Rekindling Trust

by Sandra Ardoin

  Eager to accomplish his task and leave, he combed through the room in the same methodical way he had the alley. His investigation ended with equally disappointing results.

  Standing near the door with his hands on his hips, his gaze skimmed the room one more time—around the walls, up to the ceiling, down to the floor and the...

  Barrett took two steps, reached down, and pulled out a ragged scrap of paper caught in a crack between the bottom of the wall and the floorboards. Somewhat triangular-shaped, it looked like a small portion of a telegram containing the handwritten words “hard,” “Major,” “U. S.,” and the partial words “Subj—,” “Dru—,” and “Arm—.” With the slight flourish under the “m” and its location to the right of “U. S.,” Barrett read the last word as Army, though he couldn’t be sure.

  Not dry or yellowed, the paper didn’t appear to have been there too long. Someone could have dropped it yesterday or months ago.

  He balled it up in the same hand that held his handkerchief and took one more look around the shack. Intuition told him Jeremiah was not a murderer. But how to prove it, especially with his client’s admission of a lie to the police?

  After leaving the location where Dulong was murdered, Barrett walked a few doors down to a sizable two-story building. Recently painted letters, still a jaunty white, flaunted the name “McMullin’s Livery” above the double barn doors.

  He entered the shady structure and inhaled the earthiness and strong aromas of old wood, hay, and grain. The smells brought back fond memories of growing up on his grandfather’s farm after his parents died.

  It had taken a few months for his six-year-old self to feel comfortable around the old man. After all, he’d never met his grandfather before the day after the funerals when he and Wynn arrived in Riverport. Once he accepted the strict boundaries Grandpa Kirby set, he learned to appreciate them as being for his own good.

  Wynn never settled in as well as Barrett. While his brother respected their grandfather, there was always something in him that refused to accept his new home on the farm.

  At the same time, Barrett couldn’t help but draw a connection between the Seaton brothers’ experience and that of the Westin boys. Far from the dictatorial methods of Judge Danby, his grandfather led by faith and example. Until the day he died, he instilled discipline, respect, and wisdom in the boys. They worked hard around the farm, and when their chores were done, they played hard with his blessing.

  Barrett attended law school with the money he’d inherited after Grandpa passed on. Wynn’s portion had been enough to open the store he’d always wanted and solidified Barrett’s belief in his brother’s innocence. Why steal with no need to do so?

  “You looking for something, mister?” A shaggy-haired, bowlegged man stood at the other end of the barn’s aisle. His silver handlebar mustache quivered with humor, presumably over Barrett’s daydreaming.

  “Yes, sir. I’m looking for Mr. McMullin.”

  “Well, don’t look too far, or you’ll miss him.”

  “You’re Mr. McMullin?”

  The man met him halfway down the aisle. “For the past six plus decades. You wanting a horse or buggy? Got me a couple of them bicycles if you’re looking to travel in that fashion.”

  Bicycles? Off and on, Barrett had considered purchasing one and learning how to ride it. Surely, it wasn’t hard. One day, perhaps. “I’m afraid I’m not here to rent transportation.”

  “Shame. I got some of the best horses in the county.”

  Barrett declined to say he used the other livery in town for his needs, since it was closer to his house. “My name is Barrett Seaton. I’m Jeremiah Quincy’s attorney.”

  “He the one who stabbed the man a few places over?” He jerked his head in the direction of the lot.

  “He’s suspected of it. I understand you were closed Saturday.”

  “My granddaughter got married.” Mr. McMullin reached over a stall partition and rubbed the face of a large bay tethered to a ring in the wall. The animal turned his head, begging for continued attention. The man seemed willing to give the animal all he sought.

  “My client left his horse in your corral that afternoon.” Barrett leaned against the other side of the narrow stall and rubbed the horse’s back, hoping for the approval of the livery owner. He’d get more cooperation from someone who saw him as kindhearted and friendly rather than some shyster ready to twist the words of a witness. “Was anyone here that day? An employee?”

  “I only got two boys that work for me on Saturdays. I sent ’em home Saturday morning after they finished cleaning stalls. Leave ’em on their own, and they’ll get themselves in trouble.”

  “I understand. You live on the premises?”

  “Upstairs, which I keep locked. Most folks know I don’t lock a side door in case there’s a fire and, of course, I can’t lock the corral. Anyone who wanted to could get inside.”

  To leave their livery fee. “By the way, how is your horse? The one with the cut on his neck?”

  The man drew back. “How’d you know about that?”

  “My client saw the injury and tried to help her, but she pushed him against the barn wall.”

  McMullin cackled. “Just like her. She’s more mule than mare and thinks it’s fun to trap a body against something. She’s a big’un. He get hurt?”

  “Nothing serious.” So Jeremiah probably told the truth about the blood stain. “Have you ever seen a man around the place—fifties, small in stature, and with a silver streak in his hair? Crooked like lightning.”

  McMullin shook his head. “Don’t think so. Of course, I get a lot of people in here, and if the fella was wearing a hat when I saw him...” He shrugged.

  “If he should come in, I’d appreciate knowing about it.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  Barrett stepped away from the stall. “Thank you for your time, Mr. McMullin. You’ve been helpful.”

  “You come on back for another visit.” He pointed to the bay. “It appears this fella found a new friend.”

  Laughing, Barrett shook the man’s hand. “I might do that, sir.”

  He left the barn, squinting in the sunlight. He’d make one more stop before returning home, not expecting this one to go as well.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Edythe rejected the idea of Andrew being to blame for the fire and injury to Mr. Stark. Barrett claimed her son hadn’t told them the full truth, but when she’d asked Andrew about it, he denied knowing more.

  Too often, she had all but abandoned the discipline of her children to the dictates of their grandfather, yet she had a keen sense of when they told a lie. Right now, that sense told her he lied about knowing more but told the truth about his guilt. What was he hiding?

  She stepped away from his room—his prison cell where her father had incarcerated Andrew before he’d been found responsible for a crime. Whatever happened to the tenet in the law that insisted upon innocence until proof of guilt?

  Five days was long enough for her father to get his point across. Andrew would not spend another twenty-four hours in a well-furnished cell.

  This newfound strength of conviction left Edythe curious as to its source...almost as though Barrett’s return had restored some of the past daring required to meet him in secret.

  She wasn’t naive. Confronting her father required more than daring.

  Of course, she could simply walk back to her son’s room, open the door, and order him out. That was a temporary solution at best.

  “Daydreaming about a certain banker, my dear?”

  She looked up to see the judge standing at the bottom of the stairs, making a show of reading the newspaper. Five days of imprisonment. Now was her opportunity. Her time.

  If it were physically possible, she’d swear her heart raced her feet down those stairs. “Not daydreaming. However, I would like to speak with you.”

  The lines between his eyes deepened with a guarded look. “About?”

  “An
drew.”

  Her father closed and folded the newspaper. “I suppose he’s whined to you about being confined to his room.”

  “In fact, he hasn’t complained once. That worries me.”

  “Worrying is a waste of energy.”

  She’d read that advice in the Bible. It never seemed to stop her, not with a seemingly endless list of things to worry about.

  Edythe followed her father down the hall toward the kitchen. “Don’t you think his confinement has gone on long enough?”

  “You want me to release him on bail?” A corner of his mouth slid up with his sarcasm.

  “He hasn’t been accused of anything and should be allowed his freedom.”

  “So he can cause more trouble than he already has? I’m doing him a favor by keeping him away from temptation.” He entered the kitchen and slapped the newspaper on the counter. “Andrew receives three meals a day and a fine roof over his head. He’s more fortunate than many boys his age. I’m simply giving him a tiny taste of his future in the event he does not turn his life around.”

  Andrew is your child, your responsibility.

  She owed her son loyalty and strength. She owed all of her children a mother who refused to shrink away from others like a timid wallflower.

  “That is not your duty.” When was the last time she had spoken to him in such an emphatic manner? It felt good. She stepped forward, ignoring the scowl on his face that narrowed his dark eyes. “As of now, Father, Andrew’s punishment is over.”

  Her father gripped the edge of the counter until his knuckles turned white. His voice rose to match hers. “This is my house. While you and your children live here, you are under my authority. I say whether the child will go free to ravage society, and I say no.”

  “Then you’ve left me no choice but to take my children and go.” The threat tumbled from her mouth without forethought. Unlike her husband, she was not a gambler. What would she do if her father called her bluff?

  For an instant, his jaw dropped in disbelief. She thought he might relent, but his shock lasted only a moment before it gave way to a smirk. “Just where do you think you will go, Edythe? Are you forgetting who provides for your needs? If it weren’t for me, the four of you would be huddled in some alley, begging for scraps from strangers. Instead, I provide you shelter, sustenance, and a generous allowance you can spend on the charity projects those Widow’s Might women rope you into paying for.”

  She ignored the insinuation that her friends used her. “If it weren’t for your selfishness, Father, we still would have a house—our own house.” Her chest heaved with years of pent-up resentment. It bubbled up from some hidden place inside her like water from a hot spring. It pushed its way through a crack in her reserve, breaching the dam that normally held back her emotions. “You’re the one who chose to sell my home out from under me. Why? Why treat me as you do? It wasn’t my fault that Mother...” Her lips clinched tight, plugging the fissure about to gush with the ugliness of the past.

  He stared at her, but she hardened her expression. Silence stretched between them.

  Finally, her father opened the icebox and pulled out a pitcher. He poured a glass of milk and carried it toward the hall, then paused, turning at the kitchen door. “Free your child, but do not come crying to me the next time he gets into trouble.”

  Once he had gone, Edythe sank against the counter, drained of energy. She had done it. It had been a gamble on her part, but she’d argued with her father and won. How many times in the past might she have prevailed against him if she’d only stood her ground?

  It energized her. It motivated her. One day she would gain the courage to confront the two people who had abandoned her in the past—Barrett and her mother, if she ever saw the woman again.

  Edythe tipped her head back and stared at the ceiling. Someday, I’ll feel strong enough to take you to task, too, God. She would ask Him why He never felt a need to fight for her as she had just done for her son. But she could only cope with one battle at a time.

  Someday, though. Someday.

  BARRETT HADN’T COME to the Danby house to eavesdrop, but the open window at the kitchen and the raised voices flowing from it had provided ample opportunity.

  A few minutes ago, he’d approached the front walk, prepared to talk to Andy again. Timmy jumped off the porch with all the enthusiasm of an eight-year-old boy and insisted Barrett follow him to see his latest experiment.

  In the rear yard, he let the boy take his hand, press his index finger on an ink pad, and press it again on a sheet of paper lying on a small table in the yard. Timmy did the same with Barrett’s thumb. Above his marks were smaller such images marked “Timothy” and “Sarah Jane.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting your fingerprints.” Under Barrett’s inky swirls, Timmy wrote “Mr. B. J.” and closed the lid on the ink pad.

  Barrett tried to rub away the ink coating his skin but only managed to splotch the other fingers. “Why do you want my fingerprints?”

  “My teacher says everyone’s are different, so I’m collecting them from people I know.”

  Barrett was aware of the science of fingerprinting people but also aware they were inadmissible in court. What Timothy planned to do with the fingerprints was a mystery.

  He started to pat the boy’s head, then remembered the ink. Staining Timmy’s blond hair would not please his mother. “That’s clever of you.”

  Now, the raised voices of Edy and her father flowed through the screen of the open kitchen window. Barrett, the Westin twins, and a dog that drooled on his shoes stood silent in the yard, listening to the argument inside the house.

  The children’s eyes bulged and their lips parted. Barrett worked hard not to follow suit. Silently, he cheered Edy on and prayed for her strength of conviction. What a fine thing to hear her stand up for herself and her son.

  Sarah Jane leaned toward her brother and whispered, “She’s giving it to him.”

  Timmy whispered back, “I wonder what will happen next.”

  “I don’t know. Do you think she meant it when she said we’d leave Grandfather’s house?”

  Her brother shrugged. “I hope so.”

  “Me, too.”

  Why couldn’t the judge see that his dictatorial conduct had cost him the love and respect of his daughter and grandchildren?

  Barrett worked to associate the incensed woman of the moment with the girl who was more apt to cry over her father’s injustice than rage against it. Feelings he’d thought long buried awakened—feelings he couldn’t afford to resurrect.

  The voices quieted, and Barrett’s conscience pricked him. Concerned Edy would catch them listening, he gestured for the children to step away from the window.

  He followed them into the middle of the yard. While Timmy carried on about the uniqueness of a person’s finger marks, Barrett only half listened. His thoughts returned to the argument and Sarah Jane’s question. Would this prompt Edy to move out? Without employment and three children, where would she go?

  Something poked his leg, then grabbed hold of his trousers and pulled. He looked down and jerked his leg away from a white, well-fed goose—one that would make quite an impression on a platter at Christmastime.

  “He does that to everybody but Grandfather. I guess he knows his goose would be cooked if he did.” Timmy guffawed over his joke. He shooed the bird away and returned to his experiment while Sarah Jane chastised her brother for scaring her precious Snowman.

  Edy was right. Her children were extraordinary, each in their own way.

  Barrett eyed the goose, waiting for it to attack a second time. “I’ll be going now.”

  Sarah Jane stopped chasing the goose and cocked her head. “I thought you wanted to talk to Mother.”

  After what he’d overheard, it wasn’t a good time to confront Edy or Andrew. “It can wait. Let’s keep this visit and what we overheard to ourselves for now, all right?”

  “All right.”

  As
he turned to go, he spotted two boys watching from a rear corner of the Danby property—the same boys he’d seen at the river the day he’d first met Andy and Timmy. He followed their line of sight to a window on the second floor of the house. Andy stood there, looking back at the boys as if he wished to jump through the glass and pummel them. Interesting.

  Barrett tipped his head toward the visitors. “Timmy, do you know those boys?”

  Timmy made a face and turned his back on them. “Yes, sir, I know them.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I call them the Trouble Brothers, because that’s what they are.”

  If any boys looked like trouble, it was those two. “What are their real names?”

  “The big one’s Tad Larson. His little brother is Hollis.”

  As if sensing they were being talked about, the Larson brothers turned and bolted away. “Andy knows them, too?”

  Timmy shrugged, but it was a hesitant shrug, the kind that said yes without having to verbally link his brother to more turmoil. “I told Andy to stay away from them.”

  Years ago, Barrett had warned Wynn away from certain bad influences. “Has he?”

  “Sometimes.”

  It hadn’t always worked with Wynn, either.

  “What kind of trouble has he gotten into with the Larson brothers?”

  “After Mother got mad because he’d been smoking, Andy laughed about it and told me he could smoke cigarettes anytime he wanted to. He’d just ask the Trouble Brothers for them.”

  Barrett drew in a sharp breath. Smoking? Edy had known of her son’s activity and hadn’t mentioned it.

  Had Andy been smoking at the Stark farm? It was possible Stark caught the boy with a cigarette on his property and they’d had words.

  Timmy hung his head. A moment later, he sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Will my brother go away to that school, Mr. B. J.?”

  He laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Your mother and I will do whatever we can to prevent it, Timmy.” For the sake of the younger brother—a boy who reminded him of himself—Barrett vowed to do all in his power for Andy Westin.