Crimson Snow (25 page)

“No, Mr. Malloy,” said his wife firmly. “They will not want us sharing their lunch. I'll come home after we find what we need, and Hilda can go to the store after lunch and change into her blacks. They'll likely have needed alterations, so she can just leave them on after the final fitting. Then we'll pick her up there and go to the station.”

Hilda submitted meekly to the plan, asking only that someone get a message to Patrick that he would find her at Malloy's Dry Goods at lunch time.

So began the most dizzying morning of Hilda's life. They got to the store shortly after it opened and began choosing new clothes. The mourning dress and hat were the first order of business. Mrs. Malloy insisted on the full outfit: black wool skirt and matching jacket, black waist with a bit of white at the throat, black petticoat, black-edged handkerchiefs, black gloves, jet earrings, black umbrella, and an elaborate black hat. “For you're not close to the deceased on this occasion, but there will be other funerals, and you might not have enough notice to get a proper outfit made.”

The suit and waist did, in fact, have to be altered slightly, so while that was being done they looked for less somber clothing. “You'll need lots of clothes, but we don't want to buy them all at once. For now, what you want is a ready-made wool skirt, one or two nice waists, and a good warm coat. And of course, under-things. Then we can look at some nice woolens and some patterns for other things.”

They bought Hilda a new corset. She protested that she had just purchased one, but since it was at the Studebaker house and she needed one now, her protests were overridden. Nightgowns and a silk kimono like Mrs. Malloy's. Petticoats, underdrawers, chemises. Stockings and a pair of enchanting new shoes, black patent leather with grosgrain bows.

Hilda suddenly remembered about Mrs. Chudzik and the things she needed. Estimating sizes, Hilda shopped for appropriate clothing. Of course, the money she had been given was in her own pocket, not in the borrowed skirt, but it didn't matter. Everything was put down to the Malloy account, and Mrs. Malloy said Hilda could settle up later.

By the end of the morning Hilda was exhausted, but happy.

“It is so kind of you to do this for me,” she said again and again. “I do not know why you are so good to me.”

“Nonsense, girl,” said Mrs. Malloy in high good humor. “It's like having a daughter again. I haven't had such a good time since my Mary was a bride, and her with two little girls of her own now. Now, I'll have everything except your blacks sent to our house, and we can sort them out tomorrow. And as it's nearly time for that rascally nephew of mine to come and fetch you, you'd better scoot off to the dressing room and see if your blacks are ready now. You'll like to impress Patrick with them, I expect. Then as soon as he comes for you I'll go home and put my feet up. We can meet you at the station.”

When Patrick arrived at the store, he tipped his hat politely to the beautifully dressed young widow who was standing at the door. Then he blinked and looked more closely.

“Glory be to God, what've ye done to yerself?”

Hilda giggled. “Aunt Molly made a wager with me that you would not know me. I shall have to pay her. Am I not fine?” She revolved slowly to give him the full effect.

“You're—you're gorgeous,” said Patrick, recovering his American accent. “But who died?”

“Miss Jacobs, of course. Aunt Molly said I might as well get full mourning while I was doing it, so I'd have a set if I needed it later.”

“And who's Aunt Molly?” Patrick asked with a grin.

“She said I was to call her that. And oh, Patrick, she and Uncle Dan have been so generous to me! I have much to tell you while we eat lunch.” She looked around. “Where is Erik?”

“Meetin' us at the hotel. I thought I'd splurge and take you to the Oliver. It's a good thing I didn't plan to go to an ordinary sort of place, and you lookin' like that!”

“It is a good thing,” she said, giggling again, “that I did not wear my ordinary clothes, and you takin' me to the Oliver.”

“Begorrah, it's the Irish colleen you're soundin' like, me girl!”

A good many people on the busy streets of South Bend that morning wondered, somewhat disapprovingly, at the high spirits of the attractive young widow and her escort, who was not dressed in mourning at all. If her gloves had not covered her diamond ring, tongues would have wagged even faster.

On the way to the Oliver, Hilda told Patrick most of what had transpired since she had seen him the day before. It was a long story, and Patrick didn't much care for the end of it.

“So the scalawag's got away, has he? And with a grudge against you. That fine colonel of yours'd done better to clap him in jail.”

“Yes, but Mr. Barnes left before Colonel George got home. It was I who did the stupid thing, letting him know I had seen him.”

“Well, that's water under the bridge now. What're they doin'to find him?”

“I don't know. You see, I have thought about this. If Colonel George tells the police what Mr. Barnes stole, they will not like it, because they will think the police, too, are being accused of corruption. If he does not tell, there is no reason to arrest Mr. Barnes.”

 “Hmph. Seems to me we're in a tricky spot, and you especially, seein' as how—”

“Shh! Here is the hotel, and there is Erik. We will not talk about that part of it while he is with us.”

Patrick nodded. Discussions of rampant vice were seldom appropriate table conversation, and never in front of a thirteen-year-old boy.

When Erik spied his sister, he was for once in his life speechless. This vision of elegance was so unlike the girl who had told him bedtime stories that he was quite shy with her for a good two minutes. He, too, was dressed in his best, but beside Hilda he looked very much the country cousin.

“So,” Hilda said, when they were seated and had ordered. “Have you spoken to Andy?”

“Not today.” His sister's voice, her same normal voice, reassured him. He knew the person under that finery, after all. “I couldn't find him when I got to the hotel. One of the other boys told me he had to take up a lot of stuff for some customer.”

“He told me something interesting yesterday.”

So they talked about the Perkins bill that had been paid, and speculated endlessly without coming to any conclusion.

Hilda had no dessert. Her new corset wouldn't allow it, and she was afraid of being late for the train. She hurried Patrick along.

“You didn't tell Erik when we're gettin' married.”

“Boys don't care about wedding plans, and I must tell Mama first.”

Patrick sighed. “How's she going to take it?”

“Badly, I imagine. I will do it soon, so she will have time before April to stop being angry. Just as soon as I can go freely around the town again.”

“Whenever that might be,” said Patrick darkly. “I've a good mind to find him myself.”

Hilda sighed and said nothing. She was not minded to argue, and Patrick would do as he wanted in any case.

He waited with her at the station until the Malloys arrived. When he had greeted them and hugged his aunt, he tipped his hat to all of them. “I'll be off, then. Have to see a man about a dog.”

“Wonder what he meant by that?” said Mr. Malloy, staring open-mouthed as Patrick strode off.

“I am afraid I know,” said Hilda, but she said it so quietly that no one heard.

The train ride to Elkhart was uneventful, except that it began to rain slightly. Hilda was glad she had not worn her beautiful new shoes. The train made good time, and they got to the church a half hour before the service was to start.

“Now, my dear, what is it you want to do here?” Mrs. Malloy spoke softly, but she couldn't keep the doubt out of her voice. She thought this was a fruitless errand.

“I want only to watch, for now. I want to see which people, besides her family, are most upset. They are the ones I will want to speak to afterwards.”

“Sensible idea,” said Mr. Malloy, trying not to sound surprised.

So Mrs. Malloy chose a pew in a side balcony from which they could see nearly everyone, while Mr. Malloy and Hilda lingered at the back of the church to watch people as they came in.

“Those women, see?” Hilda whispered to him. “Three of them. They are all about the same age as Miss Jacobs, and they are all crying. They are not sisters, or they would come in with the family. They must be friends. Oh, and look at that man! He is also young, and his eyes are red. Gentleman caller, maybe?”

“Mmm,” said Mr. Malloy. His eyes were scanning the incoming crowd for a different sort of man, someone who looked like a butler. If that scoundrel Barnes had somehow got wind of Hilda's movements today, he might be in the crowd. Mr. Malloy's fingers were itching to get hold of the fellow.

The church was packed. This murder was the biggest sensation to hit Elkhart in years. Everyone who had ever known Miss Sophie Jacobs in any capacity was there, from her kindergarten teacher on, and quite a few who had not. Representatives of the press were there in force, some bearing cameras. They were made to wait outside, where the drizzle dampened their equipment and their spirits. The police, also there in force, were allowed to enter the church, but told they must stand at the back. That seemed to suit them. They were there to observe and to prevent trouble, not to mourn.

At last the family entered, the women swathed in veils, with the coffin following. Hilda and Mr. Malloy edged to their seats, and Hilda settled down to watch. This was when people would start to cry in earnest.

She paid scant attention to the service, but her sharp eyes missed nothing that went on in the congregation. The family, she decided, was truly devastated. She would make no attempt to talk to them. It would be cruel.

The man and three women she had spotted seemed deeply affected. The man sat next to the family and frequently exchanged glances with them. Definitely a gentleman friend, thought Hilda. She watched and sorted and categorized. People who had known the girl well, people who had some slight connection, people who had come out of curiosity.

She knew she was making some mistakes. People varied in their reaction to death. Some who would weep over the death of a kitten would remain dry-eyed at the funeral of a cousin. Some would cry bitterly at the funeral of a stranger. But she was especially interested in two men at the back of the church. They showed no emotion at all, nor did they look as though they were keeping emotion in check. They watched, just as Hilda was watching. Fortunately they seldom looked up to Hilda's balcony, but when one of them turned his head her way, she was able to drop her head and lift a handkerchief to her cheek before their eyes met.

She touched Mr. Malloy's arm. “Look at those two men,” she whispered. “The ones in the center of the back row who do not look sad at all.”

“Shh!” said a woman behind them.

Mr. Malloy turned his head, spotted the men, then discreetly took a fountain pen and pad out of his breast pocket.
What about them?
he wrote, and passed the pad and pen to Hilda.

I think they know something. Watch them.
She showed the note to Mr. Malloy and then buried the pad under a fold of her skirt.

The service was long. Not only the minister but several other people spoke of Miss Jacobs's devotion to her church, of her volunteer work with young people, of her piety and sweet nature. When the proceedings finally ended, Hilda stood with the rest of the congregation as the coffin was borne out of the church on the shoulders of six men. When it was proper to speak, she turned to Mr. Malloy. “I want you to watch those men. I must go and speak to the three friends.”

“No,” said Mrs. Malloy. “Hilda, you go nowhere by yourself.”

“Mr. Barnes is not here. I looked.”

“No matter. You will stay with Mr. Malloy.” Her tone made it clear that there would be no argument.

Hilda knew a stone wall when she saw one. “Yes, Aunt Molly. Perhaps you, then, would watch those men while I—
Herre Gud!
What was that?”

A muffled explosion, a blinding light. Women screamed, men shouted.

“Only one of those cursed reporters, taking a photograph with flash powder. The stuff is dangerous, shouldn't be allowed—” Mr. Malloy broke off and suddenly bellowed, “Stop that man! He tried to shoot me!”

“The state of Indiana in this case is
not in earnest. It does not want to
know who killed this girl.”

—Judge J. N. Palmer, quoted in
    South Bend
Tribune
   
May 27, 1904

 

 

26

S
TOP HIM ! POLICE! He's got a gun!”

“Daniel! Are you hurt? Where did he hit you?” Mrs. Malloy was pale.

“There, that's done it. They're after him. I'm sorry if I scared you, Molly, me dear, but don't worry. Nobody tried to shoot anybody. That man running away is one of the ones Hilda was watching. He's been acting peculiar. I think he's up to something.”

“But you said—”

“And do you think anybody'd have paid any attention if I'd shouted, ‘He's a suspicious character,' eh?”

Hilda had been frightened, too. She tried to rescue her composure. “But, sir—Uncle Dan, do you think he might have run away because he was frightened? It took everyone by surprise.”

“It took you by surprise because you didn't see that blasted man with the camera raise his arm. I've seen flash pictures taken before, so I knew what he was about. Bad manners, but then what can you expect from a reporter? The point is, I saw him, so I knew what was coming. And
so did the man who ran.
He ran
because
photographs were being taken.”

“Oh.” Hilda digested that. “Oh! Then he did not want his picture in the newspaper! And that must mean…”