by Jo Robertson
To insure the authenticity of her prevarication, Meghan carried in her purse an extra pair of gloves which were old enough to give credence to the lie. She intended to claim she'd found them in Nell's room. What good luck!
What she was really after, of course, was a clue. Any kind would do. But she must find something that would give proof to her confidence that Nell did not drown accidentally.
Someone killed her friend Nell. Meghan was certain of it.
#
Gage scrutinized the visitors scattered about the room. He'd intended only to inform the Carvers that Nell's body was now at the funeral home ready for burial. When he'd pulled his gig by the field, however, he'd seen several carriages and a single automobile waiting by the side of the road, and become curious to see who came to offer condolences to the Carvers.
The group of condolers was small. Dr. Bailey and his daughter. Mr. and Mrs. Nolan, a local banker. The Reverend Jolly and his wife. The veterinarian and his wife. While Gage stood in the foyer gazing toward the buffet laid out beneath the window, another couple came in, young people, a man and a woman, whom he did not know.
He caught a glimpse of Meghan Bailey. Meddling again, no doubt, even though by virtue of Nell Carver's close friend, Bailey had every right to be here. Her mutinous stare told him she was likely clashing with Reverend Jolly, a man for whom she had the fiercest disregard.
Still, Bailey possessed an uncanny intuition about people and he might do well to pay attention to her opinions. After all, she'd had been born and raised for most of her life in Tuscarora, while he'd left for many years before returning last year to take the position of town marshal, a rather uncontested win for an elected position. The former law enforcement officer had died in office and apparently no one else wanted the job.
Gage smiled thinly and stepped up to the circle of people near the library. From the corner of his eye he observed Bailey speak in low tones to Mrs. Carver and wondered what the devil she was up to as she ascended the stairs, leaving Mrs. Carver on the bottom step.
#
"What the devil are you doing in here?" Mr. Carver's voice boomed from the doorway of Nell's bedroom on the second level. Meghan jumped and nearly dropped the crystal bird she'd picked up from the night table near the large, four-poster bed.
"Mr. Carver! You startled me." She wracked her brain furiously trying to recall her reason for being in Nell's bedroom, but the lie had fled her mind.
Her mouth went dry. Although she liked him well enough, she'd always been a little afraid of Mr. Carver. Large, barrel shaped, and thick of limb, he'd seemed like a giant troll to her when she was a girl and played with Nell at the Carver residence.
Two years younger than her, Nell had long ago hinted at something earthy and decadent about her father, but Meghan had passed it over as the fanciful chatter of a nine-year-old girl. Clearly her father adored her. He showered her shamelessly with baubles and gifts for no reason at all, often slighting Susan and the two younger daughters in his devotion to Nell.
Carver's face turned a mottled red as he advanced toward Meghan. "Put that down!" Outrage clouded his voice and he advanced another step toward her. "Why are you here in Ellen's room?"
"Harold, don't berate the poor girl." Mrs. Carver peered suddenly around the doorjamb. "Meghan left an article of clothing here the last time she visited and I gave her permission to search for it." She frowned vaguely. "A scarf or something, wasn't it, dear?"
"Gloves," Meghan said quickly.
Suddenly Tucker Gage's calm, practical voice drew everyone's attention to the hallway where he stood at the top of the staircase. "What's going on? Why is everyone congregating upstairs?"
Carver glared at each of them in turn. "Nothing's going on," he said shortly and stormed off down the stairs.
Mrs. Carver shook her head, a sad smile on her face. "He's distraught," she explained and waved both her hands toward Gage in a beckoning gesture. "Meghan's looking for her mother's gloves. Perhaps you can assist her, Marshal Gage."
With another forlorn smile, she whirled around and followed her husband down the hall.
Several awkward moments passed while Gage pierced Meghan with those serious gray eyes, now as cool as the wintry day outside. She felt as if she were eight again, not in need of rescue from the hurricane storm this time, but caught in some child's naughtiness.
"Do I need to ask?" Gage drawled shrewdly.
Chapter 7
"I don't know what you mean," Meghan huffed. "I'm simply looking for a pair of gloves I left here before ... before Nell died."
"Try again, Bailey," he suggested without rancor. "You don't have a pair of gloves belonging to your mother."
"Don't call me ... " She sighed, sank onto the edge of the bed, and returned the crystal bird to its proper place. "Oh, all right. I'm looking for a clue."
Gage frowned at her. Christ Jesus, would the girl never cease to meddle? "I thought I made it clear you weren't to get involved in this investigation."
"This may surprise you, Tucker Gage," she said haughtily, "but I don't obey every word you say as if it were a message handed down from Sinai."
God help him. He took a deep breath and held his temper.
A conspiratorial tone crept into Meghan's voice. "There might be something here in Nell's room that can point to the identity of her killer."
Gage tried to sound stern in the face of Bailey's theatrics. "We haven't ascertained there was a killer. Nell probably fell, struck her head, and slipped into the water to drown. I'm sorry to be so blunt, Bailey, but that's likely what happened."
"Maybe," she argued, "but not with certainty. The coroner's report suggests otherwise by naming James Wade."
"How the hell did you hear that?"
She lifted one side of her clever mouth. "I have ways," she answered smugly. "And anyway, you surely don't believe Wade killed Nell."
"Why not?"
"James Wade hasn't the brains God gave a sheep."
"Unlike you, I don't jump to conclusions. I prefer to look at the evidence," Gage retorted.
"Exactly!" Bailey answered triumphantly.
Gage ignored her gloating. Since they were already here, he might as well exploit Bailey's very fine mind. "What specifically are you looking for?"
At her surprised look, he hastened to explain. "I'm not giving my approval."
He looked over his shoulder through the open door. "But since we're both here and no one else is about, we may as well ... what are you looking for?"
"If I knew that, I wouldn't have to look, now would I?" She flounced off the bed and rummaged through the night table.
"You do know that I conducted a thorough search of this room the morning after Nell disappeared?" he reminded her.
"Yes, and searched like a man, I imagine," Meg muttered, turning to the top drawer of the bureau and peering into it.
"What does that mean?"
"It means you are a man," she answered in studied patience, "and therefore you looked for items a man would think are important."
Her logic confused him. "And you intend to – to what?"
"Look for something that I know, as a woman, would have significance to Nell."
"Such as?"
"I don't know yet, Gage!" She slammed the drawer shut and moved her way down to the second and the third ones. "If I did, I shouldn't have to prevaricate about being in Nell's room."
Gage approached the giant wardrobe on the opposite wall and opened the light-colored doors to expose a wooden dowel hung with a number of feminine garments. Handkerchiefs, shawls, and other items were stacked on several shelves.
The faint scent of lavender and cedar rose from inside the cabinet, the odor still pungent after these many days. He separated the garments one at a time, although he'd done this during his initial search of Nell's room.
The girl's shoes were lined up on the floor of the wardrobe. He picked up each shoe and turned it over in his hand, examining the soles and thrusting his fingers inside
them all the way to the toes. As he knew he would, he found nothing.
Bailey peered around his arm, unable to see over his shoulder. "You're examining the inside of her shoes?" She crunched her face as though such a notion was completely foreign to her.
"Have you never hid something in your shoe?" he asked curiously.
She took the blue slipper from his hands and looked at it with interest.
"No," she said slowly, "I've never thought of that. To hid something in your shoe? That must be something only small boys do, don't you think?"
Gage relaxed enough to laugh, realizing she was likely correct. If boys hid items in their shoes, where then, did girls hide their secret collections? "Do girls have special hiding places?"
"Well, not in their shoes."
"Where would you hide items you wished to keep hidden from the prying eyes of younger siblings?"
Bailey arched one brow. "As you well know, I'm an only child. I have no such need."
Gage acceded with a short nod. "From your father, then?"
She looked indignant. "Why should I wish to hide anything from Papa?"
"Don't be obtuse, Bailey," he said impatiently. "Obviously Nell kept secrets from her parents and her sisters."
Meghan frowned and pursed her lips, tapping one finger against a mouth he'd never before noticed was naturally rosy and lushly full.
"Yes," she answered slowly, "Nell kept secrets. Even from me." Her face lifted. "A diary?"
"I didn't find one."
"Letters?"
Gage shook his head.
Meghan collapsed into a wing chair upholstered in a soft green silk pattern and stared at the wall over Nell's bed. Gage could see the wheels turning in her brain and sat on the edge of the bed to await her conclusions.
"Did you look in her jewelry box?" she finally asked.
"Of course, I did."
"And?"
"And it was filled with jewelry."
"Humph," she snorted, moving to the dresser and opening the elaborately carved jewelry case. It had inlaid pearl and gleamed as though someone still polished it every day.
"And did you look in here?" she asked, pressing one finger on the underside.
Much to Gage's astonishment, a small drawer popped out.
Bailey laughed, no doubt at the dumbfounded look on his face. "You didn't! Aha, admit it. You did not think to search for such a place."
"Is there anything inside?" he asked, ignoring her.
Bailey pulled out a few small items – a tiny gold ring that must have belonged to an infant, a lock of hair pressed between two sheets of fine linen paper, and finally, a gold ring with a miniscule ruby set in it.
"That's all." A look of comic disappointment transformed her face.
"Let me see that." Gage reached for the ring. "Have you ever seen Nell wear this?"
Bailey shook her head.
"Why would she keep it hidden?" He examined the inside. "Look here, Bailey."
She bent her unruly, dark curls over his hand. "Initials!" she exclaimed, bumping him with her elbow.
"EEC – those are Nell's initials! Ellen Elizabeth Carver. Someone gave her this ring as a gift."
"Someone she didn't want her family to know about."
"A clue," she said smugly.
#
Suddenly the unmistakable clatter of breaking glass sounded from downstairs. For a brief moment, Meghan stared at Gage without moving.
"What in hell?" He leapt up from his position on Nell's bed to dash out the door and bound down the staircase.
Meghan reacted more slowly. Torn between curiosity over the noise and a profound desire to find another clue, she remained rooted to the green wing chair until the angry hiss of raised voices floated up from the front lawn below.
She raced to the window in time to see Gage wrestling a younger man to the grassy lawn of the Carver's front yard. Opening the sash, she leaned out for a better view.
Because the man faced away from her, she couldn't see his face. "Get the hell off me," he shouted as he grappled with the Marshal.
Quickly Gage subdued him, straddling the man's body and pushing his face into the wet grass. Meghan could tell the man was drunk, his words slurred and thick on his tongue.
Gathered around the two men, a small crowd gawked at the scene. Gage forced the man's wrists behind his back, removed a pair of metal disks from his coat pocket, and snapped them on.
"Just take it easy now," Gage warned, his voice unflappable as ever, even though sweat beaded on his forehead.
"This is outrageous," Mr. Carver blustered from the front stoop of his house.
Several young boys hovered at the edge of the front lawn, their caps pulled low over their faces, fists jammed in their pockets. An elderly couple paused on the road and stared at the scene, wide-eyed and fearful but frozen at the sight of the tableau.
The Nolans and Reverend Jolly, his wife huddling behind him, stood at the far end of the porch as if the fracas somehow might taint them.
"I say, Marshal Gage, do you need assistance?" Nolan asked from the security of his place far back on the wraparound porch.
The look Gage flashed him revealed more than any words how useless he considered the offer. He glanced up to catch Meghan's eye as she leaned out the dormer window. He gave her a wink, followed by an imperceptible nod which she took to mean that she should continue searching Nell's room.
Had he'd accepted her as a partner?
After Gage had bound the man and thrown him into the back of his gig, he jiggled his reins and the horse trotted off in the direction of the Station House.
This was the perfect opportunity to look further while everyone was distracted by the arrest. However, Meghan had no intention of missing out on the details of what had just happened right under her nose.
Later she would find a way to sneak back into Nell's room and look for more clues. Right now she wanted to know what had just occurred in the very civilized parlor and on the very tidy lawn of the Carver house.
Mrs. Carver met her at the base of the staircase, her face pale and lovely in the faint glow from the lamps. She hadn't ventured outside to observe the scene. Why not, Meghan wondered?
"Are you all right, Mrs. Carver?" Meghan reached the bottom of the stairs and placed a gentle arm around her.
Mrs. Carver nodded. Meghan could see the backs of the other guests as they hovered in the dining room, still peering out the window. Gage's horses soon disappeared around the corner of Riverside Street.
"What happened?" Meg whispered. "Who was that man?"
"Don't you recognize him, dear? He's Michael Hayes."
"Oh." Meghan knew the name, but had not met this particular one of Nell's many suitors.
A young medical student, he attended the University of North Carolina and Nell had spoken of him rather warmly. But then, Nell spoke of all her beaus in a theatrically romanticized way.
Mrs. Carver lowered her voice. "He's been drinking. I think he's taken Nell's death quite badly."
"Had he a – an understanding with Nell?"
Mrs. Carver patted her arm. "Oh, my dear, you know Nell. I am sorry to say this about my own daughter, but she might have had an understanding with any number of young men."
She lowered her gaze, but not before the pain of reality flickered through her faded blue eyes.
"But why did he come here? What did he want?"
The older woman shook her head. "I don't know, but he seemed particularly angry with Mr. Carver. He – he tried to strike him."
Meghan could see that the strain of the day, with the loss of her daughter and the unsavory affair with a drunken suitor, was far too much for a woman of Mrs. Carver's sensibilities.
"Please let me help you upstairs." She led the other woman toward the first step.
Mrs. Carver made no protest and allowed Meghan to guide her to her bedroom and assist her with removing her shoes. She lay down at Meg's urging, and then Meghan drew the draperies against the fading ligh
t.
She covered Mrs. Carver with a light quilt. "Shall I send Bessie to see to you?"
"Yes, please. She'll prepare a potion to ease my headache. Thank you, darling." Mrs. Carver's eyes fluttered closed, the blue veins of her lids like thin gashes against her pale face.
Meg left quietly, glancing around the room once more. Spare, almost monk-like in its severity, it held the narrow bed, a dresser and nightstand.
However, on the east wall was a fine leather-bound collection of books. A rocking chair sat near the window beside a round table covered in a crocheted tablecloth. A reading lamp and a miniature portrait of Nell rested on the delicate lace cloth.
Meghan was struck by the singular solitariness of the room, a chamber designed for one person. She'd never noticed before, nor paid any significance to the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Carver did not share sleeping quarters.
Chapter 8
Gage hauled Michael Hayes out of the back of his gig and marched him up the stairs to the jail cell. Shoving the sodden drunk into one of the three empty cells, he slammed the door shut and looked disgustedly at his shoes, thick with Hayes' vomit. The front of his shirt was stained and sour with the same puking mess.
"Hey, Marshal," Will Pruitt greeted him as he looked up from his place at the duty desk, taking in the stink and disarray of the two men. "What happened? Who's that?"
"A drunk," Gage said unnecessarily. "When he finishes throwing up, take him outside and dump a couple buckets of water on him. Then empty the chamber pot."
Pruitt wrinkled his nose, but didn't say anything. Gage didn't expect his instructions, however unpleasant, to be questioned. Pruitt peered around the corner into the cell where the man sat on a cot, leaning over the chamber pot, his head in his hands.
"I'm going for a walk," Gage added. "And, Pruitt?"
"Yes sir."
"Get someone to clean out my gig. The bastard about ruined the seats."
#
Meghan slipped down the hallway from Mrs. Carver's bedroom. She fingered the thin ruby ring she'd hastily stuffed into her skirt pocket when Gage ran downstairs to handle Mr. Hayes.