Libby opened the front door to the newspaper, surprised when Elijah followed. She paused in the lobby, her shoes echoing on the wood floor. Pulling her gloves from her hands gave her something to do as she addressed the man that life had beaten. It had all started with her, hadn’t it? After all, she’d been the first person Elijah had tried to save, and since then . . . he’d lost too many.
“Can I do anything?” she murmured helplessly, wishing she could squelch the stark vision of Dorothy Hayes floating facedown in Gossamer Pond.
Elijah tugged off his hat and raked his fingers through his hair. He leveled shocked eyes on Libby. She tried not to look away, to hide from the reality of what had happened.
“I need to tell Mother.” His broad chest rose with a deep sigh, his stare shifting out the window toward the morning bustle of Gossamer Grove’s main street.
Libby reached out to lay a comforting hand on his arm, hesitated, then drew back. “I’m—I’m sure the police will tell her.”
“The police?” Elijah’s gaze swung to her face. “I should be there. She’ll be crushed.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“It should have been Paul.”
Libby knew Elijah didn’t truly mean it. But the anxious panic that kept them both awake during the night, the desire to somehow intercede for Paul’s life as foretold in the cryptic obituary, had now transferred to a blinded wish that it indeed had come true.
“You don’t really mean that.” Libby stepped forward and this time carried through with laying her hand on his arm. The touch seemed to startle him.
Elijah stared at her hand, then lifted his eyes to connect with hers. “No. No, I don’t.”
“Well, that’s good.” Paul’s voice cracked the silence as he marched down the hallway from the back of the paper. He waved a telegram-sized paper in his hand. His eyes were buggy, his voice shaky, but the nasal tone still held hints of assumed superiority. “Another obituary was delivered.”
Libby’s hand flew up to cover her mouth. Elijah collapsed onto a chair by the front window.
“This is asinine,” Elijah muttered. He leaned his elbows on his knees and ran his hands over his face.
Paul lowered his voice, casting anxious glances around the front lobby as if someone were eavesdropping. “Please tell me who died. I know they found someone in Gossamer Pond, but Mitch isn’t blabbing anything to me.”
“Paul—” Libby started.
“Tell me!” Paul demanded, his fingers crinkling the obituary in his hand as he fisted it in her face.
“D-Dorothy Hayes,” she blurted with an uneasy peek at Elijah.
“No . . .” Paul breathed, his face whitening. He thrust the paper toward Elijah, who took it. With a solemn expression, his dark eyes skimmed the words. Libby could see the indentations on the back of the page that indicated it had been typewritten. She edged closer to Elijah and looked down over his shoulder where he sat.
Dorothy Hayes. Born September 3rd, 1854. Died May 14th, 1907.
I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
Her shame exposed, a vacant soul
Death knocks at one door, then knocks no more
She floats on waves made of fire
But on her lips a cry of horror
Libby leaned against the picture window, her knees weak and her heartbeat thudding a cadence against her rib cage. She’d been right. Death had knocked on Paul’s door, teased and taunted, but moved on to take the life of another victim. One with implied shame—just like Deacon Greenwood.
“Whoever wrote it has a fondness for taking Poe’s writings and massacring them with their own attempts at morbid, putrid, godforsaken rubbish!” Paul snatched the obituary from Elijah’s hand, balled it in his fist, and launched it at the wall.
Elijah’s jaw clenched, and his mouth twitched. He looked at Paul, not standing, as if his legs wouldn’t hold his weight yet. “The police already believe it to be an accident.”
Paul seemed to rethink his furious toss, and he scurried to retrieve the obituary. He spread it open against his leg, attempting to smooth out the creases. “Then I’ll take this to them. I’ll show them. It’s evidence of murder, that’s what it is. And where is mine, from last night? They must have that too.”
“They already saw it,” Libby supplied. Her throat was dry and her voice weak. Trembling started in her calves and moved up her torso. She hugged herself close, feeling cold as the realization of helplessness grew into a deeper sense of utter powerlessness.
“And?” Paul insisted on an answer, his eyes snapping.
“And . . .” Elijah drew in a long, agonizing breath before pushing himself from the chair as if he were a stiff old man. “You’re alive.” He gave Paul a pointed look. Then Libby. “Which means your obituary, Paul, was a hoax. Go ahead, take my aunt’s obit to them. They’ll laugh you off now. A disgusting, concocted scheme by the paper to monopolize on my family’s deaths. That’s how they’ll see it, considering who delivered it. In fact, I’ll bring you my father’s and yours and you can try your hand with them. Then keep them for your collection.”
Elijah ended with a glare that skewered the newspaperman.
Paul wasn’t ruffled. “Yes. Do. I will make sure the police see all three.”
Elijah turned to Libby, a blank look on his face. “More disturbing to me is whoever wrote these obituaries is convinced Dorothy, like my father, hid some egregious sin.”
He moved to the front window, his hands at his waist, his jacket shoved back exposing a shirt that upon waking must have been crisp and starched. Now it was soiled from being at the pond, from the moment he’d bent over his aunt’s corpse and steeled his expression as he pushed drenched hair from her pallid face.
“What sin?” Elijah demanded, spinning to face Libby and Paul. “What could my father possibly have done to deserve being hung from the rafters of his own carriage house? Or my aunt? Drowned?”
A suspicion nagged within Libby, and she couldn’t help but cast a wary eye toward Paul. “And why were you suddenly shown mercy? What sin have you committed that you so quickly found justification for it?”
Paul blustered, shoving his spectacles up the bridge of his nose in his familiar fashion. “I do not like what you’re implying, Miss Sheffield.”
“Of course not.” Libby swallowed. “But if you wrote that obituary yourself, you would therefore deflect all suspicion with the creation of Dorothy’s. How could anyone assume you took her life when you yourself were targeted for your own appointment with death?”
“I did not murder Dorothy Hayes!” Paul bellowed, just as the front door of the paper opened.
Mitch stood in the doorway, a bewildered expression on his face as fresh air rushed into the lobby, along with the busy sounds of the street behind him.
Elijah rubbed his hands over his eyes as if he’d seen and heard quite enough. Paul choked back whatever words had been about to erupt from his mouth, and Libby bit down hard on her bottom lip.
“Ahem. Yes. Well,” Mitch began, taking in the three of them, their words hanging between them all in the front of the newspaper building. “Now that we have that out of the way, I’d like to get to publishing the news.” His dismissal capped the tension with an invisible but indelibly bold exclamation point.
The town was stirring with rumors and rumblings. Deacon Greenwood and Dorothy Hayes, both dead within the span of a week, both related, though by marriage, and both such odd ways to die.
Libby hurried down the boardwalk, leaving the newspaper behind as she ran an errand for Mitch. If only she could tell her father no for once. Just once. But the black cloud of obligation to do her duty, to watch out for others, never lifted. Mitch needed a new tie for Dorothy Hayes’s funeral. To which, Libby could almost place odds he’d not been invited to the service. No press would be or should be. Still, her own mother was sure to attend
, as the support for Elijah’s mother. Therefore, by default Mitch had an automatic opportunity to sidle in and disguise his news-sniffing curiosity with condolences.
It was only this morning that the medical examiner deemed Dorothy’s death as natural with no physical evidence to support a claim of foul play. As Elijah had predicted, the police had given Paul a distrustful brow-raise when he offered them Dorothy’s morbid obituary, along with the others Elijah had given him. Paul had scurried away in haste, attempting to avoid any suspicion of blame being thrown in his direction.
The police stated that regardless of the examiner’s conclusions, they were attempting to find out why Dorothy Hayes had been at the pond in her chemise in the middle of the night. Her husband had last seen her when he went to bed, stating she had remained awake to read a novel. The next morning they were fishing her body from the pond. She was a lady, a mother of one son, Lawrence, and a widow who was upright, faithful to her local church and ladies’ society, and if nothing else, very, very proper. The setting of her death did not suit Dorothy Hayes’s reputation.
A real obituary had been submitted for Dorothy as well by Elijah’s mother, and that was the one that went to print. The cryptic obituaries had disappeared somewhere in Paul’s clutches, and Libby had a sneaking suspicion he’d disposed of them or filed them away, not to be seen again.
She edged around a mother, who was leaning over a baby carriage and cooing at her baby. They had parked just outside of the drugstore, which was kitty-corner to the haberdashery. With a glance in all four directions, Libby hustled across the brick road, pausing as a motorcar puffed by, leaving behind a plume of exhaust. She skirted a pile of horse droppings and hurried toward the haberdashery whose large picture window boasted at least fifteen hats on display, a tailored suit, and the name Hamilton’s ’Dashery painted in bold scrolling letters across it.
“Out of the way!” A shout startled Libby. She looked up to see a riderless horse barreling down on her. A body slammed into hers and shoved her out of the way of the wild-eyed animal that charged past with a screeching whinny. Her rescuer held her against a slender frame, and for a second they remained frozen on the walk outside of the haberdashery.
“Are you all right, Libby?” a gentleman shouted from across the street, dodging a carriage. Reverend Mueller held his hat to his head with a hand as he stared after the horse being corralled by other concerned citizens. Calvin jogged not far behind him, his smile almost silly, stretching ear to ear. Libby twisted in her rescuer’s hold and drew back to see Jacobus Corbin’s long face and narrow nose.
“Oh, gracious. I beg your pardon. Never did I imagine that I—you put yourself in danger on my behalf, and well, that was heroic. No. No, not heroic. Well, it was, but then you’re not particularly a hero, are you?” Libby caught a glimmer of humor in the placid face of the evangelist. She stopped trying to ease the awkwardness and instead focused on disentangling herself from his embrace. She equated the fluttering in her stomach to the terror she’d just experienced, but she couldn’t help a quick glance at the revivalist twin. He met her eyes with a slightly raised eyebrow, causing a blush to warm her face.
Reverend Mueller and Calvin were almost upon them. To the east, striding toward them, Jedidiah Corbin.
“Are you hurt?” Reverend Mueller hurried to her side.
“No. I’m quite all right.” Libby frowned. Almost run over by a renegade horse? What with the odd deaths of late, she had to convince herself not to jump to a conclusion that it had somehow been frightened into a frenzy for the very purpose of trampling her to death.
“Lollie.” Calvin edged around his father. He blinked, and then blinked again as if clearing some fog from his mind but was unsuccessful. “Want to get a soda?” He pointed to the drugstore.
“Not now, Calvin.” Reverend Mueller patted his son’s arm and shared an understanding look with Libby.
“I am fine. Truly.” Libby mustered a smile. It wouldn’t offend her if they all went about their business. The attention was disconcerting, and the fact that she’d been swept to safety by the enigmatic Jacobus Corbin made it all so much more bewildering. She wasn’t certain why, but when she caught him looking at her—those icy-blue eyes inscrutable—Libby was sure she’d never felt as safe and never felt as threatened at the same time. It was a conundrum she daren’t explore further. The man and his brother were proving to be nothing less than firebrands to Gossamer Grove.
“You put the fear of God into me.” Reverend Mueller swiped his hat from his head as he addressed her. Wisps of graying hair fluttered in the breeze.
“The fear of God should already be in you.” Jedidiah Corbin’s bold voice sliced through the moment as he came upon them.
Calvin’s face broke into a smile. “Hi, Preacher!”
Jedidiah looked down his nose at her, his eyes narrowing. Had he spooked the horse with intent to harm her? Libby took a step away from him, but that, unfortunately, only put her closer to Jacobus, who remained rooted where he stood. It didn’t calculate properly, and Libby attempted to erase away all her suspicions. That Jedidiah would have orchestrated spooking a runaway horse was absurd. That would be just shy of breaking one of the Ten Commandments. “Thou shalt not murder.” The thought of it stole warmth from Libby’s face. Murder. Cleansing of those with shameful sins. If the Corbin twins couldn’t rid the town of sinful practices, perhaps they could eliminate the sinner?
“I best be on my way,” Libby mumbled, catching the more comforting warmth of Reverend Mueller’s concerned gaze. “I truly am fine. Thank you. All of you.”
Libby nodded in Reverend Mueller’s direction. Calvin sidled up to Jedidiah Corbin, who glowered down at him as if he were too simple to understand enough theology to successfully be saved at all.
“I will escort you safely back to the paper,” Jacobus inserted.
Libby started as his hand curled around her elbow. She eyed his long fingers.
“That would be good,” Reverend Mueller nodded.
“But I—” Libby cast a helpless glance at Calvin, who didn’t sense her discomfort or come to her aid.
“Come.” Jacobus urged her from the haberdashery.
Jedidiah Corbin strode away, a jabbering Calvin following in his steps like a loyal disciple. Reverend Mueller tipped his hat and continued his way, leaving Libby alone with Jacobus.
“Please.” Libby pulled back.
Thankfully, Jacobus released her. She didn’t wish to play tug-of-war with her elbow.
“I need to purchase a tie for my father.”
“Your father should purchase his own tie,” Jacobus stated blandly. “It’s unsafe for you to be unescorted.”
It was daylight. It was also 1907. Ladies were doing many things unchaperoned now.
“I’m capable of seeing to myself,” Libby maintained under her breath, rather afraid to be so bold as to speak her mind out loud.
Jacobus gave her a sideways glance. “It’s not your capability I question, Miss Sheffield. Rather, I find you very accomplished. Intelligent as well. But, only a fool would argue the idea that two are better than one. It’s biblical, after all.”
Libby didn’t argue.
Safely across the street, Libby stepped onto the walk with Jacobus having reclaimed her elbow with a loose grasp. She stopped and mustered more pluck. He stared down at her with a raised brow of question at her pause.
“Reverend Corbin,” Libby said and forced just the right amount of firmness into her voice, “thank you for your generosity and fine care. I am well enough to be on my own now.”
Jacobus’s eyes narrowed but for a moment, and Libby saw in them something she hadn’t seen in his brother’s. Kindness, perhaps?
“I mean well, Miss Sheffield.”
“I’m sure,” she acquiesced, studying the strings on her purse. Trying to maintain a very proper and cool composure was about as simple as convincing Paul he needed to stop arguing with her father. “But, I—I much prefer to be on my own.”
Jacobus tugged on the lapels of his jacket. “Miss Sheffield, I must say, I’ve experienced and witnessed many traumas in my life. I wish to impart something to you.” He paused.
This was not going well. Escaping this man—this revivalist—whose entire posture mimicked a wickedly intelligent professor rather than a vibrant hellfire-and-brimstone preacher. He exuded a confidence that was just shy of arrogance due to a humble restraint one might credit to the man’s devotion to God. Regardless, Libby knew she was trapped by her own obligation to etiquette and polite discourse, this versus a snub and spitfire toss of her head as she turned her back to the disquieting man.
Jacobus cleared his throat. She blinked. He was well aware of how she was scrutinizing him in her mind. He had to be. He’d waited to impart his wisdom on her, as if allowing Libby time to contemplate. Now he blinked—finally—and continued.
“No amount of mystery in one’s soul can escape the ever-watchful eye of God. One may carry guilt and shame with them for years, only to discover that while they attempted to dodge God’s judgment, they instead cheated themselves of His forgiveness.”
Jacobus had a curled strand of hair that fell down the middle of his broad forehead. Libby focused on it. His voice was hypnotic, reaching into a place deep in her spirit she’d locked away even though she wasn’t entirely sure what he was talking about. But she comprehended two words quite well: guilt and shame. Old feelings bubbled up inside her as if tamped down for too long. She tried to ignore them by conjuring up current events, the shock of Dorothy Hayes’s death, anything but revisiting the deep remorse that lived inside of her. Lived there since she and Elijah had ceased discussing it.
The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond Page 15