too many words strung together too fast. He tried again. "Show me where Miss Phoebe went."
The boy hung up his work implements on sturdy hooks in the interior of the barn while Malachi followed him and gazed around. The stable held only one horse. He could hear it softly whinnying in the stall at the far end.
Meandering down the central aisle that divided the barn in half, he glanced into each empty stall, six in all, three on each side. He paused at the last one and gazed in at the horse tethered there.
The horse looked familiar and Malachi stood blinking a few moments while his brain tried to recall where he'd seen it before. In town perhaps, where Mr. Machado had ridden it for the duration of Alma's trial? Somehow he didn't think so.
Suddenly the boy was beside him, reaching into the stall and offering a carrot to the horse.
"What's your name?" Malachi asked him, realizing he'd never bothered even to ask the boy.
"Jacob, sir." The boy grinned widely and continued feeding the horse.
"Jacob, whose horse is this?"
"Uh, dunno. Pretty lady."
"A pretty lady rode the horse here?"
The boy nodded and beamed. "Pretty hair. Pretty."
"Was the lady Miss Emma Knight from the newspaper?"
But again, Malachi had lost the boy with his eager questioning. He tried again. "Where did pretty lady go?"
The boy pointed to the rear of the property again. "With Miss Phoebe," he said simply.
"Where is Mrs. Machado?"
His pleasant demeanor changed immediately as he backed away from Malachi, one tentative step at a time and shook his head furiously. "Dunno. Dunno. Dunno."
Icy shards of dread hackled across Malachi's neck. He knew only one thing for sure – Emma had been here and hadn't left. Otherwise she'd have taken the horse tethered out of view in the Machado stable. Hidden where no casual looker could see it.
"She was here several hours ago," Stephen shouted as he rounded the corner of the house from the rear of the property. "The gardener says she went into the house through the rear."
The stable boy thinks she accompanied Phoebe somewhere out back," Malachi countered. "Do you think the gardener's lying?"
"No, more likely he saw Emma enter the house, but didn't see her leave."
"Look at the horse," Malachi said, motioning Stephen to the stable.
"That's Old Stripling!" the older man exclaimed. "Emma's definitely been here."
"I'm going to search the house." Malachi had a very bad feeling, and he wasn't going to delay for the niceties of a warrant or the sheriff. "We don't have time to wait if Emma's in danger."
They went through the rear access into some kind of mud or storage room cluttered with work boots, coats hung on pegs, and empty crates stored in a corner. Stephen reached for a switch on the wall and the room illuminated from a dangling bulb.
Through the mud room into the kitchen, a gigantic expanse of gleaming pots dangled from the ceiling beams. An antiquated wood stove, similar to the one Malachi owned, and an ice box abutted one another in the corner.
It took them nearly an hour to search the entire house, including several rooms upstairs that had obviously remained empty for a number of years. The entire interior of the house lay neglected and cluttered as if the three occupants inhabited the structure like strangers with squatters' rights.
The house was empty, and every room except three bedrooms upstairs and the kitchen rang with the silence of disuse. Back downstairs in the kitchen, Malachi examined the place where Frances Machado claimed to have discovered her son's dead body. A dark stain still marked the linoleum floor.
"Nothing," Stephen said, entering from the sitting room. "It's as if no one's been here in days."
"We're wasting our time," Malachi said, hoping his actions hadn't put Emma in further jeopardy. "I should've contacted Sheriff Butler a long time ago."
On the way out through the mud room where they'd entered, he paused to glance around a last time. Surely this was the way Emma had entered if, indeed, she'd come to the Machado house. He had no reason to doubt the stable boy, who was too artless to prevaricate.
If she entered thro
ugh this ingress, where did she go from here? Surely some sign of her presence remained.
The mark was so minute that he'd have missed it if he hadn't been so intent on finding a sign – any sign – of Emma having been here. The flooring by the set of crates stacked to the right of the door showed a ruddy drop of a dried substance. He knelt to test it and his fingers came away with the coppery odor of what was surely blood.
"She's been here," he said with finality. "And she's been hurt."
Stephen rummaged behind the coats and hats slung over several sturdy pegs. From behind one heavy overcoat, he extracted an expensive woman's handbag. He swung toward Malachi. "I gave Emma an exact replica of this handbag for her twenty-first birthday."
"Christ Jesus." Malachi felt the bottom drop out of his world.
#
They came for Emma with no warning.
She'd collapsed in the corner, thirsty, hungry, smelling the sour odor of her own body. She must've fallen into a stupor, for all at once glaring light flooded the room and shocked her awake. She felt naked and vulnerable, blinking and confused as she hovered in the farthest reach from the stairs.
"Grab her!" A shrill female voice screeched through the thick air from behind the blinding light. "She's over there!"
A massive pair of hands reached for Emma but she struck out blindly with her boot, aiming low as she'd done with her attacker in the alley at the docks. Only this time, she was very much afraid Malachi wouldn't come to rescue her.
"Bitch!" snarled a man's voice, deep and menacing. From the undeterred rigor of the word, she realized she'd connected with his thigh rather than higher where she'd aimed.
He landed a blow across her jaw with his fist, for a moment she feared she'd lose consciousness, and that would be the end of it all. Pain swirled behind her eyes in bright pinpoints of light and her jaw swelled immediately. A trickle of blood ran into her mouth from a split lip.