Verse and Vengeance

by Amanda Flower

  He blushed.

  I held my arms at my sides. “And who were the men?”

  “Well,” Renee began. “I asked the archivist for the registry, because anytime anyone uses the archives, we are supposed to record it. The archivist is a bit lax on this and claimed he forgot. I believe him. He can remember minute details about the history of Cascade Springs but would lose his own head if it wasn’t attached to his neck. Let me tell you, I will be putting more procedures into place after this so that I know exactly who has been in and out of the college archives.”

  “Could he describe the men, then? Even if he didn’t know their names?” I asked.

  She nodded. “I’m getting to that. He said the first man—”

  “Had a blond mustache and a guitar case,” I interrupted.

  “Right.”

  Redding. I should have thought of it earlier. Redding was a detective. He was trained to follow the facts. Of course if there was a letter written to Whitman from President Lincoln found in Cascade Springs, he would want evidence to prove that Walt Whitman had actually visited the village.

  My hands felt cold. He would have seen the entry about the Waverly house, just like I had when I visited the archives. Perhaps I had been wrong about him to some extent. Perhaps he hadn’t been watching Charming Books just because of me but had wanted to understand the connection to Whitman. Maybe he’d even thought Grandma Daisy and I knew something about it. He wouldn’t have come right out and asked me. If he had, he knew, I would have researched the question myself. He knew enough about me to know I was a tenacious researcher too.

  I shook my head, trying to control the thoughts whirling inside it. “And who was the second man?”

  She licked her lips. “It was Jo’s brother.”

  Vaughn. Maybe I had been right that Vaughn was the person behind the murders. It made sense, then, as to why Jo would be hiding. She wouldn’t want her bother to get arrested, but at the same time, was she afraid of him too?

  I thanked Renee and went to sit with my grandmother. Grandma Daisy, Lacey, and Danielle chatted while I stared out the window. I was too distracted by not hearing from Rainwater to pay attention. Was Vaughn innocent? Had I gotten it all wrong? Would Jo forgive me if I wrongly accused her brother even if I honestly thought I was helping her?

  Through the window, I saw a small figure walk by.

  “That was Jo!” I jumped out of my seat. “Grandma, call Rainwater.”

  “Girl! What are you doing?” my grandmother shouted after me.

  “This time I’m not going to be responsible for her running away.” I ran out the door.

  Jo disappeared around the side of the village hall. As I came around the side of the large building, I saw her slip in through the basement window. This must be where she had been hiding.

  I hesitated at the opening of the window. There was a loud crack and a shout deep under the building. It sounded like a gunshot. I hoped my grandmother had reinforcements here soon, because I was going in.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The windowsill was slick with water. The heavy rain from the night before had flooded the space beneath the hall. From outside the window, it was impossible to see what a large drop it might have been to the earth below. It might have been three feet or a hundred. I didn’t dare turn on the flashlight on my phone to guide my way. There was too much of a risk of being seen.

  I slipped through the window, and my feet hit the ground with a splash. I stood in at least four inches of water. I didn’t think Vaughn had been totally honest with my grandmother about the condition of the village hall. I was no contractor, but standing water on the foundation couldn’t be a good thing.

  The smell of mold and decay permeated the close space. I wondered what it had been like to be a slave trying to reach Canada. What would it be like to sleep in this dark, dank place during the day, knowing that the mighty Niagara River was just across the road from you, knowing that freedom was just across the road for you? I doubted any of the slaves caught a wink of sleep that last day. Tomorrow would have been too important to miss one millisecond of it.

  The sound of the running water was chilling. Where was it coming from? I bummed into a steel support, which had to be one of the new additions Vaughn’s team was installing to shore up the foundation. My eyes adjusted to the only light, which came from the window behind me.

  As I inched forward around the support, the window light faded. However, a new light became clearer. There was another basement window on the back of the village hall. It was open. Warm evening air flowed from it into the space.

  To the right of that window, I saw the source of the rushing water. There was a pipe with a hole in it. As I stood there, the pipe cracked in two, and the water came out in a waterfall that seemed as powerful as the great Niagara Falls themselves.

  “Where is it?” a sharp voice asked, which I immediately recognized as Bertie’s. Bertie. How could I have been so wrong?

  I squinted and saw the outline of two figures standing thirty feet from the broken pipe. The pipe was behind Jo’s head. I guessed that the gunshot had hit the pipe. We had to get out of there. The foundation would fill up quickly. The water pumps in the space couldn’t keep up with the onslaught of water.

  “Where is it?” Bertie repeated, completely ignoring the water filling the room.

  “Where’s what?” Jo’s voice quavered.

  “The letter. Tell me what you’ve done with it.”

  “What letter?” Jo asked.

  There was a smacking sound, and someone fell to the ground. “Don’t lie to me, girl. I need that letter. I’ve already killed two people to get it. I don’t mind killing a third.”

  I stifled a gasp. Bertie had killed Redding and Bryant.

  “I—I don’t have it.”

  I inched forward. The toe of my shoe caught on something, a stone or maybe a brick. I windmilled my arms to keep myself from falling and held my breath. I was certain my gymnastics would catch their attention. I regained my balance and froze, listening with every part of me to hear if they’d noticed.

  “I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jo said. Her voice sounded muffled, like she was speaking through swollen lips.

  “Yes, you do,” Bertie snapped. “You were there when your brother told Redding about the letter. You were the one who connected them. Redding was the one who had a connection to Cloud, who could sell it. I had to get rid of both of them. They knew too much about it.”

  “But what about Vaughn?”

  She snorted. “He doesn’t even know the letter is missing. You did a good job of stealing it from him and leaving an identical box behind in its place. Now, hand it over.”

  “How do I know you won’t kill me if I do?”

  Bertie laughed. “I’ll surely kill you if you don’t. Is that a chance you’re willing to take?”

  I let out a breath. They didn’t know I was there, at least not yet. Taking more care with my steps, I moved forward again. I could see them now in the light coming in from the hole in the rotunda’s marble floor. The floor was six feet above my head in this part of the foundation.

  I took three more tiny steps forward. Now they were completely in my view. Jo was on the floor, and Bertie stood over her with the gun.

  “But I thought Vaughn …” She trailed off.

  “You thought your brother killed those men. You don’t have much faith in your family, do you?”

  “He found the letter. He and Redding were going to sell it with Cloud and split the money three ways. He must have killed them to keep it for himself,” Jo insisted, as if she didn’t believe Bertie in taking credit for murder.

  “So what if they had that plan? I had a plan too. I heard them discussing it one night in the village hall rotunda. All three of them had no idea I was there. They hatched their plan, and I hatched my own. I just had to get the letter from them. I tried. I tried very hard, and each time they didn’t give it to me, one of them had to die. They neve
r expected it. No one notices me. No one pays attention to me.”

  “Listen,” Jo said. “I’m the same way. I understand. No one sees or pays attention to me either. It’s always been like that. I was raised in foster care and never was anywhere long enough for anyone to know me or what I could do. I can understand why you’re upset.”

  “I don’t want to hear your sob story. I don’t care that you were in foster care. I don’t care that life dealt you a bad hand. I don’t care that it dealt me a bad hand. You still choose what you do with that hand. I’ve spent my life working for this village for nothing. I’ve just been cast aside. I will get what I deserve, and that letter will get it for me. Now, hand it over, or I will have to kill you like I have the rest of them.”

  There was scraping behind me. There was someone else there. Was it Rainwater?

  I took another step, and my ankle turned as I came down on a stone. For a moment, I wobbled in place. I took care not to cry out and willed myself to be silent. I regained my footing, but my ankle ached. It wasn’t broken, but I had twisted it good on whatever I’d nearly fallen over. I squatted and brushed my hand along the dirt floor under the rising water. My hand connected with a stone. I picked it up, and when I did, I realized it wasn’t a stone at all but a piece of brick.

  I weighed the heft of it in my hand.

  “I’m sorry that I have to do this. I could have used your skills.” She leveled the gun at Jo’s chest.

  Her apology was my cue. I lifted the brick and threw it with all my might at Bertie’s head. I was only five feet from her, but she couldn’t see me in the shadows. It would be more of a miracle if I missed than if I hit my mark.

  The piece of brick connected with the side of Bertie’s head in a sickening crunch. I felt ill just hearing it. Like a felled tree, Bertie crumbled to the ground, her face in the water.

  I’d thought Jo might drown, but so could Bertie. I pushed myself through the muddy water to her. I grabbed her and pulled her out of the water. “Jo! Run! Go!”

  The girl spun and ran for the window.

  I heard shouts soon. Wheaton and Rainwater were there.

  “The ceiling is going to cave in! Wheaton, get Bertie. Go!”

  Wheaton scooped up the murderous secretary and took her out.

  I took Rainwater’s hand, and he pulled me up. Stones fell onto our heads, and we ran for the window. Rainwater tripped and fell. I hear a sickening crack like a broken ankle. The portion of the ceiling where I had just been fell in. The building groaned.

  “Violet!” Rainwater shouted. “Go!”

  More of the ceiling and the marble flooring from above fell into the foundation. We were going to die under the village hall after all. Rainwater gave me a boost out the window. When I was clear, I turned back to him. “David!”

  There were more crashes and splashes from inside as the water wreaked its havoc on the old foundation. Rainwater’s hands and the top of his head appeared in the widow. I grabbed those hands and pulled for all I was worth. He came through just as the window crashed to the ground behind him.

  On the grassy hill, I rolled on top of him. Dirt and stones hit my back as I did my best to protect him from any of the flying debris.

  Finally the roaring of the falling building stopped. I looked behind me. The village hall sat precariously on its foundation, or what was left of it. The crash hadn’t hurt the buildings on either side.

  “How did the foundation fall like that and not take out the entire building?” a voice asked. I couldn’t identify where it was coming from. My ears were ringing too badly.

  “It’s like it was magic,” someone else said.

  Magic. I thought of the aquifer below the village hall, the aquifer that was part of the same system that supplied water to the natural spring. Magic.

  “Violet,” Rainwater said. “You’re crushing me a bit.”

  I looked down at him. Mud streaked his face and there was a cut above his eyebrow, but he was smiling at me, and the look in his amber eyes was something I couldn’t identify.

  I rolled off him. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?” I checked his body for wounds.

  “Violet,” Rainwater said in a gentle voice. “I’m okay.”

  I stopped fussing over him and stared at him. “I love you.” I kissed his muddy forehead. It tasted like dirt, but I didn’t care.

  “I love you too,” he said.

  Then I threw my arms around him and hugged him tight. “I’ve loved you for a long while.”

  Epilogue

  Three days later, Rainwater and I were sitting at Charming Books on the couches in front of the fireplace. Jo was upstairs in the children’s loft reading a book, and my grandmother was outside showing Charles and Fenimore her garden.

  “How did the letter get under the village hall?” Rainwater asked.

  “My guess is still Mayor Hodge. According to his journal, he visited with Whitman and didn’t think much of him. He thought Whitman’s poems were scandalous, but he had the foresight to know that the letter was important because it was in Lincoln’s own hand. He preserved it under the hall and near the foundation, and it stayed there until Vaughn found it during construction.”

  Rainwater nodded. “That works with what we know from Vaughn. He said he found it in the failing foundation. He also thought it was a safe place to keep it hidden. He never knew his sister took it. Vaughn kept going back to the hall every day to work—I use that term loosely—on the foundation, when in fact he was looking to see if there was anything else hidden there.”

  “Was there?” I asked.

  “He claims there wasn’t,” Rainwater said.

  “I tend to believe him on that. He met Redding through his sister, and he, Redding, and Bryant Cloud crafted a way to sell the letter to a private collector and split the money. Bertie found out about it and thought this could be her way to get back at the village she felt had forgotten her. Am I right on that?”

  Rainwater nodded. “And she could have had a nice retirement if she’d sold that letter too. She just didn’t know where it was. She knew that Jo took it, though.”

  “Did Jo tell you why she stole the letter?”

  “She stole it the day before Redding died with no idea of Bertie’s plans. She knew it had to be given to a museum somehow. She didn’t want to get her brother in trouble, but she knew it was wrong for him to sell it.”

  “What will happen to Bertie?” I asked.

  “She killed two people. She’ll spend the rest of her life in prison at best.”

  I grimaced. “I can’t help feeling sorry for her. She felt like she was being pushed out of the only life she knew, so when that happened, taking that letter, which would have made my grandmother’s museum world-famous, was a way to exact revenge on a village that had forgotten her. I know Grandma Daisy feels terrible about it.”

  Rainwater squeezed my hand. “She killed two people, yet you still have sympathy for her. You have a kind heart, Violet Waverly.”

  I stood up and walked over to the tree. “The strange thing is, I’m looking at the tree differently now. Because now I know Whitman looked at the same tree. It’s hard to explain, but I feel a deeper connection with the shop now that I know about this literary connection and the connection of my family to Whitman too.”

  Rainwater smiled. “Literature has been your life for a very long time.”

  I looked up at him. “It might have been my whole life before, but it’s not now. I have other things to concentrate on.”

  He wrapped his arms around me. “Things that are more important than long-dead poets? I don’t believe you.”

  “You had better believe it, because you’re one of them. I can’t have you doubting my devotion to you.”

  Emerson sat on the step with that little feline smile on his face, and Faulkner flapped his winds above out head. “Have you dreaded these earth-beetles?”

  “That’s cheerful,” Rainwater said.

  I laughed. “He’s quoting Whitman.�
��

  “I know.” He looked down at me with those amber eyes, and I felt like I was melting from the inside out. “I don’t care who your father is. I don’t care that you have a magical bookshop. None of those things are important to me.”

  I looked up at him. “They’re not? I would think a bookshop with flying books would be something to talk and worry about.”

  “I care about you and making you happy.”

  “I’m sorry that I kept the shop’s secret from you for so long and made you doubt how I felt about you.”

  “I would never doubt you, Violet. That is something you can rest assured of. I have something for you.”

  Rainwater reached into his pocket, and I thought my heart might stop. I felt dizzy. Breath whooshed out of my body when I saw it was a piece of paper. “Open it,” he said.

  With shaking hands, I opened the note. There was a verse I knew very well from my time studying Whitman, both in grad school and over the last week while trying to find out who killed Joel Redding. It was from “Song of the Open Road.”

  Tears gathered in my eyes as I read it.

  I give you my hand!

  I give you my love more precious than money,

  I give you myself before preaching or law;

  Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?

  Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

  When I looked up, he was on his knee.

  Author’s Note

  Walt Whitman visited Niagara Falls twice in his lifetime, once before the Civil War in 1848 and once after the war in June of 1880 as an old man. He never visited Cascade Springs, as that is a fictitious village I created for this series.

  While studying the self-proclaimed first American poet, I was struck by his complicated character and his poetry. The more I learned about Whitman while researching this novel, the more I wanted to know about him. He did not have an easy upbringing, and in his lifetime, he rarely received—with few exceptions—the acclaim he so desired. He was a conflicted young man who lived on the fringes and moved through the counterculture of New York City. Because of his willingness to embrace a different way of life and because of those he loved, he was judged harshly by both the general and the literary society of the time. As a result—and I doubt this makes it up to the great poet much—I felt the need to give him a more integral role in this novel than I had previously planned. The shop wouldn’t just use his works to reveal clues to Violet, but Whitman would be a character in the story. I had him visit my fictional village while he was on his 1880 visit to Niagara Falls.