Quiet Dell: A Novel (37 page)

Early Crime of Drenth Result of Spurned Love

Stole Woman’s Bridal Outfit in Anger

AP, Waupun, Wisconsin, September 7

Harry Powers, identified today as Herman Drenth, a former Wisconsin resident, served 15 months in state prison here on charges of burglarizing the home of a woman he courted. In 1921, Drenth, residing on a farm near Cumberland, WI, was sentenced for ransacking the house of Mrs. Thomas Early and stealing several articles, including part of her bridal outfit. Mrs. Early has identified a newspaper picture of Drenth; he became angry after her marriage to Early and the burglary followed.

The facts were peculiar. Eric had contacted the husband, who would not allow access to his wife (“she don’t want this brought up again”) but maintained Drenth had tried to set the house on fire, though no one could prove it. Drenth had thrown all her clothes on the floor (“pawed through them”) and stolen personal items, including her wedding garter and bridal veil. The veil. Rip, slash, tear the lace and tulle. More, perhaps. Then burn it, fire the house. Save a scrap.

Powers’ world was not this world, though he’d found himself within it, and driven a car, last June, to the house she now approached. His prey was there, waiting.

•   •   •

The Eicher house was a few blocks from the station. She wanted to walk through the rooms once more, with Duty, when there were no crowds; she pictured an auction held in the large parlor, conducted
in respectful tones, and rows of folding chairs. Eric was driving out; she would ask him to photograph the children’s rooms. Powers had moved things in the downstairs, but she hoped the children’s rooms were still untouched; surely the bedroom sets would sell in lots, and be left in the rooms to show to best advantage.

Duty thought he was going home and trotted along briskly. It was not yet eight in the morning, but the sidewalk was strangely crowded. Emily was shocked to see, a block away, the yard of the Eicher house, swarming with people, as at a school picnic. These were not the neighbors, who stood on their porches, watching the milling crowd. Emily could not at first apprehend the sight. The whole house appeared to have been turned out-of-doors. Armchairs and tables, a kitchen stool, a bed and mattress, sat casually on the lawn. Boxes of toys, board games, doll beds, stacks of books, spilled from crates. A child’s playpen, piled full of phonograph records and pots and pans, sagged as though broken by the weight.

She saw Eric’s borrowed car, parked by the curb. He stood near it, watching the house with a companion, a man of similar height and build. The man turned to speak to Eric; Emily recognized Charles O’Boyle.

Eric saw her and motioned her forward. “Emily. You’re here quite early. You remember Charles. He’s returned from Mexico. I offered to drive him, before the crowd arrived.”

She greeted O’Boyle. “I’m so glad you’re back. I was concerned, not to see you at the memorial service.”

“No,” he said. “I returned that day, but I would have found any church service very difficult. It is all quite difficult enough.” He reached down to stroke the dog as Duty crowded close, then indicated Eric’s packed backseat, and the full trunk tied half open to fit its cargo. “My stored things from Anna’s garage; I’m very glad for help. Hart was to have my college archery set. I couldn’t face keeping the toboggan, though it was offered me, and tried to give it to the neighbors. They didn’t want it, superstitious I suppose, and so it is there, in the yard.”

“Yes, I see.” Emily saw the toboggan, hung on a tree limb by its rope as though to display its length.

“We’ve been here nearly an hour,” Eric said. “The sale is set for nine
A.M
., but I’m told people always come early.” He turned to her. “You look stunned, and very upset.”

“I’m certainly upset. I’d no idea the ‘estate sale’ involved their every possession piled up in the yard, to be pawed through like rummage by any curious bargain hunter. Speculators here, as in Quiet Dell, will pay almost nothing and resell these personal things as murder mementos.”

“Yes, well,” Eric said. “Speculation of that type may be contemptible, but it’s not a crime.”

“And where are the good rugs, and Anna Eicher’s paintings? I thought it would be an organized auction of some sort.” Emily could not mention Annabel’s things—her books and drawings, her small notebooks.

“Perhaps the bank will sell any valuables privately, but there would not have been much, given Anna’s circumstances,” said O’Boyle. “Malone interceded yesterday, so that I could purchase a painting, as well as Anna’s desk.”

Interceded? What did he mean? Emily pulled Duty closer on the leash; people walked here and there, inspecting boxes of rumpled clothing, and crates full to the brim with kitchen utensils. Furniture, a velvet chaise, chairs and tables, sat on the grass, drawn up as though to an outdoor performance. “But how can the bank allow it?” Emily asked. “Why not give all to charity, and not exploit the origins of the objects?”

Eric exchanged a glance with O’Boyle. “Charity does not pay, Emily. The bank wants all it can get. In these times, payment of the debt is doubtful. No one will pay what the house is worth, and these falling-down outbuildings—”

“Are a liability,” O’Boyle finished. “Certainly no one will rebuild them, and tearing down the barn studio will be costly.” He looked over the grounds. “Some family will have the place at a very good price, if they are not discouraged by the story.”

“It did not happen here,” Emily said. “The children lived their entire lives in this house, and they were safe, and mostly happy.” She addressed O’Boyle. “Isn’t that true, Mr. O’Boyle?”

“It’s true, and remains true, whoever lives in the house.” He surveyed the scene before them. “And it is the business of banks to sell a liability to the highest bidder. As for the Eicher possessions, the bank wants an empty house to sell, as soon as possible.” He looked kindly at Emily. “It’s sad for us, of course.”

Eric shot her a patient, if direct, glance. “Perhaps you should discuss it with William Malone. He’s president of the bank involved, as we know.”

“I will do just that,” Emily said.

“Walk through now,” Eric said. “Perhaps there are things you want to save, as Charles put it, from strangers.”

O’Boyle was on his knees, accepting Duty’s enthusiastic attentions. He smiled up at Emily. “I thank you, Miss Thornhill, for giving Duty a home.” He got to his feet. “May I call you Emily?”

“Of course, Mr. O’Boyle.”

“Charles, please. And if you need someone to keep the dog at some point, if you are traveling, whatever, I hope you will contact me. I volunteer my services as dog sitter.” He reached to take her hand. “Know that nothing you might have done could be more important to the children: Duty has a home with someone who knew of them, and cared for them.”

Eric stepped closer to put one hand on Emily’s arm, the other on O’Boyle’s shoulder. “You should walk through,” he told her. “There must be small things you want to keep in memory of them. This is your last opportunity.”

The drawings in Annabel’s room. Where might they be? In the house still, no doubt. And the house was locked, clearly, for guards were posted. Pay stations were set up in the front and back yards. And what of the mural in the playhouse, the odd netherworld of Japanese ladies and men in coolie hats? It must be saved. Why had William allowed this?

They’d not spoken since the afternoon of the memorial service,
for Emily had gone to Iowa so early yesterday, arrived home late, and was completely occupied with writing the Drenth interview. The story of Powers’ true identity was corroborated today in all the papers; fingerprint identification was unassailable. The Midwest was back in the news, and reporters were no doubt coming and going in Oran. She hoped journalists didn’t find the grandsons, that their friends did not comment, that their father spoke to them, for Wilko Drenth would not, she was sure.
God help me, I knew it then.

“Emily.” Eric stood near her, and spoke as though in confidence. “I’ll come with you.”

“No,” she said quietly. “Is Charles . . . all right?” She glanced and saw him, standing to the other side of Eric’s car, looking away from the house, into the street.

“Yes, I think so. It was best that he left when he did. Are you all right? Yesterday was very long and difficult. And I’m sorry all this catches you by surprise. You knew about the sale, surely.”

“Of course, but not that it would be like this,” Emily said heatedly. “I must go by the bank.” She grasped his sleeve and drew him close. “But Eric, you must speak with Charles, about the doll found in Powers’ car. He must plan to attend the trial. He is the only one to identify the doll as Annabel’s, and perhaps he has a photo of her holding it. That might be very important. Promise me you will speak with him. Abernathy is the only other possible witness, and she is extremely unsympathetic.”

“Emily, let us take you home.”

“Will you speak with him?”

“Of course. I’ll suggest looking for a photograph.”

“Mrs. Pomeroy,” Emily said. “That was the name of the doll. Take Charles home. As you say, I am here; I will walk through.”

“Shall we meet for supper tonight? You shouldn’t be alone.”

“Eric, meet with O’Boyle for supper. Let me phone you tomorrow?” She turned, looking back at him, and moved into the crowd. She felt invisible, like the Eichers themselves, and picked Duty up to carry him in her arms. She passed through to the backyard and stood before a table of toys. There was Hart’s catcher’s mitt,
worn soft, and his baseball, nestled in the glove, just as before in his room. Emily took it, and the dog nosed the leather, whining. She put them in her valise. If someone challenged her, she would pay, but these things should not be sold. Lifting her gaze, she saw the children’s beds, dismantled in the grass beside her.

“Miss, did you want to purchase that?” A woman stood facing her, wearing a change apron, and a small key around her neck on a string. She was actually collecting money into the children’s toy cash register.

“Yes. How much?”

“Let me see. It’s good leather. Twenty cents?”

“May I ask—who employs you today?”

“Why, I’m a volunteer, for St. Luke’s Ladies Aid. The bank is donating the proceeds of the personals sale to the church.” She put the mitt and ball in a bag. “I’m giving you the ice skates that are here. They’re boy’s skates, so worn they won’t sell.”

Emily took the parcel. The small graveyard sign was still standing, but some child had scrawled on it, savagely, it seemed to her, crossing out
Animals
and writing,
Grethe, Hart, Annabel.
She walked on, to the playhouse. It was entirely empty. The mural was gone. The push mower, badminton set, old trunks, inner tubes, bicycles, the tea set scattered on the floor, were surely in the yard, in boxes, or thrown in a bin. She walked into the empty space.

She must go to the bank. She passed back through the high grown yard, behind the woman from Ladies Aid, and dimly heard her call out, “Those things are free.” Emily saw a pile on the ground, as though the contents of numerous drawers had been dumped in one spot. Hairbrushes, hosiery in satin pouches, school notebooks, a folder held together with brads. She picked up the folder and opened it to the first page. There lay the words, carefully typed.

A Play for Christmas

by Annabel Eicher

December 25, 1930

In honor of Mrs. Heinrich Eicher

•   •   •

She strode through the lobby of the bank and did not knock, but flung open the door to William’s office, Duty in her arms, and was startled to see him so suddenly, physically there before her. “Can’t you stop this?” she asked loudly. “This public sale, everything they owned out on the street?”

“Miss Thornhill. Please sit down.”

Emily watched him nod through the opening to his secretary, as though Emily were an irate customer to be managed, before he gently shut the door. He took her hand and walked with her to the table where they had first talked, long weeks ago, when they’d known nothing of one another. Duty lay at their feet.

William poured the dog a bowl of water, and sat before her. “Emily?” He waited for her to hear him. “It is simply bank policy, a detailed legal process we must follow. Were I to make an exception, every aspect of my personal involvement in the case would be scrutinized, and aspersions cast.”

“What do you mean?” She searched his eyes. “No. On you and Anna Eicher?”

“Yellow as the press has been, I’m surprised it hasn’t been suggested already.”

“Let them try,” Emily said. “I’ll crucify them, in my own paper. You are beyond reproach.”

He smiled at her sadly. “Emily, I am no longer beyond reproach. We are together. We must protect ourselves and be scrupulously careful.”

“Yes.” She grasped his fingers and brought his open palm to her mouth, and sighed against his skin. “I’m sorry. I was expecting, I suppose, a fine arts auction. My judgment is clouded. And I am very tired.”

He took her head in his two large hands, his fingers against the tense muscles of her neck, and leaned closer over the table between them. “Your judgment, about anything, is sound, and very important to me. I have stored her paintings, the few pieces
of silverwork, the mural panels from the playhouse, the good rugs. All is set aside, with the dining table and chairs, and Anna Eicher’s armoire, to be appraised. I shall purchase them from the bank, following the letter of the law. Charles O’Boyle discussed with me, yesterday, which items should not be sold.” He spoke quickly, in a near whisper. “Yes, there are furniture and dishpans, sold for others to buy and use, but you know that those you mourn are beyond harm, beyond hurt. They have no need of dishpans.”

Emily nodded wordlessly. She did mourn them, more so as time went on, and she pursued some reason or rhyme to the mystery of how it could have happened.
The devil walks abroad
. Was it that simple, when heaven too, was so at hand?

“Now, then,” William said, his hands on her shoulders.