Harry Braithwaite lived in a large Victorian house two blocks off Main Street on the hill overlooking downtown Harmony. A bronze plaque in front said it had been built in 1906 by Nathaniel Bledsoe, a vice president of the Northern Pacific Railroad, who had resided there with his wife Tillie and their fourteen children. Built over two lots and faced in rusticated concrete brick, the massive gray structure was more impressive than it was beautiful. Hulking, angular, and too ostentatious for its surroundings, Annie thought it was a perfect match for Harry Braithwaite.
Galen had said he’d call ahead and tell Harry that Annie was coming. He must have done so, because Harry was waiting for her out front as she pulled up. His baggy wool trousers, at least two sizes too large, were held up by striped suspenders, and his size-twelve wing tips looked like they’d been worn daily for years. His white shirt bore traces of that morning’s bacon and egg breakfast.
Harry walked into the street and opened Annie’s car door. “I’m so glad you came by, my dear. Old Mrs. Grubenmacher shooed everyone out of the place so fast last night, none of us knew what on earth had happened. And the television news this morning wasn’t much help.” He ushered her up the stone steps. “Come in, come in. I hope you have time to visit. I’ve got the coffee pot on.”
“This is an incredible house, Harry.”
“It is, isn’t it? My wife and I bought it about ten years ago. Our dream when I retired from teaching was to fix it up into a bed-and-breakfast. We moved here when I retired about four years ago—I’m not that old, mind you, I retired at sixty—but poor Eleanor died within a few months. Hodgkin’s disease.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you, my dear. I do still miss her terribly.” He sighed. “Well, someday I’ll get this place cleaned out and fixed up. Mimi and I just rattle around in all this space. Problem is, I can’t boil a three-minute egg, and Mimi doesn’t get up before ten, so I guess it would have to be a ‘bed-and-make-your-own-dammed-breakfast.’ ” He jiggled the rusted lock. “You’ll have to excuse me if the place is a mess, but that’s nothing new.” Annie stepped into a darkened foyer. The curving staircase seemed to go up forever. “Missing light fixture,” said Harry, apologetically, and guided her to the left. “You go on into the morning room and I’ll get the coffee.”
The morning room, probably named for its eastern-facing bay windows, looked like the back room of a not-too-successful secondhand store. Every possible inch of space was filled with clutter. The seat of an overstuffed chair was stacked high with dusty National Geographics, none of them current. There were five or six assorted end tables lined up against one wall, each with its own massive pile of books threatening to topple at any moment. An antique birdcage had become the home of a philodendron that had grown out of control, its long tendrils snaking up and over the window and around the corners of the room. Annie realized that the bed-and-breakfast would have to be a long time coming. It would take years to clear out enough stuff to make room for paying guests.
Harry returned in a moment with a stainless steel percolator, two chipped china teacups, and a plate of store-bought butter cookies. “I hope you like your coffee black, because Mimi used the last of the milk and neglected to tell me. And we rarely have visitors, except for Taylor, who doesn’t care for my coffee. Here, I’ll let you pour, if that’s all right.”
As she poured the sludge-like brew from the percolator, she immediately figured out why Taylor would have declined Harry’s coffee. She sipped, and made an effort not to grimace at the bitter taste. She reminded herself that she wasn’t there for the coffee.
Harry ran a hand through his wiry salt-and-pepper hair, making it stand out even more than it had when he started. “So,” he said, “tell me what happened. First of all, is Taylor all right?”
Annie told Harry about the overdose and what the doctors had reported to Galen.
“Oh, my heavens, I must go see her at once.”
“The doctors said no visitors for a day or two, except immediate family.”
“Well, I feel like I’m practically family. Oh, my, but this is terrible, terrible. And the authorities, they think she knocked him on the head, is that it?”
She shrugged. “It seems likely, doesn’t it, from the circumstances? That was my conclusion when Gerald and I found her there. She was just sitting on the ground like she was in shock, cross-legged, with the bottle in her lap. She was rocking back and forth, almost like an autistic child, moaning slightly. And there was Steve on the ground…” Thinking about the scene again almost made Annie ill.
Harry took a loud sip, and shook his head. “I should have known it would come to this, after everything that’s happened. I should have put a stop to it. I really should have.”
“A stop to what?” Annie asked. After her talk with Galen, she thought she knew the answer, but wanted to hear what Harry would volunteer.
“Why, the things he did to her, of course. Everyone knew about it. Not at the beginning, she kept it very well hidden at first. But, oh, the last six months or so, after she threw him out. It’s been so obvious.”
“You’re sure it was Steve who beat her?”
“Why, who else could it be?” Harry munched on a cookie, ignoring the crumbs that dropped to the floor.
“Sometimes everyone suspects the husband, but it could be someone else. A co-worker. Another relative. Sometimes even another woman.”
“Oh, no. It was no one but Steve.” He brushed the crumbs from the front of his shirt.
“Did she tell you about it?”
“Not in so many words, no. Taylor could never have admitted that she was a battered spouse. Too ashamed, I’m sure. But there were times, she would visit me here. She had bruises on her face that she’d tried to cover with makeup, not quite succeeding.” Annie set down her cup and sat back in her chair. “This was before Steve moved out, I take it?”
“No, actually. I started to notice things afterwards.”
“Tell me about when Taylor threw Steve out.”
“Oh, it was nasty, believe me. Steve had to go to Spokane on a business trip, and as soon as he was gone, she had movers come and pack up all of his things and take them to a storage locker in town, then had all the locks changed. She asked me to come have dinner with her the evening he was due back, in case there was any trouble. I may not be that strong anymore, but I have a rather, um, intimidating physical presence. She didn’t think Steve would try anything if I were there.”
“And was there trouble?”
“Fortunately, nothing more than some angry yelling—a lot the way Steve was acting at the gala. All red-faced blustering. And he broke a flower pot. For effect, I think. Taylor went out on the balcony and threw down the storage locker key, and told him she never wanted to see him again, unless it was in court. He yelled back that he wasn’t going to let her get away with this. That was it—vague—but no actual threats.”
Annie recalled what Taylor and Galen had told her about the petty thefts around the winery. It turned out that Harry had heard the same stories. “But never any evidence directly linking Steve to the incidents?” Annie asked.
“Nothing. That’s why Taylor hasn’t gone to the police. She didn’t feel there was anything they could do.”
“Now, why was it you thought it was Steve who was beating Taylor, if she never told you directly?”
“There were clues, you see. Taylor’s a very bright girl, and she never would have let anything slip accidentally. That’s why I think that the clues she was dropping were an indication that she really wanted me to know it was Steve.”
“Clues? Like what?”
“For example, one time she visited me on a Monday, and said she was going into Yakima for a meeting on Wednesday, in a building near Steve’s office. She hoped she wasn’t going to run into him. Then when I saw her on Thursday, and her face was covered with makeup, and I asked her about her meeting, she refused to talk about it. On another occasion that I can remember, she invited me to her house for coffee, and again, I could see that she was trying to cover a black eye. I asked her point-blank if it had been Steve, and she just turned away, wouldn’t make eye contact. Didn’t deny it, you see. There was a big, overstuffed chair missing from the living room. She said that he had come to take it. I presume they had a scuffle. And Celia, Taylor’s daughter, told me later that she’d heard a car with a bad muffler, just like Steve’s Mazda, going down the gravel road to Taylor’s house the night before. But you see, Taylor wouldn’t have invited me over that particular day, knowing I’d put two and two together, unless she wanted me to know.”
They heard the slamming of the kitchen door, and the sound of footsteps running up the back stairs. Harry nodded in the direction of the sound. “Ah, there’s my little Bohème now.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, how is it that your granddaughter lives here with you?”
“Mimi? She is a bit of a handful, isn’t she? Eleanor and I had only one daughter, Violetta, who’s in her forties now. I guess we spoiled her, I don’t know. Or perhaps she would have turned out the way she did without any help from us. She fancied herself a musician, but without the talent to back it up. Always flitting about here and there, singing classes in New York, running away to find herself in Fiji, four disastrous marriages squeezed in between somehow. I think she’s in Italy now, or is it Cannes? I don’t even try to keep up any more. Mimi’s gotten the worst of it— living with Vi when the feeling suited her, getting dumped on our doorstep when it didn’t. We tried our best, but I’m not terribly surprised the poor child has turned out the way she did.”
More clumping was heard on the stairs. Mimi entered, an unlit cigarette hanging from her lips, and started rummaging through a pile of magazines in the corner. She wore black patterned tights and combat boots under a yellow and black minidress, making Annie think of a bumble-bee Halloween costume. One long earring brushed her shoulder. “I know, I know, no smoking in the house,” Mimi whined. “Don’t worry, I’m on my way out.” She jangled some keys. “And I’m taking the car.” She found what she was looking for—a copy of Vogue—and breezed out the front door, leaving it ajar behind her. Resignedly, Harry stood up to close it. He looked like he’d given up trying to discipline her long ago. “She’ll be eighteen soon, and off on her own. You heard her plans—she wants to go on the road with that musician boyfriend of hers. Zeno his name is. The Nuclear Widgets or whatnot. My only saving grace in that regard is that she hasn’t been able to save any money. There are no job opportunities for young people around here except agricultural work, and the occasional fast-food establishment, both of which she refuses to dirty her hands with.”
“Maybe it’s just a phase she’s going through,” Annie said to be polite. All she knew about teenagers was the fact that she had been one once.
“Yes, well.” There was a great sense of loneliness in Harry’s voice as he talked about Mimi leaving. He seemed like a man who thrived on company. Except for the clutter and inability to cook, running a bed-and-breakfast would probably suit him perfectly. After a moment, he asked softly, “Will they put Taylor in prison, do you think?”
Annie paused. The attorney side of her brain was already in the process of formulating a battered-woman’s-syndrome defense, but Harry wasn’t asking about legal theory. He was simply concerned about the fate of a dear friend. “I don’t know, Harry,” she answered. “I just don’t know.”
Harry reached for the percolator, and refilled his cup. “A little warm-up, my dear?”
“Sure,” Annie replied, determined to make another gallant effort to drink Harry’s coffee. “Taylor means a lot to you, doesn’t she?”
The big man’s face crinkled into a smile. “Oh, my Lord, yes. Ever since I met Taylor, I’ve loved her like a daughter.” He chuckled. “To tell you the truth, I’ve loved her more than Violetta. Taylor’s really everything I could have ever asked for in a daughter. After Eleanor died, all of the town’s ladies began coming ’round with little plates of this and casseroles of that—everyone in town knows I can’t cook, though why they thought it would ease my grief if they brought me a ramekin of green beans in mushroom soup with crunchy things on top, I can’t for the life of me figure out. But the only one who had the decency to come to talk was Taylor. She knew how much I missed Eleanor. When you’ve had someone to talk to at the breakfast table every morning for a lifetime, and then you lose her, the silence can be deafening. Taylor was the only one who knew that stimulating conversation was more, far more, of a comfort than tamale pie. We’d talk for hours on end—philosophy, religion, politics, even theater. Can you imagine two people with such a love of theater ending up in a tiny little place like this? Years ago, right after college, I was an actor for a few years.” Given Harry’s expressive face, Annie didn’t doubt it.
“I remember when we were in high school, Taylor was very caught up in theatrical activities.”
“Oh, she was a natural, all right. Loved all aspects of the theater—sets, costumes, lighting. We even talked about starting a little theater group here in town.” He fumbled with the cookies on the plate. “Perhaps we still will… someday.”
Annie was still thinking about Taylor as the victim of abuse. In a way, it made sense. Annie had, after all, seen a sample of Steven Vick’s anger in person. But other parts of the puzzle didn’t fit. Taylor had always seemed so confident and self-assured, not the type she pictured as a victim. Then she chided herself for giving in to stereotypes. Domestic violence cut across all socioeconomic lines; its victims didn’t fall neatly into categories.
“Is there anyone else who Taylor might have talked to?”
“Hmmm. Possibly Edna Hinkel, the lady that owns the cafe in town. I may aspire to be Harmony’s head curmudgeon, but she holds the undisputed title of town gossip. She was born and raised here in the valley, and I doubt if there’s anything that’s happened here in the last fifty, sixty years that Edna hasn’t known about. And when you talk to her, tell her Harry says hello.” Annie thanked Harry for the coffee, and told him she’d let him know if she learned anything new about Taylor’s condition.
“Thank you, my dear. I do appreciate that. I may be the biggest talker in town, but sometimes I’m the last to hear things.” He walked her out to her car. After she got in, Harry closed the door and leaned on the window frame. “There’s only one more thing I have to say, and then I’ll let you go. I can’t honestly say that I’m sorry Steve’s dead. No woman should ever have to put up with what he did to her. Whatever happened to him last night, Steven Vick deserved it.”