Harmony (11 page)

“Miss Huntington,” Mr. Kennison said as if he were plagued by indigestion, “I ask you to reconsider. Let the police handle the matter.”

“I highly doubt they will find the culprits.” Large coins left her fingers to sit on the counter before him. “I'd rather Mr. Wolcott paint his side now to smooth out the building's appearance. I've got my students to think about. The warehouse in its present state is an abomination. I'd rather not subject the girls to such an unsightly mess.”

Mr. Kennison's hand covered the coins. His lips pursed as if he'd sucked a persimmon. The money slid toward her and he lifted his palm. “Oh, fiddlesticks, there goes my rubber froggy. But I can't let you do it, Miss Huntington.”

Rubber froggy?
“I don't understand.”

“Mr. Wolcott bought that red paint himself.”

Astonishment dropped her jaw open. “Pardon?”

“Just like I said.” Mr. Kennison mussed his neat coif as he ran nervous fingers through his pomaded hair. “Mr. Wolcott bought that vermillion. Though I didn't see him do it, I'd bet he's the one who painted the warehouse. He said he'd give me a bass lure—a soft rubber froggy with a string-gut loop and treble hook—if I forgot about the transaction. I thought I could, but not when you're going to spend your money on him.”

Anger whisked through her, quick and strong.
He tricked me! Why, that wolf in moth-holed clothing! And I actually felt sorry for him!
When she thought of how ridiculous she must have sounded to go on in such an animated way about the defacing of the property and the vandals, when all the while, she'd been talking to the rotten criminal himself!

Well, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing that
she knew
he'd crossed her bows. Fury choked her, making speaking difficult. “Mr. Kennison, your honesty is most appreciated. I don't want you to lose your . . . froggy, so we can keep this between us for now. Please let Mr. Wolcott think you told me nothing. I'll tell him when I'm ready.”

“But, Miss Huntington—”

She raised her hand to stop him. “Your daughter will be attending my school, and I thank you for your faith in me. I'd rather not resort to the tactics Mr. Wolcott has seen fit to use. It's not what you'd want me to teach your Camille. So I think it best to let the matter drop and let all parties involved go on the way they were this morning before I found out about the paint. I'll inform him when the time is right.” In turn,
she slipped the coins from the counter's edge into her purse. The roast beef was back in the oven, so to speak. Then she clutched her pocketbook to her waist. “I thank you very kindly for your integrity, Mr. Kennison. Good day.”

As she turned to leave, Chief Officer Algie Conlin and Deputy Pike Faragher entered the hardware store. Their noses together in a hat-to-hat brim conversation, they didn't see her.

“We never would have gotten back so early if it hadn't been for Tom Wolcott's insightful advice,” Algie remarked. “He was right. For prairie chicken, use only an ounce of number-six shot.”

“And for quail,” Pike added, “load eights and nines.”

“Save the tens for snipe.”

Deputy Faragher nodded. “Good thing Tom had that nine weight, and damn nice of him to bring a couple of boxes of shot by the department last night when he dropped off that clay pigeon intent permit.”

“An upstanding fellow, that Wolcott,” Chief Officer Conlin declared. “A real asset to the community.”

“Miss Huntington.” Pike noticed her first. “We got your card on our door.”

Algie straightened. “A coincidence we've run into you. This'll save us a trip to your house. What can we do for you, Miss Huntington?”

She stiffened her backbone and kept her gaze level. The realization that Tom Wolcott had not only bribed the hardware store owner, but he'd also conveniently gotten rid of the police this morning—however oh so subtle in his
nine load
ways—had her gnashing her teeth together. “Yes, it is a good thing you didn't have to come out to my house, because I no longer need your services. The matter has been taken care of. It was nothing after all.”

“Whatever you say, Miss Huntington.” Algie shrugged.

The pair of them drew up to the counter while she opened the door. As she exited the store, she heard:
“Kennison, we need an iron stabilizing rod. Some son of a bitch kicked down our deer.”

•  •  •

Why did he do it?
The question burned in Edwina's mind hours later as she sat on her parlor floor in her nightgown. What could Tom Wolcott possibly have to gain by painting his side of the warehouse that hideous red—and sloppily so—other than to drive her crazy?

Scissors in hand, she couldn't come up with a plausible answer, so she forced herself to put him out of her thoughts. The precise diagram she had drawn on the back side of a letter was of her school furnishings in miniature. The template would serve as a guide for arranging her furniture before she actually moved in. That extra foot was able to accommodate her desk and the sideboard on one wall, then two rows of desks—old extension tables she'd found in her attic—that would serve as stations for the girls.

With a single cut, she sliced off the salutation end of the letter. It landed faceup in her lap.

Madame Janetta DeVille

Edwina could hardly bear to look at the slanted signature. The salutation became her desk. The remaining piece of the letter was dissected into tables, the heater, a sideboard, and a few odds and ends.

As Edwina aligned them on a master board the exact scaled-down size of her schoolroom, she rearranged them in a pleasing manner. The
Dear Miss Huntington
turned into the sideboard.
I would be interested in
was now the storage area.

Hands stilling, Edwina closed her eyes and reread the letter in her head for the dozenth time.

My Dear Miss Huntington:

It has been too long since I last heard from you. Have you decided to remain in Harmony, or are you still considering a move to Denver? I would he interested in meeting with you should you come to our fair city. The job I spoke of, senior staff accountant to our bridal salon, is still available. The clerk I hired after your original refusal four months ago, didn't work out for me. I would much rather hire a woman. And a woman of your business talent is rare. Your accomplishments at Gillette's are to be praised. Please advise me as to what your plans for the future are.

Yours,

Madame Janette DeVille

House of DeVille Bridal Salon

Edwina swallowed a heavy sigh. Out of courtesy, she had given Madame DeVille a reply, but not the one the woman wished to hear. Edwina had to stay in Harmony until her family debts were paid off. She didn't know how long that would take her, if she could ever be free of them at all. When she'd sent her college credentials to Colorado months ago, she'd been hopeful she'd be given a position. But when the offer came, she'd had to turn it down. By then, she'd found out about the second mortgage and the pile of medical bills. Until she could square all of them, she was stuck. Her dreams had to be put on hold.

Honey Tiger padded to Edwina and brushed against her arm, waiting for a scratch beneath the chin. As she obliged the cat, its white whiskers twitched with pleasure. She took the loving for a moment, then fickle as always, moved on. She stepped on the templates, her pink nose bumping on the paper as she smelled them. The map became ruffled. But Edwina didn't care. She was too tired—not physically. It was more of a tenseness from trying to hide things, from trying to be somebody she wasn't. . . .

Moving a section of hair to her back, she leaned into the settee and brought her knees up. Her hair flowed freely about her shoulders. Her pale feet were bare and
she wore no wrapper. Within reach, an O'Linn beer bottle sat on the parlor table. Normally, she never would have indulged on a Friday evening, but Tom Wolcott's stunt had driven her to distraction.

She drank one beer a week each Saturday night; then on Sunday morning on her way to church, she cut across Birch Avenue and snuck the empty bottle in the rubbish bin behind the Blue Flame Saloon. Thus far, no one had been the wiser.

Great pains had been taken to keep her secret. She had the O'Linns sent to a post office box under an assumed name, and she'd told Mr. Calhoon she'd be picking up a parcel every so often for one H. T. Katz, an old family friend from Waverly too infirm to make the drive to Harmony to pick up his parcel. Not a brow had been raised, for it wasn't uncommon to take mail to others. She kept the bottles hidden in the cellar, where they stayed cool and out of Marvel-Anne's sight.

Edwina didn't think of herself as a drinker. She just happened to like beer, and unfortunately, a woman who indulged—no matter how harmlessly—was of a doubtful reputation. Which, she hated to admit, in her case was the absolute truth.

A wry smile caught her mouth as she recalled Tom Wolcott's earlier words of reproof:
A woman of your untarnished reputation coming to a man's apartment.

If he only knew. . . .

As the taste of O'Linn washed through her mouth, she was reminded of the Peacherine Club in Chicago. She'd danced there many times with Ludlow. She and Abbie would sneak out of Abbie's bedroom after her parents had retired, and they'd meet up with Ludlow and his group to go to the music district, which had been
en vogue
for the college students. Edwina had never considered she might not be safe in the colorful dancing clubs; Abbie had said she'd gone there lots of times before.

Abbie
 . . . Edwina missed her. Abigail hadn't written in the past month, and Edwina wondered about her.
Their parting had been awkward. During the last week she was in Chicago, Abbie changed. She'd been strange . . . and a little secretive, especially when Ludie's name had come up. But Edwina had had to leave before she could figure out what was the matter. She'd asked Abbie in a letter. In Abbie's next correspondence, she made no mention of anything amiss.

Trying to come up with answers, Edwina reflected on their friendship. They'd become fast comrades as soon as they'd met. One of Edwina's mother's conditions for allowing Edwina to go to school in Chicago was that she had a respectable home in which to stay. The Cranes were related to the minister at the Harmony General Assembly church. Minister Stoll had sent a letter of introduction to the Cranes, and they in turn had opened their home to Edwina. Edwina's mother had thought she was sending her daughter to a fine Christian family—and that did describe Abigail's parents, but Abbie herself had turned out to be quite the opposite. Not that she'd been a shameless woman—Abbie just liked to frolic and dance. And Edwina had soon learned what a truly good time could be had when she let her hair down—not that she ever did in the literal sense.

The east side Peacherine Club could be described as nothing short of delicious. Edwina had been introduced to piano music she'd never in her life heard. And she'd learned to dance to the fast beats, too. Ragtime and the cakewalk. Ludie had taught her. They'd had the grandest of all times. And when the evening grew late, he and a friend would escort her and Abbie home as far as they dared; then the pair of them would strip right down to their corsets and climb up the porch roof to slip into Abbie's room.

Edwina took another sip of beer, her thoughts wistful. She could have been Mrs. Ludlow Ogden Rutledge if she'd been the kind of girl his parents had wanted him to marry. Or if he'd been the kind of man to stand up to his mother.

The hurt had lessened the more time passed. But she
couldn't forget the words he'd spoken to her that night, her last in Chicago. They still pained her too much to think about. So rather than dredge them up, she rose and went to the Victrola.

In the cabinet beneath it, she housed her respectable records in the front, but the popular ones in the back. She put on a recording of “Swipesy Rag,” wound the turntable, then began to trot through the parlor as the upbeat piano notes played out the big trumpet. She hummed with the tune, gaily moving left and right. Honey Tiger perched on the settee and watched her as if she'd gone loony.

Inadvertently, she kicked the templates and the papers scattered. At least she didn't have to feel guilty anymore about getting that extra foot on her side. Tom Wolcott's painting party had stamped out all her wrongdoing.

Now if only she could stamp him from her head. The hour nearing midnight, she couldn't help thinking that at this very moment, he wore his atrocious . . . revealing . . . nightwear.

Not that she had gotten that good a look . . .

She wondered if he knew how to step around the floor doing the nice-and-light to the “Swipesy Rag.”

Not that she'd ever dance it with him . . .

Although she was certain he knew the nice and light. . . . But in his repertoire, it was no dance.

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