A Changing Light Page 12

  The traffic quieted after the bustle of the hat factory, its workers and supplies going in and out. David and I had driven out here two years ago during a full moon, the evening he’d asked me to be his wife.

  “Have you deduced yet who killed my husband?” she asked.

  I turned my head sharply to look at her. “Why, no. As I said when we first met, investigating a homicide is rightfully the job of the police department.”

  “You also said you helped them from time to time.” She swerved to avoid a hole in the road.

  I was glad I’d been holding on tightly. The seat in this carriage rode high, and a passenger could easily be thrown out.

  “I know you’ve been asking questions around town,” she continued.

  How would she have learned about my inquiries? “I haven’t, really.” Which was not true, but she didn’t need to know that.

  Luthera continued. “I’d like to see the scoundrel behind bars before I take my husband’s body home.”

  “I should think thee would.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if that Ned Bailey character did it,” she said. “He seems a slippery sort.”

  “Oh?”

  “Unctuous. The kind to ingratiate himself with whomever he might garner a favor from.”

  “But why would he kill Justice?”

  She shrugged. “He thought my husband was a competitor, perhaps?”

  “Maybe.” Although, according to Jonathan, the two had been having a good discussion. On the other hand, Ned was in possession of what was possibly the murder weapon, but I had no intention of revealing what I’d heard. I gazed at an eagle soaring over the river on wide wings, its white head intent on finding fish to catch up in its huge, sharp talons. As intent as Luthera the businesswoman, who didn’t seem to be grieving for Justice at all. “Did thee and thy husband have a happy marriage?” I asked.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I simply wondered. I was married only in the last year, myself. Thee doesn’t seem to be overly sad at his loss.”

  “Some don’t consider it proper to display one’s feelings publicly for all to witness.” She raised her chin. “I’m not the sniveling little wife, weeping at the drop of a hat.”

  She certainly was not. “I heard talk about town that thee might be considering a merger with the Parry company.”

  It was her turn to whip her head over. “Who told you about a merger?”

  “Not anyone you would have met.”

  “Any hearsay about merging is merely gossip.” She pressed her lips into a line and focused on the road again. “While I do take an active part in running the business, I’m not at liberty to discuss the plans of Montgomery Carriage Company.”

  “I only asked because, if thy husband was opposed to the plan, William Parry might have had cause to wish him dead.”

  “To murder him.” She glanced at me again with narrowed eyes. “I wouldn’t put it past Mr. Parry. He doesn’t seem a completely upright kind of man, if you know what I mean.”

  The road grew narrower and rougher. My poor full bladder was taking a beating, and I didn’t entirely trust Luthera not to do me harm.

  “I’m afraid I must be getting home, Luthera, if thee would do me the favor of reversing direction.”

  When she continued driving, my heart beat faster. What would I do if she attacked me, or tried to throw me from the conveyance?

  “Luthera, please turn around.” I tried to keep the panic out of my voice.

  She didn’t speak. My hands chilled, and my throat thickened. Why had I come with her? I should know better by now. The houses out here were spaced far apart, and some of the land at the narrow road’s edge was marshy. I had no one to call for help, no way to safely leap out—and then what would I do? She could run me down.

  She pulled on the reins and the horse slowed. Now what? I swallowed and gripped the side.

  “I’m looking for a wide spot where I have room to turn,” she said. “Ah, there’s one.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  “Was I actually in danger?” I mused aloud after Luthera dropped me at home—and after I’d recovered from my fright. Or had it been my condition and my imagination leading to my panic out on the river road? In fact, she had not threatened me in the least. And it didn’t matter now. I was safe and in my own abode. With the door locked.

  After my urgent visit to the water closet, I let down my hair, removed my shoes, and washed up. David had said he’d be home by one o’clock to attend the funeral with me, and it wasn’t even noon. I fixed a cold lunch of hard sausage, bread and butter, a boiled egg with prepared mustard, and a couple of dill pickles. I added a glass of cold milk and plopped gratefully into a kitchen chair.

  I needed to start more bread rising, as this was our last loaf, but first I would put my feet up and feed myself—and our wee bun in the oven, as Kevin put it, a phrase that made me giggle. It was more like I had a bun in the proofing basket, where a gentle warm temperature led to slow, optimal growth.

  Kevin. Had he questioned Ned about the gun? Would Jonathan Sherwood contact Kevin about what he’d seen on the night of the murder? Would Zeb? Questions churned in my brain. I set down my bread and closed my eyes. At this moment, I needed a spot of peace in which to eat and rest. I held Kevin and his team in God’s Light. I held Zeb’s troubles, too, and the released soul of Justice Harrington. And I held myself and our baby, that peace would return to our town and let me not encounter danger—whether real or imagined—ever again.

  I resumed my meal, glancing idly at the newspaper David had left on the table. A story about Alice Sanger caught my eye. In First Month, she became the first woman to be employed in the White House, working for Benjamin Harrison as his presidential secretary. Good for her. Maybe she would blaze the trail for ladies to take other roles in government. I knew my suffragist mother would approve.

  Another story announced that intrepid reporter Nellie Bly would be making a New England tour, lecturing about her world travels, with a stop in neighboring Newburyport. I made a note to take Faith. Perhaps John Whittier or someone else could introduce my niece to Nellie.

  I turned the page to local news and groaned. Here came the murder right back into my day. A headline screamed, “Carriage Killer Still At Large!” with a subhead of, “Amesbury police lack clues in horrific case.” Kevin wasn’t going to like this. I certainly didn’t.

  After popping the last bite of pickle into my mouth, I drained my milk. I should pass along a few bits of information to him, in case he hadn’t uncovered them yet. I had no intention of visiting in person, and a telephone call wasn’t sufficiently private. But if I wrote a note, I could usually find a boy around on the street who would deliver a missive for payment of a coin, or I could catch the postman on his afternoon rounds.

  I moved to the desk in my office, pulling out paper and my cherished Wirt fountain pen. After an initial salutation and an explanation about my recent conversations with several people, I began.

  Zeb Weed says he walked his drunken mother home at about ten that night. The Harringtons were still in the opera house. Zeb thought he heard someone in the alley coughing as if ill with TB. When he returned, he heard someone running. He did not see the body. He also reports W Parry’s company has serious financial woes.

  Jonathan Sherwood of Lowell’s Boat Shop said he saw Ned Bailey, Justice H, and a third man in deep conversation, looking friendly and possibly excited. Check if the third one is a green-eyed Brazilian, possibly named George Amado. Jonathan also witnessed Luthera and Parry discussing a merger of the two companies.

  Luthera Harrington offered me a ride home this morning. She said she wants the killer behind bars before she takes her husband’s body home, but I expect she has let thee know, as well. She suggested possibly Ned Bailey was the culprit. She would not acknowledge any plans for a merger with Parry and said she doesn’t think he is completely upright, whatever that means.

  Did I have anything
else? I didn’t think so. I ended with a few questions.

  What did Ned say about the gun?

  Will thee speak with J Sherwood and Zeb?

  Does thee suspect Luthera herself?

  I couldn’t think of any others.

  I am off to Orpha Perkins’ funeral at Main Street Congregational this afternoon, followed by a reception at her granddaughter’s house on Orchard Street. I would be happy to speak with thee further if thee wishes.

  I ended with greetings to his family and my very best wishes. That was all I could do, for now.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Alma’s husband escorted David and me to our seats in the Main Street Congregational Church, insisting we sit near the front with Orpha’s family. Each tall window was rounded into an arch at the top, with an additional arch over each pair. A simple cross hung at the front. Unlike St. Paul’s across the street, where I had attended the funeral of a homicide victim last year, this was not an ornate decor. The sixty-year-old building shared an aspect of light and simplicity with my own beloved Friends Meetinghouse. And differently from St. James, where I’d attended a newborn’s funeral mass, the air was not scented with incense, although two fat candles burned in wall sconces at the front.

  As the organ played somber music, Faith slid in to sit next to me in the second row. I was glad she’d made it. Orpha had delivered Faith nearly twenty years earlier. Alma, who was seated in front of us next to a couple—likely her parents—twisted in her seat to clasp my hand for a moment. I squeezed and nodded without speaking. Her daughters sat next to their grandmother, the older girl’s gaze fixed on the white-covered coffin at the front.

  “New dress?” Faith whispered after Alma turned back. “I like it.”

  I’d changed into my new gray dress. I pointed discreetly to Alma. “She made me two. I am much relieved.” I pulled out a handkerchief, expecting I might need it once things got underway. On my other side, David’s presence was a solid comfort. After he laid his hand on my knee, I covered it with mine. At a touch on my shoulder from behind, I turned to see Mary Chatigny.

  “I’m glad to see thee,” I whispered.

  She bobbed her head.

  A black-robed minister walked down the aisle and climbed the steps to the pulpit to begin the service. I closed my eyes in Quaker prayer, letting the words and responsive readings wash over me. This busyness, this pastor leading the flock, was not my kind of church. I was again grateful I’d been raised as a Friend, a faith in which we each had our own direct connection to God, with no one telling us how to manage it. Each alone decided how to pray, as well as which words to use and when to use them. I knew services like these were a comfort to many. I didn’t begrudge them their comfort.

  Right now, I wanted only to remember Orpha. All the times she had gently showed me the best technique to help a mother birth her baby. All my visits to her parlor after she gave up the midwifery practice, when she was a wise listener to my feelings and worries. All those peppermints, all those laughs.

  I’d been sitting with Orpha’s death half the week. But grief welled up in me afresh being here with her as the focus of all present. I began to weep softly and slid off my glasses. I missed her, plain and simple.

  The tenor of the service seemed to change. I opened my eyes, wiping them, then restored my spectacles. The minister was finally talking about Orpha. He included a few details about her earlier life I hadn’t known.

  He looked straight at me. “The family chooses not to speak, but they would be grateful if Mrs. Rose Dodge might share her memories of Mrs. Perkins.”

  Me? Alma turned in her seat again and gave me an apologetic look, pointing surreptitiously at her father. Why wouldn’t he go up and speak about his mother? Or even Alma, although I remembered she’d once told me how terrified she was of public speaking. And she had mentioned what a difficult man her father was.

  I rubbed my forehead. I could have prepared some remarks if I’d been forewarned. David patted my knee. Faith whispered that I would do fine. I supposed I would, but I hadn’t anticipated having to perform, as it were. I sniffed, took in a deep breath and let it out, then stood. I would let God guide me in my comments, as I did during Friends’ worship when I rarely was moved to speak.

  “Could you come forward, please, ma’am?” The minister, now down off the pulpit, beckoned.

  Faith angled her knees to let me slide past. But when the minister pointed to the pulpit, I shook my head. I faced the mourners at their own level and clasped my hands in front of me, surveying them. In a back pew sat Esther and Akwasi with their newborn bundled in blankets. Orpha had helped them a couple of summers ago. It was early for Esther to be out so soon after the birth. But she’d had an easy time of it. Clearly, they’d both wanted to pay their respects.

  “I am midwife Rose Carroll Dodge.” I spoke in a loud and clear voice for all to hear. “Many here have known Orpha much longer than I. But when she accepted me as a midwifery apprentice some years ago, she also welcomed me into her life. I have never known anyone as insightful, as caring for the health of mothers and babies, as funny, and as good a listener as Orpha Perkins. That said, she did not suffer fools gladly. Her commentary on the world was acute and right-minded.”

  Emotion welled up in me once more. Maybe sharing my memories and feelings about my favorite octogenarian was going to be more difficult than I’d expected. I swallowed hard and gazed across the pews. Jeanette and Frannie were there, with Annie next to them. I spied Jonathan and Amy Sherwood, the latter wiping her eyes. Catherine Toomey sat in front of them, also patting the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief. Even John Whittier was there. He’d been acquainted with Orpha, and I was glad to see him well enough to be out.

  My survey stopped short at William Parry toward the back. What was he doing here? Perhaps Orpha had delivered his first son, the one who had ended up murdered, and William had come to pay his respects.

  At least Kevin was not in evidence today. He had lurked in the back at other funerals and memorials I’d attended. This one didn’t have anything to do with a homicide, for which I was grateful.

  More words came to me. “Orpha could see into one’s true soul. I am grateful for the years I had with her and for her teaching. I’m most grateful for her friendship, and I know each of thee here will miss her as much as I will. Remember, she would not want thee to walk about with a heavy step because of her absence. Orpha loved life and celebrated it, as we celebrate her. May her soul rest easily in God’s arms.” I closed my eyes and prayed for her. Even as I did, my wee bun stirred again, as if also in homage to Orpha.

  The minister cleared his throat and murmured a soft thank you, which roused me. I resumed my seat. He ended the service with the hymn “Amazing Grace.” It was rousing and simple, and I knew Orpha loved it. Alma must have requested the song be included.

  “All present are invited to join for fellowship at Mr. and Mrs. Latting’s home.” The minister gave Alma’s Orchard Street address. “Burial in the Mount Prospect Cemetery will take place at a later date after the ground thaws.” The organ started up again with another somber tune barely short of a dirge. The minister gestured to Alma and her family, including her parents, to walk out with him, no doubt to greet mourners on the broad front steps of the church.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Faith whispered, “I want to get home to Zeb. I’ll see thee tomorrow in worship.”

  I gave her a quick hug. Even though it took a few minutes before David and I made it outside, small groups of people lingered. Some stood on the wide landing under a portico supported by four two-story-high columns. Others conversed on the equally wide steps. The family reception line had broken up, but the minister remained. David and I greeted him.

  “You looked surprised in there to be invited to share your memories,” the minister said to me. “I apologize for putting you on the spot. I thought the family would have asked you before the service began.”

  “It was fine. I’m not a timid
person, and I owe Orpha an enormous debt.” I spied William coughing into his handkerchief. Mary Chatigny gazed at him, too, with a worried expression. “If thee will excuse me.”

  “I’ll wait here,” David said. “Reverend, what can you tell me about this venerable building?”

  William started on the long walkway to the street, which ran down the middle of a grassy lawn.

  “William,” I called.

  He whirled, wearing a scowl.

  I grew near but stopped about six feet away. If he had tuberculosis, getting any closer could imperil my health and my baby’s.

  “I was surprised to see thee at the service,” I began. “Did thee know Orpha?”

  “Yes.” His scowl slipped away. “In my opinion, she was one of the truly good people in this world.”

  “Did she deliver Thomas?”

  “She did, and she helped my late first wife through a difficult labor. I was extraordinarily grateful for Mrs. Perkins.”

  I had delivered his second and third children—from different mothers—in the space of a month two years ago. Those mothers had not had such happy outcomes, and I doubted he was grateful to me.

  “I heard something of interest this morning,” I began. “Is it true thee plans to merge thy business concern with the Montgomery company of Ottawa, Canada?”

  Alarm flew into his eyes for a brief moment. He blinked and shifted his gaze away from my face. “Where could you have heard such a ridiculous thing?”

  I waited without answering.

  “That’s complete nonsense,” he blustered, folding his arms on his chest. “I have no plans in the least to undertake such a business maneuver. Whoever told you is full of hogwash. Good day, Mrs. Dodge.” He touched his bowler and strode down the path.

  Well. Doth someone protest too much?

  “Rose,” a woman’s voice called from in front of the church. Frannie waved at me from where she stood with Catherine, Jeanette, Annie, and Mary.

  I joined them. “Mary, does thee know my friends, and my partner, Annie?”