Chapter Twelve
ANOTHER FIRE
I WENT FROM the sheriff’s office to the drugstore, where I bought a New York Times. I took it back to Maggie’s and sat on the porch to read it. So far, no one had found the three civil rights workers who had gone missing in Mississippi.
The screen door opened.
“Well, I was wondering where you’d disappeared to.” It was Maggie. She glanced at the paper. “Checking out the news from back home?”
I couldn’t remember telling her where I was from. So how did she know? Who had she been talking to?
“I got a call from the courthouse.” She sat down in a wicker chair. “One of the clerks wanted to know why I was interested in the Thomas Jefferson murder trial.” I felt my cheeks redden. I couldn’t even look at her. “The funny thing is, I have no interest in it. So I asked him what he was talking about, and do you know what he said?” I had a pretty good idea. “He said someone was in there looking for the transcript. He said it was a girl and that she gave my name.”
“I’m sorry.” I was too. Genuinely sorry. “But he wasn’t going to help me until I mentioned you and the newspaper.”
Maggie appraised me for longer than felt comfortable. “I told him I was kicking around a few story ideas about war veterans and how they fare when they get home,” she said at last. “We have quite a few who were over in Korea too. Some haven’t done well. But it would have been nice if you’d told me what you were up to. I had to think pretty fast, let me tell you.” She ducked her head so that she could look me in the eye. “Why are you so interested in Thomas Jefferson? And why are you telling everyone you’re from New York when clearly you’re not?”
My head snapped up at that. “How did—”
She raised a hand to silence me.
“I spent a few years in New York, Cady. I know what people there look like and sound like. You’re not from there. In fact, unless I miss my guess, you’re from Canada. I can hear it in the way you speak.”
I stared at her. For once I didn’t know what to say.
“Time to come clean, young lady.”
She didn’t have to ask twice. I told her everything. Maybe that old sheriff had been right when he told Mrs. Jefferson that people who’d done something wrong really needed to confess to feel better. I told her about Mrs. Hazelton and the envelope. I also told her about Mr. Travers and the Weekly Crier and about the story I hoped to write and why it was so important to me. She didn’t laugh. She didn’t make fun of me. Instead she smiled and said, “Reporter, huh? It’s a tough row to hoe for a woman. But it can be done, Cady. It really can. I started on a newspaper in San Francisco. I had to fight long and hard to get decent assignments, and by that I mean real news, not the women’s pages, although I paid my dues there. I covered social events just like you did. I did a recipe column for a while. I wrote about hairstyles and fashion and how to feed a family of six on just pennies a day.” She sighed. “I thought I was doomed to a lifetime of non-news—at a newspaper, no less!”
“Is that why you came back here?”
She shook her head.
“There was a murder—a woman killed her husband. I had met the woman once before, and when the reporters came clamoring for a story about the Black Widow—that’s what one of the rival newspapers called her—she refused to talk to them. She refused to talk to anyone except me. My editor had no choice. I got the story. I told her side.”
“But she killed her husband.”
“In self-defense. He was a gambler and a drinker—most of the other papers didn’t report that. I dug into his life. I painted a portrait of the man. My publisher got a lot of flak—how dare I say it was the husband’s fault he was murdered? But my editor stuck with me. And because my stories were selling papers, the publisher came around. I covered the trial from start to finish. By the time the jury acquitted her, I had proved myself. My editor moved me from the women’s pages to hard news. I caught some big stories there. Crime. Corruption. Crooked politicians. You name it. I had the time of my life. But it was hard work. All I ever did was chase stories. I felt like I had no other life.”
Her smile had more sad than happy in it. “I thought I wanted a change, so when my father died, I came back here. Did I tell you my grandfather started the paper? It’s been in the family for three generations—four, now that I’m here. But I’m afraid I’ll be the end of the line. And I’ve been wondering if I did the right thing by coming here. It’s quiet—maybe a little too quiet.” She sighed. “So, what’s going on, Cady?”
“I don’t think Mr. Jefferson killed Mr. LaSalle.” There. I’d said it. The thought had been spinning around in my brain ever since I’d spoken to Daniel and Mrs. Jefferson. Maybe since before that. Maybe since I’d found out that almost every scrap of information about the trial was missing. “I want to find out. I want to write about it as badly as you wanted to tell that woman’s side of the story.” But there was a problem. I would have to tell her sooner or later. I decided on right now. “I’m not sure I can afford to stay on with you, Maggie.”
“If you don’t stay here, I don’t know where you’ll go. This is the only place in town besides the hotel. And that hotel is no place for a young girl. It attracts mostly traveling salesmen. Besides, it’s expensive. I’ll tell you what. You can do chores in return for your room and board for as long as you’re here.”
“Are you sure? I don’t know how long it will—”
“I’m sure.” She stood up. “That’s settled.”
“I’m great at cleaning,” I told her. “I’ve scrubbed more floors, washed more walls and polished more windows than you can imagine.”
Maggie smiled. “I was going to hire a girl to do some cleaning. The place really needs it, and I don’t have the time. I’m sure we can work something out.” She paused as she opened the screen door. “Have you talked to Lorne Beale?”
“Who’s he?”
“He was the sheriff back in the ’40s. He’d be pretty old by now, but I know he’s still around.” She disappeared inside and was back in a flash with a slim telephone book. She thumbed through it. “Humph. He’s not in here.” I was pretty sure I heard disappointment in her voice. “Leave it with me. I’m sure I can track him down. Come on. Let’s have some lunch.”
Arthur was in the kitchen, slicing tomatoes. I washed the lettuce, and we all sat down to iced tea, tomato sandwiches and a crisp salad. After that, I got to work washing the floors of all the upstairs bedrooms. By the time I caught the first whiff of supper—it smelled like chicken (it was, with a big bowl of fresh peas)—I had worked up a real appetite.
It was just Maggie and me for supper. Arthur was working late.
“I found Lorne Beale,” Maggie said casually. My heart slammed to a stop. Finally, a real honest-to-goodness lead! “He’s in a nursing home over in Fairview.”
“Where’s that?”
“About fifteen miles north of here.”
Fifteen miles?
“Is there a bus?”
“It just so happens that I have to drive to Fairview tomorrow. There’s a man up there who can apparently whistle the whole of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Everyone says he’s pretty good.” She makes a wry face. “I know—it isn’t exactly earth-shattering news. But I learned pretty quickly that local people are interested in local people—your Mr. Travers understands that, I’m sure. I’ll drop you there on my way.”
I heard thumping. Then hammering. Someone yelled, “Get up, get up!” I smelled smoke.
I was dreaming, and, of all things, I was dreaming of the Home. I never thought I would.
More thumping, only this time I was awake.
“Cady, come on! You have to get out of the house!”
I threw off my sheet and ran to the door.
“Come on,” Maggie said.
We raced downstairs and out into the yard. A fire truck stood at the curb. Firemen were hosing down the front of the house where the parlor was.
A fireman came down the front walk and stopped in front of Maggie.
“Looks like someone threw a homemade firebomb through your window.” He held up the remains of a bottle. “It’s a good thing you were home and awake when it happened. It was filled with gasoline. Fire’s out. I don’t think there’s any structural damage, but we’ll have to get the fire marshal down to take a look first thing in the morning.”
Another car pulled up, and Sheriff Hicks got out. The fireman went to report to him. When he was finished, Sheriff Hicks walked over to Maggie and me.
“Bert says someone threw a Molotov cocktail through your window,” he said. “You have any idea why someone would do that?”
I looked apprehensively at Maggie. How would she answer?
“No idea at all.” Maggie’s voice was shaky. She was rattled, and I didn’t blame her. What if she hadn’t woken up? What if the fire had spread more quickly? What if someone had been hurt? Maggie looked around. “Where’s Arthur?” Her voice rose with panic. “Arthur?” she called. “Arthur?”
“Over here!” Arthur was at the side of the house with a group of firemen.
“Are you sure no one has a grudge against you?” Sheriff Hicks asked, looking directly at me.
“I’m pretty sure,” Maggie said. “You read the paper, Brad. Have you seen anything in there that would offend anyone or make anyone angry at me?”
Sheriff Hicks had to admit that he hadn’t.
“But someone sure sent you a message,” he said. “Either that or we’ve got an arsonist on the loose. I’ll be back with the fire marshal first thing in the morning.” He glanced at me. “Can I have a word with you in private, Maggie?”
Maggie obliged. She and the sheriff crossed the street to his parked car and stood there talking. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I saw Maggie shake her head again and again. When she finally returned, she said, “He wanted to know if I thought you had anything to do with it.”
What? “He thinks I started the fire?”
“He thinks all your questions about Thomas Jefferson are getting people riled up. He says everyone is talking about what’s going on in Mississippi, and they think it’s peculiar that you showed up here at the same time and started looking into Jefferson’s murder trial. He says you’ve been seen in Freemount.”
“Is that a crime?”
“Not that I know of. But it’s not the usual thing for people to do around here.”