Rekindling Trust

by Sandra Ardoin

  She urged the horse into a trot. “I don’t have time to convince you to stay here, Mr. Peters, so hold on.”

  BARRETT SAT ACROSS the table from Officer Brennan, pulled from his pocket the sheet of paper he’d gotten from Timothy, and placed it on the table inside the familiar small room of the police station.

  “Unless you have evidence to prove the Westin boy didn’t set that fire, there’s not much I can do for you, Mr. Seaton.”

  “I think I have a way of getting that evidence but will need your help.” Barrett pushed the paper with Andy’s fingerprint across the table. “This has Andy’s thumbprint. He said he never touched the board. I’m asking you to examine it for that print. I think you can agree that it would have been impossible for him to hit Mr. Stark hard enough to knock him out without using both hands, including his thumbs.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed as though he tried to see the impossibility in his mind. “I expect so.”

  “If I’m right, you won’t find that print on the board.”

  “You know fingerprints aren’t admissible in court cases.”

  “You and I know that, but do the Larson brothers? I doubt it. A little pressure while telling them there’s proof Andy never touched that wood might convince them to tell the truth.”

  The officer scratched the back of his head. “I don’t know, Mr. Seaton.”

  “If we don’t try, we’ll send an innocent child to a reform school.” Barrett raised the paper in his hand. “I’m not advocating for a lie. What I hope is that being faced with an impossibility, those boys will confess on their own.”

  “That’s only if we don’t find Andrew Westin’s fingerprints on the board.”

  “Understood.” It was a gamble, one that might prove to be Andy’s undoing, but it also might prove he didn’t injure Mr. Stark.

  “Wait here. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Officer Brennan walked out of the room, leaving the door open. While Barrett waited, sudden, commanding shouts and heavy footfalls drew him into the main room of the police station.

  Two officers scuffled with a man who attempted to break free of their hold and run for the exit. The officers spun the man around, giving Barrett a good view of his face.

  Vincent Dulong.

  Barrett walked up to the front counter. “What’s going on?”

  The officer behind the counter glared at Claude Dulong’s son. “The idiot thought that as long as he confessed to the murder of his father, we would say all is forgiven.”

  Barrett jerked his gaze back to the young man. So far, the officers maintained their hold. “He confessed to the Dulong murder?”

  “With a little persuasion from his mother.”

  Barrett studied the swollen bruise on the man’s face. “Her work?”

  “Seems she did a little investigating of her own after your visit and found the rest of that telegram in her son’s room. The young man was known to be spoiled, mostly by her, but she gave him what for when she learned the truth of how and why her husband died.”

  As soon as he’d connected Vincent Dulong with the paper he’d found in the shack, Barrett had given Officer Souter his suspicions involving Asa Osbourne. He’d insisted they look for both men but only anticipated Dulong’s son to be questioned about the embezzlement, not the murder. He’d credited Osbourne with that crime. “Is his confession trustworthy?”

  “We think so. Evidently, Claude Dulong contacted an Army friend of his, some muckety-muck, and learned his son had been caught drunk on guard duty. The Army gave him six months hard labor, but when Vincent got out, he told everyone he’d earned an honorable discharge. Somehow, the other man we’re looking for discovered the truth and tried to blackmail the elder Dulong into embezzling from the brewery.”

  So Barrett was right about Osbourne but wrong about the role of Vincent Dulong. He’d looked at the murder as one of rage, yet imagined Osbourne as cold and calculating. He should have seen the two didn’t go together. “What set off Vincent to kill his father?”

  “The old man said no to the embezzlement. He’d had enough of the son’s antics. When Vincent learned he would sink or swim on his own, he became furious. He figured hearing of his bad behavior wouldn’t have set well with his fiancée’s respectable family, and she might call off the wedding.”

  High-pitched screams and screeches came from the young Dulong as he continued to struggle for freedom. The policeman grimaced at the sound but remained behind the counter, appearing confident in the skill of his fellow officers to bring their prisoner under submission.

  The officer shook his head. “What a sad state.”

  Sad, indeed. “Have you found Osbourne?”

  “Not yet.”

  Tanner had called him a ghost. He’d certainly disappeared.

  With a violent yank, Dulong wrenched free. His feet stuttered back, sending him into Barrett who, for a moment, was knocked off-balance too. Before Dulong could lurch away, Barrett leaned forward and grabbed the man, encompassing the flailing arms with his own.

  Dulong tried to drive an elbow into Barrett’s ribs, giving them a glancing blow. Using his greater height and strength, Barrett hung on, restraining him until the policemen managed to cuff their prisoner. With nods of thanks, they ushered the now-sobbing Dulong toward the cells at the back of the police station.

  Barrett turned back to the officer behind the counter, breathing hard. His spirits soared with both satisfaction and exhilaration. He couldn’t wait to reunite Jeremiah and Mary Quincy. “I’d like my client discharged.”

  “I’ve already started the paperwork, Mr. Seaton.”

  “Thank you.”

  Barrett sobered. Osbourne hadn’t done the stabbing, but the mysterious man embodied a danger that must be stopped before someone else was hurt.

  EDYTHE TUGGED THE REINS, halting Jester in front of Barrett’s house. She turned to the dog. “Stay!” Not that she expected the order to be obeyed.

  By now, complete darkness had fallen, yet no light shown through the front windows. Perhaps they were in the kitchen. She beat on the front door and called Barrett’s name, waited a few seconds, and beat again. With no answer, the hope of finding her son here plummeted along with the evening’s temperature.

  Now what? She spun toward the street and rubbed her forehead as if rubbing an answer into her brain. Where else would Andy have gone?

  She should have seen something like this coming. When she told him the Larson boys blamed him, red mottled his face and his eyes darkened. No, he’d said. They were to blame for everything.

  Could he have gone to the boys’ house to confront them?

  Edythe trotted to the street and started at the dark figure on the seat of the gig. She had forgotten Mr. Peters. “Good boy for obeying.”

  The day Andy told Officer Brennan what happened at the Stark place, he also told the policeman where to find the Larson brothers, so she turned Jester in that direction.

  A few minutes later, she pulled up in front of a small house, its yard hemmed in by a horseshoe-shaped clump of trees. Blackness surrounded the ramshackle structure like an ominous prophecy, but a dim light glowed inside. Oddly, it gave that portion of the house an even more tumbledown and eerie appearance.

  If she were sensible, she’d drive on. But Andy could be inside. When it came to her child, she’d risk her welfare in a moment to see that he was safe.

  She glanced at her shaggy companion. While not known for his competence as a guard dog, Mr. Peters’ sheer size might deter any threats. The dog stared at the house. A low growl emanated from his throat, encouraging Edythe. He might be reacting to her apprehension, or he could have hidden talents none of them realized.

  “Let’s go, Mr. Peters.” The dog jumped to the ground and followed her to the house.

  After several knocks, the door opened and a boy a few years older than Andy glared at her. “What do you want?”

  A younger child—presumably Hollis—joined his brother. With enlarged eyes, he st
ruck Edythe as terrified. She would blame his fear on Mr. Peters, but the boy hadn’t given the dog a second glance.

  She drew in a breath of courage. Heavens, the bulky Tad Larson was intimidating for someone so young. “I’m Mrs. Westin. I’m looking for Andy.”

  “He ain’t here.”

  A short, simple, and unsatisfactory response. “Have you seen him in the last few hours?”

  The dog growled again as though warning the boy to tell the truth.

  “I told you he ain’t here.”

  Edythe used the little light available to examine an ugly mark on Tad’s cheek. Someone had hit the boy recently. She couldn’t imagine him permitting Hollis to do such damage without taking his revenge, but the younger child displayed no visible marks.

  Where were their parents? “I’d like to speak with your mother and father.”

  “They ain’t here either.”

  Mr. Peters sniffed the ground around the wooden steps and skimmed his nose along what seemed to be a trail that rounded the corner of the house.

  The younger boy gripped the arm of his brother. “Tad.”

  Tad grimaced at the animal. “We don’t like dogs on our property, lady. Get him off.”

  Sarah Jane’s dog barked, eager for her attention. “I’d say there’s something about you or your property he doesn’t like.”

  Rather than call Mr. Peters back, she tracked him to the rear of the yard where he stopped near the door of a shed and whined. The sound of footfalls shuffling through grass and fallen leaves told her the Larsons kept pace behind her.

  “What’s in this building?”

  “None of your business.” Tad picked up a stick and threw it at Mr. Peters, striking him on the hindquarters. The dog yelped and ran to the safety of the trees.

  Edythe had held to her waning patience by a thread. She wheeled on the boys. “Stop that!”

  Mr. Peters had run off, but he’d led her here for a reason.

  “Mama?”

  She almost missed the faint voice coming from inside the building. “Andy?”

  “Mama, in here.”

  Tad Larson edged between Edythe and the door. After shoving the teen aside with a physical strength that surprised her, she raised the thick and solid board laid across the door. Yanking the wooden handle, she entered the small space. Her nose wrinkled at the smell of oil and the accumulated dust that threatened a sneeze. “Where are you, Andy?”

  He rose from a corner of the murky interior and crossed the space, a large pail in his hand. Behind them, the door slammed shut and the board on the outside fell into place with a loud and menacing thud.

  Outside, Hollis shouted, “What are you doing, Tad?”

  Then nothing.

  Left in blackness as intense as the despised cellar of her childhood, Edythe clutched her son and struggled not to scream.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Once Dulong was escorted to a cell, Barrett returned to the room where Officer Brennan had left him.

  Time ticked by. The officer finally reappeared, carrying the board and the sheet of paper Barrett had borrowed from Timmy. “We found nothing to match the thumb print you gave us. You realize, of course, we can’t take your word for it that this print belongs to Andrew Westin. We’ll need to get our own sample.”

  “I’m hoping you won’t need it. Will you go with me to the Larson house?”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  The officer released a heavy breath. “I suppose it won’t hurt to ask the boys a few more questions.”

  Minutes later, Barrett stopped the carriage in front of a place as daunting as the older boy’s glower. “What are the parents like?”

  “Can’t say.”

  He eyed Brennan. “You didn’t meet them when you questioned the boys?”

  “The children were home alone at the time.”

  Children had few enough rights in society. They should at least enjoy the right to have their parents present when speaking with the police.

  Noticing a faint light in the broken-down house, the two men approached the door and Barrett knocked. On the other side of the wood, the hiss of an argument ensued. Though he couldn’t understand all that was said, he recognized the voices as belonging to two young males.

  Brennan called out, “Open up to the police.”

  One of the voices, perhaps the younger boy, squealed and the pitch grew higher. A few seconds later, everything quieted and the door opened, revealing a portion of the oldest Larson boy’s scowling face. “They ain’t here.”

  Barrett cocked his head at the statement. “Who isn’t here?”

  He glanced behind him. “Uh...our folks. Yeah. They ain’t here.”

  “When will they return?”

  “Don’t know.”

  The answer left Barrett with a dilemma. Time dwindled for Andy. Did they question the boys as planned or wait until the parents returned?

  Brennan showed no such quandary and pushed the door open, shoving Tad a few steps back. “We want some answers, boys. Why did you assault Mr. Stark and burn his shed?”

  Barrett walked into the two-room house after the officer. Although he wasn’t above using a little intimidation when warranted, he hadn’t intended to browbeat the children. He’d hoped to present them with the facts in a more subtle manner and see where it led. At least, at first.

  The smell of burned beans—the most pleasant of the odors hanging about the house—reminded Barrett he hadn’t had his supper. Not that the boys’ meal tempted him.

  A few faded clothes were strewn over worn furniture that hadn’t seen a dusting in ages. Trash littered the floors, and a draft from a broken window chilled the room. In a far corner, a half-drawn curtain hid a portion of an unmade bed, and a half-filled burlap sack lay on the floor beside it.

  The younger boy’s quick breaths and contorted face continued to reflect his fear. He—Hollis was it?—ducked behind his brother. “You ain’t gonna hit us, are you?”

  “No, boy, I won’t hit you.” The officer’s tone softened—some. “But I want the truth.”

  Barrett peered closer at the mark on Tad’s cheek. “Looks as though someone’s already hit you. Who?”

  The boy’s hand sprang to cover the reddish mark. “Nobody. I tripped.”

  In the past, Barrett had seen the faces of women who had “tripped” and come away with skin that turned black and blue.

  His gaze drifted to the clothes. Something about them, other than their shabby condition, intrigued him. “Where are your parents?”

  Hollis gulped, and Tad said, “I told you. They ain’t here.”

  “They ‘ain’t here’ now or not at all?”

  The policeman studied the room, his frown revealing he’d come to the same conclusion as Barrett. These children lived alone. “Sit down boys.”

  “You can’t—”

  “I said sit down.”

  Hollis obeyed immediately, Tad with reluctance. Both sat on the edge of the tattered old davenport planted in front of a wall covered in yellowed newspaper.

  “Now answer Mr. Seaton’s question. Where are your parents?”

  “Ma’s dead.”

  Tad glared at his brother. “I told you to keep your mouth shut.”

  Barrett knelt in front of Hollis. If either of them told the truth, it would come from the youngest and most frightened. Time to divide and conquer. “And your father?”

  The boy glanced at his brother, then his gaze stuck to the badge on Officer Brennan’s uniform coat. “He left a month ago and ain’t come back.”

  Tad snorted. “No loss for us.”

  What had these boys suffered in their young lives?

  Barrett arrived at the house wanting nothing more than to see them punished for their lies and violent deeds...for justice to prevail and Andy freed from blame. At the same time, he wished to find the man who’d ducked out on his responsibility to care for his children, to raise them to become moral, decent human beings.

  Br
ennan whipped out a notebook and ink pad from a pocket of his uniform. “You boys place your fingers on this pad one at a time, ink them up, and then press them to the paper.”

  Hollis began to shake. “W-why?”

  “We already know the fingerprints we found on the board don’t belong to Andrew Westin, so that leads me to conclude one of you struck Mr. Stark.” The officer provided the explanation with the ease of ordering a sandwich for his lunch. He held out the ink pad, but the boys merely stared at it. “Come on, now.”

  Tad sat back and crossed his arms. “We don’t have to do that.”

  Barrett laid his hand on Hollis’ arm. “When a man does something wrong, he needs to take responsibility. He doesn’t compound it by blaming someone else. This is your opportunity to be a man and tell the truth of what happened that night.”

  Tad grabbed his brother’s other arm. “Don’t do it, Hollis. They’re trying to trick you.”

  Tears filled Hollis’ eyes. “B-but, Tad, they’ll see. They’ll know.”

  “I said shut up.” Tad’s command lacked harshness, and Barrett waited for the facts he’d come to hear.

  EDYTHE’S EYES STRAINED to adjust to the darkness inside the windowless building, just as her nerves strained against the temptation to panic.

  Her breathing quickened and her head grew light. She fought the memories the entrapment raised, the bone-shaking terror over the possibility of never being found. In the quiet, she heard the cackle of her grandfather and his taunts about graves. He’d claimed to be teasing her, but as far as Edythe was concerned, the man had been insane.

  Beating back the impulse to slide into a state of hysteria, she employed her role as a mother—the protector of her son—and dwelled on the fury she felt toward the Larson boys and herself. How reckless of her to turn her back on them as she had done with her grandfather. She supposed she should consider herself fortunate they hadn’t knocked her or Andy unconscious as they’d done to poor Mr. Stark.

  She swallowed. What if they set the shed on fire?