Cradle to Grave (26 page)

“Mr. Baker can't be more than a few years younger than I am,” Rees said. “Maggie must have been little more than a child.”

“She was fourteen. Ah, you're wondering about Mr. Baker's sons. They aren't his natural sons. They are from Mrs. Baker's earlier marriage. She is, I believe, slightly older than he is. And when her first husband died she set her cap for Mr. Baker. He had already inherited this productive farm, you see.”

Rees saw. If Maggie had wed Mr. Baker, she and her children might now be living a comfortable life, not Mrs. Baker.

“I think he still nurses feelings for Maggie,” Lydia said. “He tried to help them.”

“Simon's job.”

“Yes. I doubt Mr. Baker fathered any of Maggie's children, though. He's been married now these ten years and even Mrs. Baker admitted she never allows him out of her sight.”

“Does she have any ideas about who might have, then?” Rees asked.

Lydia shook her head. “Mrs. Baker was most emphatic that she never saw any men visiting the cabin.”

“Maybe they slipped in after dark?” Rees suggested.

“Maybe,” Lydia said doubtfully. “But how? When Maggie returned from Boston she had Jerusha and was already pregnant with Simon. And her aunt was still alive. After Olive's death, Maggie cared for not only her children but the nurslings.”

Rees thought that through and nodded. “So, where did she meet her lovers?”

“Somewhere inside,” Lydia said. “Had to be. Nancy was born in early October so she was conceived in February: the depths of the winter. And Judah was born in September, conceived in January.”

What had the Baker boy said? He and his friends used to sneak onto the second floor of the log meetinghouse? “I need to pay a visit to Reverend Vermette,” Rees said. “And thoroughly search his church. Maybe this time Maggie was meeting the man there.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Rees continued to ponder Maggie and the fathers of her children throughout the day. After the children were in bed, he raised the topic once again with Lydia. “Although it's possible none of the fathers of these children are guilty of murder, I won't be happy until I've proven their innocence to my own satisfaction.”

“Or guilt,” Lydia said. “It would be such a common story.”

“Someone must know, or at least be able to guess, who fathered Maggie's children,” Rees said, thinking aloud.

“Mrs. Baker was pretty definite that Roger Whitney, for all that he gave Jerusha his name, wasn't her father.”

“I don't know how much credibility I'd give Mrs. Baker's opinion,” Rees said, remembering the woman's hostility.

“I suspect she is correct,” Lydia said with a touch of acid. “Look at Jerusha and Nancy. They look so much alike I suspect the same man fathered them both.”

Rees nodded, his mind racing. Jerusha and Nancy also strongly resembled Constable Cooper's little girl. “I need to talk to the constable again. Mouse remembered Maggie saying something about the man she'd always loved. Cooper?”

Lydia nodded. “That connection would have been a long-standing one, considering the age difference between the two girls.”

“They knew each other from childhood. But any relationship ended, eventually,” Rees said. “Judah does not resemble his sisters at all.”

“Maggie realized Nancy's father couldn't, or wouldn't, ever marry her.” The sympathy in her voice drew Rees's attention. Lydia looked up and met his gaze. “I understand. When I was engaged to marry in Boston, I knew, before Edward told me, that he wanted to break the engagement. I saw him speaking to my best friend and I knew. Oh, Edward would still have gone through with the wedding had I insisted. He was too afraid of my father to refuse. But he would have hungered after Nell and that I couldn't accept.” Rees reached over to clasp her hand. He hated seeing the sadness in her eyes. And sometimes, although he fought the impulse, he wondered if she missed the affluent Boston life Edward would have given her.

Lydia turned with a smile. “It is much better to marry someone I can trust,” she said, exactly as though she could read his mind. “Anyway, if something similar happened to Maggie, well maybe that's why she wed Roger Whitney.”

“And then Judah's father did not marry her either,” Rees said.

Lydia nodded sadly. “I feel for her.”

“I do, too,” Rees admitted. The more he learned of her situation, the more he pitied her and admired her courage. “I'll drive into town tomorrow; I now have several gentlemen with whom I must speak,” he said, thinking aloud.

“Tomorrow is Sunday,” Lydia reminded him. Yawning, she reached up and loosened her hair.

“The Reverend Vermette will not be available until the afternoon, if then,” agreed Rees. “But Cooper and Randall should be around.” He knelt on the hearth to bank the fire for the night.

“I'll do my part and call upon Miss Pike sometime next week,” Lydia said. She did not sound enthusiastic.

“Quiz her about her betrothed,” Rees said.

“Of course,” Lydia agreed. But she added, flashing him a derisive glance, “You're foolish if you're hoping she'll confide the secret of any relationship between Reverend Vermette and Maggie to me. Even if Miss Pike knew of a connection, she would pretend it did not exist. And she'll express only scorn for Maggie, the fallen woman.”

Rees sighed and nodded in agreement.

*   *   *

Before driving into town the next morning, Rees went by the log church. Reverend Vermette was home and preaching. The yard outside was crowded with wagons and buggies. Rees pulled Ares to a stop and listened. He heard the sound of hymn singing and guessed the service would continue for at least another hour. He slapped the reins down on Ares's flanks; he would stop again on his way home.

The cooper's shop was closed when he arrived, and the proprietor was nowhere to be seen. But Rees spotted movement in the yard behind the shop, and as he descended the path he saw Mrs. Cooper loading canvas-wrapped parcels into the back of her buggy. She turned in a swirl of her fustic yellow cloak when she saw him approaching and looked at him quizzically with red-rimmed eyes. Rees thought she'd been crying, and crying hard. “I'm just looking for your husband,” he said.

“If he isn't in the shop then I don't know where he is.” She pushed one of the bundles into the buggy with unnecessary force.

“He isn't.”

“Well, he's around town somewhere. Probably in the tavern.”

Rees inclined his head in silent acknowledgment and turned. But he spun back around. “Did you know Maggie Whitney?” he asked.

“Of course.” She scowled. Oh, she had known Maggie all right, and hadn't liked her. “Not well. I didn't grow up in town. But I knew her by sight. And I spoke to her a few times.” She looked up at him from her velvety brown eyes. “Why do you ask?”

“I thought I might obtain a woman's perspective on her character,” Rees lied, with a casual motion of his hand.

Mrs. Cooper paused for a moment, her eyes shifting away from his. “I felt sorry for her,” she said at last. “She was an orphan, you know?”

“Yes, I did hear that,” Rees said.

“Her aunt Olive treated her lovingly, that's true. But it isn't the same, is it? Not having a mother. She had no father to protect her and her uncle—”

“Phineas Tucker?”

“No, no. I never met him. His brother, Silas, did not treat Maggie as an uncle should.”

Rees thought of Silas ejecting Maggie's children from their home and nodded in agreement.

“I would have avoided him. Sometimes the way he looked at her…” She shuddered delicately. “But Maggie liked attention.”

Rees regarded Mrs. Cooper thoughtfully. “Hmmm. I would have thought two young women of an age would seek one another out,” he said. “Befriended one another.”

Genevieve shrugged. “Maybe we might have, in the future,” she said, leaving Rees with the exact opposite impression. “But I just moved to Dover Springs two years ago to be closer to my husband. Before that, I lived with my parents. And Maggie and I were both busy.”

“And you're moving again?” Rees asked, pointing at the bundles thrust into the backseat.

“I stayed on my father's farm for the first five years of my marriage and now I'm returning.” She tossed her head angrily. Oh, now Rees understood. She and her husband had quarreled, as any man and wife did, and she was running home to her parents.

“I'm sure Cooper will miss you,” Rees said, feeling sorry for both of them.

“I'm sure he won't,” she retorted.

Abruptly the door to the little house flew open. “Mama?” A young boy of about nine came out upon the top step, his arms heaped high with sacks and boxes. His fair hair had darkened to brown and like his mother his eyes were brown, but for all that he resembled Cooper.

“Go help your mother,” said a deeper male voice from inside. “Don't worry about packing everything, Genevieve,” the man continued as he stepped through the door. He was white-haired, and his face was familiar to Rees. “I'll return with the wagon.” He followed his grandson out upon the porch.

Mrs. Cooper said, “My son, Mr. Rees. And have you met my father?” Shaking his head, Rees stepped over the icy expanse of ground to the porch and reached up to grasp the other man's hand. The man stared at Rees with hard brown eyes.

“Are you one of Malachi's friends?”

“No,” Rees said, dropping his hand. Malachi? No wonder Cooper went by his last name.

Cooper's father-in-law stared at Rees for another hostile moment and then pulled his grandson into the house.

“My father is angry with my husband just now,” Mrs. Cooper said in half-apology.

“So I see,” Rees said, nodding his farewell at Mrs. Cooper.

Rees went up the path to the road and climbed into his buggy. He drove the few yards to the tavern and handed off his horse and buggy to the ostler. Cooper must surely be inside. But when Rees went in and looked around he saw no sign of the constable. “Breakfast?” asked Mr. Randall.

“Not today,” Rees said. “Is Mr. Cooper here?”

“Haven't seen him,” Mr. Randall said. “Not at all today.” He turned and limped away. Rees stared after the older man. Mr. Randall, an older gentleman, would not know the answers to the questions about Maggie that Rees wanted to ask.

But he knew someone who might: Mr. Randall's downtrodden daughter. When the innkeeper's back was turned Rees quickly darted into the kitchen. Mr. Randall's daughter was standing at the large wooden table rolling pastry. She looked at Rees in surprise.

“Did you know Maggie Whitney?” Rees asked.

“Not really.” But her eyes slid to a point somewhere over Rees's right shoulder.

“You are a poor liar,” Rees said. “You must have gone to school with her.”

“That was fifteen and more years ago,” the girl objected. “I know no more than what everyone else knows.” Rees eyed the girl thoughtfully until she began to squirm. She banged her rolling pin on the table and rolled the pastry with fierce attention.

“I suspect you know who fathered at least one of her children.”

“How would I know something like that?” But she did not look at him.

“You hear people talk. And the tavern would be a good place for Maggie to meet a man.”

The girl uttered a bark of laughter. “Past my father? Surely even you cannot believe that.”

Rees acknowledged the truth of that. “I suppose you rarely saw Maggie?”

“That's true.” The girl nodded, her shoulders relaxing. “Only when…” She stopped abruptly.

“Only when you sold her liquor?” Rees said. Her cheeks went white and her eyes flicked back and forth. “Somebody sold her whiskey,” Rees persisted. “I think it was you.”

“I never sold her whiskey,” she replied. But her tense body betrayed her.

“Did you give it to her? I suppose you felt sorry for her. Or maybe she tempted you with a silver dollar.” He knew at once he'd struck a nerve. She gasped and began to breathe heavily.

“You don't understand,” the young woman hissed. “She came to me sobbing, threatening to kill herself. I thought the whiskey would give her some comfort. It only happened twice.”

“Why was she threatening to kill herself?” Rees asked, leaning forward.

“It was over a man. It was always about a man. I could barely understand her, she was crying so hard, but she kept saying nobody ever loved her.” She paused and then, sensing Rees's condemnation, she burst out, “Once the jug was empty, Maggie would stop. I knew that. It had happened before.”

Rees, recalling the whiskey jugs lining the wall in Maggie's bedroom, asked, “How many times did it happen?”

“I told you. Twice.” She hesitated and then added, “She offered me a silver dollar and I took it. She knew I wanted to leave Dover Springs. But we weren't friendly. She was too pretty for the likes of me. Even my brother buzzed around her … but my father soon put a stop to that.”

“And where is your brother?” Rees asked, glancing around him as though this fellow would spring up.

“Gone. He and my father had a falling out many years ago. That's why Father dotes on cousin Caleb.” For a moment no one spoke. Rees watched the girl, who was still carefully not meeting his eyes.

“You must know who fathered Jerusha?” Rees said.

“Roger Whitney.” Her face cleared.

“I doubt that,” Rees said.

“Of course he did. They married very hurriedly.”

“Who else buzzed around her? Cooper?”

She nodded once, a quick jerk of her head. “I thought she'd wed Cooper. But he married Genevieve Shaw, and suddenly she married Roger Whitney and moved away.”

Rees leaned back, thinking about Mrs. Cooper and her father. “Was it possible Maggie was already pregnant when she married Mr. Whitney?”