“What did you do next?”
“You can imagine my state of mind. I immediately called the Watkins family.”
“Why the Watkins family?”
“My husband rented the Watkins cabin for his fishing expeditions,” she explained. “I assumed this continued to the present.”
“How often did Mr. DeLancey rent the cabin?”
“He came to Watkins Mill twice a year in the spring and the fall. For four years. I used to wonder why he stopped fishing the Battenkill. We have a place of our own on that river, you see. Or why he didn’t accompany his friends on trips out west. He was determined to return to western North Carolina every year, two times a year. My husband was passionate about fly-fishing. However—” She paused and tugged at the handkerchief in her hand. “I must admit I did not understand his passion for this particular cabin in Watkins Cove.”
“But our records show he had a hotel room at the inn and did not stay at the cabin,” prompted Dodds.
“Yes. When I was informed of that, frankly, I was confused. I knew you were getting a lot of rain. I thought perhaps there was flooding. The truth is, I didn’t know why. So I called the Watkins house, in hopes they could shed some light on my husband’s whereabouts.”
“I see. Who did you talk to?”
“Their housekeeper, I believe. A Mrs. Hodges answered the phone. She informed me that my husband was not there.”
“She knew Mr. DeLancey?”
“Apparently so. She didn’t stumble over his name.”
“Did you ask to speak to anyone?”
“I did. I asked to speak to Miss Watkins and was told she was not at home, but that the Reverend Watkins would be returning home at five. I left my number and requested that he call me back immediately. That it was of the utmost urgency. I waited several days and received no reply. I grew frantic, as you can imagine. My suspicions were aroused and not knowing where else to turn, I called my lawyer, Mr. Michael Morris. He urged me to take immediate action.”
“Your suspicions were aroused? What suspicions were those?”
Mrs. DeLancey drew back her shoulders. They were tiny but straight as steel. She looked at her hands clenched tightly in her lap. The room hushed and everyone leaned forward in their seat.
“I knew for some time that my husband was having an affair with Miss Kate Watkins,” she said.
The room broke out in rumbling and all heads turned to Kate. All this time she sat in her chair straight and silent, staring out like she wasn’t even there. She was dressed in a plain gray suit—with her usual pants, I might add. Her dark eyes were trained on some point in the distance and no one could tell by looking if she’d heard a thing that was being said.
Sheriff Dodds frowned at that and his voice grew censorial. “How did you know this?”
“When my husband’s trips extended to two weeks or more at the cabin I consulted his fishing friends and they told me that they had never accompanied him to North Carolina. In fact, they complained how they missed his company on their customary trips.”
“The rivers of North Carolina are known for exemplary fly-fishing,” said Sheriff Dodds. “Is it not likely that your husband found a place he preferred to all others and continued to return here, year after year? I think most men in this room fish in these waters and never seek to go elsewhere.”
Mumbled agreement sounded from the local men. Michael Morris glared in his seat.
Mrs. DeLancey, however, did not lose her composure. “As I said, we have our own property on the Battenkill River, which is well known for its superb fly-fishing. No, I suspected that there was another lure at this particular spot. I learned that each time he went, he engaged the services of Miss Watkins as his personal guide. I remember her name because she was a woman guide and that’s not usual, in any state.”
“Miss Watkins is a nationally respected fly-fishing guide.”
Mrs. DeLancey’s brow rose. “Miss Watkins is also not the grizzled old mountain woman I had in my mind but an attractive, well-bred, young woman.”
“Excuse me, but what do your unfounded suspicions have to do with your husband’s disappearance?”
More murmuring from the observers.
“Before my husband left for this trip, I confronted him.”
“Are you saying that Mr. Theodore DeLancey admitted to an affair with Miss Katherine Watkins?”
“He did not deny it.”
The room burst with comments from the gallery. Kate stared straight ahead as though made of stone.
“Mrs. DeLancey, forgive me, but I still fail to see what your husband’s real or imagined relationship with Miss Watkins has to do with his disappearance.”
Her lips tightened with annoyance. “I’m sure you are aware of recent events in the stock market. What you might not be aware of is that my husband lost his family’s fortune in the crash. He speculated wildly and lost. He was desolate. Inconsolable. I’d never seen him in such a state.” She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.
“Yes, Mrs. DeLancey,” Dodds said in a conciliatory tone. “We all have experienced loss and can only imagine the magnitude of your own.”
Mrs. DeLancey mustered her resolve. “The point I wish to make is that my husband and I were brought closer together. He begged my forgiveness and pledged his undying love. He swore he was going to Watkins Mill for the last time, to break off his illicit relationship with Miss Watkins.”
Everyone’s head turned to Kate. Her dark eyes flickered with a glimmer of reaction as she slowly turned her head to gaze at Mrs. DeLancey. Kate’s face revealed neither disbelief nor anger. She just stared at DeLancey’s wife as though she were trying to make up her own mind whether to believe her.
“Why would he come all the way to Watkins Mill to tell her this?” Dodds persisted. “He could have wired. Or telephoned.”
“You may not know my husband also speculated in the market for Miss Watkins. He no doubt promised great returns, as he did with others.” Her voice was tinged with bitterness. “My husband could be very persuasive. In the end, Theodore lost the Watkinses’ money as well. He felt obliged to tell her this in person. My husband was not blameless. I know that. But the fact is Miss Watkins was the last person who saw him alive.” Her voice rose with emotion. “She had passion and motive.”
“What are you implying, Mrs. DeLancey?”
“What am I implying?” She lost all her composure, pointed her finger at Kate, and screamed, “I am telling you Kate Watkins murdered my husband!”
The room erupted in angry shouts. Kate’s father, sitting beside her, silently held her hand. Amid the roars, Mrs. DeLancey and Kate stared at each other like two lionesses about to pounce, one hysterical, the other as silent as stone.
Mr. Pace sighed and leaned back in his chair. Mia thought the memory might be tiring him. She handed him his glass of sweet tea and waited while he sipped some. When he was done, she waited patiently until he was ready to come back to his story.
“Afterward, nobody thought it did Kate any good to be so stoic,” Mr. Pace continued. “I never in my life saw Kate cry, but I thought a few tears might have done her some good that afternoon. I felt the shift in public opinion. People walked into the room saying ‘Poor Kate’ and walked out saying ‘Poor Camilla.’ In matters of the heart, sympathy usually goes to the wronged wife.”
“Who else made statements that day?” asked Mia.
“None that day. But the sheriff had already talked to several other folks. The hotel maid remembered seeing DeLancey that night. The trainmaster collected his ticket. I guess he didn’t have his fancy rail car anymore. Most notable was that waiter, Arthur…” He scratched his ear. “I can’t remember that fella’s last name. He worked at the inn for years. He was a lean, rangy man, nervous at being questioned.” He sighed and let the name go.
“Apparently Kate and DeLancey had dinner at the inn that night. He claimed they often had dinner together when Mr. DeLancey was in town. Said how they were always polite.
Never any hanky-panky. Except that night, they’d been arguing. She said some angry words at him, then took some piece of jewelry from around her neck—a pendant or locket—and threw it at him. He remembered that. She just threw it at him and left. Arthur made it crystal clear that Kate Watkins left the restaurant alone that night. And Theodore DeLancey remained at the inn drinking.”
Mr. Pace sighed heavily and he looked at Mia with cloudy eyes. “That summed things up right then and there as far as I could see. Kate left for home. DeLancey stayed at the hotel. End of story.”
“But it wasn’t the end, was it?”
“No, ma’am, it was not,” he conceded. “Just like the rain, the rumors and gossip kept coming. Everyone was told to go home. The next day Sheriff Dodds said there wasn’t enough evidence to declare Theodore DeLancey dead and that he’d be listed as a missing person. This wasn’t welcomed by Mrs. DeLancey, to be sure. Her lawyer went on about favoritism and incompetence. They left in a huff. Good riddance, that’s what I thought. We had enough of our own problems to deal with. The Central Bank in Asheville had just closed its doors.”
Mia sat back in her chair and went through in her mind all she’d just heard. “I’m confused, Mr. Pace. With this ruling, how did Kate get the reputation as a murderer?”
He answered in the manner of a man who had been asked this question many times over many years. “That’s the thing about gossip and small towns. There are facts and then there’s what the public chooses to believe. This case was tried and the verdict delivered not by the sheriff but by those out-of-town reporters—from New York, Philadelphia, Boston. They didn’t listen to the evidence. They heard a lead or a juicy tidbit and then sensationalized it in their own version of the truth. You heard of yellow journalism, haven’t you? These guys were as yellow as it gets. They wrote about the seemy side of the story. The juicier the story the better, because scandals sell newspapers. The papers had headlines about the big fight DeLancey and Kate had the night he died and Mrs. DeLancey’s pointing her finger at Kate and saying she murdered her husband. Changed a lot of folks’ minds about her. I always figured that was her intent from the beginning. Revenge, if you catch my meaning.”
“Why did they attack only Kate?” Mia asked, feeling the injustice of the woman always being the target.
“Oh, they went after DeLancey, too. The newspapers portrayed him as some rich playboy and made Kate out to be some wild mountain woman. Cartoons showed him like some dandy, Kate in rawhide pants and her dark hair flying. Camilla DeLancey, with her gold hair and pale skin, was the ideal vision of the wronged, saintly wife.
“Found out a lot about DeLancey, though. They made him the poster boy for the rich, pampered society boy of the twenties brought low by the crash. He was richer than I’d ever imagined, and I’d imagined a lot. I don’t know if you young people today can imagine the splendor of that time. The Vanderbilts and the Groves, folks like them lived that kind of life right here in Asheville. It’s never been the same since. Not anywhere in this country.”
Mr. Pace scrunched his face and waved his hand in dismissal. “I saw it for what it was. Idle gossip to take the people’s minds off the real trouble they were in. Banks were closing everywhere. Those reporters didn’t give a damn about DeLancey or if he was ever found. They sure didn’t care about Kate Watkins or her reputation.”
“So, DeLancey’s body was never found?” Mia asked.
“Nope. No one ever found out what happened to that poor fellow. There were reports of him being spotted in California, but that was months after. Crazy stuff. Never proved.” He shrugged and his whole body sagged with the effort.
“What convinced the sheriff to drop the case?”
“No evidence, plain and simple,” Mr. Pace replied. “Again, you got to remember the times. Men who lost their money were checking out. We’d hear tell about how some men jumped out the window in New York. There were eleven suicides by noon on Black Thursday. A lot of others slowly drank themselves to death. But some others just disappeared.”
“What happened to them?”
“I mean they just left!” he said in exasperation. “They couldn’t make it in the new life that fate dealt them and took off. It was the Depression and a lot of men became hobos, going from town to town, riding the trains, looking for handouts. A few of them were men keeping one step ahead of the insurance investigator looking for them. They just disappeared and no one ever saw or heard from them again.”
“Do you think that’s what happened to DeLancey?”
“Could be. I’m sure the sheriff considered that possibility. As for me? No. I knew him. I don’t think he could’ve left Kate. His wife, yes. I didn’t believe for a minute that hooey she said about him leaving Kate to return to her. She said that for spite. I never knew a man love a woman as much as DeLancey loved Kate.”
“Then what do you think happened to him?”
He shrugged again, noncommittal. Mia got the sense he was keeping his own counsel on this topic.
“You don’t think she killed him?”
Mr. Pace shook his head firmly. “No,” he said quickly. “I knew Kate Watkins as well as any person and she would have killed herself before she killed him.” He sighed. “But she couldn’t do that, either.”
Mia suddenly understood. “Because she was pregnant!”
“Right.”
Mia reflected on Kate’s silence in the courtroom, enduring in silence the slurs on her reputation and the accusations of DeLancey’s wife. “Did she know throughout that she carried his child? Did DeLancey know?”
“I don’t know. I would’ve married her,” Mr. Pace admitted. “I was just a kid, barely out of college, but I truly loved her. I always had. But she wouldn’t have me. She told me she wouldn’t let me ruin my future by tying myself to her. She tried to be brave and spare my feelings, but I knew the real reason was because she still loved DeLancey.” He wiped his eyes and seemed embarrassed. “Forgive an old man’s tears. I never told anyone that before. Must be losing my mind in my old age.”
Mia was deeply moved by his admission. She looked at Mr. Pace and tried to see him as a young man of twenty-three, stricken to see his dear friend and idol’s reputation in tatters, loving her enough to harbor dreams of rescue. Chivalry was the noblest of sentiments, she thought.
She blinked and Phillip Pace aged again in her eyes, becoming the very old man who had given her his time generously. He was, she realized with sadness, the only person living today who knew the characters in this saga. He was looking off, seemingly preoccupied. His shoulders slumped and his eyelids drooped over opaque eyes. She was about to thank him and say good-bye when he surprised her with his final thoughts.
“Kate’s silence was her own worst enemy. She never spoke up in her own defense. You hear me? Not once. She was silent throughout. I never understood it. The headlines read: What’s She Holding Back? Soon, that’s what the folks around here were asking as well. Eventually, they arrived at their own conclusions. The public believes what it wants to believe. That’s the way it was back then. And the way it is now. The result of all the fumbling of the investigation and the later accusations was to start gossip, launch rumors, and spread suspicion thick as glue.”
“And it stuck,” Mia said in conclusion.
“Yes, young lady. It did.”
“But she didn’t kill him! He was a missing person.”
“You can’t prove she didn’t kill him, just like you can’t prove she did.”
“What can be done now?”
“Missy, without a body, you’re right back in nineteen twenty-nine.” He indicated the rain streaking the library windows. “Rain and all. You don’t have any evidence—you don’t have any story.”
There was a long silence in the room. Mia slumped back in her chair and let her notebook slip to her lap. Her hands lay still over it. She looked up at the ceiling, her lips pressed tightly together to stop any embarrassing tears. She’d spent months searching for answers to this puzzle.
She’d interviewed people, researched the library and the newspaper microfilm, enlisted the help of others. And despite all her digging she really had uncovered nothing solid. Why had she been so drawn to it? She’d gone after this story despite Belle’s request that she let it lie.
Mia closed her eyes as her heart sunk. Belle was on her way home now and she was going to be furious with her. She would find out that Mia had been snooping around, getting everyone talking about her grandmother. Mia put her hands to her eyes. She had been so sure she would find some evidence that would exonerate Kate Watkins once and for all. But she’d run out of time. She’d failed.
There was no proof that Kate Watkins did kill Theodore DeLancey. But neither was there evidence that she did not. All the parties involved were dead. The truth was buried with them.
Chapter Twenty-two
There are times when the storm clouds roll in and lightning flashes above that you have to use common sense and get out of the water.
—BELLE CARSON
Belle came in like a hurricane. Her eyes were dark thunderclouds with lightning bolts flashing from them and Mia stiffened as she walked into the cabin, feeling the cold gust of confrontation whipping in with her.
Mia wanted to run for shelter. She’d been curled up on the velvet sofa, sipping tea and reading Reel Women, by Lyla Foggia, a book about heroines in the history of fly-fishing. She’d heard the crunching of tires coming up to the house and had thought it would be Stuart. He often stopped by unexpectedly. She’d unwound her long legs, set aside her book, and rose to her feet to open the door.
Belle was polite when Mia welcomed her in but her stiff smile, her cool, controlled voice, and her body movements as she walked past her into the cabin were all red-flag warnings of a storm coming. Mia stretched her hands at her sides as she joined Belle in the center of the room. Belle stood with her arms crossed against her chest. She wore khaki pants and an olive green shirt with her business logo emblazoned across her pocket. Her red hair was braided and looped tightly around her head. She didn’t even look around the room and Mia felt a sting of disappointment that she hadn’t noticed any of the improvements she had made. The rainy day made the room darker, so she went from lamp to lamp, turning on lights.
Time Is a River Page 30