On the Rocks: A Willa Cather and Edith Lewis Mystery

by Sue Hallgarth

  The Chevrolet sputtered and jolted away.

  “SORRY, Miss Cather,” James shook himself like a dog and turned to face Willa. “It’s hard to say it. A secret kept so long … so deep.”

  “It’s all right, James, we understand,” Willa reached over and took hold of his hand.

  “James,” Edith added, “you mustn’t be ashamed or afraid. Not of us. And don’t protect us. Very little shocks us and that man is gone. You have nothing to fear. We’re here to help.”

  “I believe you are,” James’ voice was firm. “You’re sure …”

  Both women nodded.

  “All right, then,” James began. “I saw him hit a woman, John Thomas Bush. A blond woman. Her head snapped so,” James flung his head to the right, “I think right then her neck broke … and blood gushed from her mouth … her nose … her eyes. …” James caught himself, “Sorry, you don’t need to hear all that.”

  “It’s all right, James,” Willa’s hand still covered his. “We don’t want you to censor a thing. As Edith said, we’re hardy souls, not much shocks us.”

  “Tell us what you saw, James. It’s best to get it out … all of it … just get it out of you.”

  James gathered himself and moved back to the scene. “She was wearing a dress, a white dress … torn in places … and smudged … she had bruises … her arms, her cheek,” James raised his hand to his face. “Even before I saw him hit her, she had bruises. She said No … once … loud … No. Then he hit her. Hit her so hard her head spun … and then her body followed. It jerked … lifeless … like a chicken runs when it’s already dead.”

  XXII

  “WHAT DO YOU mean, Johnson left the island?” Daggett’s voice cracked.

  “Harvey’s right, Mr. Daggett,” Geneva Andrews hurried from the dining room, drying her hands in her apron and crushing the tiny flowers in its patterned print. “Mrs. Johnson asked me to pack them a picnic. They left with the Jamesons not more than twenty minutes ago.”

  “Richard Dalhouse was going to take them off in his motor launch to look for puffins, they said.”

  “Puffins. Motor launch.”

  “That’s right, out on Machias, they said,” Geneva’s hands wrapped themselves in her apron.

  “Richard’s got one of those new Evinrudes,” Harvey shifted his weight behind the counter. “Lots of horsepower.”

  Daggett’s mind jumped to Sam Jackson. His was one of the few boats that could catch them. But Jackson would be down island on Sunday at the Baptist Church. Eric Dawson, maybe. He was close at hand. He could get a boat. Or young James. Daggett almost leapt in the air. Young James could get Sam Jackson’s boat.

  Daggett spun on his heel and ran out of The Swallowtail before Geneva could straighten her apron.

  THEY had been silent, it seemed to Edith, a very long time, during which she saw again and again the arm swing, the head spin, the blood spurt, and then … in slow motion … the man, John Thomas Bush in his dainty shoes and three-piece pin-striped suit, reach down to fling the lifeless blond at his feet into the lap of a waiting trawler whose slime-covered nets cradled the young body so carelessly tossed. And what had he said while he pocketed his gun and straightened his tie and brushed at his sleeve with a white linen handkerchief, this man in the pin stripes, what had he said … Now look what you made me do … this John Thomas Bush, as he waved the boat off … Now look what you made me do, you careless bitch … this John Thomas Bush who turned on his heel … to see young James … hands slack, eyes wide … slip from the neighboring pier and into the quiet sea.

  THE Chevrolet coughed and complained but flew past the docks and the bank and Rose Cottage and Tinsley’s and Newton’s and Jackson’s, leaving enough dust in its wake to draw imprecations from Little John, who took several steps back toward the church until Anna’s hand stopped him.

  “Little John, we’re on our way home. The constable would have stopped if he wanted to speak with you.”

  “But he just went the other way, and now here he is, coming back fast.”

  “I know.”

  “He has my gun,” Little John tried again.

  “So he does.”

  WILLA had it right all along, Edith narrowed her eyes. Willa had it right … Now look what you made me do, you careless bitch … the sentiments she gave Frank Shabata and Wick Cutter years ago … wife killers both … Willa had it right long before she knew about John Thomas Bush … Look what you made me do … and she had it right about Bush now.

  And about young James. He’d have shot me but I dove deep. That’s how James got away. He’d have shot me so I dove deep. Edith shook herself. Her lungs hurt, her arms had turned to lead. She had been holding her breath, she realized, swimming hard in her mind.

  James looked exhausted, too, slumped in the Adirondack. Edith inspected his hands, the strength of his arms … and saw again the other arm … the arm in the suit … swing again … and again the head spin … lifeless … careless.

  “BUT that still doesn’t explain Matthew Johnson,” Willa’s voice ended Edith’s review.

  “Why follow that man,” Willa was frowning.

  James took a full minute to reply. Then, reanimated, he glanced over toward Seven Days Work. “It’s like I told you, I saw him poking around on the beach.”

  “He was there, so you followed him?” Willa chided.

  “Not exactly,” James shifted forward in his chair, “the truth is, I followed him because he was doing what I had come to do. Poke around for the things Daggett never found, the stuff that fell out of Bush’s pockets when he went over the cliff. Not the gun. I knew the gun had to be there, but I wasn’t looking for that. Johnson wasn’t either. He saw it and left it. I watched him,” James glanced at Edith, “I had binoculars, too.”

  “What did he want, then?” Willa’s voice carried an edge. Impatience. Skepticism. Edith couldn’t tell which, but she felt it, too.

  “What we both wanted were names … names of the people who brought Bush to Grand Manan. I knew he had them on him … on a blue piece of paper he had slipped into his passport. He showed it to me, waved it at me. Said he was putting together some sort of big deal. Big bucks, he said, big connections. And he was the connector, putting big money with big muscle. He laughed at his own joke. I was nothing, he said, an incidental. He wasn’t going to let me spoil his deal.

  “He was putting his passport away when he sort of stumbled … waving his hands … getting ready to put it in his pocket,” James moved his hands in front his chest to mime, “one of those pockets on the inside of men’s fancy suits. While he was doing that he took a step forward, looking at me and talking at the same time. The gun was in his left hand, the hand holding his lapel. … For the first time, the gun was aimed away from me … toward the sea … and then he stumbled … he stumbled just enough,” James closed his eyes. He sat back in his chair.

  This time Willa didn’t hesitate, “The list, the list. Why was that so important?” She broke James free of the scene in his mind and sent him back to the beach, to Matthew Johnson, to the day before.

  “Right,” James cleared his throat and leaned forward. “What I figure is, Johnson was afraid Bush had his name written down somewhere and eventually someone would find it. He had to find that blue sheet and destroy it.”

  Edith broke in, “But why? Why would his name be there?”

  “Money,” Willa guessed, “he was the big money. Is that it?”

  James nodded.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Johnson came to Grand Manan to meet the big muscle and Bush was to introduce them,” Willa tried an explanation.

  “That’s my guess,” James agreed.

  “But why would Matthew Johnson want to meet muscle?”

  “Takes muscle and money,” Willa ventured.

  “What does?”

  “Why don’t you say exactly what you think they were doing,” Willa turned to James.

  “Bootlegging,” James pronounced the word with a
Canadian’s elongated oo.

  “BUT James can’t take you out in Sam’s boat.”

  “Bootlegging! Here!”

  “Surely there’s some mistake.”

  “James didn’t come to church today.”

  “How on earth does bootlegging fit into this, Mark?”

  “I think I know where James keeps Sam’s keys.”

  “Bootlegging! Can’t be. Not on Grand Manan.”

  “With those keys I could get you out in no time flat, Constable Daggett.”

  Mary Daniels’ and Eric Dawson’s were the only voices Daggett actually heard in the jumble of reactions from those still clustered on the sidewalk in front of the church. Sam Jackson’s boat could catch the motor launch.

  “Well,” James Enderby pointed out to Father Morgan and Elizabeth and Jennifer Daggett as they watched the others speed off in the Chevrolet, “we might as well be at the bottom of the sea for all the more we know.”

  “Bootlegging on Grand Manan,” Father Morgan scoffed and lifted his hand to his forehead, “I just can’t believe it.”

  “Well,” Elizabeth finally volunteered, “Mark doesn’t usually act until he’s sure of what he’s doing.”

  XXIII

  IT WASN’T UNTIL much later that everything finally came together. And not until the following evening, when everyone had the full story, that Grand Manan understood how close it had come to being dragged into the American underworld.

  Jacobus had thrown open the whole of Whale Cove and the full crew of Cottage Girls were busying themselves in twilight celebration, clattering cups and saucers, pumping the handle on the ice cream freezer, icing and slicing freshly baked cakes, and handing out spoons and forks and plates and brightly colored napkins. The sky was shot through with pink and turquoise and lavender, and the sun hovered, gold and gargantuan, about to sink beyond the western edge of the sea.

  The principals had not yet arrived, but at least half of North Head and several down islanders were already overflowing the main house and spilling out of its doors. Matt bounded among them, pausing only long enough to bark at Dottie Voorhees, striding toward the Reo, a freshly mended helmet tucked under her arm. Peter Coney and Sabra Jane Briggs, resplendent in red, strode beside her. They confronted a jabbering Little John, who was just coming in.

  Coney jolted to a halt. “Let’s begin the evening’s remarks right here and now,” she suddenly belted out, raising her right hand high.

  Little John’s mouth snapped shut. The crowd quieted and turned, expectant. Coney’s hand drifted down to settle on Sabra Jane’s red-shirted shoulder. When Coney prepared to speak again, Little John’s mustache took a single, violent leap, then straightened itself out in an unbroken line.

  “You may make your apology public now, Little John,” Coney kept her tone casual. It was as though, simply and rather distractedly, she was calling a meeting to order to take care of trivial business, making official what had already been done.

  But Little John would have none of it. His mustache held firm.

  Coney tried again, “Now, Little John? Your apology?”

  Little John puffed out his jowls until Anna caught his hand. He opened his lips but nothing came out.

  “Now, Little John?” Coney’s voice acquired an edge, “Your apology, please?”

  “What a wonderful idea,” Anna finally broke in. Her grip on Little John tightened almost imperceptibly. “What a wonderful opportunity. Why not seize the moment, dear, to tell everyone how sorry you are to have embarrassed Miss Briggs?”

  Red crept upward from Little John’s collar. He sucked in his cheeks. Anna held firm.

  “Yes, all right,” Little John glanced at his wife, “yes, I did … I did embarrass.”

  “And you’re sorry,” Anna nudged him on.

  “Yes … that’s right … I am.”

  Except for a sharp intake of breath from Eva McDaniels, who had halted just to the left of Little John’s shoulder, no other sound ensued.

  Finally, Sabra Jane cleared her throat and thrust out her hand.

  Little John stared at the ground. Anna dropped his hand. Little John’s floated by itself in midair but did not move forward. Seconds passed. Finally, with a little grunt, Little John pushed his fingers forward and clasped Sabra Jane’s. Suddenly, his upper body began to bend, his hand lifted hers. He raised her fingers toward his lips. Sabra Jane flinched and Anna grimaced. Old fashioned, the grimace said, and condescending. Little John caught himself, his eyes on his wife. Finally, he tried a few short up and down strokes, as if Sabra Jane’s fingers were a handle and the pump fully primed.

  Sabra Jane began to laugh. Little John reddened and then caught her laugh. He looked at his wife. She began to chuckle. Little John laughed and released Sabra Jane’s fingers. He put his hands in his pockets. Sabra Jane shoved hers in the side slits of her breeches.

  “Well, that’s done,” Peter Coney announced. “Let’s begin the celebration.”

  “Hear, hear,” James Enderby added from behind. The crowd raised a cheer.

  “Good fellow,” Sam Jackson clapped Little John on the back.

  “That’s the way, Little John,” Roy Sharkey removed his cigar to shout, rolling his eyes heavenward.

  AT the far edge of the crowd, near an opening in the trees, Rob Feeney observed to those standing in the cake line nearby, “I suppose that means an end to this season’s witch hunt.”

  “Naughty boy,” Eloise Derby took Feeney’s measure. “Perhaps you mean vixen hunt … with all those sly little broad jumps.”

  “Beg your pardon, Miss Derby?”

  Eloise Derby struck the pose of Artemis in flight.

  “Ah,” Feeney nodded, “people do say she lopes.”

  “She lopes, others leap,” Eloise Derby elevated her arms.

  So Miss Derby was a tease, Feeney grinned. “How was I to know Matthew Johnson had been a track star at Yale,” he raised his hands in mock surprise.

  “Here, eat cake,” Eloise Derby laughed and shoved a blue willow plate in Feeney’s direction.

  “Broad jumps, indeed,” Feeney’s voice rose, “the man’s a veritable air ship. An Icarus,” he spread out his arms, and Miss Derby placed the blue willow in the hand nearest hers. “The boat was that far from the dock,” Rob waved both arms. “Ten, twelve, maybe fifteen feet from the dock,” the cake clung to the blue willow, “and he made it both ways … off the boat and on again … made it without my ever seeing him do it.”

  Eloise Derby frowned and handed Rob a fork.

  “SLOW down,” Mary Daniels protested, “we’ll get there soon enough.”

  Young James had insisted that before his mother did anything else, she had to meet Miss Cather and Miss Lewis and see the view from their cliff. The minute Daggett stopped the car, James leapt from his seat and whisked Jenny to his side. Lizzie and Janey Dawson joined them, but Mary Daniels took her time. She wanted to make sure Constable Daggett understood her full appreciation, both for her son’s freedom and for the ride. Daggett said he did and put the Chevrolet in gear. With its new spark plug in place, the engine ran smooth. Daggett still had to pick up his wife and daughter and retrieve Eric Dawson from the docks.

  It wasn’t, James readily confessed, that his mother didn’t know who Miss Cather and Miss Lewis were or hadn’t seen their particular view. All of the villagers, after all, knew the women—Miss Cather, the famous recluse, and Miss Lewis, her protector. And the Red Trail crossed right before their cottage, so everyone knew the view.

  It was instead that James had guessed that Miss Cather and Miss Lewis would refuse to join the celebration. Daggett had guessed as much, too, and said so in his office. That’s why, the minute Daggett had given him leave, James grabbed Jenny by the hand and raced home. First he had to convince his mother she was the one who could change the ladies’ minds, then he would see to it that she convinced the ladies. Daggett only promised a lift to Whale Cove. James and Mary Daniels could take it from there.

  James want
ed Miss Cather and Miss Lewis to be part of the celebration. He wanted everyone on the island to know how warm and wonderfully kind they had been. If it weren’t for them, he would be in jail right now. He had withheld information. He had interfered with an investigation. He had tried to take the law into his own hands, Mark Daggett had declared.

  Of course he had done all that, Miss Cather had pointed out James withheld information because he was on foreign soil where he knew virtually no one when he just happened to witness a violent murder by a powerful and influential criminal whose murderous intent—toward him—was eminently clear. And when James fled to Grand Manan, what was he to say to Mark Daggett? That while he was in the United States he had seen a young woman beaten to death by a well known and powerful criminal? That no other witnesses were likely to come forward? That no one would even be able to prove a murder had taken place? That the young woman’s body would never be found?

  And after John Thomas Bush appeared on Grand Manan, what was James to say? That a man James had never actually met and no one on the island had ever seen, within hours of his arrival, forced young James to take him to Seven Days Work where he expected James to jump off the cliff? That the resulting death was an accident and self-defense?

  Would anybody believe any of this? Miss Cather was incredulous.

  Of course, young James withheld information and tried at first to flee and then to conduct his own investigation, Miss Cather scoffed. If James had come forth sooner, his story would have made no sense at all and he might still have been in danger. Knowledge was what James needed, knowledge and proof. He didn’t even know who else might be involved. And that’s exactly what he was trying to find out when Miss Cather and Miss Lewis first spotted him at Eel Brook. When the time was right and they asked him what he had been doing, he told them. And then he told Daggett, Miss Cather assured Daggett. And what James said had allowed Mark Daggett to hold Matthew Johnson. Daggett had no reason to hold Johnson just for jumping on and off the S. S. Grand Manan. So Johnson had tricked Daggett and run when he saw Daggett on the beach. Nothing criminal in that. Quite right, Daggett finally conceded, quite right. And what more could the constable ask in terms of cooperation, Miss Cather wanted to know.