Rekindling Trust

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Rekindling Trust Page 22

by Sandra Ardoin


  Edythe climbed the steps of the porch and rapped on the door. With no answer, she beat harder, insistent that he open up to her, for all that the dark house stood as proof he probably hadn’t come straight home.

  Finally, the door opened. Even while holding an oil lamp with the reflection of a flame that danced happily across his face, Barrett stared at her with a look as dark and formidable as the house. “Go home, Edythe. We have nothing to say to one another.”

  “We have much to say. I didn’t know, Barrett. Believe me.”

  “You didn’t know your father would announce an engagement, or you didn’t know I’d be there to witness it?”

  “Both.” Her voice came out as little more than a squeak.

  He eyed her a long, agonizing moment. He shook his head. “What difference does it make whether you knew? You said nothing. Not one word of denial.”

  “I was in shock.”

  “You let the judge steer your future without a fight, and that peacock next to you grinned as though he had won some valuable prize.” He set the lamp on a hall table, then leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms. “And after I left? Did you deny your engagement to those in attendance?”

  What was she to say?

  “I thought not.” His prolonged sigh did nothing to ease the fierceness in his expression. He held out a small paper box for her to take. “My wedding gift to you.”

  Her hand quivered as she took hold of the box. She knew the label. “Oh, Barrett, I—”

  “Goodnight, Mrs. Westin.” He shut the door with a firm click.

  Edythe remained on the porch for untold minutes, staring at the wooden panel and seeing only Barrett’s furious face swimming before her.

  After pulling a handkerchief from a pocket in her cloak, she twisted it in her hand, twisting and twisting until the wrinkles might never iron out. She should open that door, march inside, and demand he hear her out. A strong woman would do that—a woman of determination and courage.

  She turned and lumbered down the porch steps, her strength and courage dispersing like the smoke from the neighboring chimneys.

  BARRETT HAD LEFT THE department store after his conversation with Roslyn Malone, confident he was on the right trail and that Osbourne blackmailed Tanner, Gil Malone, and Dulong with the intention of pressuring them to commit a crime. How many others could be added to that list?

  He knocked several times on the door to the Dulong house and waited...as he’d made Edy wait outside his door last night.

  Barrett couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t believed in or relied on God. What he’d yet to understand was why God often stood aside while the innocent suffered. Where was justice when sinful people thrived at the detriment of others? People like Hayden Danby.

  As memory of the reception roared back with full force, once more Barrett’s temper raged as hot as it had last night.

  He had suspected the judge was up to no good in sending him the invitation. As Mark had said, the man possessed a record of deviousness. It hadn’t stopped after ruining Edy and Barrett’s future twelve years ago.

  He’d considered declining the invitation to the reception but hadn’t wanted to chance that the judge was on the up-and-up and, therefore, run the risk of hurting Edy’s feelings. In not listening to the inner voice that told him differently, he was to blame for the man’s enjoyment of his pain.

  Although he’d prepared himself to be ambushed by some sort of ruse from Danby, he hadn’t expected Edy’s participation in that ambush. What did it matter whether she’d known about her father’s plan? From where he’d stood at the entrance to the room, she made no effort to set anyone straight.

  Why had he let her do this to him again?

  He couldn’t allow his personal troubles to interfere with Jeremiah’s defense, so he pushed the anger aside to concentrate on his work.

  Thinking no one was home at the Dulong residence again, he turned to go. Then, behind him, he heard the front door open. Changing course, he saw a wispy middle-aged woman half-hidden by the door, her expression guarded.

  “Mrs. Dulong?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Barrett Seaton. I’m Jeremiah Quincy’s attorney.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  She started to shut the door, so he thrust a hand out to prevent it. “Please, ma’am. This is important. I’ve tried to visit you a couple of times in the past two weeks and was told you were out of town.”

  “I said I don’t want to speak with you. Leave me alone.”

  Before she could push the door closed, he rushed to say, “I believe your husband was being blackmailed to commit a crime.”

  Panic outshone the outrage he’d expected from a loyal wife. She searched the street in both directions.

  “My client didn’t kill your husband, Mrs. Dulong, but he might be punished for it unless you speak up. I don’t think you want an innocent man to pay for something he didn’t do.” Barrett waited, giving her a chance to mull over what he’d said.

  Without a word, she opened the door and stood aside to let him into the house, then peeked outside again before closing the door. Once they entered a modest parlor, she sat on the edge of the sofa, her hands knotted on her lap.

  Barrett took a seat in a nearby chair. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Dulong, and for catching you by surprise with that news.”

  “I don’t know why you think my husband was blackmailed. Claude did nothing wrong.”

  “But you do know someone put pressure on Mr. Dulong for a particular reason?”

  She nodded. “I only saw him once, but I know who you mean.” Her fingers picked at the material of her plain, black dress with a mechanical motion. “My husband never told me his name. Claude refused to talk about him.”

  “Can you describe him? What did he look like?”

  Hers was a vacant stare much like Harold Tanner’s when he recalled his experience with Osbourne. “Maybe fifty or so and dressed like a gentleman.”

  “Did he have any distinguishing physical characteristics? A beard? A—”

  “His hair.”

  Barrett’s heart raced. “What about it?”

  “It was mostly dark but had a white streak running through it about here.” With her finger, she drew a line down the front of her head. “I was standing at the top of the stairs when he walked to the front door to leave. As he prepared to put on his hat, somehow, he sensed me there and looked up.” Her body shivered. “Cold. That man had the coldest smile I’ve ever seen.”

  “What did he want your husband to do?”

  “I told you, Claude wouldn’t discuss it. But the man scared him.”

  “Mrs. Dulong, I think he wanted your husband to embezzle money from the brewery. Do you have any idea why he would believe Mr. Dulong would agree to do such a thing?”

  She scowled. “I told you he did nothing wrong.”

  “Yet the man with the cold smile threatened your husband in some way, hoping to force him into the theft. There must be something he held over Mr. Dulong.”

  She stared at her lap. “I don’t know.”

  Barrett decided to let it drop for now. Jeremiah said Dulong entered the tavern looking for someone. If he was right about Asa Osbourne, chances were good the men were to meet at Swain’s. With Dulong being thrown out of the tavern, perhaps they met up afterward in the shack. Dulong told Osbourne no and, without the mercy he showed toward Tanner, Osbourne killed him.

  “What was your husband’s state of mind that afternoon?”

  She shrugged. “He’d received a telegram and was furious. He left the house shortly after.”

  “To go to Swain’s?”

  “Claude hated the use of alcohol.”

  Yet he worked in a brewery.

  Barrett studied a photograph in a frame sitting on a nearby table. “Is that your husband and son?”

  She picked up the frame. Judging by the mixture of pain and pride etched in the lines around her eyes, she was a
woman devoted to her family. “My Claude and our Vincent.” She touched the face of the young man dressed in the uniform.

  “Your son is a soldier?”

  “He was.”

  “Ah. Does he live around here?” Something about the photograph nagged at Barrett, so he kept asking questions, hoping for a revelation to break loose.

  Her face grew pale.

  “Where does he live, Mrs. Dulong?”

  Her cooperation changed, replaced by the firm set of her jaw. She set the photograph back on the table. “I’m tired and have nothing more to say to you, Mr. Seaton.”

  He stood on the porch after being shown out of the house, his mind replaying the conversation. All of a sudden, that revelation he’d hoped for resounded like cannon fire.

  He’d received a telegram and was furious. He left the house shortly after.

  Words danced across his vision—words like “Major” and “U. S. Army.” The words on the scrap of paper he’d picked up in the shack where Dulong died.

  Mrs. Dulong’s information wasn’t enough to connect the telegram her husband received to the torn paper, but if they were connected, it was possible Osbourne’s blackmail involved Vincent Dulong.

  Then again, maybe Barrett grasped at straws.

  Rather than turn around and confront the widow, Barrett decided to take the paper and his theory to the police and insist they investigate. Hopefully, they would connect those pieces and give him something to present a jury as reasonable doubt.

  EDYTHE OPENED THE BANK’S door to let an elderly woman exit before she entered the building. She’d waited for Ansel to pay her a call, preferring he come to her rather than her being forced to visit his home and set neighboring tongues wagging or interrupt his work. But he never did, which left her with no choice but to disturb his business day.

  Regardless of whether she and Barrett ever found a future together, she would not continue to allow Ansel to count on their engagement ending in wedded bliss.

  The lovely scent of lilies of the valley behind her ears gave her added incentive.

  If only her father had stayed put long enough this week for her to inform him of his plan’s failure. Instead, he’d chosen to leave town after the reception with only another message delivered by Mrs. Cameron. The coward.

  Edythe scanned the employees and patrons coming and going in the busy bank until she located her “fiancé” sitting in a tiny office in a far corner. After crossing the room, she stopped in front of his desk. “May I speak with you, Ansel?”

  He looked up from the book he’d been writing in and winced. “I’ve been expecting you.” He closed the account book and nodded toward the doorway. “Until Mr. Sinclair leaves and I move into the president’s office, I’m stuck in this little space with no door. There’s a meeting room upstairs. I believe it will be quieter and a less public place for our talk.”

  The less public, the better.

  Ansel led her to a room off the hallway on the second floor. Leather chairs surrounded a long table with an inlaid design. The furniture occupied the center of the space and left little room to move around. He shut the door and invited her to take a seat at the table but he stood near a window, looking out on the town, his profile set in stone. “I trust you’re feeling better.”

  They must have excused her absence from the reception as sudden illness. “I’m in perfect health.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I know you’ve been burdened by your son’s situation.”

  Was he delusional? Yes, Andrew’s problem weighed heavily on her, especially since she hadn’t heard anything from Officer Brennan, but did Ansel think he bore no responsibility for her distress?

  “I should have paid you a call. After all, it’s something one would expect a fiancé to do. But...”

  “But knowing the engagement was a mockery, you didn’t want to damage your new position by admitting to it?”

  A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Your father discussed it with me shortly before the guests arrived. It wasn’t how I wished things to progress between us.”

  “Then you understand that we cannot continue with this sham.”

  His shoulders slumped. “Frankly, Edythe, I’m relieved.”

  “Relieved?”

  “I want the position of president of this bank.”

  “And my father promised it to you if you married me.”

  “It’s true, but the timing of the engagement announcement was not my idea.” He turned to face her. “Please, don’t misunderstand. I looked forward to our union. Although we haven’t known one another long, you’re one of the finest women I’ve ever met. It would be an honor to marry you.”

  Edythe didn’t bother with an “If things were different...” excuse when her lack of affection toward Ansel would not change.

  “That first night, the night I noticed Mr. Seaton standing at the street, watching your father’s house, I suspected your feelings for me would never be the same as mine for you.”

  “Mr. Seaton has little to do with my opposition to a marriage between us.”

  “I almost wish he did. I have no qualms about fighting for something important. I fought hard for the position of president of this bank and won it.”

  Edythe could have reminded Ansel that he got the position through accepting a role in the judge’s underhanded scheme. If he were already married, would he still have been considered for the presidency? Hopefully, her father had the decency to see that Ansel kept the position.

  She moved to his side at the window and laid a hand on his arm. “I don’t approve of your part in this farce, but my father had no right to do what he did without consulting either of us. I had no right to go to supper with you when I knew nothing could come of it. I’m sorry you were caught between us.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for. I’m the one to blame. I let my ambition go to my head.” He rested a hand on hers. “Have you and Seaton worked things out?”

  The memory of Barrett’s anger weighed on her. “At this point, I’m not sure it’s possible.”

  “It’s a pity and his loss.”

  Unfortunately, it was also a loss for her children. They admired Barrett.

  BARRETT TREKKED THROUGH the sanitarium’s yard toward Wynn. He stopped at the side of the wicker chair that accentuated his brother’s shrunken frame.

  Wynn’s Bible sat on his lap as he read out loud. He had entered prison an agnostic and walked out a believer. At least something good had come from his years behind bars.

  “‘Thou shalt guide me with thy counsel, and afterward receive me to glory. Whom have I in heaven but thee? And there is none upon earth that I desire beside thee. My flesh and my heart faileth: but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion forever.’”

  Barrett blinked over and over, trying to clear his vision. Wynn’s voice was stronger than the last time they had talked, and he spoke the words with the fervency of a prayer—the prayer of a dying man. When Barrett’s swallow caught on a moan, he covered the emotion with a slight cough.

  Wynn looked up. “Don’t be sad for me, little brother. God gave me a life I nearly squandered. Soon, He’ll give me a new one, one where I’ll be healthy and happy for eternity.”

  Barrett cringed at hearing his brother speak of his death. The loss of the years they might have spent together grieved him and reminded him of why the end would come so early in Wynn’s earthly existence. “You didn’t squander your life. Too much of it was taken from you.”

  With a faint nod to the chair a few feet away, Wynn said, “Sit down. There’s something for us to discuss.” The statement sounded like an order, but his brother’s downcast features and quiet voice said he wasn’t looking forward to whatever he had to say.

  Barrett dropped into the chair and crossed one leg over the other, propping his hat on his knee. He sought a relaxed stance to cloak the tension and grief running through his body. He breathed in fresh, cool air tinged with a hint that autumn waited around the corner. Would Wynn see
the harvest of the corn or the fall of colorful leaves?

  “It’s long past time we discussed what happened the night they arrested me.”

  “Wynn—”

  “Don’t interrupt.” His brother spit out the words with more force and volume than Barrett had heard from him in weeks. “It’s long past time I was honest with you, so let me talk.”

  Honest? “About what?”

  “I’ve confessed to Edy and asked her forgiveness, but confessing to you is a lot harder.” Wynn exhaled. “I suppose you could call this my deathbed confession.”

  Deathbed? His brother’s hoarse chuckle chafed Barrett’s nerves.

  “There’s no easy way to say it, so I’ll be blunt. I was guilty that night I was arrested. I robbed that drugstore.”

  The landscape spun as Barrett tried to grasp his brother’s words.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Throughout the years, Barrett had believed in Wynn’s innocence. He’d believed because his brother denied any guilt—the brother he’d revered. “But you told me you didn’t do it.”

  “I told you a lie.”

  Barrett jumped to his feet, ignoring the hat that fell to the ground. “That can’t be true. They found no money on you, no proof.”

  Wynn’s mouth twisted into a smirk. “I was robbed.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “No, but it’s true. If I hadn’t been so drunk, I might have prevented the deed and certainly wouldn’t have taken part. I can’t tell you how sorry I am to disappoint you. I suppose not possessing the money should have worked in my favor.”

  “The jury assumed you’d hidden it before you were found.”

  “Yes.”

  He tried to wrap his mind around the gravity of his brother’s words. “You injured a man, Wynn.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “No, I didn’t, and that’s one thing I won’t have you thinking of me.”

  Barrett opened his mouth to argue until the truth flashed in his mind. His brother had never been a violent man, which was one of the reasons Barrett had always believed him innocent. He couldn’t imagine Wynn hurting someone. So, if he didn’t hit the druggist, who did? “You weren’t alone that night.”

 

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