The Fire of Home (A Powell Springs Novel) (21 page)

“I should have insisted that she see you instead of letting her talk me into getting that cough medicine from Granny Mae.” Amy fought to speak around the strangling knot that formed in her throat, and her words quivered with emotion and regret. “D-did the cough medicine kill her?”

Jessica studied her sister, a woman who had betrayed her and disappointed her in the worst possible way. Strands of her dark-blonde hair had come loose from their untidy bun and fell around her face. Exhaustion made her look almost as bad as she had the first day Jess had seen her here in the entryway. Naked worry and time had sapped the youthful spark sh
e’d
had as a young woman. What Amy really wanted to know was if she had killed Deirdre with a tablespoon and a bottle of poison. What she really sought was mercy. If Jess were vindictive, the sort of person who felt driven to get even, she could lie to Amy and watch her squirm. But regardless of what had passed between them, she couldn’t do that. Her soul was not that dark, her heart not as wicked. So she gave her the truth.

She met her tired, fearful gaze with an even look. “Not really. It might have pushed her to the edge, but she would not survive her illness.”

Amy’s eyes closed for a moment—in relief, in gratitude—Jess wasn’t sure which. She released the breath sh
e’d
been holding and nodded. “What shall I do for her?”

“All we can provide is palliative care. You know, try to keep her comfortable. People usually know when they’re dying. I’ll come by a couple of times a day until, well, until she doesn’t need me anymore. When that time comes,” and she made direct and unwavering eye contact with Amy, “all the bedding, her handkerchiefs, and so on will have to be burned.”

Amy glanced at the bed then back at Jess. “Everything?”

“
Everything.
Including the mattress. All soft and porous surfaces, whatever can’t be sterilized. Don’t bother to wash it. Just put it out in the burn pile. You might as well get started with some things already soiled, and be sure to wash your hands with carbolic soap each time.”

Amy took a deep breath and exhaled. Fatigue was painted on her face with gray strokes. “All right.”

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Jess went on. “Granny Mae and I might have become friends and managed a truce these past few years, and I still respect some of her knowledge. But she can’t go on cooking up her tonics or anything else with real drugs. I gave up trying to fight her on it because she’s so stubborn and outspoken. But this . . . this is a catastrophe.”

Amy swept a hand over a loose curl to push it back. “I think Bax has gone to the café to find out who sold her that moonshine.”

“Good. What did you do with that bottle from last night?”

“I poured it down the bathtub drain.”

“All right. I hope Mae quits this on her own, but if I have to, I’ll talk to Horace about reining her in if she doesn’t cooperate. She’s not a chemist or a pharmacist. She’s always done pretty much what she wants, but the mayor’s office ought to be able to put her out of the compounding business.”

“She’s pretty shaken by this.”

“Yes, I know.” She looked at the watch pinned to her apron front. “Now I’m off to see Cole and Margaux.” Glancing back at Deirdre, she added, “If anything changes here, call me. Otherwise, I’ll be back late this afternoon.”

Amy tipped her face down. “Thank you, Jess.”

Adam paced the floor of the cabin, an unsatisfying pursuit given its small area. He had been living in this dank, grubby shack for nearly a week and he needed to find a way to catch Amy alone in the boardinghouse. Breninger had told him two men and another woman lived under that roof, too. The men would probably be gone during the day, he speculated. He kicked at a pine cone on the floor.

Speculation wasn’t worth much. It had seemed like a good idea to hide out here, but he realized that h
e’d
need to rely on Breninger and whatever other flunky he could hire to perform surveillance for him. By the time he learned of an opportunity to go to the house, everything could change. And the more people who knew about him and his plans, the higher the risk of word getting around. His chief weapon was the element of surprise.

He thought h
e’d
been so clever, hiding that book in the back of the closet. How could he have anticipated that Amy would find it there? He paused in front of the cloudy, vine-covered window, and for a moment his certainty wobbled. Maybe he should have just let her go and been done with it. He doubted very seriously if she knew what she possessed, and this was becoming an extremely trying chore.

Then his outraged ego and fury rose again. No, by God! She must have known, otherwise she would not have taken it. She was his wife, she had sworn to honor and obey him, and nothing gave him greater pleasure than seeing her dread of igniting his anger reflected in her eyes. She was meant to be with him, to follow him, and do his bidding. Love had nothing to do with the issue. It was simply the natural order of things. His gambling debts and other miscalculations did not excuse her.

He took up his pacing again. He had no choice, he realized. H
e’d
have to light a fire under Milo Breninger and pay him for the privilege.

Damn you, Amy
, he thought bitterly. He was a busy man. He didn’t have time for this. But h
e’d
get what he wanted, no matter what it took.

When Bax stopped by the house around two o’clock, he searched the whole first floor but saw no one. Then he climbed the stairs and started looking into each open room. Over the sound of running water, he heard short, gulping sobs. He found Amy at the sink in the bathroom, scrubbing her hands with soap and a small brush as if she meant to take off her skin. She still had on the same clothes sh
e’d
worn since yesterday and her apron was dirty. He could see her reflection in the mirror. She looked like a madwoman.

“Amy?”

She glanced up at him. Her face was crumpled with her crying, but as soon as she saw him she wiped her face against the shoulder of her dress and her expression became a blank.

“What’s going on?”

Taking a deep breath, plainly trying to take control of her voice, she gulped back the tears and cleared her throat. “Fred Hustad is on his way. Jessica sent for him.”

He looked toward the end of the hall and saw that Deirdre’s door was closed. “Where’s Doc Jessica?”

“Down—down there.” She inclined her head in that general direction.

Bax headed there and knocked. “Come in, Fred,” he heard her call.

“Doc, it’s Bax Duncan.”

The sound of footsteps crossed the floor, and Jess opened the door and stepped out. She looked composed but tired. “Sorry, I thought you were Fred Hustad.”

“Amy said he’s on his way. So—she’s gone?”

Jess nodded and shut the door behind her. “About thirty minutes ago.
I’d
like to keep this room closed off from the rest of the house until she can be moved.”

He sighed. H
e’d
really liked Deirdre Gifford. “She went so fast.”

“That methanol pretty much finished her off. She lost her sight, like Winks did.”

He flinched.

She put on a resigned face. “But she wouldn’t have survived. Hasty consumption has a very poor outcome.”

“I stopped by the office. Whit told me they’ve had a couple of deaths in Fairdale and Twelve Mile too. The news came in the mail.”

Jessica shook her head in wonder. “I suppose it was bound to happen—I just wasn’t expecting it here. Did you talk to Granny Mae?”

“Yeah. She’s a wreck over this—she didn’t want to talk to me but I finally convinced her that she’s not going to jail.”

“What did you find out?”

“She doesn’t know who she bought that alcohol from. Sh
e’d
never seen the man before, and when she described him, I couldn’t hazard a guess as to his identity. But then I don’t know that many people around here.”

“Mae does. If she didn’t recognize him, he must have been a stranger.”

He rubbed a thumb over his chin. “Who’s going to tell her about this?” He gestured at the closed door.

“I will.” Amy walked toward them. Her eyes were still red, and her hands looked chilblained from the scrubbing. “I feel responsible.”

Bax turned to Amy. Sh
e’d
grown so accustomed to blame, she accepted it even if it didn’t belong to her. “It was an
accident
. Nothing was intentional, was it?”

She looked over Jessica’s shoulder to the four-panel door behind her. “No.”

Just then, someone knocked on the front door downstairs.

“That will be Fred, I imagine,” Amy said, and she turned to go meet him.

Tabitha stood on the platform to watch the porter unload her belongings from the train. He tossed them onto the baggage cart as if they were hay bales instead of her treasured Louis Vuitton luggage.

“Excuse me,
please
be careful with those trunks. There are some fragile things in them. And have them delivered to the New Cascades Hotel.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The porter nodded, and she stepped forward to hand him fifty cents.

“Oh, and where is the taxi stand?”

He turned one ear toward her slightly and gave her a sidelong squint. “The what, now?”

“Where can I get a taxicab?”

“There’s nothing like that in Powell Springs. I’ve never even seen a taxicab, except once when I was in Paree during the war. Anyway, the hotel is just there, two blocks over.” He pointed at a two-story brick building that shone rust-red in the sun.

She sighed and walked down the platform steps to the street. The trip out here had not taken all that long, though there were numerous stops on the way, but her day had been, and she was frazzled and tired. She looked down at her wrinkled cream bengaline suit and realized it was probably impractical to wear for travel. It would just get dirty. But her ivory gloves and straw cloche created such a lovely ensemble. She would change clothes when she got to the hotel and hope that the wrinkles relaxed.

Her escape from the house had taken place in the dead of night, with her belongings going first. After another visit from Rinehart, this time with a real police officer, Tabitha had become so nervous she didn’t want to wait any longer. Elsa arranged for her brother to take the luggage to Union Station and check it. Two hours later Tabitha followed in a taxi, in case any nosy, and potentially gossipy, neighbors were watching. To reward her efforts and loyalty, Tabitha had paid her maid six weeks’ severance pay, plus a bonus of seventy-five dollars, a gift so handsome that Elsa wept with gratitude. Tabitha had left the hall lamp on, as she always did, to make it appear that she was still home. Then she locked up the beautiful, stately house on Park Place, and with a grief-stricken last look, climbed into the taxi that carried her to the train depot. Whether she would see it again was impossible to know.

Looking around now, she saw that Powell Springs was a humble village of a place compared to Portland. Not even Main Street was paved, and there were as many horses on the roads as cars. And dear God, was that ghastly figure perched in the horse trough a replica of the Statue of Liberty?