The Salem Witch Society (7 page)

“I have to be a hawk with you.” His father is speaking English, though he knows that was not the truth, not when they were alone. “You’re a clever boy. But you must always look ahead, always think what is next. The ground can shift under your very feet. You must always know where your next step will be. Your next three steps.” He cocks his head to see his father’s face. There’s a smile in the man’s eyes, no anger, and so he buries his face in the solid shoulder for warmth and draws in that unpleasant smell: wet wool with old tobacco lingering underneath.

Back inside the winter cabin, he is wrapped in an old woolen blanket. The fire roars, lighting the dark walls of wood planks, where dried mud and hay fill the gaps. A film of gray-blue smoke hovers close to the low ceiling. The skin of his legs tingles, itching from his body’s sudden shift back toward a living warmth.

His mother, fair-skinned and beautiful, reads from an English book, her words musical, rising and falling with the story. There are knights and ladies and great beasts. He gazes up past her pale eyes, aglow in the firelight, to the drifts that rise from his father’s pipe. The smoke curls into hints of shapes, and he imagines the breath of a fiery dragon. He puffs out his chest, drawing in the smoky breath and making it part of him, tasting the bitter, almost medicinal smell of his father’s tobacco. He smiles.

Grey stared at the plate
in front of him. The cigarette was only cold ashes, and all visible signs of the smoke had dissipated. The scent lingered in his memory as he looked toward the windows. The light around the curtain was different now. He stood up, steadied himself against the edge of the worktable for a moment, then strode across the room. Grey snatched his hat from the rack and slipped on his lightweight frock coat before heading out the door. He made no effort to soften his descent as he thudded down the stairs, welcoming the feel of the unyielding wooden treads and the almost palpable sound of his own footsteps in the narrow stairway.

Lean entered Delavino’s smoke shop near the corner of Middle and Exchange. A large sign in the window advertised the fashionable new brand of Turkish Treasures cigarettes. He moved past displays of colorfully illustrated cigar boxes, chewing tobacco, patent medicines, and spruce gum. Posters lined the walls, calling out for him to enjoy the delights of Duke’s Preferred Stock and White Rolls. There was even a small display of Cameos, though Lean couldn’t recall ever having seen a woman inside this shop in all his years of coming to Delavino’s.

At the counter, Lean was greeted by the sweaty pate and smiling eyes of the proprietor.

“Deputy, good to see you. How many today?” He turned away and reached toward the stacks of cigarette boxes on the shelves behind the counter. The man’s thick fingers tripped along the rows of Allen & Ginter products until they reached the Richmond Straight Cuts.

“Just one pack ought to do it, Tino.” Lean’s eyes roamed over the shop as he dug in his pocket for change. Under a banner declaring her famous phrase “Ta-ra-ra-Boom-de-ay” was Lottie Collins, the toast of the English music halls, her right leg kicking high to reveal her stocking and garter, tempting all who passed to try Phillips Guinea Gold cigarettes.

“There is something
else you can help me with.” Lean drew the killer’s cigarette butt from his pocket. “What can you tell me about this? It’s not regular tobacco—got a funny scent to it.”

“Well, it’s hand-rolled, eh. So it could be all sorts.” He took a whiff, then another. “Oh, this is Indian tobacco. It’s native, a wild-growing herb.”

“You sell it?”

Tino gave a dismissive shake of his head. “Of course, for you I can get some if you like. Not the kind of thing people here are willing to pay for. But then”—Tino rolled the butt between his fingers—“it’s perfectly fine rolling paper. Not cheap. For whatever that’s worth to you.”

“Thanks. Very helpful.” Lean took the butt back and pocketed it.

“If you’re interested in the Indians, there’s a new series of Duke cards, famous Indian chiefs. Your boy might like them.”

“Maybe next time.” Lean moved to the door.

“Yes, always next time.” The proprietor took up his newspaper and rattled it loudly after Lean. “If I’m still in business, I can sell you just the one pack again.”

The landlady, Mrs. Philbrick, blocked the doorway at the two-story brick house on High Street, chin out and arms folded across her chest. “Mr. Grey hasn’t been accepting visitors. Has strict instructions that he’s not to be disturbed.”

Lean showed his badge, but the revelation that he was a police deputy did little more than earn a raised eyebrow. “In any event he’s not in at the moment. You missed him by five minutes.”

“Do you know where he’s gone?”

“Mentioned something about the B&M.”

Within minutes Lean reached
his destination on Commercial Street, where he paid the cab fare and headed toward the Boston & Maine depot. Ahead, by the station doors, a fair-skinned twelve-year-old boy dressed in a fringed buckskin shirt and a feathered headdress too large for him was handing out flyers to passengers entering the station.

“Mohegan Indian Medicine Show. Camp Ellis every night this week.” The boy waved a flyer toward Lean’s face. “Need a night of amusement? Free shows, trick-shooting displays, authentic dances, medicine demonstrations. Everything’s first class, all the way. Hear Chief White Eagle lecture on the historic customs of his tribe.”

This was where Grey was heading. Inside the station Lean bought a ticket for the Old Orchard Beach train. Out on the platform, the conductor announced last call. Once he saw that it was only a two-car train, Lean made no move to board. Grey would certainly spot him in such close quarters. He turned back and studied the timetables. Another train left for Old Orchard in forty-five minutes. He’d wait and follow on behind so he could observe Grey’s activities in secrecy.

T
he late-afternoon sun filtered into the top floor of the three-story brick building on Temple Street that housed the Maine Temperance Union’s headquarters. Simon Gould, in his late forties but still powerfully built and with a soldier’s bearing, lifted a coffeepot from its silver platter. He caught sight of his own marred face, the burned tissue reflecting clearly in the vessel’s gleaming surface.

“A prostitute was killed last night,” Gould said.

“One less whore corrupting our streets,” said Colonel Ambrose Blanchard as he held out his fine white porcelain cup. “So foul a life leads to so foul an end. No doubt that the demon alcohol lured her so far from redemption.”

As Gould filled
the colonel’s cup, the curvature of the coffeepot twisted his stern visage, growing the dead, milky orb of his right eye to grotesque proportions. Gould finished pouring and placed the pot down, freeing himself from the uncomfortable sight of his old wound.

“They found her down at the Portland Company.” Gould retook his seat. “With a pitchfork through her neck.”

The colonel was silent for a moment. He frowned, and his gray, thistly eyebrows threatened to form a tangled knot above his austere face. “Was there … anything else?”

“She was laid out like a pentagram. Her right hand was missing.”

The elder man set his cup down on its saucer with a sharp clank. He cursed as the steaming coffee splashed over the side, scalding his hand. “You think it’s him?”

“He talked of some such things,” Gould said, “once or twice, when he was in one of his agitated states.”

“You told me he was gone. That he would not be a concern …”

“Perhaps he’s come home.” Gould saw the colonel glare at him in response and added, “To Portland, that is.”

“Why?” Blanchard finally asked. “The hand taken, it’s like …”

“That book of his,” said Gould.

“Maybe, but we need to know whether he had anything to do with that whore’s death.” The colonel walked to a bookcase filled with a mix of leather- and cloth-bound volumes. Several picture frames stood on the shelves as well, most showing the colonel with small groups of people, often shaking hands with various municipal or state leaders. “Find out whether he’s been here. And find that book before anyone else does.”

“The police have no idea. They’re looking for an Indian.”

“Good, but we must take an active hand in this. None of us are safe now. No one can know who he is.” The colonel set the picture facedown on the shelf. “Or who he ever was.”

Helen Prescott and her eight-year-old daughter, Delia, arrived at Dr. Steig’s at six thirty. The servant took their coats. Helen wore a stylish walking costume of English serge with double box plaiting and apron drapery in the front. The dark blue material complemented her fair skin and blue eyes. She wore her rich brown hair up in a popular style, knotted and braided but long enough, in her case, to cover the back of her neck. Helen gave a soft rap at the study door, then entered.

Dr. Steig looked up
from his desk, where he was pecking away, mostly left-handed, on his Daugherty Visible typewriter. Delia skipped across the room, doing a twirl to show off her fancy cashmere jersey dress, before giving Dr. Steig a hug.

“Thank you, sweet child. What a surprise.”

“You did invite us for dinner,” Helen reminded him.

“Oh, heavens, forgive me. Just gotten distracted with something. Why don’t we dine out?”

“Can we?” Delia asked.

“If you need to get that done first, I could do the typing for you,” Helen said.

“What? No, this is nothing. I can finish it later.”

“It’s not a problem, Uncle Virgil. I could have it done for you in no time.” She approached to get a look at the document.

Dr. Steig released the paper from the typewriter. “Not at all, dear. It’s nothing. A sensitive matter. I need to attend to it personally.” He set the paper atop several pages of notes, then deposited the bunch in the top right drawer of his desk.

Once Helen was close enough, she noticed the circles beneath her uncle’s eyes. “Are you feeling all right? You look as though you haven’t slept.”

“I’ll be fine. Get a good night’s rest tonight. It’s just this pressing matter.”

Helen took a half step back, her nose wrinkling as she puzzled it out. “It’s that awful business in the papers, isn’t it? At the Portland Company.”

“Not appropriate to discuss in front of Delia.”

“Yes, Delia,” Helen said. She showed him a sarcastic smile. “Or any other fragile ears.”

“I’m certainly not going to discuss it while we dine.” He rose and moved toward the coatrack by the door.

“Then you can tell me all about it later.”

“Police business, dear. Highly confidential.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” Helen said with a glance back at Dr. Steig’s desk. “So it must be terribly gruesome.”

A
n hour after leaving
Union Station, Lean reached the town of Old Orchard Beach and made his transfer. While he rode the narrow-gauge dummy train that shuttled him several miles from that summer resort town to the beachfront depot at Camp Ellis, he read two newspapers he’d bought. The
Eastern Argus
declared,
WOMAN MURDERED AT PORTLAND CO.
and
HORRIBLY MUTILATED BODY—POLICE SEEK INDIAN SUSPECT.
Not to be outdone, the
Daily Advertiser
screamed,
BLOODY MURDER THE WORK OF INDIANS,
and
RIPPER-STYLE KILLING BY BLOODTHIRSTY RED SAVAGE.

After reading the stories twice through, Lean turned his attention to the passing scenery as the open-air train rattled along the dunes. It moved through the evangelical summer community of Ocean Park, then past the salt marshes, where Goose Fair Creek emptied into Saco Bay. Lean stared out to his left at the Atlantic. The sun, less than half an hour from setting, lit the beach and the ocean water from behind him. He had managed to telephone his house from the station to explain he wouldn’t be home until late, and now he thought of returning here next weekend to give Emma a well-deserved day of leisure.

Two miles on, past an empty landscape of dunes and long stretches of scrub pines, the dummy train deposited Lean and a load of fellow travelers at Camp Ellis. The spot was a sandy point capped with a long rock jetty extending straight out into the ocean from the north bank of the slow-moving Saco River. He could hear the festive noises coming up from the show grounds closer to the beach. As the couples and families moved past him, Lean glanced over to where three long wagons were parked under a shady stand of trees. Close to two dozen men loitered about there in small clumps. There was not a single woman or child among them, and Lean noticed several bottles and flasks making the rounds. Apparently he wasn’t the only man who’d been reading the shocking Indian allegations that had flooded every newspaper in the state that afternoon.

He hurried after the
crowd of spectators, wanting to blend in on arrival and avoid being spotted by Grey. The show consisted of several large tents, stages, fenced pens for horsemanship displays, and booths spread out over a few acres of grounds bounded in by the Saco River and the Atlantic Ocean. For the next half hour, Lean searched through the stalls and among the crowds for Grey. As daylight faded, oil lamps hanging from posts all around the grounds were lit. In one great fenced-in area, a small crowd of performers reenacted a battle scene where white settlers, to the rousing cheers of the crowd, fought off a circling party of warriors on horseback. Lean moved on and passed a painted tepee where a kindly faced middle-aged Indian woman by the name of Sister Neptune told fortunes. She also sold various powders and potions designed to ward off the very evils she foretold.

Elsewhere a small stage was set aside to entertain young children, whose number had dwindled as the sun went down and some families set off for the return trip on the dummy train. A puppet show told some story involving a giant eagle and Glooskap, the man created from nothing, an Algonquin Indian trickster hero. A riding display included the famous Sable Island Ponies, said to be untamable. Nearby, an attractive Indian woman with long braids and a fringed buckskin suit, decorated with purple and white wampum beads, made trick rifle shots, including an over-the-shoulder target practice performed with a hand held mirror.