A Visitation of Angels

by Carolyn Haines

  I performed my toilet in a washbasin on a stand and put on another of my conservative dresses from my days as a school marm. The years of war had taught me to be frugal with all things, even clothes that were out of style in the broader world. They were perfect for Mission, and I thanked my uncle for his wise counsel in suggesting my wardrobe. I’d adapted a more modern look since I’d moved to Mobile, and the shorter skirts of the flappers would not be accepted here. Luckily I could keep my cloche hat on and cover the fact that my hair was bobbed. All of the women I’d seen in town had long hair worn in neat buns.

  A knock came at the door and Mrs. Logan said, “Mrs. James, breakfast is ready.”

  I was eager for breakfast, and suddenly ravenous. When I opened the door I was assailed by the mouthwatering aroma of bacon cooking. I stepped into the kitchen to find Reginald at the table eating a hearty breakfast of eggs, grits, bacon, biscuits with syrup, and strong coffee. Before I could take my seat, a plate filled with food was in front of me. My eggs were scrambled, in contrast to Reginald’s over-light. I didn’t say anything but watched as Mrs. Logan stepped out the back door into the yard.

  “I told her how you liked your eggs.” Reginald was grinning. Food and a good night’s sleep had clearly improved his outlook.

  “What time is it?”

  He checked his watch. “Just after seven.”

  “Good. We can get to the jail first thing.”

  “They won’t let you talk to him.” Reginald ate a bite of biscuit. He wasn’t being contrary, just matter-of-fact.

  “They may try to stop me, but I think I have a way.”

  He sighed. “Is it going to be worth it to get under their skin? They can make it harder on Elizabeth and they already know we’re connected to her.”

  He had a point, but I needed to see this McEachern man for myself. Was he haunted? Did he carry residual energy from darkness? I needed to talk to him to be able to determine some necessary things.

  “Look, if there’s a window at the jail, I’ll get him to go there and talk to you. But you have to remain outside, Raissa.”

  I remembered the hands I’d seen on the bars when we drove into town. Reginald’s hands. The biscuit I was chewing stuck in my throat, but I washed it down with hot coffee. “A grand solution,” I said, tucking into my breakfast with the same gusto Reginald had applied to his. I would not allow a dream to dictate my behavior or emotions.

  Mrs. Logan returned with a basket of fresh eggs and refilled our coffee cups. When we asked about lodging for another night or two, she said that Elizabeth had made arrangements for the rest of the week.

  “Elizabeth seems very…independent,” I said, hoping she would open up about the woman we’d driven across most of the state to help.

  “She’s learned to take care of herself, and Callie. She’s a good friend. I can’t say that about everyone who lives in Mission. Now can I get you anything else?”

  “No thanks. If I eat this I might pop like a big tick.”

  “You two be careful in town. Elizabeth is determined to help McEachern, if she can. She needs to keep herself safe.”

  “Mrs. Logan, did you know Ruth Whelan?” Reginald asked.

  “Ruth was a good person,” she said, keeping busy at the sink and stove. I had the sense she didn’t want to look at us.

  “Do you know why McEachern or anyone else would want to kill her?” Reginald continued.

  “I don’t. Slater McEachern is a big man plenty capable of killing her the way she died. It took a powerful man to sink that cleaver so deep in her skull. But Slater’s never struck me as violent. He’s a drinker, though. Folks that get caught up in Satan’s snare of liquor can do terrible things.”

  “Did he drink to excess?” Reginald asked the practical question.

  “Never to my knowledge,” Mrs. Logan said. “The local men brew up some whiskey from time to time. Some folks just break the law.”

  “Drinking is illegal in Alabama by statewide decision, not a national law.” I wondered if the folks of Mission thought Prohibition was a federal law.

  “Any drinking at all in Mission is to excess. It’s illegal here. It goes against the church and God’s teaching.” She rinsed out her dishcloth and wrung it before she looked at Reginald. “Folks who drink any amount walk with Satan. It’s a danger to them and the rest of us. When a member of the community is weak or mired in sin, it drags the rest of us into it.”

  I wouldn’t argue with her—didn’t want to. I’d seen instances where alcohol was worse than the devil for destroying people’s lives. Some folks couldn’t stop. “Is Mr. McEachern a bad man?”

  She thought about it. “I wouldn’t have thought so.” A slight flush touched her cheek. “He stops by here to check on me and helps with some of the chores like fence mending and plowing to put in the garden. Since my husband died, Slater’s been a big help to me. To other widow women too. But good deeds don’t excuse a man from hellfire.”

  “And Mrs. Maslow?” I used the title of a married woman, giving her that shred of protection.

  “She has her peculiar ways, but she minds her own affairs. Like I said, she’s been a good friend to me.” She wanted to say more, but she stopped herself. “Now is there anything else you need?”

  “No, thank you,” Reginald said.

  We finished eating, and while Reginald checked with Mrs. Logan about a place to buy gasoline for the car, I washed up the dishes and left them in the drain board. By eight o’clock, we were driving into town.

  * * *

  I obediently—and under protest—waited in the car while Reginald went into the town offices to get permission to speak with Slater McEachern. Reginald had parked beneath a tree, but the day was already getting hot. September held little promise of autumn in Alabama. As far as I could tell, there was only one season—pretty much Hell. I’d only been in Mobile since the summer, but Uncle Brett promised me that October was a jewel as the humidity lessened and the days chilled. Seeing would be believing.

  I got out of the car and walked down the side of the road toward a general store. I didn’t need anything, but looking at the items on the shelves would at least help pass the time. I wasn’t twenty feet from the car when I saw two men standing outside the store watching me. They were the same men from yesterday. They stood perfectly still, staring at me. I kept walking. If they wanted a showdown, I was going to give it to them. I increased my stride, knowing my aggressive pace would annoy them.

  When I was fifty yards from them, they turned left and started down a side road. I almost followed, but I knew I shouldn’t provoke trouble with Reginald already at the jail. They might keep him.

  I walked on to the store and spent ten minutes looking around, taking note of the neat row of jams with Elizabeth Maslow’s name on the label. The proprietor ignored me, and I headed back to the jail. About halfway there, I knew someone was watching me. When I turned around, the two men were back, standing on the side of the road, hands hanging at their sides, just watching. Scarecrows. They stood almost like they were dead. The thought made me look more closely. But they weren’t spirits.

  I got back in the car and waited.

  I was about to give up on Reginald when I saw two hands appear at the jail bars. The sound of hammering had commenced once again behind the jail. It was so loud that I wondered if I’d be able to hear McEachern if he tried to talk to me. No way to find out but to give it a try. I hurried across the barren ground to the edge of the jail.

  “Mr. McEachern?”

  “Yes.”

  His voice was low and deep, casual, with a burr of an accent from his land of birth. Not what I’d expected.

  “Is Reginald still with you?”

  “He is.” His hands gripped the bars, but not with urgency and I noticed the mutilation of the thumb on his left hand. “He said you had questions for me.”

  I wanted to see his face, to look into his eyes, but this was the best we could do for now. I could see his hands, the fingers long
, well-formed—strong. The oval tips indicated someone who was sensitive to touch, to texture and feel. The calluses on the fingertips of his left hand and right thumb told me he played a stringed instrument.

  “I don’t know if Elizabeth told you what we do, Reginald and I.”

  “Mr. Proctor just filled me in,” he said. “I’m not certain why Elizabeth thinks you can help me. The town is determined to see me hang.” The slight brogue roughed up his bitter words.

  “Did you kill Ruth Whelan?”He would answer no, but it was his voice I wanted to hear.

  “I did not. I knew what Ruth was about, but I didn’t begrudge her a living.”

  His answer confused me. “What she was about?”

  “Your partner understands. It would be best if he explained it to you.”

  I hated to be treated like a child or simpleton—or a woman. “Why don’t you tell me?” I said. “I’m not a pampered Dumb Dora.”

  “No, you’re worldly. Lonnsachadh. A woman of culture and experience.” His laughter was deep and rich and seemed genuine. “Forgive me, but I didn’t want to shock you or talk inappropriately to a woman I can’t even see. There’s a wooden box on the other side of the jail. If you pull it around, you can stand on it and we can have a proper talk. Since I’m the only prisoner, I think we can safely talk for a bit.”

  “I’ll be right back.” I hurried around the building and stopped in my tracks when I saw what all the hammering was about. Three men were building a gallows. To hang Slater McEachern. He hadn’t even had a trial but they were already building the mechanism to kill him. I had to agree with Elizabeth: his plight was dire and he could not expect justice in Mission, Alabama. The urgency of his situation was like a dash of cold water in my face.

  I grabbed the box and dragged it back beneath the jail window that McEachern occupied. He was in a far corner of the jail, the most isolated cell as far as I could tell. When I climbed up on it, aware that I could easily be seen from the street if anyone passing cared to look, I was finally on eye level with the man. He was in need of a good bath and beard trim, but that didn’t detract from the mischief glinting in his green eyes. He wasn’t quite a ginger, but close enough to have earned his brogue. For all of the trouble he was in, he seemed amazingly lighthearted.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. James,” he said, extending his hand through the bars.

  “Mr. McEachern.” I took his fingers. The jolt that came with them was unexpected. I withdrew my fingers. Slater McEachern was a man charged with sexual energy. It was as natural to him as his handsome features. I wondered first if he was aware of it and then if Elizabeth had told us the truth about her romantic involvement with him.

  “Call me Slater, please. I haven’t enough time left for formalities.”

  I couldn’t argue with honest facts. “I saw the gallows. When is your trial?”

  “Tomorrow. I expect to be dead before sundown tomorrow. It won’t take them long to hear the evidence and render a verdict. I have no alibi. Lucais Wilkins believes he is ordained by God and that whatever decision best serves him is divinely inspired.”

  That was the second curious thing Slater had said, that the judge would benefit from his death. I’d go back to the first item on my growing list. “What kind of living did Ruth Whelan make that you didn’t begrudge?”

  “She gave comfort to some of the town’s men.” He didn’t flinch or look away. “They gave her money. It was an honest exchange. The woman had no one to provide for her and she had to figure a way to survive. The world isn’t kind to single women without family. Especially not a place like Mission.”

  I wasn’t shocked, exactly. His answer was unexpected, but logical. “Why didn’t she charge for the spring water that seems to be so special?”

  He shook his head and a hint of bitterness crept into the tightening skin around his eyes. “I mentioned that to her, but she refused. She said the spring was God’s gift, and she would not profit from something he gave so freely to all.”

  Yet she exchanged sex for money. It was a curious belief system. “Was it well known she was a street woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you a client?” I had to ask.

  “I had been, in the past. But Ruth and I became friends. Just like I’m friends with Elizabeth Maslow. There are things on a farm that a solitary woman—a solitary person—can’t do. I tried to help both women with some of those chores.”

  “Out of the goodness of your heart?” I was more worldly than he might believe. The milk of human kindness was rare to find and most often curdled.

  “Ruth was a kind woman. I liked her. I’ve been fortunate in my business dealings, and I had time to help with her roof or well. I had employees I could send if I was too busy myself.”

  “And Elizabeth?”

  “She reads tea leaves for me. She has a gift.”

  “And you believe in tea leaves?” Slater McEachern looked like a man who believed in hard work, fierce protection of what he loved, and his own set of values. That he believed in tea leaves or future predictions was a revelation.

  “I believe in many things, Raissa James. I believe in what you do. I heard about you when I was in Montgomery last month. When you helped the Sayer family, as you did Miss Zelda, you develop a reputation that travels even to places like Mission.”

  I’d wondered how Elizabeth had even heard about Pluto’s Snitch. Now I knew.

  Slater continued to talk. “Let me see if I have it straight. You named the agency because Pluto is the god of the dead and you solve mysteries that often deal with the unhappy dead.”

  “That’s true. And while Reginald and I are not formally trained as private investigators, we consider ourselves reliable snitches.” I knew I sounded stiff and formal, but it was best to maintain some professional distance. “What I want to talk about is your whereabouts on the night Ruth Whelan was murdered.”

  “No prevaricating on your part. I like a direct woman.” He grinned, and the sparkle in his eyes defied his sad circumstances. “I was at home, alone, when Ruth was killed. If I had an alibi, I’d bring it forward so I could get out of here.”

  “When was the last time you were at Ruth’s house?”

  He frowned. “The day before she was killed. I stopped by for some spring water and to help her fix a wheel on her wagon. I had to go into town and buy a hub band to replace the broken one.”

  “And did you tell anyone you were helping Mrs. Whelan?”

  “I did. Just a casual mention to Vernon McKay. He owns the dry goods store.”

  A casual mention, but it was enough that McKay could be called to testify that McEachern had been at Ruth’s house.

  Clearly McEachern agreed. “I know it looks bad, and I have to tell you that if Lucais Wilkins puts pressure on Vernon, he will testify to whatever Lucais wants him to say.”

  “The man with the most power often gets his version of justice.”

  “You’re more cynical than I expected. It’s a good trait for a private investigator.”

  “I may be young, relatively speaking, and a female, but I’m not naïve.”

  “I can see that you aren’t, and a good thing if you’re going to help me. I’m sure Elizabeth told you I’m being framed.”

  “To what purpose?” I glanced back at the empty street of the town. Soon someone would come along and I’d have to climb down from my box or risk being arrested myself.

  “A convenient scapegoat, but also it would put my holdings up for sale. There are those who covet what I’ve acquired. They know the only way to force me to sell is over my dead body.”

  “Two birds with one stone,” I remarked, thinking of how the murderer had rid himself of Ruth and freed her property, and now had also put Slater’s lands on the auction block, probably for a pittance of their worth.

  “You see the big picture, don’t you, Mrs. James?”

  “Who do you think killed Ruth Whelan? We need a direction to hunt for evidence if we’re going to pres
ent a defense.” I checked the street again. My good luck couldn’t continue to hold.

  “There are people who relish her death, but I never heard anyone mention killing her. She was quite…popular with a lot of the men. Ruth knew how to give pleasure and she wasn’t stingy. She also knew how to keep her tongue from wagging.”

  I liked Slater McEachern. Even listening to the pounding of hammers that were building the platform to hang him, he was levelheaded and clear. “The way I see it, there are two possible motives at work here. She could have been killed for her property, which Elizabeth tells me has value greater than the land itself because of the spring. But there’s also the possibility that Ruth was killed to silence her.” I threw caution to the wind because the clock was ticking. “Do you know if she was seeing anyone who might feel threatened by her? Would she attempt to blackmail anyone?”

  “Hold on there.” I could see the temper flare in his expressive eyes. “Ruth wasn’t that kind of person.”

  She was a prostitute, but she wasn’t a blackmailer. Interesting. “Are you sure?”

  “She was a kind woman. She did what she had to do to survive. She’d never try to use that to harm anyone.”

  I couldn’t help but link the very strong attachment Slater had to Ruth with the way Elizabeth protected Slater. It was an interesting triangle. “You seem very certain.”

  “There’s not a man or woman breathing who hasn’t had to do things they didn’t like, either to stay alive or to care for their families. Ruth wasn’t a thief and she didn’t take public charity. She found a way to earn her own keep. I won’t judge her on that and you shouldn’t either.”

  I felt heat rise in my face. I was judging her and he was right to call me out. “Could you make me a list of the men who frequented her home?”

  “I don’t know for certain. Ruth didn’t talk about the men she saw.” He looked past me toward the street. “Get down. Someone is coming. Your friend is giving me the signal.”

  I didn’t wait but jumped to the ground and dragged the old box to the side of the building. I had more questions for Slater, but I wouldn’t get to ask them today. I straightened my skirt and headed toward the parked car, where Reginald joined me a few minutes later.