The Stills

by Jess Montgomery

  “Right, Luther?” Barnaby pointedly asks.

  Luther jumps. “What? Oh yes.”

  “Well. I guess that concludes our business, then,” Barnaby says.

  Lily looks at Luther. “Tell Elias I hope he feels better soon. From his indigestion, that is.”

  Luther shoots her a hate-filled look. He turns and leaves. Barnaby follows.

  Lily waits a few minutes and then goes down the hall to the custodial closet. She retrieves a broom and dustpan and, back in her office, cleans up her floor. That task finished, she dons her coat, scarf, and hat and grabs her tote bag and notebook.

  Out on the steps of the courthouse, Lily stills for a second, a cold gust snatching her breath away. She takes in the town, quiet this morning. Snow falls gently from a leaden sky. She looks east, where the sky is lighter. Maybe she’ll be lucky in her trip to see Marvena.

  When she looks back, she sees that two Model Ts have pulled up in front of the Kinship Trust Savings & Loan. A woman in a fur coat and hat stands on the sidewalk, between the automobile and the bank. A man holds the door open for her, but the woman stares up at Lily. Even at this distance, there’s an intensity to the gaze.

  Lily does not recognize the man. But there’s something familiar about the woman, who leans forward, and for a second Lily thinks she is going to run up the courthouse steps to her.

  The woman takes off the hat, and then Lily realizes who she is.

  Fiona Weaver Vogel.

  But Fiona swivels back toward the door. A moment later, Lily steps down, overcome with an impulse to rush to Fiona, to ask her if she is all right, to see what she might learn, woman-to-woman.

  By then, Fiona has disappeared into the savings and loan.

  CHAPTER 12

  FIONA

  Friday, November 25, 1927

  9:12 a.m.

  Maybe she shouldn’t have taken that moment, when she’d spotted Lily Ross at the top of the courthouse steps, to stare up at her. But there’d been something powerful in Lily’s figure, stark and still against the white of the stone courthouse, snow drifting around her.

  So powerful that it inspired an impulse to run up those steps to Lily, tell her right away of the danger of George’s tainted liquor being served tonight at the speakeasy. She could tell Lily, be the hero for sharing this information, turn over what she knows of George’s plans, power and control and money be damned, seek sanctuary.

  But doubt arose to deride her with questions: What proof do you have? Even if you did, do you really think Sheriff Lily, in this remote place, could protect you from George’s reach?

  But then Fiona realized that Lily didn’t recognize her, not at first.

  And maybe she shouldn’t be surprised. After all, Fiona has changed so much, and the last time Fiona had seen her was last fall, when Lily came to their Cincinnati house on that Thrilling Gumshoe case. Then, Fiona was still naively basking in the attention, the protection, the generosity of her lover but not yet husband. Lily hadn’t even recognized her at first, and when she did her expression shifted to what Fiona took to be small-town judgment.

  Now Fiona realizes it was pity.

  She’d seen that reaction again, even at a distance, after taking off her hat. As their gazes connected and Lily finally recognized her.

  Yes, of course Lily would act on her tip.

  Would probably try her best to help Fiona.

  But how much could Lily do for her, really? And what would become of her—of Leon—once George wondered why Fiona hadn’t come inside, saw Fiona on the steps pleading for Lily’s help? She’d still be entangled with George. Married to him. Bound to his will.

  The leverage she has by carrying his child would be cast aside.

  Her whole life has been at the mercy of men. She is on the edge—she can feel it—of finally having power over her own life. And so she turned away from Lily, let the heat from inside the savings and loan draw her in.

  She will not ask Lily to rescue her. Fiona is done with being rescued.

  Now Fiona composes a lingering smile as she, Aunt Nell, and Abe wait in the meeting room. Abe looks annoyed—stuck with the women. George apparently doesn’t trust Fiona and her aunt to be alone together, even though the conversation over breakfast had gone well.

  Mr. Vogel, my niece tells me you’d still like to buy this farm for her, Aunt Nell had said.

  George had smiled. That’s right. The paperwork will take a while—technicalities—but I can give you a portion of the sum today. We’d just have to go into Kinship, to the savings and loan.

  Well, I’m willing—but only if you also provide enough funds to cover a train ticket for me to leave right quick, Aunt Nell had said. I—I just think it would be easier if I didn’t linger. I can quickly pack a small bag.

  The tremble in her chin had been genuine, and for just a moment Fiona had felt sorry for her aunt—but more than that, relieved that she’d followed the instructions Fiona had given her when they were out gathering eggs.

  If she can follow Fiona’s coaching in the next few minutes, then everything will work out. Aunt Nell will get away and get to live out her days in Florida.

  Fiona will have the farm in her name—the first step to getting George to trust her, so that soon she can get him to sign over other assets to her, to protect them from being seized if he’s ever caught in the Bureau of Prohibition’s snare. Which she’ll make sure he will be.

  For now, Fiona can’t bring herself to look at her aunt. That conversation from when they gathered eggs is still too fresh.

  Listen—we don’t have much time. George is willing to make you an offer.…

  And then she’d laid out the terms for her aunt Nell, as George had instructed her to.

  Gave her aunt a moment to stare in shock.

  Told her the counteroffer to make—both financial and otherwise.

  But he won’t pay that—

  Yes he will. Just tell him you will take no less, for the trouble of leaving today, and it must be in my name. He has to believe it is your idea.

  And if he won’t accept my demand? Aunt Nell had added.

  You’ve dealt with worse men than George. You can do this.

  They both knew who—and what—she’d meant. Aunt Nell’s expression had turned hard, cold, and Fiona knew that, yes, her aunt could handle George, at least for the time it would take at the bank. But then the specter of the cabin on the hill across from the farm arose between them, and they looked away from each other.

  Their eyes had not met at breakfast. Nor as they’d ridden together in the second automobile, one of George’s men driving them, while George and Abe went together in the first automobile. They hadn’t spoken, either—of course, because of the driver. But also because of the magnitude of what was to come. At the bank, Aunt Nell had rushed out of the automobile, hurrying after George and Abe.

  Fiona, though, had lingered, wanting a moment to just herself, to breathe in the cold air, to clear her head. And then she and Lily spotted each other.

  Had the driver noticed them exchanging a look? Would he mention it to George or Abe?

  Well, the driver—a newly hired man from Cincinnati—would have to know that the woman at the top of the courthouse steps was actually the county sheriff. And he wouldn’t know that. And if somehow he did and troubled George, Fiona could easily explain away the silent exchange: She noticed me and smiled, George. What would you have me do?

  Such small lies have become so easy, in dealing with George. Habit, almost.

  As Fiona looks around the bank’s meeting room, she recollects the awful, suffocating moment a few months after Martin’s death when Mr. Chandler had smugly informed Fiona that the shoe repair business Martin had left to her was barely afloat, the payments on their tidy house in Kinship behind, and Martin had lost most of their money in illicit gambling in the basement speakeasy at the Kinship Inn.

  Then she’d felt intimidated not just by Mr. Chandler, but by the room itself—its polished woodwork, the orn
ately patterned wallpaper, the Queen Anne–style upholstered chairs, the grandfather clock dominating one end of the room, formidable in its insistence on metering out the passage of time in even ticks.

  Now she notes scratches on the table, spots where the wallpaper has lifted and started to peel, the lumpiness of the chairs, the tick of the clock as annoying as evenly spaced hiccups.

  As Mr. Chandler and George walk in with a sheath of papers, Fiona’s lips curl in satisfaction at Mr. Chandler’s palpable nervousness, evident in his deferential manner with George—and how the banker can’t meet her eyes. So different from before, when he’d looked at her as a pitiable widow.

  George sits at the head of the table—even in the bank, he is in charge—while Mr. Chandler sits across from Fiona and tap-tap-taps his stack of papers to make them perfectly even before laying them down. “Everything is in order, so this should take only a few minutes.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” Aunt Nell says, so softly that her words are a hiss requiring everyone to lean toward her to hear, “about the sale of my property.”

  The slight emphasis on my inflates the room’s tension. All eyes turn to Aunt Nell, who smiles innocently, her cheeks rising into soft pink puffs, as if she’d simply asked if someone could pass the sweet pickles.

  What is Aunt Nell playing at? Fiona clears her throat. “Now, Aunt Nell, remember we all talked this morning at breakfast. My generous husband is willing to pay thirty thousand dollars for the farm, once all the paperwork is sorted out, and will give you an advance on that now so you can be on your way to Florida.”

  Fiona gives her aunt a hard look. All you have to say is, “I need that to be thirty-five thousand dollars and for the farm to go into my dear niece’s name.…”

  Then Fiona can look shocked and say the part she’s prepared on her own.

  George’s smile tightens as he says, “And if you’re concerned about when you’ll get the full amount, my understanding is that the paperwork was put in place a few weeks ago. For whenever you’re ready.” His gaze clicks over to Abe.

  “It was.” Abe sounds insulted at the notion of anyone—even George—questioning his crisp efficiency. “We have an account already set up here, so we can transfer funds to your account here—or wire funds to a bank of your choosing. This will enable you to immediately pay the back taxes we discovered on your property, before our, ah, earlier visit.”

  “Since your husband died intestate, we will need some time to expedite the property going through probate, but I’m an attorney with, ah, certain connections, so I will be able to move quickly,” George says. “We just need you to sign paperwork agreeing that I will represent you in this matter. In the meantime, we are prepared to pay you fifty percent of the amount offered, immediately transferred from our account here, to yours, in good faith that there will be no issues, along with a waiver that we can begin modifications to the property—my wife has privately expressed that she would, for example, like to modernize the kitchen—as much as possible, of course, given the property’s, shall we say, remote location.”

  Intestate. How would George have known that? A chill runs through Fiona at how widely and deeply George’s connections must run—even here, in Kinship.

  Aunt Nell looks at Mr. Chandler. “Do you wish to tell them, or shall I?”

  Fiona’s heart does a double beat. Oh God. What is Aunt Nell up to? All she has to do is say she’ll sell—but only to Fiona.

  “I guess I will.” Aunt Nell sighs, as if disappointed in the banker, but the curl to her lips tells Fiona that her aunt is relishing this moment. “The property is already in my name.” Aunt Nell clasps her hands as if in gentle prayer. “It seems Henry got to thinking after you visited last.” In the strained room, Aunt Nell’s thin voice seems almost bellicose. “My husband knew how men can sometimes take advantage of women, especially bereft widows, and, since he was nearly ten years older than me, thought to put all the property in my name just shortly after your visit. So as it happens, it is up to me to do as I wish with my farm. Of course, as you know, farming it alone could well be the death of me.” She gives a little laugh. “In which case, my will—just like Henry’s was at the end—is airtight and up-to-date.”

  She looks at Fiona, gives a stiff smile.

  What the hell is she playing at? Fiona had already, back at the cemetery yesterday, pointed out that once Aunt Nell dies, the farm goes to Fiona anyway. What does it matter if it’s by law or through a will?

  Aunt Nell’s smile curls wider. “It all goes to the Kinship Presbyterian Church. I’m sure you understand why I set it up that way, dear. You’ve done so well, marrying your dear George.”

  Fiona’s shock is unfeigned.

  Aunt Nell had not given any hint of this yesterday—had she? Fiona desperately thinks back. Nearly moans as she recollects—no. Aunt Nell hadn’t given any affirmation when she’d pointed out she’d inherit the farm. Just let Fiona’s comments slide by, up on that cold cemetery-topped hill.

  What now? Tears spring to Fiona’s eyes as she senses her plan unraveling.

  “Well, I know how much the church means to you.” Fiona hates how shaky her voice is. “But why waste our time today if you don’t wish to sell?” Genuine ire rises, filling her throat. “Such a remote, hidden location. Are you really saying you do not wish to sell, that you wish to live out there? What if something happens to you? It could be days before someone finds you. At least you were there when Uncle Henry passed on. To find him.”

  Aunt Nell blanches at this.

  “And wills can be contested—”

  At this, George grabs Fiona’s wrist, squeezes it so hard that she cringes. She ventures a quick glance at him, nearly winces at the stone-cold stillness of his expression. She had failed him. George did not like failure.

  Her aunt says, “Oh, I did agree to come here to sell. But not to you, Mr. Vogel. To Fiona. She told me yesterday about your baby, not long before you arrived. Congratulations.”

  George’s grasp tightens so much she is sure he must feel her speeding pulse. “You told your aunt? Before me?”

  “I—I—had some morning sickness. I needed her help—” Fiona stumbles to a stop. Oh God, what is Aunt Nell playing at?

  “Klara could have helped you,” George says. “I’ve told you, you can trust her—”

  Aunt Nell interrupts. “Anyway, I got to thinking about how you’re in such a, well, complicated business, Mr. Vogel. Competitive. What would happen to my niece if something happened to you? To her children? Your child?”

  “That would sound like a threat,” George says, “coming from anyone else.”

  Aunt Nell shakes her head. “Oh, not at all. I just mean—if property taxes on a farm are complex, what of your taxes, for income from your businesses? Other property? What happens to those assets if some paperwork goes, well, awry? After all, your man here”—Aunt Nell nods at Abe—“wasn’t able to suss out that the situation changed since your visit with me.”

  At last, George drops Fiona’s wrist, turns his wrathful glare onto Abe. To keep from sighing with relief at being at least temporarily released, Fiona clasps her hands together so hard that the edge of her wedding ring nearly cuts into her finger.

  Abe protests, “This is ridiculous! Why would I think to ask about this old woman’s property taxes—or will?” He glares at the banker. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Mr. Chandler looks terrified. “You told me you needed to set up an account for Mr. Vogel’s wife’s aunt. I assumed he was just setting up a gift to help her out.”

  Fiona composes yet another smile, puts a hand on George’s arm. Her heart pounds as George turns his gaze to her. She forces her eyes to widen. Her voice to be soft. “Darling, I think what Aunt Nell is saying is that she knows I want to protect my children.” George’s gaze is hard, unmoved. Fiona forces herself to say, “Especially our child.” Forgive me, Leon. But George’s expression is already yielding. “And, darling, well, you are in a dangerous business.”r />
  “I make sure he’s well protect—” Abe starts, outrage in his voice.

  But Aunt Nell interrupts. “You know, word of US versus Sullivan has reached even our little burg.”

  What is Aunt Nell thinking? Trying to force George’s hand—

  “Oh, has it?” George says.

  Mr. Chandler says timidly, “There was a piece in the Kinship Daily Courier.”

  Fiona clears her throat, trying to look a little bewildered. “Well, we can worry about … whatever that is … later, I guess. Maybe we should just—”

  Abe glares at Fiona. “If such news made the paper here, surely it’s in the Cincinnati papers, too. Which I’ve noticed you reading quite a lot.”

  Fiona’s gaze turns to Aunt Nell, a desperate plea for her to retract, somehow, what she’s just let slip. But Aunt Nell gives her another encouraging look. C’mon, girl. Run with it. You know how to run, don’t you? To protect yourself?

  And so Fiona looks back at George. “You know I just like to read the advice columns and serial stories, dear.” She slides a quick, damning look at Abe. “I think, maybe Aunt Nell is worried about what happens to your assets if there’s a, well, error in paperwork? But if it is all in order—this was just supposed to take a few minutes, after all—and if it would help my aunt feel better, and ease the sale, I’d be willing to sign the paperwork.”

  And then she gives him her most coquettish smile. And then turn the property over to you, my darling.

  A move she has no intention of making.

  “It would make me feel better,” Aunt Nell says. “Though if something happens to you, George, to your property, under the Sullivan decision, well, would you really want her—and your son—to have to live out here? Especially in a few years when he’s in school?”

  Aunt Nell is pushing too hard, too soon, for too much. Why is she doing this? Fiona forces herself to keep breathing evenly, to stare deeply, innocently, into George’s eyes.