Still later Saturday evening, October 7, 1950
The Rutherford house
Together they descended the stairs to the hall, where they found Mr. Rutherford speaking to a lady they both assumed was Mrs. Waters. Her skin and body were time ravaged, but her watery steel-gray eyes were still fierce. Her hair, piled upon her head in a tight bun, was the color of a frozen river in winter, all silvery blue and ice.
“Do we go into the dining room or introduce ourselves first?” Skip asked Henry quietly as they paused at the foot of the steps.
“I’m not sure,” he said, but he needn’t have worried, as Mrs. Waters saw them.
She walked toward them somewhat unsteadily, leaning heavily upon a beautifully carved wooden walking stick and leaving Mr. Rutherford near the settee. She smiled amiably as she held out her right hand, her fingers inflamed and contorted. The odor of mothballs and lavender about her was not altogether unpleasant, though.
“I’m Lillian Waters, Ambrose’s aunt, his mother’s older sister, down from Traverse City.”
Henry took her hand in his gently. “A pleasure, ma’am. We heard you were coming. I’m Henry Finch, and this is my friend, Mr. Horace Valentine. He goes by Skip. We’re visiting from Chicago.”
“Ah, so you’re Henry Finch, all grown up. I haven’t seen you since you were a toddler, but you probably don’t remember. I wrote your mother a letter not long ago discussing you. She’s written me many times about you and your siblings, and during the last war, she wrote about your service in the Army. I’m so glad you came home safely.”
“Thank you, me too. I served from 1943 to 1947, over a year of that in France. No physical scars or damage, anyway.”
“War is a terrible thing,” she said. “And now we’re in one again, in Korea, of all places. Such a tragedy.”
“I agree. World War Two was supposed to be the war to end all wars.”
“They say that about every war, I think,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “Anyway, Louise told me you’ve had difficulty finding a steady job since you’ve been home.”
“It’s been challenging. I’d actually like to go back to school, maybe even medical school since I was a medic in the war, but I’m short on funds at the moment,” Henry said, shooting Ambrose Rutherford a look over Mrs. Waters’s shoulder.
“I imagine medical school is expensive,” Mrs. Waters said.
“It is, but I start another job on Wednesday, so hopefully I can save up.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage just fine. What brings you to Ann Arbor?”
“I came here because you had said in your last letter that there were papers for me to sign.”
“Goodness, yes, that’s right, I’d forgotten already. At the lawyer’s office. Lawyers, nasty fellows, but a necessity, I’m afraid.”
“I stopped by yesterday afternoon and took care of everything.”
“Splendid,” she said. “I didn’t know you would be here this weekend. Ambrose never said.”
“Mother invited them, Aunt Lillian,” Mr. Rutherford said, walking up behind her with just the slightest limp. “We only found out they were coming this past Thursday, the day before they arrived.”
“Oh, dear Gabria. She forgot to mention it, I suppose,” Mrs. Waters said.
“She did until the last minute,” Mr. Rutherford said.
“Poor thing,” Lillian Waters said, shaking her head slowly. “Will she be down for dinner?”
Mr. Rutherford rolled his eyes. “One never knows. She made an appearance last night, but Jane generally takes a tray up to her.”
“I should like to go up and see her. If she doesn’t join us in the dining room, I shall do that afterward.”
“I’m sure she’ll be pleased, though she is unhappy about the prospect of going into a nursing home.”
“I can imagine. She’ll feel better about it once I talk to her. I just wish I didn’t have to climb all those stairs.”
“Well, as I said, she may come down, especially if she knows you’re here. I’ll have Jane inform her. Physically, she is still rather strong,” Ambrose said.
“That’s good to hear, but Dr. Grimes said she needs a complete physical, possibly a change of medications, a psychiatric evaluation, and all new treatments. You’ve done all you can for her here, Ambrose. It’s time to let the professionals at Forest Grove handle her. You may be surprised at what modern medicine can do.”
Ambrose looked at his aunt. “Yes, perhaps so. I shall be glad if they can do something to alleviate her suffering and mine.” He glanced at the clock standing against the wall. “I can’t imagine what’s keeping the sister. As soon as she’s down, we’ll go in.”
“How’s your ankle, Mr. Rutherford?” Skip said.
“Oh, much better, thank you. The swelling’s gone down. Should be back to normal by morning.”
“What happened, Ambrose?”
“Oh, I took a little tumble is all,” he said.
“Are you staying here in the house, Mrs. Waters?” Henry said.
“Call me Aunt Lillian, please, and no, I’m not.”
“I’m afraid there’s no room for her here,” Mr. Rutherford said. “The two of you are taking up both of the guest rooms, and Sister Barnabas has the old nursery room.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Henry said. “If it would help, I could sleep in with Skip tonight and you can take my room, Mrs. Waters. Aunt Lillian, I mean.”
Mr. Rutherford scowled. “That would not be prudent or wise, and in any case, it’s not necessary.”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Waters said. “I reserved a room at the Allenel Hotel on Main and Huron. I prefer staying there because they have an elevator. Besides, this house gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
“I’ll drive you to the hotel after dinner, Auntie. You should have telephoned so I could have picked you up from the station.”
“Oh, it wasn’t a problem to take a taxi, Ambrose, and I didn’t want to have to wait for you, but yes, a ride to the hotel later would be pleasant.”
“My pleasure, and thankfully my ankle is nearly back to normal, so it shouldn’t interfere with driving. Ah, here’s Sister Barnabas, at last,” Mr. Rutherford said, as she came down the stairs, moving slowly from side to side, as always, gripping the banister.
“My apologies, Mr. Rutherford. Your mother was being somewhat difficult,” Sister said.
“That’s all right. Aunt Lillian, you remember Sister Barnabas, mother’s nurse?”
“Yes, how do you do?” Lillian said. “We met a month ago or so.”
“How do you do?” the sister said. “It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Waters.”
“Thank you, it’s nice to be seen.”
“Well, why don’t we all go in to dinner? Miss Grant won’t be happy that we’re late.”
The five of them ate and talked, and Mrs. Rutherford stayed in her room with her tray. Lillian Waters entertained the table with stories of Ambrose as a small child, her memories of her sister, and the goings-on in Traverse City. When dessert, Henry’s mother’s peach cobbler with freshly made vanilla ice cream, was finished, Mr. Rutherford stood.
“That cobbler, Henry, was outstanding, just as I remember it. Please give my compliments and thanks to your mother.”
Henry smiled. “I will. She’ll be pleased.”
“Good. Well, Sister Barnabas and I have some things to discuss in the library, so if you’ll excuse us, perhaps the three of you could retire to the blue drawing room.”
“I think I shall go up and say hello to Gabria,” Mrs. Waters said.
“Fine,” Mr. Rutherford said. “We’ll join everyone shortly.” He held the hall door open for Sister Barnabas and Mrs. Waters, and Skip and Henry went through the connecting door into the blue drawing room.
“Well, here we are again,” Henry said.
“Yes. It’s even more dreary in here at night.”
“I agree. Well, Valentine, it’s just coming nine. Looks like we have time to kill until the others join us. What shall we do?”
Skip paced about the room like a lion in a cage. “Good question.”
“We could get the cards from the yellow drawing room and play gin rummy.”
“Hmm. Or maybe we could sneak down to the cellar.”
Henry raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Whatever for? You were already down there before dinner. You said it was just a lot of dark, spooky rooms.”
“I know, but it’s something Miss Grant said earlier about Joe Bitters going down to nip some of your uncle’s vodka from the freezer.”
“He stole vodka?”
“Among other things—cigars, newspapers, vegetables, books, and such. I guess your uncle never caught him, but Miss Grant knew all about it. And remember, Mrs. Savage said he took a bottle of vodka from her.”
“Okay, so he was a petty thief. So what?”
“I don’t know, exactly, but Miss Grant said Joe went down to the cellar a couple of times right before the fire. Maybe that’s where he hid his notes, somewhere in the freezer. Maybe he wants us to find the key to the padlock on the freezer. Remember the puzzling rhyme? It said, ‘Pull the cord, and you’ve scored the location of my keys.’”
“So?”
“So, the room has one of those pull chain lights. Maybe what he meant was to pull the cord on the light to find his keys to the freezer. Maybe the keys are hidden up in the rafters by the bulb.”
“No, Skip. No. I don’t think there are any notes to be found, not anymore, anyway, and it’s none of our concern.”
“Well, it wouldn’t hurt any to have another peek down there, would it? I’m not afraid of spiders.”
Before Henry could answer, the hall door opened, and Mrs. Waters wobbled in, her walking stick clunking on the floor ahead of her with each step.
“Oh, hello, Aunt Lillian,” Henry said. “That was a quick trip upstairs.”
She nodded as she shuffled to one of the upholstered chairs near the fireplace, breathing rather heavily. “Yes, Gabria was in a mood, to say the least, as the sister had mentioned. I’m not sure she realized who I am. It’s heartbreaking.”
“I’m so sorry,” Skip said, taking a seat near her as Henry settled onto the sofa.
“So am I,” she said. “But at least I’m here now.”
“Did you have a pleasant trip?” Henry said.
“Ugh, the train was delayed, dreadful waiting, sitting about, most frustrating. I wanted to get here much earlier in the day.” She shook her head slowly. “Poor Gabria. Ambrose wrote me about her illness in August. I visited in the middle of September and was flabbergasted at how bad a turn she’d taken, even with Sister Barnabas’s care. When I telephoned a little over a week ago and learned she’d deteriorated further, I took the liberty of mentioning her condition to my doctor in Traverse City. He agreed she should be in a long-term hospital, a nursing home, as it were. So, I made arrangements to move her to Forest Grove on Monday. Fortunately, they were able to take her on such short notice.”
“What did Uncle Ambrose say to that?”
“Oh, he disagreed initially, saying it was God’s will or some such hogwash, but I insisted. And after seeing her just now, I’m certain it’s the right thing to do. Ambrose has agreed.”
“He and his mother seem to have a strained relationship,” Skip said.
“Yes, I’m afraid, sadly, it was always that way.”
“She seems to glorify the memory of her other son, Arthur,” Henry said.
Lillian opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. She put her head back against the chair and closed her eyes as if lost in thought. Finally, she opened them again. “Gabria still talks about Arthur to this day.”
“Yes. I suppose losing him at such a young age was devastating. Losing a child at any age must be difficult,” Henry said.
Mrs. Waters clucked her tongue. “Yes, but my sister was, unfortunately, not a good mother. I’ve no children of my own, so I suppose I shouldn’t criticize, but she didn’t do right by Ambrose, comparing him to Arthur.”
“I agree,” Skip said. “No child should ever be compared to another.”
Mrs. Waters breathed in slowly, then out, then in again, her head still resting against the back of the chair. “Yes, especially to Arthur. Arthur was the perfect child, you see. Ambrose still doesn’t know. No one knows, I don’t think, except Gabria and myself. It’s been a heavy secret to carry.”
“Knows what?” Henry said.
She brought her head forward and leaned on the arm of the chair, gazing at them. “I suppose it would be all right to tell you, I feel I must tell someone, but you must promise not to tell anyone else, especially Ambrose.”
“I promise,” Skip said. “But tell him what? Or not tell him, I guess I should say.”
“I promise, too,” Henry said, leaning forward.
Mrs. Waters nodded, satisfied. “And I trust both of you to keep your promise. No good will come from Ambrose knowing the truth after all this time. You see, Arthur should never have been born in the first place, and he certainly shouldn’t have lived as long as he did.”
“I’m sorry?” Skip said. “That sounds harsh.”
“Oh, pish posh, it’s not like that. You don’t know the real story behind Arthur Rutherford. Remember, not a word of this to Ambrose. It would drive a stake further between him and his mother.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Henry said.
“It’s like this, my dears. Gabria was never the maternal type, as I said before. She was a lovely girl, far prettier than I and several years younger, but I didn’t mind. That painting over the settee is her, done just after she and Giles were married.”
“I was admiring it earlier. She wasn’t just lovely, she was beautiful. I had no idea it was Mrs. Rutherford,” Henry said.
“Yes, but too pretty for her own good, I think. She didn’t want to get married. She wanted to get out of Traverse City and be an actress, you see.”
“I remember hearing that, and she referred to herself as an actress earlier,” Henry said.
“Not surprising. She longed to be on the stage, but of course, that was before the turn of the century. Polite, well-mannered young women wouldn’t dream of going into the theater. It was considered immoral. Our parents wouldn’t entertain the idea of allowing it. When Giles came along, with his good looks and his money, they were only too happy to marry her off, and Gabria for her part was eager to accept. She saw it as a way to escape.
“She thought she could get Giles to agree to let her perform in local plays and theater here in Ann Arbor, but he refused. Then she became pregnant, which ended in a stillbirth. She vowed never to have any other children, but Giles had other ideas. Unfortunately, she suffered a series of miscarriages after the stillbirth, but it wasn’t too many more years until Ambrose was born, a healthy baby boy. Giles was thrilled, but Gabria became more depressed, melancholy, and lethargic. She wanted nothing to do with the baby. She mourned her figure, her youth, her carefree days, her missed opportunities. She believes she could have been a tremendous actress, and she’s probably right.”
“How terribly sad,” Henry said.
“Oh, absolutely. And it didn’t help that Giles died the following year when Ambrose was not quite a year and a half.”
“But what about Arthur? He was older than Ambrose,” Skip said.
“That’s right. But Arthur only existed in Gabria’s mind and, to some extent, in Ambrose’s mind because of that.”
“I’m afraid I don’t see. I still don’t understand,” Henry said.
Mrs. Waters leaned back into the chair once more, trying to get comfortable. “It’s difficult to comprehend, I suppose. As Ambrose grew into his twos, I think he sensed his mother’s distance, her coldness, and he became more unruly and troublesome than children that age normally are. Gabria, a widow by then, didn’t know how to deal with a rambunctious toddler. So she invented an older brother, Arthur, who she said died at five years of age, supposedly when Ambrose was almost two years old, just after her husband died.”
“Why would she do that?” Henry said, looking intrigued.
“Because she used the character of Arthur as a way to control Ambrose. She led Ambrose to believe Arthur was the perfect child and Ambrose had better live up to his memory. And she hinted that he caused Arthur’s death by giving him germs.”
“That’s a horrible thing to do to a child,” Skip said.
“I know. Gabria wasn’t mentally well, I see that now. Perhaps it was the beginning, but I’m not sure. I was so far away up in Traverse City, I didn’t know the extent of what she was doing. She told me it was just a game to get Ambrose to behave. She swore me to secrecy, and over the years, I think Gabria forgot it was make-believe. She speaks of him now as if he had been a real child, and I think she truly mourns him.”
“But she showed us a lock of Arthur’s hair she keeps in an old silver box in her room. The hair was red and curly,” Skip said.
Mrs. Waters nodded slowly, her eyes half closed. “The lock of the dead. I don’t know for certain where she got it, though I’ve seen it, too. My thought is she purloined it from the floor of the beauty parlor one day when she first came up with the idea.”
“And Ambrose doesn’t know any of this?” Henry said.
“No, he was never told. I thought as Ambrose grew, Gabria would drop the whole Arthur tale, but she never did. She kept at it. She still keeps at it because, as I said, in her mind I think she believes Arthur existed. If Ambrose knew the truth now, it would devastate him.”
“Or set him free,” Henry said. “Living in the shadow of a perfect, dead brother has to be incredibly difficult. If Uncle Ambrose knew the truth, it might lift a weight off his shoulders he’s been forced to carry since birth.”
Mrs. Waters seemed to contemplate Henry’s words, pondering them as she rolled them around in her mind. Finally, she nodded almost imperceptibly and spoke, her voice quavering, her eyes almost completely closed. “Perhaps there’s something to what you say, Henry. God knows I’ve wrestled with my conscience over the years. There was a time I encouraged Gabria to tell him the truth, but she always refused. Maybe I’ll tell him when she’s gone.”
“I think you should,” Skip said.
She breathed in and out deeply, wheezing a bit and coughing, finally opening her eyes. “Yes, when Gabria’s gone, perhaps I will, though I know he’ll be angry with her for the deception.” Mrs. Waters looked about the room, and then at the clock on the mantel. “It’s coming ten o’clock. I suppose I should be getting back to the hotel. It’s been a long day, and I’m tired.”
“I’d be happy to drive you,” Henry said, “if you don’t wish to wait on Uncle Ambrose.”
“Thank you, but he shouldn’t be long. I should be glad of a chance to chat with him for a bit without any distractions.”
Almost as if on cue, Mr. Rutherford came in via the hall door. “Ah, there you three are. Anyone up for an after-dinner drink?”
Mrs. Waters looked up at him, a weary expression on her face. “Thank you, Ambrose, but I was just telling these young folks I should like to go back to the hotel if you’d be so kind as to drive me. I will see everyone in the morning, after breakfast, I think. I plan on sleeping late.”
“All right, Auntie, I’ll get the car out. Sister has gone up to tend to Mother but will be down shortly.”
Henry stood up and helped Mrs. Waters to her feet.
Mr. Rutherford looked at Skip and Henry. “Don’t wait up if you don’t want to, boys. It may be a while before I get back, as I’ll see Auntie safely to her room.”
“All right, Uncle, I guess I’m getting tired also. We’ll see you in the morning.”
“Sleep well. I’ll lock up when I return,” Mr. Rutherford said, as he left to get his car out of the garage.
Mrs. Waters leaned heavily on her walking stick, wetting her lips. “Thank you for letting me tell my tale. It’s weighed me down for many years.”
“I can imagine,” Skip said.
“I’ll walk you out, Aunt Lillian,” Henry said as she took his arm. They moved slowly out into the hall, Skip remaining behind, lost in thought. After a few moments, he got to his feet and watched out the window as Mr. Rutherford’s car drove away from the curb, with Mrs. Waters in the passenger seat. Soon after, Henry returned.
Skip turned to him as he entered. “Well, here we are again, alone in this dreary room.”
Henry smiled wryly. “Yes, it’s a bit odd how it keeps happening. I’m sorry, Skip, about the way this weekend has ended up. It’s all so strange.”
Skip walked closer to him. “You can say that again, but it’s all right, Henry. It’s not your fault.”
“Thanks. If you still want to poke about the basement, I guess now would be the time, while Uncle is out and everyone else is occupied. I can stand guard.”
Skip sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. “It’s tempting, but I’ve been thinking about it. If Bitters wanted only Mrs. Savage to find whatever it is he hid, why would he hide it in a place your uncle goes to, and in this house, which she probably can’t access easily? Besides, you told me a short time ago it was none of our concern.”
“I know, it isn’t, and I agree with you about the basement. But after finding out Arthur never existed, well, it’s definitely all a puzzle.”
“I agree. A puzzle with a lot of odd pieces that don’t seem to fit together.”
“Or maybe we just don’t have all the right pieces yet.”
Skip laughed. “Now you sound like me.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No, I’m just surprised.”
“Aunt Lillian’s story got me thinking about what you’ve said, and about all the crazy things that have happened in the short while we’ve been here.”
“I can’t stop thinking about it all. Do you think Mrs. Rutherford is really mentally ill, Henry?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Mrs. Waters told us Mrs. Rutherford wanted to be an actress as a young woman, and she referred to herself as one earlier. Maybe this is all an act.”
“It would be a pretty convincing act, and for what purpose?”
“I’m not sure. Attention, maybe? She’s the type of person who craves it and stops at nothing to get it.”
“Seems rather extreme, though, especially since they’re going to put her in a home.”
“Hmm, yes, I suppose so. But if it is an act, maybe in the morning she’ll have a miraculous recovery.”
“After everything that’s happened this weekend, nothing would surprise me, Skip.”
“Me neither. Something to think about, anyway.”
“Yes, but there’s something else I’ve been pondering, too,” Henry said.
“What’s that?”
“The contents of that box that’s buried behind the carriage house.”
“Why, Henry Finch, you told me to leave that thought alone, too.”
“I know I did, but maybe if we knew what was in it or not in it, other things would start to make more sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe Jake didn’t bury the box. Maybe it was Joe Bitters, and he put his notes and evidence in there for safekeeping.”
“But the box was buried after Joe died.”
“But what if Joe buried the box earlier, right after he discovered his mysterious evidence, and what Mrs. Savage saw that night was actually someone digging it back up? Someone who guessed where the evidence was hidden?”
“If that’s the case, Henry, there wouldn’t be anything there anymore. Besides, it doesn’t fit with the rhyming clue he told Mrs. Savage. ‘Pull the cord, and you’ve scored the location of my keys. Unlock the quotes to find my notes, and the evidence you’ll see.’”
Henry frowned. “True, but maybe the box is locked, and the clue just refers to finding the keys to it.”
“So, you think he wanted her to find the keys and then just guess what they were for? And if she did guess, to go digging in the Rutherford yard? An old lady?”
“All right, smarty-pants. Maybe there is a dead dog in that box. But there’s no way to know unless…”
“Unless we dig it up.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, too, and the best time to dig would be early tomorrow morning before the sun comes up. Less chance of anyone seeing us. Why don’t we meet in the upstairs hall around five?”
“You are full of surprises, Mr. Finch.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Absolutely. I’d like to know for certain, one way or the other. Five in the morning, I’ll be there in my new blue jeans, flannel shirt, and work shoes.”
“Aren’t they still awfully dirty from your excursion to the garage earlier?”
“Yes, but I tried to brush them off as best I could, and I don’t want to ruin my good clothes.”
“Okay.”
“The sun comes up about six thirty, I believe. But Miss Grant will be in the kitchen around six.”
“Perfect. I’ll grab the flashlight from the car, and we can get a shovel from the garage after we get outside. I doubt he buried it too deep, so it shouldn’t take long.”
“Excellent. And on that note, I think I should get to bed. It’s almost ten.”
“Same here, let’s go up.” The two of them left the blue drawing room behind and climbed the stairs to the second floor, pausing at the top.
“See you in the very early morning, Mr. Finch,” Skip said, as he gave him a quick kiss good night.
“Sleep tight,” he said, kissing him back. “Do you want some company?”
“I do, but it’s late, and we have to be up and ready by five. I think we should wait.”
“It wouldn’t take all that long, and it would probably help both of us sleep better.”
“You, sir, are impossible,” Skip said.
“Nothing’s impossible,” he said with a grin.
“Incorrigible, then,” Skip said. “It’s tempting, believe me, but we’ll be home tomorrow and can canoodle all night without worrying about anyone hearing us or your uncle finding out. If he knew for sure about us, he’d find a way to make certain you were disinherited, and we’re already pushing our luck.”
“Okay, I guess you’re right.” Henry wrapped him in a warm hug. “Good night, then.”