Crestmont (18 page)

“Name’s PT. He’ll do. Didn’t want to unload tonight, though,” Pete said. “Said he’d be better in the spotter car. I said okay,
thinkin
’ you’d agree.” He grabbed Morton’s flashlight. “How ‘bout you check on him and I’ll signal these guys in.”

PT’s
intestines swam uneasily when he saw Morton approach. He wound the window down and Morton stuck his head in out of the rain.

“You’re
kiddin
’, right? Settled so nice and dry in this spotter car. Pete tells me even after we gave you the summer off
yer
too chicken-ass high and mighty to unload. We got sixty-eight bucks worth in these boats and
yer
goin
’ to unwrap those arms off that
steerin
’ wheel and move hooch into cars or
yer
not
gettin
’ a dime. Chew that one over awhile.”

“I can do more for you as a spotter. Right here, ready to lead the cars out quick as they get loaded. Besides, I’m your best bet to give the cops the slip. I know four different ways to get to the warehouse. Walked those streets for weeks trying to find speakeasies to play in.”

“Yeah,” Morton bit off his cigar tip and spat it onto
PT’s
lap. “I can see you
drivin
’ away the minute you see a scout car’s headlights
shinin
’ in
yer
eyes,
leavin
’ the rest of us to get picked up by whatever cops we forgot to pay off. Seems like
yer
tryin
’ to work your way down the ladder, not the other way around, bud.” He closed one eye halfway, considering, held up the cigar, and waited for PT to light it.

“Won’t let you down,” PT said firmly, flapping out his match.

Morton drew in a long drag and blew smoke into
PT’s
face. “Okay, but you cross me and I’ll blackball you in every speakeasy in the
Delaware
Valley
. You won’t be
playin
’ piano anywhere. Now turn off those damn lights and get in place.”

“Yes, sir.” He switched off the headlights and carefully backed up until the back bumper was six feet in front of the lead loading car.

He despised calling a guy like Morton “sir.” Morton didn’t deserve respect anymore than
PT’s
father had.

“Don’t you give me any lip, kid,” his drunken father had said once after PT responded “Yup” instead of “Yes, sir.” It took five weeks for
PT’s
broken rib to heal. He started leaving the house then when his parents fought, and he didn’t grieve a bit when his father’s liver gave out.

After his father died, his mother let her crude boyfriend move in. PT dropped out of school when he was fifteen, left home for good, and gave his mother a post office box number. He hadn’t heard a word from her since he stopped sending her money ten years ago. After all that time, she finally wrote. Her boyfriend moved out and she needed money. Such gall. But he felt obligated to help her out. Guilt could tug at a guy a long time.

Although he had been able to support himself working in bowling alleys and an occasional speakeasy gig, now he needed a boost in income. Working with bootleggers Morton and Jack solved the problem. What he hadn’t realized was how it would eat at his conscience. Playing at speakeasies was one thing. Working in the illegal hooch trade was a whole different deal.

The picture of a pretty eyebrow arching up under blonde curls cut through his history review. He couldn’t believe how innocent she sounded when she sang. Would a girl who went to church every week have any interest in man stuck in the middle of a crime scene? Only a muddleheaded dolt would think such a thing.

He was jolted back to reality by a tap on the rear windshield from Morton, signaling it was time to head out.

Woodshed on
Crestmont
Hill

Autumn 1925

I

“Peg, where is your sister?” asked Margaret.

“How should I know? I can’t watch her every minute, Mama.”

“Peg, I know we ask you to look after her during the summer when we are busy, but you know I don’t expect….” She was interrupted by an odd sound coming from outside the front door. Her eyes went to the window and she saw Shadow, pacing back and forth, meowing insistently. Eleanor limped along behind.

“William, come here!” Margaret reached her wet, shivering daughter first. William scooped Eleanor up in his arms and carried her into the cottage.

“Gracie, bring a chair,” Margaret ordered as they gingerly sat Eleanor down next to the warm coal stove. “Sweetheart, what happened? Here, let’s get these wet things off.”

Before Margaret could ask, Gracie handed her a towel and crouched next to Eleanor. Then she ran into the child’s bedroom for her yellow bathrobe as Margaret carefully removed her daughter’s clothes, inspecting for injuries.

“I’m not hurt, Mama, just w-wet,” she managed, her purplish lips quivering.

“What happened?” her mother asked, awkwardly wiping her dry with her good arm. “Come on, put this on.”

Eleanor stretched her arms into her bathrobe. Her mother wrapped an afghan around her shoulders. “I was fishing and I accidentally fell in.”

“Gracie, heat up some of that lemonade for her. Fishing where?”

“In the outlet pond.”

“What?” Both of her parents froze.

“Miss Eleanor, we have repeatedly told you that you are never to fish alone in the lake,” her father reprimanded.

“Papa, I wasn’t fishing in the lake; I went to the outlet pond. And I wasn’t alone, either. Shadow was with me the whole time.”

“Oh, this is preposterous.” William threw his arms up and walked away.

“Well, something went wrong,” Margaret said gently. “How did you get soaking wet?”

Eleanor honked loudly into the handkerchief her mother held for her, and said, “I had a really good bite. I mean, I think I had a big one, so I gave a good yank on my pole, but I guess I slipped in the mud and fell in.”

“Where did you get this fishing pole?” her father demanded.

“I made it. Zeke taught me and gave me a couple of hooks so I could make my own. I can swim, you know, Papa. I’m not five years old anymore.”

“William, she did get herself home all right and she doesn’t seem to be hurt. Let’s just concentrate on getting her warm.” Margaret gratefully accepted the hot lemon toddy from Gracie and put the cup to Eleanor’s lips. Peg sat on the floor and started to rub warmth back into her sister’s legs.

“You really did it this time, you little nincompoop,” she whispered to her sister.

****

“Mama never gets a headache,” Eleanor cried.

“Well, she has one this morning, so let’s be quiet and let her rest. She doesn’t feel well enough to go to church today. You girls go get dressed.” William, who normally came to breakfast perfectly groomed, sat slouched and unshaven, his hair in disarray.

Eleanor jumped up from the table. “I’m going to go read to her. She reads to me when I am sick and it always makes me feel better.”

“Whoa.” Peg pulled Eleanor back by the sleeve of her yellow bathrobe. “Be quiet and let her rest. Mama has what is called a ‘melancholy’ and she needs sleep, not pestering.”

“What’s a melancholy?” Eleanor asked fearfully.

“Hush” said William. “Your mother is just tired. Gracie, please clear the table.” He dismissed his daughters to Eleanor’s room.

William sank into the plaid sofa, deliberating over his plans for the
Crestmont
addition. How he wished his wife was well. Her illness was both disquieting and ill-timed. He needed to confer with her on some details before the contractor came tomorrow. He repeatedly pulled his handkerchief out of the chest pocket of his bathrobe to wipe his hands. It was a very bad time for these vicissitudes.

“Here’s some paper and a pencil, Mr. Woods. It seemed like you wanted to write something down.” Gracie, looking spiffy in her new dress, opened the blinds to let the morning light shine on his work.

“What? Oh, thank you.” His voice was edgy.

“Sir, I don’t need to go to church today. I can stay home in case Mrs. Woods needs me while you and the girls go to church.”

“Nonsense. You told me you have a solo today. Everyone will be disappointed if you don’t sing.”

She sat firmly in the rocker across from him and leaned forward. “I could telephone Rev. Sturdy and explain. He would make them all understand. Besides, Mrs. Woods is more important to me.”

****

But Mr. Woods said no. He wanted to stay home with his wife. Gracie’s solo went well. Rev. Sturdy praised her after the service and she received countless compliments from her church friends.

She wandered down to the
Edgemere
dock, enjoying the smell of wood smoke from a nearby chimney. She folded the afghan into a cushion on the wooden bench and settled in for some precious solitude. A cardinal ordered his missus around and scolded Gracie for sitting near their nest.

The late morning kissed the tops of the golden oaks on the mountainside. Blurry images swam in the lake, a mirror of the vermillion and orange leaves that glistened from last night’s gentle autumn rain and pocketed themselves amidst the emerald of the tall white pine trees. Gracie had never before seen the beauty of autumn in the mountains.

The imposing
Crestmont
Inn sat majestically across the lake on the hill. Unlike the lonely sentinel she had seen ten days ago after she moved into the Woodshed, it now seemed like a silent parent, nurturing the lives of people who passed through its doors. How it had changed her life in the few months she had been there. She said a silent prayer that Mrs. Woods would soon be as carefree and refreshed as if she herself were a guest in the inn.

Gracie jumped when Shadow rubbed against her leg. Sniffing the water suspiciously from the edge of the dock, the cat returned and jumped up on the bench.

The cat purred when she stroked its coal-colored fur. “You act as if you own the whole town. Come on, you can share.” Gracie spread the orange and brown afghan out so it covered the seat and back of the bench. The cat curled its tail around itself and nestled next to her.

“The Woods needed some privacy, so I’ve come to do some money figuring. If you want to stay, you’ll have to be still.”

Studying the money page in her writing tablet, Gracie was amazed to find that even after buying the maroon slash, she had $72 saved from season close-up and her two jobs. The winter coat, shoes, hat and gloves she needed cost more than she had ever spent at one time in her life. Sending the money order to Sears was scary, but she decided to be bold and add some sheet music. She would sneak up to the library in the big house tonight and write up the order.
 

Shadow stopped purring the minute Gracie started humming. “Oh, sorry.” She scratched the cat’s silky place behind its ears. “It’s Mrs. Sturdy’s favorite hymn and I’m going to sing it soon. Rev. Sturdy said I could practice on the church piano Saturday mornings. I don’t think Mrs. Woods will mind, do you?” Shadow bolted after a squirrel, leaving Gracie feeling foolish for talking to a cat.

Turning to the page where she wrote down her friends, she added Rev. and Mrs. Sturdy and wondered if PT would ever make the list. She hoped so.

****

“Do you feel better today, Mrs. Woods?” Gracie asked anxiously from the passenger seat as they drove to
Laporte
Monday morning. “I can do more around the house, even help you with your bookwork.”

Mrs. Woods dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “Today I feel good and I want to enjoy it. First we’ll go to the bank. I am hoping you will open a savings account, Gracie.” Mrs. Woods advised. “Then you make what is called ‘interest,’ you see. Keeping your money in the hotel safe does keep it secure, but doesn’t help it grow, and when the snow starts, we can’t guarantee you’ll be able to get into the big house any time you want.”

The Sullivan Bank of
Laporte
was a solid brick structure with a thick carved oak door. Gracie smelled lemon oil as they entered. Funny gray fingers wiggled on the glowing marble floor from the light coming through the bars on the windows. Desks in the rear where typewriters clacked were separated from the main teller area by heavy wooden railings.

A bank officer opened a gate in the railing and ushered Mrs. Woods into a green leather chair in front of his desk. Gracie stepped up to the teller booth and spoke to a bald man in a navy blue suit with glasses threatening to come off the tip of his nose. “I’d like to open a savings account, please.”

“Oh, good. I am glad you did it.” Mrs. Woods said later, eyeing the little gray book Gracie was examining.

“Please excuse me, Mrs. Woods. I have another little transaction to make.”

When the teller handed her the money order, she tucked it in her purse, promising herself to save the next three weeks salary.

They motored in silence until Mrs. Woods stopped the car in front of the Penn Economy Self-Serve. “I can get the groceries.” Gracie asked. “You can rest in the car if you’re tired. I’ve got a list of everything I need for my dinners.”

“Oh, no, my head is much better today. Besides, shopping for food relaxes me. These new stores are wonderful. We can browse the shelves and make our own selections without having to go to the counter and hand the clerk a list. Let’s do it together, shall we?”

They stood, considering the canned vegetables. Mrs. Woods had Gracie pull cans of beets, green beans and corn off the shelves.

“I’ll show you how to make the scalloped corn my husband loves.” Mrs. Woods checked her watch pin and threw a box of Shredded Wheat in the cart. “Oh, my dear, how the time has flown. Gracie, go see if the butcher has our order ready, and don’t forget the newspaper. We must get home. A contractor is coming to consult about the addition plans and my husband won’t be home from school in time to meet him.”