On the Rocks: A Willa Cather and Edith Lewis Mystery (13 page)

“Just the man I’ve been looking for,” Daggett worked hard to make his voice sound hearty, but Little John was not to be distracted.

“I always said it would come to no good having so many women on the island.”

“My words exactly,” Eva McDaniels joined in, her voice threatening to turn shrill. “Women should be at home with their families.”

“It’s against nature’s laws, that’s what it is. Women need husbands to take care of them and babies to keep them out of trouble,” Little John’s mustache twitched violently. He clapped one hand down hard against Jocko’s shoulder. Jocko tightened his grip on the puppy.

“A woman’s home is her domain,” Eva’s lips drew tight.

Daggett had heard that before, usually from Eva. She ran it as a kind of subtitle in the
Recipe Exchange.
Elizabeth repeated it at times. Odd how women’s mouths shaped themselves around those words. Rather like sucking lemons. Daggett felt his own lips purse with the thought.

“What do these women think they’re doing, earning money and, and, and taking vacations,” Little John fairly sputtered. Spittle that formed little puddles at the edges of his lips became flexible strings when he opened his mouth and blew into bubbles that never quite popped. Daggett found himself almost amused.

“You’d think they were ladies of leisure, the way they come here,” Eva interjected, her lips pursing tighter still.

“Well, they’re not. There’s no lady in them. And I’ll tell you what they’re doing,” Little John slapped one hand against the other, “they’re taking jobs away from men, that’s what they’re doing.”

“Women shouldn’t have money of their own,” Eva’s head bobbed up and down. “Just look at what they do with it. Throw it away on their own pleasure, that’s what they do. I tell you it’s not right. Women should not have jobs or money of their own.”

“I beg your pardon,” Emma Parker came bustling out of the bank, gray curls swinging, her purse clasped tight against her stomach.

Daggett grinned. Eva McDaniels had gone too far this time.

“I work for my living,” Emma’s eyes snapped.

“You’re a widow,” Eva responded sharply. “That’s different.”

“I make my own way. Always have.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Little John tried to wrest control of the argument again, “but we’re talking about women that have never been married. They’re bad luck around the sea. Everyone knows that. A bad lot altogether, that’s what they are. And they’re invading the island.”

Eva’s head began to bob again.

Little John continued his diatribe, “Worse and worse it gets. So many new ones coming to The Anchorage to stay with that, that, that scarlet woman.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Miss Briggs,” Emma Parker held her voice steady.

“High-falutin’ ways,” Little John growled.

“Floosies,” Eva could no longer stay quiet, “all of them, floosies.”

“Flappers,” Emma corrected, turning her gaze to the rest of the assemblage. “It is true,” she addressed them, “that the women at The Anchorage are younger and perhaps more lively than the Cottage Girls at Whale Cove, but …”

“The Cottage Girls,” Little John mimicked in falsetto, “the Poor Soiled Doves, Disappointed in Love.”

Daggett feared Little John could go on for some time chanting the names islanders had devised for the two summer colonies. Winters were long on Grand Manan and islanders could be creative in their amusements. Little John, in particular, was known for his doggerel.

“You must excuse me,” James Enderby’s formidable height appeared in the doorway directly behind Emma Parker, his hands spread against his waistcoat, thumbs hooked in his watch chain.

Daggett gave up any notion of interrupting. Enderby would take care of it, his polite baritone shutting Little John off like a faucet.

But Eva McDaniels didn’t miss a beat, “You’ve heard, haven’t you, James, about the red button?”

Daggett felt his jaw drop. He had told no one. If Eva McDaniels knew about the button, all of Grand Manan must be fully apprised or would be before long.

Enderby did not answer but turned to Little John, “I’m afraid I could not help but overhear your remarks just now.” He paused to clear his throat and lift his hand from his vest.

“What’s the matter now, James? Cat got your tongue?”

Little John’s surliness surprised even Daggett. This could hardly be the beginning of a conversation. What was happening here?

“No cat has ever gotten my tongue, Little John, though I am not at all certain I can say the same for the two of you,” Enderby’s gray eyes narrowed.

Enderby hooked his right thumb over his watch chain and placed his left hand, fist folded, against the small of his back. It was characteristic of Enderby to stand so when he had something serious to say. Daggett was delighted by the prospects.

“As I told you earlier,” Enderby’s mild tone belied the anger that flashed behind his glasses, “I believe you are being quite unreasonable. Miss Lewis, Miss Cather, Miss Cobus, Miss Felix and all the rest of the Cottage Girls are each of them the soul of propriety,” Enderby’s gray-suited form seemed to grow taller as he spoke. “You should not carry on with your spurious jokes.”

“Call me unreasonable! Call me unreasonable!” Little John sputtered. “What do you call murder then?” And without waiting for an answer, he declared, “Murderess. That’s what Sabra Jane Briggs is. She did it. You all know it.”

“And the red button proves it,” Eva spun around toward Daggett.

“Well, not exactly,” Daggett cleared his throat.

“You,” Little John swung the whole of his body to face Daggett, “You’ve not done a thing to stop her.”

“Now, Little John,” Daggett tried soothing.

“A man’s not safe in his bed with the likes of them on the island.”

“Don’t be silly,” Daggett raised his voice and took a step toward Little John. He got no closer. Jocko’s puppy crooned, and just as suddenly Daggett felt his pant leg pull stiff one way then another, as if it had been caught by a fierce wind. Sharp teeth grazed his ankle.

“You,” Daggett exploded, pointing his finger at Jocko, “you take care of your dog. And you,” he jabbed the finger at Little John, “you come with me. There are questions here that need answers,” Daggett turned on his heel. “Now.”

Jason Tinsley, suspended in midstride at the door of his pharmacy, raised his hand and opened his mouth as if he were about to make a speech of his own.

“I mean
now
,” Daggett flung over his shoulder again from the middle of the street, without looking to see whether Little John followed. The hair on the back of Daggett’s neck stood stiff against his collar. He realized he would need every minute it took to reach his office to regain his composure.

“T
HAT
’
S
what Emma Parker told me not more than ten minutes ago,” Rebecca Jackson almost danced on her tiptoes. “Constable Daggett stormed off so fast, Little John was out of breath trying to catch up.”

Edith laughed, “I met Little John the day of Mr. Brown’s death. He does seem a blustery sort of fellow.”

“The town clown, my husband calls him,” Rebecca Jackson’s hand fluttered near her mouth, “when no one’s listening except me, of course.”

“I’ll keep it to myself,” Edith smiled and moved toward the rear of the store where the Jacksons kept their men’s wear. “Now, let’s have a look at your shirts.”

Rebecca followed on her side of the counter, its dark walnut polished by more than thirty years of service. Shelves lining the walls behind her rose all the way to the ceiling, their cubicles filled with bolts of material and ready-made clothing. On a middle shelf at the very back were three red shirts, neatly folded and stacked.

“We had eight to begin with when the order first came in,” Rebecca placed the stack on the counter.

Edith looked from the shirts to Rebecca.

“I already told the constable we sold five. Sabra Jane’s was the second. The first went to Sam Jackson. It’s nice and warm for being out on his boat, he says.” Sam was Rebecca’s brother-in-law.

Rebecca ran her hand over the shirt on top, then handed it to Edith.

“See how soft it is.”

It was soft, Edith glanced back at the shelf. Too bad it did not come in other colors. Willa would love the light wool but the red was all wrong. Willa liked rich, primary colors, but she did much better in green. Edith preferred mauve and pastels for herself or black when they were in the city.

“Mary Daniels bought one of these shirts two weeks ago. For a present, I believe she said. And yesterday one of the young fellows in that party at Swallowtail got one. The fellow that wears the tennis outfits all the time. You know the one I mean?”

Edith nodded. His pinkened forehead hovered before her with the Lucky Strikes he had extended to his wife.

“Matthew Johnson, yes,” Edith glanced up, “Johnson with an
h
.”

His shirt made a total of four, but Rebecca had halted there, a faint smile playing across her lips.

“And Monday, four days ago I guess,” when Rebecca spoke again, her voice had become almost languorous, “Little John Winslow bought one for himself. Said if he liked it, he would order another for Jocko.”

“Are you quite certain?”

“Sold it to him myself,” Rebecca smiled with her eyes.

“All that talk about Sabra Jane’s shirt,” Edith scoffed. “He said nothing about having one himself.”

Rebecca’s eyes smiled, “Rather like the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?”

The light wool seemed to move by itself under Edith’s hand. She continued to stroke the material without quite realizing. Now she occupied herself by taking the pins out of its folds and shaking it loose.

The buttons on the sleeves were colored exactly like the one Willa found on the trail. And they were the same size. Edith rubbed the buttons on both sleeves. They felt exactly the same as the button she had carried around in her pocket for safe keeping. But, she rubbed again, the left one felt different from the right. The thread was loose. She raised both sleeves for close examination.

Rebecca watched, eyes quizzical at first, then she undid the pins on both of the remaining shirts, shook them out and rubbed the buttons on their sleeves. “The thread on the left sleeve is unknotted,” Rebecca finally announced, nodding. “On both of them. I’m sure of it.”

She turned the cuffs and pointed. Tiny knots were barely discernible on the two right sleeves, but no knots appeared on the left.

The thread on the shirt in Edith’s hand revealed the same problem.

“My heavens,” Rebecca was the first to speak. “All five of the shirts we sold might well have lost the very same button.”

“We must tell Mr. Daggett,” Edith agreed.

“Immediately.”

A
T
that moment, Daggett stood in the center of Little John’s parlor staring at the red shirt in Anna Winslow’s hands. Jamie, the youngest of the Winslows, lay sprawled on the carpet near her feet. Hues in the border of its floral design matched the red in her hands. Little John stood near the front door. Daggett had to turn around to speak to him.

“That’s the shirt you bought at Jackson’s Drygoods a few days ago?”

Little John crossed the room to take the shirt from his wife’s hands. He inspected it as though he had never seen the shirt before.

“I guess so,” Little John finally mumbled, glancing at Daggett. “How did you … I suppose you want to look at it,” he changed course.

“I do, yes,” Daggett took hold of the shirt by its collar, then ran his fingers down the front and reached for the sleeves. All buttons were in place, but the left cuff felt odd. Daggett raised the sleeve for closer examination. This button was a slightly different shade from the others. Daggett glanced at Little John, then rested his eyes on Anna.

“I mended it this morning,” Anna gestured vaguely in the direction of the shirt. Her eyes were busy tracing her youngest son’s tentative crawl across the floor toward the door. When Jamie reversed direction, Anna brushed the hair from her face. She had worn it loose this morning.

Daggett offered the shirt to Little John for further inspection. Little John made a slight shake of the head. His moustache twitched and he took a step backward and sat down without looking. The armchair held. Little John stared at the sleeve.

“Little John probably didn’t even realize that button had come off,” Anna’s voice broke the silence. “He doesn’t notice things like that. Never has.”

Anna moved closer to Little John. Jamie followed.

“You should see the pile of mending I do every week,” Anna’s voice picked up speed. “Between Little John and Jocko and Jamie, I swear I can hardly keep up. And now with that puppy chewing,” she paused for breath, “well, there’s just so much I can do.”

“I’m sure,” Daggett nodded and raised the sleeve, intending the gesture to pose a new question. But Little John’s face remained blank. Daggett turned back to Anna and waited for her to tell him about the additional mending his thumb discovered just below the elbow.

“I had to fix a few rips,” Anna nodded and rubbed her fingers against her thumb as if she too were feeling the stitches. “Can you believe it? A brand-new shirt like that?”

Daggett waited for Little John to speak. He didn’t. Finally, Anna snatched the shirt from Daggett’s hands and shook it in Little John’s face.

“How many times must I beg you to be careful? You and your sons?”

Little John made no response. He stared at his feet.

“Careless, just careless,” Anna’s hands trembled, and when she faced Daggett again, her eyes had turned deeply angry. “It doesn’t matter that a shirt’s new. He’ll wear it to do the dirtiest of jobs, then drop it wherever he takes it off. And Jocko’s just like him,” her lips drew firm.

Daggett watched Little John, who was looking up now, staring first at one of them then the other. But Little John might as well have been on a boat in the middle of the Atlantic. His eyes were glazed and his face held no expression. Daggett frowned.

“Have you nothing to say about this?”

Little John focused for the first time on the shirt.

“Where did you find that?”

“Where do you suppose? Right where you dropped it. On the floor of your bedroom,” Anna’s voice was still harsh. “Where do you suppose it was? Where do I find any of the clothes you wear?”