A Visitation of Angels

by Carolyn Haines

  “I was outside the cell. I heard your conversation with Slater. Are we going with blackmail and revenge or the value of the property as the motive for Ruth’s murder?”

  “I don’t know. I do believe Slater is innocent, but who else would want her dead?”

  “We can wait to see who buys her property.”

  “Slater will be hanged by then.”

  Reginald nodded. “Let’s—”

  His suggestion was cut short when the lawman we’d spoken with the day before and three other men surrounded us as we leaned against the car.

  Chapter 6

  “Did you finish your business with Elizabeth Maslow?” Deputy Gomes asked.

  A piece of egg was stuck in his handlebar mustache and moved up and down as he talked. I couldn’t make myself look away. Reginald, too, fought the compulsion to stare. He looked past Gomes to the men standing behind him. I let my gaze follow his and recognized them as my “watchers.” It was becoming clear to me that there was a system of spies in Mission. Few things got past the nosy residents who all seemed eager to report to the law.

  “We’re enjoying our visit with Elizabeth and Callie,” Reginald said, taking the lead in the conversation, as was proper for a man.

  “That brat still alive?” Gomes asked.

  “And in the pink of health,” I said.

  Reginald stepped in front of me. “Both mother and child are fine. Is there a reason they wouldn’t be?”

  “Deformed creatures often don’t thrive. In the wild, the mother would kill a spoiled baby. You know, to stop the suffering.”

  Reginald stepped backward just enough to trap the toes of my foot under his heel. He applied gentle pressure. “Well, there are no worries about little Callie. She’s in grand health. Elizabeth said she grows stronger each day.”

  “Abomination,” one of the men muttered loud enough for us to hear. They wanted to provoke a confrontation, probably so Gomes could tell us to get out of town. He’d mentioned earlier that we should take Elizabeth and the baby away.

  “Tell me the evidence against McEachern in the murder of Ruth Whelan” Reginald said, and I admired his ability to hide his true feelings and to speak in a manner that made it seem as if he sided with Gomes. “That’s a terrible thing. So much worse when the victim is, a woman.”

  “A good woman,” the tallest of the men said. “Ruth Whelan was butchered by that savage Scotsman. Now he’s gonna swing.” His glee was disgusting.

  “I saw the gallows.” Reginald was still conversational, still with his heel lightly pinning my toes to the ground. In another minute I was going to kick him in the back of his knee with my free foot. “Do you have to build a new gallows every time there’s an execution?”

  “We don’t have much cause to hang people here,” Gomes said. His suspicion of us was fading as he dug into a topic he enjoyed. “We might get more than one use out of this gallows, though.” The men behind him laughed.

  “I heard tell there was a traveling electric chair making the rounds in the South. Less trouble, I’d think.” Reginald jumped right in, as if a public execution was just another picnic celebration.

  “There’s no electric source here. Won’t be for years.” Gomes hooked a thumb in his belt and leaned against our car. “How much longer are you staying in town? You might get to see the hanging. Trial is set to start tomorrow. The evidence is pretty damning. I’d be willing to lay a wager that McEachern swings before suppertime tomorrow.”

  Reginald eased off my toe and pulled his wallet from his pocket. “Two dollars?”

  “You taking the position that he won’t hang?” the taller man, who appeared to be the only one that wasn’t mute, asked belligerently.

  “I’m taking the opposite side of the deputy’s bet. If he wants to put his money on the possibility the execution won’t take place, then I’ll take the opposite of that.”

  Gomes snatched the money from Reginald’s hand. “He’ll hang tomorrow, and that’s my bet.”

  “And if he doesn’t, I’ll get my money back and two of your dollars?” Reginald wanted to make it clear.

  “That’s right.”

  “We might have to attend the trial,” he said, finally stepping to the side so that I could be a part of the conversation.

  “No women in the courtroom,” Gomes said. “They don’t need to fill their heads with such things.”

  “I see,” Reginald said, and to my utter fury, he winked at Gomes. “A very wise decision.”

  The three men behind Gomes—men I’d seen on the edge of town and standing in the road spying on us—laughed at my impotence. They obviously could see the anger in my face and knew there was nothing I could do. Men ruled, especially in an isolated village like Mission. These men didn’t mind grinding a boot heel into the neck of the women they had the legal right to control. I wondered if the news that Tennessee had ratified the 19th Amendment on August 18, giving women the right to vote, had even made it to Mission. Women would cast a ballot in November for the presidential election. Would what happened in the broader world matter here? I had the sense that the laws of the United States were of little importance in this place.

  Tension with the men was becoming more pointed, and Reginald reached into his pocket and drew out his billfold again, pulling out a few ones and handing them to me. “Why don’t you go over to the dry goods store and see about getting those staples Elizabeth asked about?”

  Elizabeth had asked for no such goods. Reginald was getting rid of me. While it galled me severely, I also knew he’d make more headway if I left. “Sure, I’m happy to do that. I love shopping.” I gave them my brightest smile as I grabbed the money and walked away. I could hear them talking but I didn’t turn around.

  “She’s a looker,” Gomes said, “but she needs to learn to tame that mouth of hers.”

  “It’s a process,” Reginald said, as if I were some horse he was training to pull a cart. He would pay! I kept walking. I could no longer hear the exact conversation, just the murmur of their voices and the amusement that dripped off their words. I knew he was only acting to further the case, but it stung nonetheless.

  Small puffs of dirt rose up from my feet as I made it to the store. I took a minute to lean against one of the posts, kick my shoes off, and dump the sand out of them. It wasn’t the most ladylike thing to do, but I’d had a bellyful of propriety.

  The grit poured out in a little pile on the porch. I used my bare toes to kick it off the unpainted boards. Mission didn’t have a single paved road, and so far I’d seen only one other car. The town also made do without any electrical power. Hand pumps for water were in people’s front yards, and women cooked over woodstoves, lugging the cut wood from a shed at the back of the property. When a woman put in a day’s labor, she worked, hard. Men too. Those who farmed or cut timber went at it furiously, often heading for the fields or forests at daybreak and not stopping until dusk.

  Two horses were tied to the rail in front of the store. I walked up to the nearest and let my palm slide over the silky muzzle. Life was hard for the horses and oxen that pulled the wagons, carriages, plows, and logs. This was a fine saddle horse, and one whose spirit had not been crushed by brutal training. It watched me with interest and alertness, welcoming my touch. Cars were slowly replacing the work horses across the country and that was a good thing. Progress was slow in such isolation, though. It would be a long time before motor cars or any kind of power or telephone grid came to Mission, and I suspected the men who ran the community liked it that way. Isolation was one of the best tools for keeping people “tractable.”

  I glanced down the street. Reginald was following the four men into the office building. He didn’t look back at me. A flame of resentment shot through me, even knowing he was doing the smart thing. Reginald and I were true partners in the agency, and it stung for him to treat me as less than, even when it was for the case. I took a breath, realizing I had to control my unreasonable response. Were I in his shoes, I would do exact
ly the same and he would not bat an eye.

  “Ma’am?”

  The silky voice made me turn around abruptly to find a tall, slender man, clean shaved and wearing glasses, standing at my elbow.

  “That’s my horse,” he explained, untying the reins from the hitching post.

  The bay horse whinnied to the man, as if greeting him. “What’s his name?”

  He laughed. “Naming an animal is sentimental foolishness.” He leaned closer. “But his name is Sir John Monash.”

  I laughed. It wasn’t a name I was expecting, but one I knew well from the letters my husband had sent me.

  “This horse has superlative good sense and so I named him after the Australian general who performed brilliantly in the war.”

  I hadn’t expected his answer. “My husband was killed in France.” I forced myself to continue, to find something less emotional to say. “Alex said the Aussy soldiers were teased about being either miners or cowboys, so they called them diggers.” Even though I no longer cried every day, it was still hard to force the casual words out. I missed my husband, and at times like this, when I was startled into the memory, the pain was sudden and swift.

  “I’m sorry.” He tucked the few articles he’d bought in the store into saddlebags. “I lost a lot of friends myself.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Mrs….”

  “James.” I held out a hand and he shook it without hesitation, a mark in his favor.

  “Michael Trussel.”

  “And you live here in Mission?” I asked. The sun pounded down on us, and I looked at the store’s shady porch with longing. “Might we step into the shade?”

  “Of course.” He retied his horse and offered me his arm. He walked me to a couple of rockers that had been placed with a barrel between them. I’d seen the set up all over rural Alabama. Someone would put a checkerboard on the barrel and men who were finished with work for the day would relax with a game. Often drinking was involved, but not in Mission.

  “May I get you something cool to drink?” Michael offered. “It’s September, but it seems no one has told the sun.”

  I liked the way he phrased things. Whether I admitted it or not, he was intriguing. “Some water, if there’s any to be had.”

  He went into the store and in a few moments returned with two glasses of water. “Vernon keeps water on hand. The days are hot and hard for farmers.”

  “Is this the magic spring water?” I asked it with a casual smile but I wondered if this was the healing water I’d heard about.

  “Ah, you’ve heard of the healing properties of the spring that’s on Ruth Whelan’s land.”

  I decided to press my luck. “I have. A magical spring that has the power to heal and also the prime ingredient of the best corn whiskey around.” His eyes narrowed but he remained completely composed. “And I heard it might be a motive for Ruth’s murder.”

  “Folks do love to gossip.” Michael smiled, but only with his lips. “I heard some talk about you and that fellow you’re traveling with.” If censure was there, it was hidden. “You’re family to Elizabeth Maslow.”

  “So we are. Such a lovely woman and that baby is a joy.”

  He nodded. “Elizabeth must have told you about the spring.”

  “She did. I’m not sure she believes it has healing properties.”

  “Oh? She and Ruth were friends. I figured they’d back up each other’s stories.”

  I couldn’t read Michael Trussel. Was he friend or foe? A believer or non-believer? I wished Reginald would come out of the building and stroll over. He was far better at seeing through the disguises that people threw up.

  “Tell me about Mission,” I requested. “How was this area settled? Timber, mining, what?” Reginald and I had done as much research on the area as we could, but it was always best to hear what the locals had to say.

  “There are some caves north of town and there was a mining interest. Coal and some precious metals.” A shadow passed over his face but was instantly gone. “Not for me. The extraction was too difficult. There are easier veins of coal to get to if one must mine.” He shrugged. “The loggers came for the virgin timber. They’re still cutting. It’s hard to get the wood to market, though, and again, there are much easier places to cut logs.”

  “Is the soil here rich and fertile?”

  “A little too alkaline, but a farmer who knows his business can do all right.” He turned his full attention to me. “You know a lot about farming.”

  “Not a lot. I was a schoolteacher. I know a little about a lot of subjects.”

  “They never had schoolteachers who looked like you when I was taking my lessons. Maybe I can talk my old schools into importing a few.”

  I laughed at the overt flattery. “I understand wanting to explore new places, but why come here? Why this particular place?”

  “I was hired to come here.”

  “I see.” But I didn’t. Now I knew to probe with caution. “May I ask why you were hired to come here?”

  “I was a Pinkerton agent.” He took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief. “I was sent to search for a missing man.”

  I thought of Elizabeth’s brother, Ramone. “And did you find him?”

  “I did. He was heir to a Boston banking fortune, but his money couldn’t help him. He’d been robbed and murdered. By a woman in Victoria. She’d buried him in her herb garden. I do believe it was the finest crop of basil I’d ever seen.”

  I laughed out loud. I couldn’t help it. His irreverence was scandalous. “That’s terrible.”

  “People do terrible things all the time.” He stared into my eyes. “I suspect you’ve seen your share.”

  I looked down, grateful that I could use the guise of a demure young woman to break his inquisitive look. A proper woman always looked down from a direct stare.

  “Are you still a Pinkerton?”

  “Oh, no. I’m a…salesman. In fact, I was calling on Vernon in the store to see if he needed any of my wares.”

  “You sell pots and pans and tin whistles.” I moved the conversation back to a lighter place.

  “No, my wares are medicinal. I sell healing elixirs, compounds that can break a fever, the braces and wrappings for setting a leg, drawing salve, a potion for teething babies to sooth the gums.”

  “You’re a doctor?”

  “No. I merely sell the supplies that doctors need to work effectively.”

  “How did you come about this profession?” It seemed a stretch to go from detective to medical supply salesman.

  “The young man I was paid to find. The one in the herb garden. It was his job. I took it over. I’d had enough of crime and tragedy. I decided on a new career.”

  I sat perfectly still, the many implications nudging against me. The sun was blisteringly hot, and it was so bright it burned the color out of the road. Even Sir John Monash, who’d been a dark mahogany bay with black stockings, was now a faded sepia. And standing just at the horse’s shoulder was a young man. The side of his head was caved in, and blood had washed down his neck and torso and into his pants and shoes. He held a hammer in his hand. And he watched me and the man I talked to.

  “Have you ever thought that you might be haunted?” I asked Michael.

  His brow furrowed. “A lively change in the conversation, I’ll give you that. Perhaps we could discuss this over dinner tonight.”

  The dead man stroked the horse’s neck and I wondered if Michael had inherited the dead man’s horse as well as his job. “I’d like that,” I said. Michael Trussel knew things about dead people, and I wanted him to tell me.

  Chapter 7

  Michael Trussel took his leave, saying he would call for me at six o’clock at Mrs. Hattie Logan’s house. I had some trepidation, but Michael was an observant man who’d been in the area while looking for a murder victim. If he was any good at his job as a Pinkerton, he’d have observations about the residents of Mission, if not more substantial information.
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  I took the water glasses into the store and set them on the counter. Vernon McKay gave me a knowing look. “Mr. Trussel is popular with the ladies,” he said.

  “He has charm,” I agreed. “And he seems to like women. That’s not the case with all men.” I met his gaze with a level one of my own as I talked. McKay’s disapproval of me was clear. “Some men appear to consider us a necessary evil.”

  McKay walked out the front door and looked up and down the road in both directions before he returned to stand behind the counter. “You’re of great interest to the people in this community. I hope you realize someone has been watching you since you came to town.”

  “I am aware. I just don’t know why. I’ve never been of much interest to anyone except my family and husband, who died in the war.” I got it out quickly. It was important that he know that I had been married but was widowed. “Why are these people watching me?”

  “Not many strangers come to Mission. Even fewer stay. The town’s in turmoil over the murder of a good woman. The trial of the murdering rascal who killed her begins in the morning.”

  It was good that Vernon McKay wouldn’t be sitting on the jury for Slater McEachern. “I heard about the murder. A terrible thing. Who would do such an awful thing to a woman?”

  “Someone who wanted her property,” McKay said.

  “And this man in custody is the only one who would benefit from owning that land?”

  “He’d benefit the most.”

  “Did you know Mrs. Whelan?”

  “I did. She was a good woman. Worked hard, came to church every Sunday. Helped out old Doc Wainwright with some nursing when he called on her. Good Christian woman.”

  The storekeeper had to be aware of the rumors about Ruth Whelan. He was merely choosing to ignore them. Or possibly he was someone who visited Ruth in the dead of night, looking for the sin that daylight should never expose. “She was a widow, I heard. That’s a hard life even in a town with milk delivery, schools, and fresh produce. Out here, so isolated, how in the world did she make ends meet?” I kept my eyes wide and innocent.