Cradle to Grave (24 page)

He turned and followed Cooper through the door into a small central hall, dominated by a flight of stairs rising to the second floor. An open door on the right led into a kitchen. As Cooper went up the steps, Rees turned left, pushing open the door into an office/living area. The room was very cold. Drifting snow blew through the broken window, forming a white coat over the turkey red carpet. A narrow bed dressed with one grubby pillow and a ragged quilt was drawn up to the hearth. But Rees suspected from the small amount of old ashes in the grate that this room had always been kept cold. And, from what he'd seen of Silas, it was most likely to save fuel.

He turned his attention to the desk pulled up to the window, probably to catch all of the natural light. Snow, broken glass, and blood sprinkled the top. “Silas was found lying across his desk,” Cooper said as he stepped into the room.

Rees turned around. “So Silas inherited the bulk of his father's farm?”

Cooper nodded. “He was the eldest and the one who looked most likely to succeed.” He sighed. “Phinney and Silas were as different as chalk and cheese. Phinney was a tearaway who spent most of his time in the tavern. But he was funny and good humored and popular with everyone. And after he wed Olive he settled. Silas was a different man entirely. Sour disposition, something of a miser. He never married. Some think he wanted Olive, but she chose his brother.”

“What do you think?”

Cooper considered the question a few seconds before speaking. “Maybe. By all accounts, she was the prettiest girl around. Like Maggie in that. Certainly Silas never surrendered an opportunity to boast about his worth in comparison to his brother. When their parents carved out the ten acres or so from their farm and gave it to Phinney, well, Silas never forgave them, and after they passed on, he made it his mission to try and recover the land.”

Rees felt a sudden surge of recognition. Did not his sister Caroline feel the same about Rees's farm, that she should own it? “I'll wager the relationship between the brothers was poor?”

“Very,” Cooper said with a nod. “Why do you think Phinney left a will? He wanted to be sure his brother didn't acquire those ten acres. And Olive felt the same, especially after Phinney's death. Silas hounded her. By the time Phinney made his will, besides being well liked, he was part of the town council, so no one was disposed to support Silas.”

“I suppose, if Phinney and Olive and Maggie were still alive, we would have a surfeit of suspects in Silas Tucker's death,” Rees said dryly.

Cooper grinned. “Indeed. Silas was liked by very few.”

Rees turned to the desk and very carefully began pushing the thick broken glass to one side. Blood had dried to a dark maroon brown, spangled with sparkling ice crystals. But not all the red was blood. Taking his handkerchief from his pocket, he began dusting away the snow and the smaller glass chips. “What the…?” Rees picked up the document. It was the original of Olive Tucker's will, with signatures and a red wax seal. “That dirty bastard!” Rees exclaimed. Cooper looked at him in surprise. “Silas had Olive's original will,” Rees said, brandishing the parchment at the constable. “He knew those ten acres belonged to Simon. He stole this, probably from the cabin after he threw those children into the snow. He knew. I guess he thought no one would ever find out. The man was no better than a thief.”

“Well, in the long run,” Cooper said, “it did him no good. And Simon, as the nearest and eldest male relative, now inherits all of this as well.” He gestured around him at the house. Rees nodded. Both law and custom dictated such a result.

“Silas would be furious,” Rees said.

“The mills of God do grind exceedingly fine,” Cooper said with a grin.

“Indeed they do,” Rees agreed. In life, Silas Tucker had been unwilling to allow those children even the shack in which they lived. Now Simon inherited not only the shack and the ten acres of Phinney's land, but also the large and affluent farm of his uncle. Poetic justice.

*   *   *

“That greedy old man knew all along that property didn't belong to him,” Rees told Lydia early the next morning. He heard his voice rise and closed his mouth with a snap. None of the children were awake yet. But the fire was beginning to burn well; by the time they rose the cabin would be warm. Lydia turned from the fireplace, where she'd just put the kettle on to boil.

“He had a very empty life,” she said. She sounded as though she pitied him. “No family, no friends, no…”

“By his own actions,” Rees interrupted.

Lydia frowned at him. “Don't judge, Will.”

“I was so sure he murdered Maggie,” Rees said. “I wanted him to be guilty.”

Lydia smiled at his glum tone and put her hand over his. “He may have done it. But then who killed him? And why?”

“Exactly what I wonder. I heard…” Rees stopped. He'd heard very little to the credit of either Silas Tucker or Maggie Whitney and had assumed they were enemies. “I don't know,” he said. Raising his head to look at her, he admitted, “I don't feel I understand Maggie very well. Mrs. van Blau had nothing but praise for the girl and yet, well, we saw someone very different.”

Lydia stared at him. “You're right. God forgive me, I, too, rushed to judgment.”

“We both did.” Rees took her hand in his. “I missed you in Albany, you know.” He paused and said, more embarrassed than lover-like, “I am so grateful you married me, Mrs. Rees.”

“Someone had to civilize you.” She smiled and Rees pulled her into his arms.

Then Joseph began babbling in the other room and Rees heard someone's feet hit the floor. With an irritated sigh, he released Lydia just as Nancy and Jerusha appeared at the door. Jerusha's gaze flicked from Rees's and Lydia's hands on the table and went anxiously to their self-conscious expressions.

“You're not going away again, are you?” she asked. “Please don't take Lydia—”

A sharp knock upon the cabin door interrupted her. Rees glanced through the window.

“Oh dear God!” he exclaimed. “It's that Reverend Vermette and Miss Pike.”

“Don't take the Lord's name in vain,” Lydia said involuntarily. And then, as Rees's words penetrated, she said, “Are you sure? But we're not dressed. Oh no.” She grimaced, looking like she wanted to swear, too.

Another onslaught rattled the door. Rees and Lydia exchanged angry but resigned glances, and he opened the door.

Reverend Vermette followed his fiancée inside. He was dressed in much-worn black trousers and a jacket but she, when divested of her dark green cloak, was revealed a fashion plate. Since she was garbed in a morning gown, long sleeves covered her arms to her wrists, and lace, rising up to a collar at the neck, occluded her chest. A pale blue ribbon just above her waist provided the only color in that expanse of white fine muslin, too fine for a cold cabin on a winter's day in upstate New York.

She smiled at Lydia. “I am so happy to renew our acquaintance.”

“I planned to call upon you,” Lydia began, sounding stiff.

“But I know you're busy. It is so Christian of you to take charge of these children. Was Miss Whitney a relative?”

“No,” Lydia said, glancing around her at the messy cabin. “I'm so sorry but you catch us at sixes and sevens.”

“We wanted to call on you before Reverend Vermette left again,” Miss Pike said. “Please don't worry.”

“Jerusha, clear the table,” Rees said, moving to the hearth to stir up the fire. “Tea?” He looked at the two unwanted visitors.

“That would be wonderful,” Reverend Vermette said. “We brought a basket.… I'll fetch it from the buggy.” As he disappeared through the door, Rees offered Miss Pike a chair. She eyed it, her hand touching the lacy handkerchief tucked into her sleeve, but finally sat.

Working together, Jerusha, Rees, and Lydia soon had the table cleared and the dirty dishes in the dishpan. Lydia set the tea to steep and scrubbed the table. By then, Vermette had struggled inside with the large basket. Lydia selected a cake and sliced it. The Reverend accepted both a slice of the cake and a cup of tea but Miss Pike, examining the plates as though she suspected they might be dirty, accepted only tea and then she put the cup aside and never touched it.

“It is so unusual to see such selfless devotion to the poor,” Miss Pike said, leaning confidingly toward Lydia.

“I believe in helping those less fortunate,” Lydia said, her tone cool.

“I spoke to Mr. Gray and assured him I would take steps in future to secure the meetinghouse so those boys couldn't get inside,” Vermette said to Rees, stepping away from the table and the ladies sitting there. “I very much appreciate your concern and your willingness to investigate.”

Rees inclined his head. “You're close to Mr. Gray?”

“Indeed I am. He donated the land for the church and the graveyard. After my marriage, I intend to give up my post as circuit preacher and remain here, in Dover Springs. I'll offer services at the log church every Sunday.”

“I'm sure Miss Pike will much prefer that when you're wed,” Rees said, acknowledging the woman with a bow. She smiled in return.

“Indeed. I could not afford to marry as a circuit preacher. We earn too little to support a family and the traveling means long months away. But with this church and…” He stopped suddenly as a scream erupted from one of the children. Without speaking, Rees crossed the room to separate Nancy and Judah, who were quarreling over a toy. Miss Pike's horrified expression was a study.

“What will happen to these children?” she asked. “Surely you don't intend to adopt them?” Lydia smiled but did not reply. Rees wondered why she did not explain they planned to leave the children with the Shakers. After a moment of silence, Miss Pike said, “Well, I can see how very busy you are.” She began to gather herself up. Reverend Vermette collected her cloak and helped her into it.

“Please call upon me,” Miss Pike said to Lydia. “I'm sure we will become fast friends.”

“I will,” Lydia said. Her words came out with difficulty, as though she'd stitched her lips together.

Politely Rees held the door open. Reverend Vermette and Miss Pike could not ignore the hint and quickly departed.

“That's the very worst kind of charity,” Lydia said, turning to face Rees. “Not with an open and loving heart but from a sense of her own self-importance. I knew so many women like her growing up in Boston. They say they want to help the poor but flaunt their wealth and good breeding so that those they assist appreciate the wonderful generosity of their benefactors. We should be grateful that someone of Miss Pike's elevated status pays attention to us. Well, gratitude to such condescension makes for a cold and unsatisfying meal.”

Rees put his hand upon Lydia's shoulder. “I know,” he said, gesturing at the children with a jerk of his head. “Miss Pike wants to help. Maybe her manner will moderate once she is involved in regular pastoral duties, as Reverend Vermette's wife and helpmeet.”

“I doubt it,” Lydia said. Turning to Jerusha she asked, “Has Miss Pike ever visited you before?”

“Yes,” Jerusha said. “You were here, the first time. Remember? I don't think Mama liked her very much.”

“I understand,” Lydia said. “Your Mama probably didn't like such charity either.”

“But you know Reverend Vermette, don't you?” Rees asked, his thoughts converging upon the pastor. After all, Maggie had been found in the graveyard of his church. And Mouse had heard someone singing there.

“Yes. He visited Aunt Olive often. He doesn't come anymore, though.”

Rees leaned over the table to help himself to a large slab of cake. “I'll drive into town now and speak with the constable. I wonder if he's thought of Vermette as a suspect in all of this. When I return, we'll fetch Simon from the Baker farm.”

Rees went outside to hitch up Ares. Although the sun shone brightly, and the icicles hanging down from the eaves dripped, the air was cold. Still, March had finally arrived and that meant April and May were galloping down the track. Spring would be here soon.

Chapter Twenty-one

Rees drove into town, pulling up in front of Cooper's shop. The snow was packed down by traffic and icy, and Rees slipped and half-fell knee deep into the snow before making it to the shop.

The stove was roaring. Today, the apprentices were sanding and smoothing barrel staves in preparation for soaking. The workroom smelled pleasantly of fresh wood, and pink- and white-hued oak shavings carpeted the floor. Cooper sat in his office, sorting through the papers piled upon his desk. The appreciable distance from the stove meant Cooper needed to wear a jacket.

“Mr. Rees.” Cooper pushed aside the papers with an expression of relief. “What brings you into town? Any news?”

Rees thought he should ease into the true reason for his visit. “You know Reverend Vermette is back?”

“Yes.” Cooper raised his eyebrows. “Surely you don't suspect him of the murders?”

“Maybe. He spent a significant amount of time at the farm.”

“When Olive was alive.”

“He knew Maggie before he knew Miss Pike,” Rees persisted.

“I never saw any connection between Reverend Vermette and Maggie,” Cooper said. “And now he is betrothed to Miss Pike. She was quite a catch for him: a sizable dowry and wealthy father with a successful business in Albany.”

“Maggie was found in the graveyard of his church,” Rees said. “Vermette's church.”

“An already prepared grave,” Cooper argued. “And that church is close to Maggie's farm.”

“Mouse heard singing.”

“Hmmm. Don't let your friendship with Miss Moore blind you,” Cooper said. “No one else heard anything.”

“Mouse will always tell me the truth,” Rees said. But he understood Cooper's hesitation. Like most constables and sheriffs, and like Rees himself, Cooper expected everyone to lie. Rees discounted half of what he heard. So, although Cooper did not argue, his expression indicated disbelief in Rees's assertion.