In Every Heartbeat (21 page)

“The Holloway Plan?” The man’s eyes glazed. Then he shook his head. “But I don’t have no ideas on how to keep these young mutts from performin’ crimes.”

“That’s where Oscar Leidig comes in.” Libby scurried to the man’s side. “He certainly knows why he was in the drugstore with a gun. He knows what led him to that point in time. He can tell me . . . er, us . . . everything we need to know.” She pointed at the guard with her pencil. “But we can’t name the prevention plan for
him
. It would be indecent to credit him—after all, he’s a criminal. You’re a respected lawman . . .”

Defining a jail guard as a lawman took liberties with accuracy, but her words had found their target. The man threw back his shoulders and patted the gun at his hip. “You betcha, missy.”

“So of course we’ll give the plan your name,” Libby finished. “Now—” she inched toward the barred cell door—“all that’s left is to ask questions of Mr. Leidig.”

Mr. Holloway lurched into her path. “You ain’t goin’ in that cell.”

“But, Mr. Holloway, how can I possibly—”

“You ain’t goin’ in alone.” He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket. “Boy like that . . . who knows what he’d do if he had you all to hisself in there. Nope. I’m goin’ in with you!”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FOUR

B
ennett roused and sat up in the lumpy hotel bed when the doorknob squeaked, signaling Pete’s return. Yawning, he greeted, “Hey, Pete, that didn’t take long. I figured—” Frowning, he pointed at Pete’s scruffy young companions. “Who’re they?”

Pete put his hand on the head of the smaller boy and gave the other one a gentle push into the room. “Dennis and Lorenzo. Boys, this is my friend Bennett.”

The boys stared at him, wide-eyed.

“What’re they doing here?”

Pete looked at the pair, a funny smile on his lips. “They’re . . . my brothers.”

Bennett shot off the bed as if fired from a cannon. “Brothers?” Why had Pete brought them to the hotel room? Surely he didn’t intend to
keep
them!

Pete guided the smallest boy to the table and chair in the corner, sat down, and stood the boy between his knees. “Lorenzo’s shirt has a tear. We’re going to repair it.” He turned to the older boy, who was standing next to the door with a sullen look on his face.

“Dennis, bring me the bag, please. I need the needle and thread we bought.”

Dennis shuffled forward, dropped the little paper bag within Pete’s reach, and then returned to lean against the door. The kid looked ready to bolt at any minute. If he did, Bennett wouldn’t stop him.

Bennett inched closer to the table. “You brought him here to fix his shirt?” Had Pete gone completely batty?

“That’s right.” Pete nipped off a length of thread and squinted at the needle. He jabbed the thread through the eye and then tied a knot at the dangling end. “All right, Lorenzo, off with that shirt.”

Lorenzo backed away, shaking his head wildly. “Huh-uh.”

Pete chuckled softly. “I can’t fix it while you’re wearing it.” He held out his hand. “Come here.”

But again, the little boy shook his head. “No.”

Bennett rolled his eyes. “For pete’s sake . . .” The sooner that shirt was fixed, the sooner Pete would get these kids out of there. The last thing they needed was a couple of dirty-faced urchins underfoot. He reached for the kid. “Gimme your shirt so Pete can—”

“No!” The boy raced to his brother.

Dennis shot Bennett a murderous glare. “Leave ’im alone.”

Bennett folded his arms and laughed. “Well, well, aren’t you the feisty one?”

Pete clumsily rose and stepped in front of Bennett, but he didn’t advance on the boys. “Lorenzo, I don’t want to hurt you. I might poke you with the needle if you don’t take off your shirt.”

“He ain’t takin’ it off.” Dennis’s eyes snapped, daring Pete to argue.

Bennett had never seen such a stubborn kid. Reminded him of himself at that age.

The boy stuck out his jaw. “It’s the only shirt he’s got. You don’t give it back, what’s he s’posed to do? Run around without?”

“He’s running around without shoes,” Bennett muttered, “so what difference does it make?” The boy’s feet were chapped, the toenails rimmed with dirt. He’d been going shoeless for quite a while.

“Can go to school without shoes. Can’t go without a shirt.” Dennis plunked his fists on his hips. “So you either fix it with him in it or we’re goin’ home.”

Another wail left Lorenzo’s lips. “I can’t go home, Dennis! Pa’ll skin me for tearin’ my shirt!”

Pete limped forward a couple of steps, keeping a distance between himself and the boys. Bennett wished he’d just grab the kid and take the shirt, but instead Pete spoke in a soft voice, the way he might talk to a spooked horse. “Lorenzo, all I want to do is fix your shirt for you. I promise I won’t keep it. What would I do with it?” He held his arms outward. “It wouldn’t fit me.”

A grin twitched Lorenzo’s lips. “You’re too big for it.”

Pete laughed as if the kid had said something clever. “That’s right.” He returned to the table. “So come on over here. You can watch me. Then the next time your shirt gets a tear, you’ll know how to fix it yourself.”

“But I don’t got a needle and thread.” The boy slowly scuffed his way to Pete and began unbuttoning the ragged shirt.

“Once I’m done, I’ll give you the needle and thread.”

The little boy’s mouth dropped. “For real? For me to keep?”

“To keep.” Pete took the shirt and turned it inside-out.

“My own needle . . .”

Bennett couldn’t hold back a snort. Pete wasn’t offering the kid anything of value, like an erector set or a pair of roller skates. Why would he get all excited over a needle and thread?

Lorenzo rested his palms on the table and leaned close, watching Pete push the needle in and out, in and out. The boy’s ribs showed, and some strange pale marks on his back—fading welts?—captured Bennett’s attention. A chill went down his spine when the little boy said, “Nobody never gave me nothin’ before . . . not for keeps.”

Bennett glanced at Dennis, who stared unsmilingly in Pete’s direction, seeming to guard his little brother with his eyes. Sinking onto the mattress, Bennett considered for the first time that there could be worse things than growing up without knowing who his parents were.

An hour after entering the jail cell, Libby thanked Mr. Holloway for his time and scampered up the dimly lit staircase leading from the basement. The jail area of the rock building had been cool and damp, carrying the musty odors of mold and something that reminded her of an outhouse on a hot summer day. She burst onto the street, sucking in great drafts of fresh, crisp air to clear her nostrils of the unpleasant odors.

Her chest ached. She could escape the dreariness of that underground cell, but Oscar couldn’t. “Oh, that poor boy . . .” The back of her nose stung as an image of Oscar Leidig’s hopeless face filled her memory. She wasn’t sure which haunted her more—Oscar’s despair or Mr. Holloway’s apathy toward the young man. While she’d carefully recorded Oscar’s version of the events leading up to the death of the drugstore clerk, the guard had sat with his hands linked on his belly, his expression stoic or—worse—bored. The man’s only concern was that she spell his name correctly.

“No one cares.” She whispered the words to the passing pedestrians, their mindless busyness seeming to prove her thoughts correct. Well, now that she was armed with the facts,
somebody
was going to care! She would not let Petey’s brother die without a fight.

She hailed a passing cab and gave the driver Alice-Marie’s address. She needed to find Petey and share her findings—but Petey didn’t have the power to set his brother free. Alice-Marie’s father, however, might. He was a respected businessman and a pillar of his church; his voice would count when raised against injustice. Libby hugged her notebook to her chest and willed the afternoon to hurry by. She’d speak to Mr. Daley when he returned home for lunch. There was no time to lose—Oscar’s hanging was scheduled to take place on December 18, only a month away.

The cab pulled up in front of Alice-Marie’s stately home. Libby handed the cab driver a quarter and hopped out. She took the steps two at a time. Just as she reached for the brass door handle, she heard Alice-Marie’s voice.

“Elisabet Conley, there you are running again. Will you ever learn to behave like a lady?”

Libby spun toward the sound and located Alice-Marie sitting on a wicker chair in the porch’s attached gazebo. She hurried over and dropped into a matching chair. A half-empty teacup painted with delicate blue forget-me-nots sat on a wooden tray on a wicker table between the chairs. The vast difference between the horror of Oscar’s jail cell and Alice-Marie’s pristine world almost made Libby dizzy.

“Did you get the information you needed to finish your article?”

Libby felt a twinge of guilt. She’d led Alice-Marie and her parents to believe she’d left their home to gather information for a school assignment. Mrs. Daley had erroneously assumed Libby’s silence when questioned about her whereabouts resulted from embarrassment of her social faux pas. After all, what girl of breeding would leave a social event prior to bidding a polite farewell to the special guest?

Maelle would be disappointed to know Libby had engaged in falsehoods, but allowing the Daleys to hold to their assumptions had made it easy to continue the charade when leaving the house that morning. In answer to Alice-Marie’s question, she said, “I have the information, but there’s still much work to do.”

“So you’ll be writing this afternoon?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

Libby took a deep breath. “Whether or not I can secure your father’s assistance.”

Alice-Marie took a sip of tea, her eyebrows high. “How can Daddy help?”

Instead of answering that question, Libby posed one of her own. “Will he be home soon?”

“Around twelve-thirty, Mother said. We’ll have luncheon at one.”

Libby groaned. She might burst if she had to wait that long!

Alice-Marie nibbled the edge of a round, crisp cookie. She pushed the little plate holding three more cookies closer to Libby. “Have one—they’re wonderful. Lemon butter cookies, the last of the season, since Cook won’t be able to get lemons again until next spring.”

Libby shook her head. She couldn’t eat. Not until she’d un–burdened herself. “Alice-Marie, do you read the newspaper?”

She wrinkled her nose. “What on earth for?” She took another dainty bite and brushed crumbs from her skirt.

“To find out what’s going on in the world.” Libby leaned forward. “Did you know, right here in Clayton, a sixteen-year-old—a mere boy!—is jailed and awaiting execution for a murder he didn’t commit?”

Alice-Marie’s mouth dropped open. “Truly? But that’s despicable!”

Libby nodded wholeheartedly. “It is. The story I was working on when I left your house last weekend involves him.” She couldn’t bring herself to mention the boy was Petey’s brother. “I’m hoping your father might be able to help me find a way to prove this boy’s innocence.”

“Libby, dear, Daddy isn’t a lawyer.”

Her patronizing tone irritated Libby, but she swallowed a sharp retort. She needed Alice-Marie’s cooperation right now. “But he is a businessman, so he’s certainly acquainted with lawyers.”

“Of course he is.” Alice-Marie broke off a crumbly bit of cookie then carried the morsel to her mouth. “Daddy owns four different businesses in town. He has two lawyers on his payroll who make certain everything is handled appropriately.” She giggled. “To be honest, I know very little about what he does. Daddy never discusses business at home. He says it’s gauche. And that’s fine. I don’t need to know about his business dealings . . . as long as I continue to receive my allowance.” She popped the last of the cookie into her mouth.

Alice-Marie’s superficiality was becoming more glaring by the moment. What made some people so unaware, so uncaring? She hoped Alice-Marie’s father possessed more sensitivity.

At that moment, a rattling
chug-chug-chug
carried to her ears. She sat up in eagerness, looking toward the street. Alice-Marie sent a smile in Libby’s direction. “Here’s Daddy now. I guess he decided to come home early.”

Libby joined Alice-Marie at the top of the stairs while Mr. Daley parked the Model T at the curb. He came up the walk whistling and broke into a smile when he spotted the girls. “Hello, Alice-Marie . . . Elisabet. Enjoying the fresh air?”

Alice-Marie slipped her hand through her father’s elbow when he reached the porch. “Daddy, Libby was hoping you’d come home early. She has something important to discuss with you.”

“Oh?” He fixed Libby with an attentive look.

“Yes, sir. You see—” Libby paused, memories of her time with Oscar Leidig crowding her mind. Where should she start? She opened her mouth and blurted, “Today I talked to a boy named Oscar Leidig, and—”

Mr. Daley’s face contorted into an angry mask. He threw his hand upward, bringing Libby’s sentence to a halt. “Kindly do not mention that name.”

“S-sir?” Libby pressed her hand to her bodice. Her heart pounded beneath her palm.

The man’s face mottled with red, and he growled through gritted teeth. “He is a lowdown, worthless excuse for a human being.”

Alice-Marie gasped. “Daddy!”

Mr. Daley wiped his hand over his face. “Excuse me for being so harsh. But that young man’s actions had an ill effect on every business owner in Clayton. Why, what if he’d chosen to barge into one of my businesses instead? It could be one of my employees dead by his gun.”

He drew in a shuddering breath, and the high color in his cheeks slowly returned to normal. He patted Alice-Marie’s hand. “Don’t you worry, Alice-Marie. The boy will pay and pay dearly for taking the life of that drugstore clerk.” Under his breath, he added, “As far as I’m concerned, hanging’s too good for Oscar Leidig.”