What the Moon Saw

by D. L. Koontz

  “There’s no one to call. Nothing to do. We know what happened.”

  “Okay, but I’m going with you. I’m your alibi—”

  “Libby, go home.” His tone was measured. “There’s nothing more you can do.”

  “You said she was deranged. They might blame you for this.”

  “So what?” He chuckled derisively. “Some people already think I killed her father.” No, he hadn’t pulled the trigger, but he had handed Jasper Hudd a gun with one bullet in it so the man could do it himself. So, yes, he was guilty. His chuckle grew crazy, almost frenzied at his thoughts. “And the previous sheriff immediately rewarded me with a recommendation for his job when he retired. Can you imagine?” He shook his head, closed his eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath. He knelt closer to Gretchen and put one arm under the back of her knees and the other at the top of her back. He shifted her gently so her head rested against his chest, and stood.

  “Please. No one will believe she drowned alone in such shallow—”

  “Libby—”

  “You’ll need me there—”

  “Don’t you get it?” He blazed as he stood looking at her, Gretchen’s body cradled in his arms. “God help me, but you are what I care about. It’s best you’re not involved. The only thing I can do is make sure you are safe. Besides, if we say we were together, that makes me look even guiltier. Now, go home.” He yelled with an anger and a finality that brooked no further argument.

  He turned and carried his dead wife to his car.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  1926

  At 10 a.m. the next morning, Brogan suspended himself from his position as sheriff for the indefinite future. The mayor agreed it was for the best.

  “For now,” he added, “until another scandal hits town and folks forget what came before. Then we’ll slap that badge back on ya.”

  The mayor led him to the door, and with a wink, said, “I’ll wiggle the accounts, shake the right hands, to keep you on the payroll.”

  Brogan flinched. “No, I—”

  The mayor smiled. “You don’t have a choice. Besides I’m not doing this out of generosity. I want you to watch over N.C.’s shoulder. Make sure he’s doing things right.”

  “But, you shouldn’t—”

  The mayor clapped a hand on Brogan’s back. “Son, I’m not askin’, I’m tellin’.” He sniggered a sound so hearty it shook his fat belly.

  Too numb and shaken to argue further, Brogan returned to his office.

  N.C. underwent an hour briefing during which time the young deputy repeatedly interrupted to say, “This is so wrong. You’re the sheriff, not me.”

  By noon Brogan got word that Doc Henshaw, as makeshift undertaker, had finished preparing Gretchen’s body for burial. The doctor helped lift the loaded pine box onto the back of a borrowed horse-drawn wagon, then put a hand on Brogan’s shoulder and said, “Son, my sympathies. I never did think her life would end well. And the baby’s heartbeat was irregular. Just a matter of time, it was. For them both.”

  Around one-thirty Brogan, his deputies and secretary Jean, and the pastor of the Presbyterian Church on Bedford Square laid Gretchen Hood Harrow to eternal rest beside her ancestor Anabelle Fisher Wallace in the neglected little cemetery on the north side of town that Brogan had discovered years earlier. A warm wind rustled through the fallen leaves as they said a brief goodbye. Around them, several weathered, vine-covered headstones marked the graves of other individuals long forgotten—people Brogan didn’t know.

  Afterward, N.C. insisted on giving him a ride home. Brogan no longer had rights to drive the patrol motorcar. He would drive his farm truck instead.

  When they got to Brogan’s house N.C shut off the engine. “Mind if I come in a few minutes?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  N.C. followed him onto the porch. Brogan gestured to one of the rocking chairs before folding into the other one.

  N.C. sat, removed his hat and stared at it as he ran his fingers along its rim.

  “Something on your mind?” Brogan asked. He longed to be alone.

  “Well, sir, I know I said it before, but I’m real sorry. You’re a good man—”

  “Everything I’ve heard today has been about me. What a good man I am. How people hope I’ll find peace. How I should move on. What about Gretchen? Even the pastor wasn’t sure what to say.”

  N.C. said nothing.

  “And yet,” Brogan continued, “people are questioning if it was an accident, aren’t they?” He’d told people Gretchen drowned. That he found her dead. The doctor said he saw no signs otherwise and left it at that. But, no one asked Brogan where or when or why.

  “I’m not.” N.C firmed his jaw.

  Brogan nodded. “I know you’re not. But Gretchen was young. With a baby on the way. A sudden death like this makes people wonder.”

  “Well, folks know she was...trouble.” N.C. stretched his lips wide in obvious regret.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  N.C. shrugged. “You know. Her reputation and all.”

  “Wanna clarify that?”

  “Come on, Sheriff. You know what I mean. Heck, half the men in town have been with her.” His face reddened and he continued in a hushed voice. “Some, after she married you.”

  Brogan swallowed that realization. He’d suspected, but he hadn’t known. He looked into the distance. “I guess I look like a fool.”

  “No, sir. You look like a good man who gave someone a chance.”

  “Maybe.” Brogan stood. “If you don’t mind, I think I need to be alone for a while.”

  N.C. popped out of his chair. “Sure thing. I understand. But, I didn’t really even say what I came here to say.”

  “And that is?”

  “We need you, Sheriff. You’re the right man for the job. I admit it...I was sore that you were selected for it instead of me, but I realized early on it was the right decision. I still have a lot to learn from you. You were...still are, the best man to be sheriff.”

  Brogan wondered about that, but as with his exchange with the mayor, he didn’t want to discuss it. “Thanks.”

  N.C. settled his hat on his head, and said goodbye. When he reached the motorcar he looked back to where Brogan sat. “If there’s anything I can do, anything at all, just let me know.”

  That afternoon around three o’clock, a knock sounded at Brogan’s front door. He climbed off the couch where he’d been lying for the past hour staring at the same spot on the ceiling, and pulled the door open to see two men standing on his porch. They were dressed in tailored clothing, bore sober expressions, and looked vaguely familiar.

  “Sheriff?” the older of the two men asked.

  Brogan shook his head. “Not right now. You’ll find the interim sheriff in town,” he said and began shutting the door.

  The same man who spoke reached out his hand and stopped the door. “We know that. That’s why we’re here. We’d like to talk to you about your deceased wife and what we may have...seen.”

  The other man added, “Maybe strike a deal with you.”

  As a man of law, Brogan loathed, but understood the benefits of, deals. Still, he would have shut the door in their faces had they not said it pertained to Gretchen. He wanted to hear what these men had to say. He pushed the screen door open to let them enter. “You are?”

  “Thank you for your time.” The older man extended his hand. “My name is Davis Whitaker.”

  Brogan raised a brow. Libby had mentioned the name. “What’s this about?”

  Davis smiled. “Ever heard the word Matryoshka?”

  It was near five o’clock before Brogan’s two visitors left his house, the time stamped by the distant chiming of the church bells in the village. He walked them to their car where nods and firm handshakes were exchanged, a strategy approved, a corroboration confirmed.

  Davis had already opened his door when he turned back to Brogan. “You’re a good man for having heard us out. You won’t regret
this.”

  Brogan looked at the horizon before gazing back at them. “That’s about the tenth time today I’ve been called a good man in association with something that’s not that good.”

  Davis frowned and looked down.

  “But,” Brogan continued, “in this job I’ve learned that if I do not break a law once in a while, then I don’t achieve justice. Odd how that works.”

  Davis nodded. “Indeed it is.”

  “But remember, gentlemen,” Brogan added, “as soon as possible. If what you said is true, then we have to move quickly.”

  The other man tipped his hat. “We’ll be talking real soon.” He climbed in the passenger side.

  As Brogan watched them leave, he wondered about these men and what he’d heard. Despite being alone, he spoke aloud. “Well, N.C., maybe I can use your help after all.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  1926

  Libby groaned as a knock sounded on her door and a familiar voice called, “Ma’am it’s me, Rose.” It was late morning, the day after Gretchen’s death, and Libby wanted to be alone.

  Blast it. She climbed from the bed and looked in the mirror. A haggard, wrinkled, puffy-eyed woman stared back. She still wore her clothes from the night before, and she’d skipped breakfast. She finger-combed her tousled hair, pinched her cheeks, took a deep breath, and opened the door, forcing a smile.

  Rose held a large box filled with hats in a rainbow of colors. The excitement on her face faded as she scanned Libby’s attire. “You’re not wearing that today—” She caught herself and shifted her grip on the box. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m forgetting my place, I am.”

  “No, Rose,” Libby said with a tone of annoyance. “I’ve asked you to coach me on fashion so it is your place to tell me. And yes, I probably would have worn this all day, so I deserve the reprimand...although we’re going to have to figure out something for me to wear besides dresses and jeans. Now, come inside before your arms break.”

  Rose entered, eyed the new bookcase but said nothing, and placed the box on the bed. When she spoke, her voice was meek, like she’d been punished. “I wanted to show you the hats I finished. I have two that would match your—” Rose tilted her head, studying Libby. “Are you ill, ma’am? You don’t look well.”

  Libby seized on the suggestion. “You’re right, I didn’t sleep well last night. I apologize for my tone a moment ago.”

  Should she mention Gretchen? Almost a month had passed since she and Rose had been to Pittsburgh. They had spent much of their time together, securing exercise each day, eating meals together, talking about design. They’d even written their names on the metal boxes they brought back, and each had placed an undisclosed amount of money in them; Libby, a generous amount because she’d received another positive telegram from Mr. St. Clair. Then, they’d hiked into the steep mountainside behind the hotel, found a severely sloped spot below huge elms they believed would never be disturbed, and buried their treasures. Libby told Rose they would add to their boxes from time to time, but otherwise leave them alone. “They’re merely security in case the worst ever happens,” she’d said. To Libby’s delight, Rose voiced intentions of filling up her box.

  Through all this togetherness, Libby had learned enough about Rose’s character to know the girl was loyal, trustworthy. Despite that, she couldn’t get herself to discuss Gretchen’s death. Not yet.

  Instead, Libby walked to the box of hats and gazed in, admiring the satin and running her fingers over the silk. “They’re beautiful, Rose. But, could we discuss them after I get a bath? Maybe after lunch?”

  “Of course.” Rose headed to the door, but hesitated. “Oh, and ma’am? There’s a newspaper tucked in the side of the box. Mr. Jarvis was looking for you last night, he was. He asked me to give it to you. He said to say it’s an old paper, but he thought you should see the headline on page four.” Rose left, closing the door behind her.

  Libby snaked her hand into the box, freeing the paper. The Pittsburgh Post, dated more than three weeks earlier. She opened it to page four and read the headline, top, center: Shipping Heir Found Beaten, Near Death. The article was about Leon Edward Martelli of Philadelphia. The police had no leads, and the family had no idea why he was there.

  Her hands began to shake. She threw the paper on the bed and went into the bathroom to run water.

  While she soaked, she thought about the excruciating night before. Somehow, she had returned to her room, turned off the lights, and laid awake in the darkness. Silence had cloaked the room, but the voices in her head had refused to let her sleep. Judging by what she’d just seen in the mirror, she might have been better off if she hadn’t even tried.

  By two a.m. she had climbed from bed to pour mineral water from a metal jug into her tortoise shell mug. As she drank, the shadowed shape of wilting asters caught her eye. Without turning on the light she’d walked to them and filled the vase with the rest of the liquid in her glass. As she stood there, frustration coursed through her. She had snatched the flowers from the vase and deposited them in the garbage can.

  She didn’t need asters or mineral water to prompt her visions anymore. Seeing Gretchen’s face had unleashed a cascading plethora of memories. One right after the other, like dominoes...no sooner had one activated than it touched another which touched another, and on and on.

  She remembered her slaughtered family and being captured by the Indians. An Indian woman named Ista saving her from rape, starvation, and the life of a slave. Ista named her Morning Meadow because she would often find Libby lying in the surrounding meadows at dawn, having fallen asleep staring at the moon, relishing the tranquility and constancy it provided. She remembered Nathan’s bloodied body being dragged into their village. He was tortured and humiliated for months after that. Once traded to the Mohawks, they were taken north where he was forced to run the gauntlet as spears pierced into his side. He survived to earn the Mohawk’s respect. They’d named him Broken Arrow, as a sign of peace, they’d said, but she and Nathan had both known it was also a nod at separation, distinguishing his birth as a white man from theirs.

  Foremost, however, she remembered marrying him. He had undergone so much to claim her. She was, by then, used to her new extended family of Mohawk brothers and sisters, and she loved Ista. Both Ista and Broken Arrow had hastened along a wedding before a warrior laid claim to her.

  After the wedding, she’d fallen in love with Broken Arrow. He had suffered far worse physical pain and loss than any of the Mohawks, yet he was the most peaceful and the least angry. His smile and his laugh had been contagious. He would read to her every night from a book of plays by Shakespeare that a warrior named Running Bear had pulled from a dead white man. Broken Arrow had treated her with a respect and devotion that surpassed any she saw by the other warriors toward their wives.

  When they were banned from the tribe due to the ending of the French and Indian War, they had said heart-wrenching goodbyes with the Mohawks and headed back to their white families. He had held her under the stars, loving her with such tenderness that she would forget her fears about returning to people she barely remembered. Near home, she’d been shot, falling with him from the horse, his arms around her. Suddenly, Ista had been there, having followed them in silence. It was Ista who put her in the medicinal water.

  Libby remembered now. All those tangled moments that heretofore had intersected freely without context were now coming together. Everything was sharper, crisper now. Almost everything, that is, but not select who and why. Who had led the raiding party that killed her family? She remembered seeing someone that was different than the others, but she couldn’t put a face to that person. And, who shot her five years after that when she and Broken Arrow returned? Why did someone wish her harm?

  After tossing her flowers, and without turning on the lights, she had turned a chair toward the window, opened the drapes, and stared into the darkness. The same moon that hours before shone down on Gretchen’s dead body was in a different plac
e now, and so, too, were she and Broken Arrow.

  What a difference a moment can make! Children can be snatched, vehicles can collide, wars can begin, relationships can end. In their case, a young wife can die, and an escalating closeness rendered forbidden.

  Last night, Brogan had pulled her close, steadying her. She’d been inches from his face, felt the steady rise and fall of his chest pressed against hers. Felt the hardness of his rippling, muscled body. Longed to touch the scar that marred his cheek. She’d looked into his eyes, waiting to be kissed in that way—she now remembered—that only Broken Arrow could. Instead, she’d seen an unspoken question poised on his lips. She couldn’t answer such questions, so she’d pulled back. Her blood was on fire now, reliving each sensual moment.

  And at this moment, he ached because of her. If she hadn’t been there with him, hadn’t talked about the water, Gretchen would be alive. What had seemed so right and so natural between them last night now seemed horribly wrong.

  Through the early pre-dawn hours she had cried for those turning-point moments, for being stupid and selfish, for Brogan’s pain and the hurt she may have caused him, and for the young woman who looked so much like Anabelle. She cried for Hardin, Dulcina, and the loss of Colette from her life. She mourned anew the loss of her white family and Ista, the woman she now realized had put her in the water to save her.

  More painfully, she had cried because she no longer loved Andrew. Perhaps she never really had. She understood now that what she had felt was infatuation. Such feelings were bound to change in an absence this lengthy, weren’t they?

  Besides, how could she ever think she loved Andrew after the passion she had shared with Broken Arrow? It had been so raw and real and pure, bringing a truth to that concept of ‘one true love.’ Nothing would ever match it. She knew with a sickening in her gut that she’d never be happy with anything less than what she and Broken Arrow had together. But, Andrew—wherever, whenever he was—was still her husband. Her relationship with Brogan could never be consummated.