Quiet Dell: A Novel (19 page)

Regardless, she was irritated, and surveyed the newsroom.
Trib
reporters were boorish and beefy and smelled of tobacco or bourbon, and speculated amongst themselves about her private
life. There, at his desk, was Eric Lindstrom, hired last year from
The New York Times,
source of resentment amongst his older colleagues, beat reporters who’d made him an anonymous gift of a baby’s silver spoon the week he arrived. He was a Princeton man who’d lived in Europe and came from money. He certainly looked like money, Emily thought. His well-kept, perfect nails made hers appear naked and ragged. He wore his blond hair swept back, and the girls in the steno pool often followed him to lunch; they said he was more than once mistaken on the street for Douglas Fairbanks. “No, but I’m Fairbanks’ cousin,” he would say, “and an autograph will cost you a fiver.” Then he’d wink, and take the girls along with him, and pay for their sandwiches. They fought to run his errands.

Emily went to his desk. All his papers were neatly stacked in trays. “I hear you’re off to West Virginia, Mr. Lindstrom, though I was promised this exclusive before Pierson was arrested.”

“It’s too big for one reporter now. They’ve found the victims’ possessions in some garage, and they’ll be digging for bodies. I’m going tonight with my cameras to Clarksburg, wherever that is. Every newspaper in the country will be there. The press will be falling all over each other.”

“And then there’s Quiet Dell,” she said. “Population one hundred. It’s where they’ll be looking for bodies. Woods and forest. Mountains. Unpaved roads.”

He indicated the chair by his desk, and she sat. “And how do you know, Miss Thornhill? Are you familiar with Quiet Dell?”

“I will be,” she said, “very familiar.”

“Why not operate as a tag team? I do the photographs and stiff upper lip, the just-the-facts dispatches. You provide features of imaginative detail, and the soulful moral lessons, acknowledged—in the human heart, at least—as the hardest news of all.” He balanced a pencil on his knuckles, then turned his hand to weigh it on his palm, looking inquisitive. “Don’t know how they’ll take to a girl reporter down there, in such grisly circumstances.”

“And there’s your silver spoon to consider,” Emily said quietly.
“Bound to serve you well there in the country. What’s the nature of the family business, if you don’t mind my asking?”

He was going through desk files, packing his briefcase. “Manufacturing.”

“Manufacturing what?”

“Pistons.” He regarded her. “Know more than you did before?”

Emily raised her brows. “Big? Small?”

“Very big, and very small, Miss Thornhill.”

She reflected that the banter was camouflage; his mention of the human heart, though couched in irony, was more telling. “I’ve just come from the home and playhouse of the missing children,” she said. “This story will be dark and deep.”

“Yes,” he said, “and you are clearly the one to tell it.” He met her eyes. “The journey promises to be demanding; you may come to appreciate a skillful accomplice.”

“I take your point,” Emily said, “but look, a train is too slow. We must have a car, a good one, an impressive one, to smooth our way with hoteliers and sheriffs. We could partner on the drive and share it on-site. A train to the middle of nowhere will take forever.”

“I can get a car,” he said, “a friend’s car.”

“I’m sure you have lots of friends.”

“I do. A great many friends, who love me to exercise their cars.”

She marked the word
love
and realized he was offering a subtle confidence; women did not own cars to lend; his friends were men. “The
Tribune
will pay for the gasoline,” she said. “You like to drive, don’t you?”

“I do, but I don’t like wasting time.”

“I’ll bet you don’t. And you smoke?”

“Now and then, for relaxation. I seldom smoke tobacco, though I confess to a preference for milder herbs that professional journalists do not transport across state lines.”

She laughed. “You a jazz enthusiast?”

He regarded her. “Do I look like a jazz enthusiast?”

She leaned toward him and said, in a stage whisper, “Possibly.” She’d marked him out as attractive and simply not noticed the rest.
He was smart, masculine, homosexual, and careful, not at all obvious. He kept his own counsel, playing innocent with the secretaries and smirking with the men when appropriate. She folded her arms. “Mr. Lindstrom,” she said.

He lifted his chin, displaying the chiseled cut of his jaw, and inclined his head toward her. “Miss . . . Thornhill,” he said.

He liked women generally, Emily thought, though she could probably count on him to hate the women she hated. He wouldn’t judge her or get in her way, yet they could provide one another finely tuned camouflage.

So much could go unsaid. They would be confederates.

He reached for her hand and she gave it. He held the back of her wrist, lightly massaging her palm with his thumb, touching the first knuckle of her index finger with a circular pressure.

“Reflexology,” he said. “Ancient Chinese hokum.”

“Do I pass?” she asked.

“You’re perceptive,” he said. “Curious, to a fault. And you’re not alone.”

“Yes, there’s that,” Emily said. “Do you mind dogs?”

“You mean, of the canine variety?” He cast a glance at the newsroom’s glass partition. Globs of dark color moved behind it in suits. Typewriters sounded in the steno pool, and a haze of cigarette smoke hung suspended, wafting out against the ceiling.

“Yes, strictly canine. I have a small dog I must take with me, for research purposes. It was the Eichers’ dog, and doesn’t bark.”

“Does it talk?”

“Not yet. But it might.”

“Separate bylines,” he said, “separate hotels. I like my own space.”

“I believe you’re my man.”

“I believe I am.”

She handed him her card. “My address, on the back. Pick me up there, in an hour. I have an interview on Dearborn, at five. An eyewitness, of sorts.”

“Who’s the interview?”

“Charles O’Boyle, the roomer, the one who fingered Pierson, though too late.”

“It’s so often that way,” Lindstrom said. “And we must clean up after, explaining what it means.”

“We’ll drive all night,” Emily said. “If you’re not an insomniac, I’ll teach you.”

He stood, pulling on his suit jacket. “Agreed then. We shall burn the midnight oil. I very much look forward to not sleeping with you, Miss Thornhill.”

•   •   •

Emily waited for Lindstrom on the street, under the awning of her apartment house. They would interview O’Boyle, then come back for her luggage, and for Duty. Emily planned to sneak the dog into the Gore Hotel if necessary. He was small enough to fit in a valise and couldn’t bark to reveal his presence. In her experience, maids were easily bribed. Where was Lindstrom? She walked to the curb and looked to the right.

Suddenly, he was taking her arm. The car was running, for he’d pulled up just behind her. “Madam,” he said, “your chariot awaits.”

“My goodness, Lindstrom. I do like your style.”

“It’s brand-new a week ago,” he said, “but thoroughly test-driven. ’32 Chevrolet coupe. I like a classic car, don’t you?”

She stepped inside, and he closed the passenger door with exaggerated care. The interior smelled deliciously new. “So it’s next year’s model?” Emily asked.

“We inhabit the future, Miss Thornhill.” He’d rolled the front windows down and now took his seat behind the wheel.

She laughed. “Lindstrom, this is so absurd. I feel as though we’re off on a first date.”

“And so we are, an intricate and demanding date. You must call me Eric, though, when appropriate, and Mr. Lindstrom otherwise. I’m happy to be taken for your lover, your professional partner, your superior, or your
brother
—” He grinned at her, speeding smoothly through the Loop, “but I do not wish to be taken for your chauffeur.”

“Fine. And I’m happy to share the driving.”

“Afraid not. Part of my deal with our benefactor. Don’t take it personally. No one, male or female, can drive this car but me, until I return it, sparkling, to my friend.”

“I see, Eric.” She folded her arms, and looked at him. “And is he your special friend, of long duration?”

He smiled as though thinking of something delightful. “My friend’s duration is excellent, thank you.” He glanced over at her. “I like that wide-eyed laugh of yours. I hope to inspire it regularly. And you, Miss Thornhill? Are you planning to tell me all about your special friends?”

“In good time, Eric. And you may call me Emily. Here’s Dearborn. It’s 1400 Dearborn. Now then: Charles O’Boyle. Engineer of some sort. He knew the family, and put the police onto what they might have investigated much sooner.”

•   •   •

O’Boyle lived in a doorman building. The elevator attendant, a petite older woman, managed the wire gate and the levers.

“Seventh floor, please,” Emily said.

“Seventh floor, ma’am.”

Eric tipped his hat to her, and indicated the long empty corridor when the elevator doors opened. Plush carpet of a busy floral pattern stretched before them. “War of the Roses,” he said. And then, “What’s the number?”

She was walking briskly, checking doors. “Just down here.” Emily knocked. “He’s expecting us. Travels a lot on business. Going off somewhere tonight, apparently.”

“Fellow traveler,” Eric said, and stood behind her. “This is your show.”

O’Boyle opened the door. He looked at Eric, and then at Emily. “Miss Thornhill?” he said.

“Yes, Mr. O’Boyle. And this is Eric Lindstrom, my colleague at the
Tribune
. Thank you for agreeing to speak with us. May we come in?”

“Yes, of course.” He opened the door wide, inclining his head as though performing an official duty.

Duty, Emily thought. She must remember to tell him she had the dog.

“Please, sit,” O’Boyle said.

The furniture was modern; leather chesterfield and two matching armchairs, large coffee table, wall of bookshelves. Emily could see a dining table beyond, and a sideboard, and large, unadorned windows facing the street. The view would be very nice. Emily sat in one armchair, Eric in the other, and O’Boyle on the sofa.

O’Boyle wore a dark suit, smartly cut. He was a bit older than Lindstrom, perhaps, but the neatly trimmed mustache seemed calculated to offset his youthful appearance. Attractive, Emily thought, conservative, a company man. He took a silver cigarette case from his vest pocket and flipped it open, extending it to Eric Lindstrom. “Do you smoke?”

“Not at the moment,” Eric said shortly, “but thank you.” He looked at Emily as though to signal O’Boyle, who then included her in the gesture.

She demurred. Was he prone to ignoring women, in a professional capacity? She supposed he simply didn’t encounter them, traveling for the Dunnegan Company.

“I’m afraid I smoke far too much these days.” He flipped the case shut. “I’ll wait.”

“Mr. O’Boyle,” Emily began.

“See here,” O’Boyle said, producing a sealed envelope. He placed it on the table, next to the cigarette case. “It’s all in this letter, addressed to Chief Duckworth, whom I understand is police chief in Clarksburg.” He paused. “I entrust it to you, Miss Thornhill, to deliver to Duckworth personally, and then to publish, to whatever purpose is helpful, to keep the record straight.”

“We may publish the contents, Mr. O’Boyle? Exclusively, in the
Tribune
? At such time as the authorities deem it permissible?”

“Yes, well, that is Chief Duckworth’s decision. But I would like it published, in the
Tribune
and elsewhere. I want the record straight.”

“Of course.” Emily took the letter and affixed it to her notebook with a paper clip. “May we speak now, though, more informally? I’m sure the letter will clarify a great deal, but I always find that talking, one-on-one, can be so beneficial, in helping to recall details. We give you our word that the letter will be published, unedited, just as you wrote it.”

O’Boyle glanced at Eric, as though seeking his corroboration.

The two men looked at one another across the table and Emily was struck by some frisson between them. Did they know one another? Schools? Clubs? Surely Eric would have told her, unless he was just now recollecting. They did look cut of the same cloth, strong profiles, both of them: Eric very blond, in a beige summer-weight jacket, his blue-green eyes carefully devoid of their usual knowing expression, and O’Boyle dark-haired, blue-eyed, Irish, no doubt. Catholic, of course. Practicing? Somehow, Emily thought not. She judged him to have come from good family, but not wealth. He was self-made, Emily guessed, had not inherited money or privilege, but was educated among those who took both for granted. He wore the suit, the haircut, the expensive, nicely polished shoes, but did not possess Eric’s easy confidence. He was guarded, but why? He was under no suspicion whatever; in fact, he was the hero of the tale.

“Mr. O’Boyle,” Emily said, “I’m interested, not just in the hard news of this case, but in the family, in who they were, and what was lost.” Emily fell silent. She must let him set the tone.

“They were not lost,” O’Boyle said. “They were cruelly deceived, and taken.”

She realized he was quite grief-stricken. There was anguish in his slightly aggressive demeanor, some sense of guilt deeper and more complex, perhaps, than what William had described: Grethe at the teller’s window.

O’Boyle clasped his hands. “I have it on good authority that Pierson is under arrest, as we speak.”

“We are driving there tonight,” Eric said.

“Soon we should know more,” Emily volunteered, “and Mr.
Lindstrom and I will keep you informed, if you so desire. I’ve spoken to William Malone, the Eichers’ banker, and with Mrs. Elizabeth Abernathy, the children’s nurse, but you knew the family more intimately, having lived in the household. Pierson’s methods will come to light, but you are perhaps somewhat aware of Mrs. Eicher’s motives, her frame of mind.”

“Abernathy is hardly a children’s nurse,” he said flatly.

“Agreed,” Emily said. “She asked me to take the Eichers’ dog, and I did.”