by M. G. Meaney
"Turquoise. The sweater was turquoise," the rector corrected.
"Really? It looked blue. Maybe it was the light. You take that chance when you buy from peddlers."
"How was Jenks when they saw him?"
"That's a bit strange. Hannah said he was practically buoyant. Thought she'd never get rid of him, he was so chatty. Of course, Hannah's a talker herself, so who can tell? Maybe she was doing the chatting. But she said he was in very high spirits, she thinks because of the snow. It was just starting."
"Why would he be happy about snow?"
"Reminded him of the homeland, he told her. The cold weather invigorated him. I suppose when you lug about a pack as bulky as his, you overheat quickly. They talked about the weather, her children, the stove business. He had checked her in his order book if he had it with him, I suppose. No one saw him with it. He must have noted the orders or the gossip privately."
"You said something was strange."
"Yes. By the time he got to Ann with the gloves, his mood had changed. He was distracted, she said. Almost forgot to give her her change. I bet."
"How distracted?" Haviland asked, ignoring the snide remark.
"Mildly. He did not chat long, seemed unable to concentrate, didn't try hard to sell her anything else, and he always does. He just pulled out a scarf or two and shrugged and repacked when she shook her head. Not normal for him. It was the same with the others. No inquiries after the children or grandchildren, half-hearted sales pitch. He seemed pensive, withdrawn, if you can call a peddler pensive. Any by the time he reached Amelia Theall's he was in a complete panic."
"Yes. Was he looking behind him and fearful at the other stops?"
"No one mentioned it. I could ask again, although I questioned them as intensely as you can when someone is trying on a petticoat."
"Did he say anything that might have indicated why his mood changed? Did he mention anyone?"
"Not that anyone remembered. His English was just a touch above rudimentary." And not that anyone would particularly care about a peddler's mood, she said to herself. "But something happened either on Main Street here or just a ways up Westchester. And whatever it was it had him well-frightened by the time he made the mile up to Indian Hill. But what?"
"Maybe he was realizing how bad the snow would be? Or he could have argued with someone, or learned something disturbing, or maybe someone threatened him? That would explain his looking behind him at Mrs. Theall's."
"Those boys," Abigail suggested. "The ones who threw snowballs at him out front of Amelia's."
"They might explain his fear at Mrs. Theall's, but what about earlier? It took him at least two hours to make his way there from here. Surely they were not following him the entire time?"
"Unless they had threatened him downtown and he ran into them later."
"I must find out where they were earlier."
"So must I, and I'll wager I'll find out sooner than you," Abigail teased.
"Where did he go here? Into every shop?"
"Probably, except mine and David Seaman's and Tom Slater's. You can't sell clothes to clothiers. I'll ask around, but he usually pestered everyone."
"I'll ask as well," Haviland put in. Then he told her of his prickly interview with Thaddeus Acker.
"Sounds just like him," Abigail remarked. "The great industrialist and civic philosopher. Building up his business, and with it the village, is his great passion. You are either for progress or against it in his eyes."
"He is not much involved in civic matters, given his views."
"He gets involved when he has to, for the factory's sake, sometimes for the greater good. The factory organizes the annual fair, but that's about the only thing he's involved in regularly. He shies away from the spotlight, does his manipulating behind the scenes — a lunch with the mayor, a talk with the constable on the street, a word here, a word there. He generally gets what he wants. After all, Paulding would be practically a ghost town without the factory, or that's what he'd like us to believe."
"Would he have had some grudge with Zife Jenks? He lives near Amelia Theall, and Jenks was most perturbed when he arrived there. And Mr. Acker departed in haste shortly after Jenks arrived at Mrs. Theall's."
"Tad Acker probably didn't even know Zife Jenks existed until after he was murdered. That's my guess. He never deals with peddlers, or immigrants of any sort for that matter."
"Is that so?"
"He's never said it, but there's not a one at the factory. Ironic considering he's one himself, but he is so well-spoken, well-educated and, well, rich, that he, and the village, consider himself an American. For all I know, he may be one of the first to sign up for Sam Merritt's Paulding for Americans Society."
"But why then would he seem so perturbed that I was asking questions about Zife Jenks' murder if it meant nothing to him? He accused me of trying to destroy the village."
"Of course. Are you a builder or a destroyer? Every worker in that factory has been asked that question at least once. It's his favorite. Oh, Tad doesn't like his tranquility disturbed, or the village's. Bad for the inventiveness. It might delay the creation of his next nut mangler or bolt basher."
She turned. "I have to get back," she announced with a hint of regret. They began walking slowly down Main Street.
"But why look downtown for suspects," she asked, "when we have some right at hand — those boys who were throwing the snow at him — and what about the farmers on Indian Hill Road itself? Old Ellwood Dusenberry's crotchety incarnate, and he was convinced Jenks was stealing his tools. His farm is right up the road."
"But what about the order book? It was found half-way to the village. Why would Mr. Dusenberry hide it so far out of his way? And why would he kill someone" — he was about to say "hack someone up" but thought better of the language in front of Abigail — "over a few tools?"
"Did you see that?" she interrupted. "Someone's watching us, from the rooftop across the street. I looked over and he disappeared. Two stores up from my shop. Look the other way. Maybe he'll peek out again."
They walked along, glancing at the spot, but saw nothing more.
"Maybe I imagined it," Abigail said after a time, unconvinced. "Anyway, old Ellwood gets riled over the darndest things. Ten years ago, he winged the village tax collector with buckshot. Seems Ellwood was a tad behind after a slow spell and Alpheus Peck paid a visit to remind him. Well, Ellwood had him served up some tea and cake, all neighborly, until he found out why he had come. Ellwood took the cake plate right out of his hand as he was eating, dumped the cup of tea into his lap, then headed to the cupboard to fetch his hunting rifle. Well, Alpheus got the message. He grabbed his hat, burst out the door, leaped into his buggy and whipped his horse into a fury. Ellwood got off a couple of shots as he drove past the gate and turned onto the road. Shot clipped him in the right arm. No real harm done. Alpheus fussed and fumed. He was going to drag that lunatic Ellwood to court and get him thrown into jail if it was the last thing he did. But when he calmed down he realized Ellwood would get out of jail one day, fuming worse, and might finish the job. So, he let it pass. Ellwood did pay his taxes when times improved. But don't think he wouldn't kill someone over some tools. If he went after Alpheus Peck, he wouldn't give a second thought to going after a peddler."
They were standing in front of the shop now.
"Women's and Girls' Clothing," a neatly lettered sign stated. "Hannah Gedney, Abigail Carhart, proprietors." A frilly light blue dress was displayed in the window.
"I found something strange in the woods across from where Jenks was attacked," Haviland said, trying to put it delicately. "A fox. ..."
"A fox? Alive? Dead?"
"Well, dead, but, you see, it was not an entire fox."
"She turned to him, eager. "Not an entire fox? What then? Half a fox? What are you saying?"
"I'm sorry I brought it up," he fumbled. "Perhaps it would be better left unspoken."
"U
nspoken? It is far too late to unspeak a dead part of a fox."
"Well, then, it was the head, a fox's head."
"A severed head? Where?"
"On a tree. On a tree branch."
"Impaled? A fox's head impaled on a tree?"
"Displayed might be more precise," he corrected, surrendering any attempt at maintaining decorum.
"Was there anything else?" she asked.
"No. Nothing else. What do you make of it?"
"She smiled a greeting to a customer entering the shop, thought a moment and said: "I remember a couple of years ago a pig's head was found lying on the river bank, a bit above the village. It was standing upright and looking out at the river — not really, of course. Then, there were some chicken heads. Oh, it must be half a dozen years back, five of them placed on fence posts in front of Aggie Halstead's place off Westchester Avenue, next to the cemetery.
There were rumors of voodoo or some secret society, but more likely it was the boys she was always chasing out of the graveyard. If it was a spell, it worked too. Aggie was dead inside of a month. Of course, she was 93."
She glanced inside the shop. "Oh, I must go. Mother is overwhelmed. I'll keep my ears open." She chose not to call him by his familiar name, still finding it awkward.
"I'll do more than that," he said lightly. "I'll stick my nose into more people's business." He bowed. "Good day and thank you." He elected not to call her Abigail, in fact not to call her anything. They had entered a stage where "Mrs. Carhart" and "Reverend Haviland" were too formal, but first names too familiar. So they called each other nothing.
The shop door closed, setting off a little bell inside. He continued slowly down the wooden sidewalk. When he was three doors along, a muffled scream escaped from Abigail's shop. He rushed back. The door was flung open. Three women cascaded from the shop in panic, one still sporting a plumed bonnet she had been trying on. Haviland grabbed the door and strode in.
Between a pink-and-white-striped dress and a cream-colored petticoat crouched the Leatherman.
The scream had come from Abigail's mother, Sarah Gedney. She cowered behind the counter, wielding a pair of shears and a yellow shawl. Abigail stood, hands on hips, five feet from the intruder.
"What is it you want? Why did you frighten my customers?" she was demanding.
"You do not want the truth. You want convenience, a carousel, not a stallion," the wild-haired, scarred giant declaimed far more loudly than necessary. His smell of sweat and moss jangled against the shop's sedate fragrances of crinoline, muslin and wool.
"What are you talking about?" Abigail demanded again.
"You would make me your next sacrifice to your god of civic righteousness. His torchbearers harass me from sun to moon, unyielding, blind to truth, deaf to justice."
Haviland stepped up. "Constable Stillwell has been questioning you again?"
"Goading, prodding relentlessly. I should have left you to wallow in your putrid ignorance, your laughable smugness. They ignore the truth and kill the truth-bringer. When will it end?"
"It does not help that you refuse to say where you were that day," Haviland said, unconvinced. "You found the order book. It is only logical for the constable to turn to you first."
"Truth resides not in logic's house. Have you not learned that lesson yet, oh killer priest? You saw, you believed and you erred. Will you all do so again?"
"We, at least Abigail and I, will not do so. We are looking inside the village for the murderer. The constable will go his way, and we ours, for the moment. But we have every intention of finding the truth."
"This time," the Leatherman added sarcastically.
"This time," Haviland conceded. "But why will you not say where you were that day?"
"Does the sun set a clock? Do birds read maps? I know it is day. I know it is night. Which day, which night it matters not."
Abigail was thinking that the shades of brown in his patchwork tunic might make an interesting combination in a bodice and dress. But she cringed when his hands came to rest on the clothes nearby.
"I assure you," Haviland was telling him. "I will talk with the constable and urge him to cease, though whether he will listen I know not."
Abigail put in: "Why don't you just head upcountry for a while?"
"I must tend to my vines," he said simply.
"What does a severed fox head mean to you?" Haviland asked suddenly. Abigail's mother gasped.
The Leatherman grew even more agitated. "Where?" he demanded.
"On a tree in woods across the street from where Zife Jenks was killed."
The Leatherman stared at Haviland, as if absorbing this information. He looked at Abigail, then at her mother, who gave a cry and again ducked behind the counter. Then he came out from between the dress and petticoat and moved warily past Abigail and up to Haviland. He looked down into Haviland's eyes.
"The Evil One," he croaked, and lurched out the back door.
CHAPTER 11
That night, the anti-immigrant forces struck. They broke into Jaroslir Capynski's dyeing shop, punctured tins of dyes and poured some onto the floor to create a ragged American flag. They ripped the wheels off Frederick Kaiser's meat delivery wagon. And they smashed the windows of Adolphus Bronk's harness shop and slashed the harnesses in storage for customers.
"There were three or four of them, in black capes and with black hoods over their faces," Abigail was telling Haviland outside Bronk's shop. She had stopped by to apologize for the vandals and offer her help. Haviland was arriving for the same reasons. "No one saw anyone in the shops, but these characters were seen skulking down by the river by someone leaving the inn just before it closed. Everybody assumes Sam Merritt had a hand in it, but no one recognized any of the figures, or so they say."
"Won't the constable investigate?"
"About as hard as he's investigating the peddler's murder. Some say Charlie Stillwell was in it with Sam," Abigail said.
"I see. I see, but I hope they're wrong. These people do not realize how this will poison the village. The constable should. Are at least some people upset?"
"Oh, the gossips are tut-tutting, shaking their heads, but I think more of them agree with old Sam than will say so. They see these foreigners as some other — lesser — species and not to be trusted. Their sense of decency competes with their disdain. They surely would not want to see anyone from the old families go to jail for the sake of some minor damage to a few foreigners."
Haviland smiled. "They underestimate the foreigners. Mr. Kaiser had his wagon repaired and ready to go when I saw him. He shrugged, dismissed it as a prank and headed off to work. Mr. Capynski said the spilled dyes gave him the idea to make large American flags to sell for the Fourth of July. If Sam Merritt or anyone else thinks he can frighten them off with some vandalism, he doesn't know them.
"Ah, Mr. Bronk. May I help you with that pane?"
"I would thank you very much, very much, Reverend. I have much work to do, but this window I must fix first, to make the place look nice."
"By the way, did you see Zife Jenks the day he died?"
"He stop by, a few minutes only, before he start his rounds. He liked to speak Polish with me. I help him with his English sometimes."
"How did he seem?"
"As usual he was. I saw nothing different."
"Did he say anything, anything at all about a problem with someone?"
"No, he talked of the snow coming, but he had orders and would take them to his customers, no matter."
"Did you know him in Poland?"
"No. He is from little village, I from a big town in the west." He started to pick up the pane.
Abigail bid them good-bye and returned to her shop. Haviland put down his hat, spat on his hands, took a side of the pane and helped hoist it into the shop window.
Yes, he thought, the determination of these immigrants would overcome the prejudices of the villagers and put a quick end to the
anti-immigration vigilantes.
That night, Adolphus Bronk's shop was burned to the ground.
CHAPTER 12
The thwack of the bat drew the eyes of the crowd to the field, and a cheer drowned out Haviland's greeting to young John Van Amringe. The villagers lounged on a hill overlooking the Paulding baseball field, actually a pasture Henry Brundage loaned for the occasion. The Paulding Schooners were playing the New Rochelle Robins, and Paulding's young men, down 9 to 5, were mounting a comeback in the sixth inning. Haviland had just arrived with Pulpit, spotted the mayor's son beside the field and settled in near him.
"Our fellows have them rattled, it appears," the rector finally was able to remark as the next batter took his position and signaled for a high pitch before the Robins pitcher began his underhand delivery. "And are you not supposed to be playing with them?"
The lanky, black-haired 19-year-old glanced briefly at the rector and turned his blue eyes intently back to the game.
"Right you are, Reverend, but for this cut-up hand of mine." He held up a right hand wrapped in bandages. "Broke a bottle. Stupid accident. Be ready for 'em next week. We play White Plains." Despite his injury, he wore the baggy gray shirt and pants, wide belt and blue suspenders of the Schooners.
The young man yelled at the batter: "Take it, Willy. Let him give you the base on balls. We need runners."
"Pulpit? Pulpit! Get off Mrs. Peck's lap right now. Good boy. Now, stay here. Sorry, Mrs. Peck."
"Ah, Willy, why didn't you wait for a better pitch?" Van Amringe was bemoaning now while shaking his head and slapping the small-brimmed Schooners cap against his knee in disgust. The Schooners had been sent down after drawing to 9 to 7.
Haviland saw his chance while the teams traded places. Although suspicious of the explanation for the bloodied hand, he elected to concentrate on the Jenks murder rather than the recent attacks on immigrants.
Explaining his interest in the case — Van Amringe knew of it — he asked about the young man's involvement in the pelting of the peddler in front of Amelia Theall's.