The Evening Spider (26 page)

Northampton Lunatic Hospital

Northampton, Massachusetts

December 21, 1885

I
f indeed I was not afraid of the truth, then there was no sense in delaying my next investigative move.

Frederick Baines. Once-incessant bearer of pumpkins and cabbages. Why had he stopped? Why did we no longer see him? It seemed I'd never seen him after Martha's birth, but too often I used that event as a marker that, in fact, meant nothing to anyone else. Was it
truly
at that point that we'd stopped seeing him? Or was that simply, coincidentally, when my memory had begun to cloud?

I remembered distinctly, however, that in the early sickness of the pregnancy, I had had to find a purpose for three whole cabbages that he had brought. How I hated the stink of cabbage boiling, and it made my nausea infinitely worse. I'd cursed Frederick and his cabbages, and wondered what sense it made that he brought them to
us
. He was a single man, yes, but a man of slender means and likely a friend to many families who could use a spare cabbage. I felt guilty cursing him, and yet, how my stomach ached! I could scarcely help the gripes spitting from my mouth.

Confounded cabbage!

Infernal vegetable!

Thankfully, Matthew was not present, so I could holler to my heart's content.

Where was Matthew on that late-autumn evening?

Of course. He was in New Haven. For the hanging. I'd ironed his best suit for him and waved to him from our doorstep, at a loss for what words a good wife says to her husband on the eve of such an occasion.

So yes. That was the last time we saw Frederick—a day or two before Matthew left for the hanging. Frederick had not knocked on the door but simply stood outside by the fence until I noticed him out the window and sent Matthew out to see what he wanted. It seemed to me the exchange over the cabbages was brusque. And I wondered why Matthew had pressed upon Frederick a small amount of money for cabbages for which we most certainly had not asked. Would not this only encourage him to bring more cabbages?

I didn't point this out to Matthew as he was already anxious about his upcoming engagement in New Haven.

Well-meaning fellow. Let's not encourage him, though. Try not to converse with him much if he comes by while I'm gone.

I agreed—simply because I didn't wish for any more cabbage. But Frederick did
not
come by that weekend while Matthew was gone. I don't recall wondering about it for some time after that. After all, I was slowly preparing to die—so of what consequence was the odd little man who used to appear with pumpkins and cabbages?

I could not say of what consequence he was, could I, until I'd spoken to him myself? Rosa Hayden would perhaps turn
her head and nurse her babies and her birth wounds and never think of it again. But I was not Rosa Hayden.

On the day following my appointment with Dr. Graham, I wrapped Martha in several blankets, tucked her into the carriage, and headed up Wiggins Hill.

The sky was a menacingly dull white—milky, like a blind man's eye. The hill's many maples creaked their discontent at the cold. I pulled my scarf over my mouth and nose and pushed the carriage forward as fast as I could—as if to outpace the chill.

I had to walk past the McFarlene cabin to get to the place where Frederick and his brother stayed. I knew which was the McFarlene place because Louise had convinced me to come up this way long ago to gawk at the place where a man had died—at its broken-down fence, its worn women, and its notorious woodpile.

One of the yard chickens seemed to stare at me accusingly.

I beg your pardon?
I said to her, more to calm my nerves than anything else.

As the chicken shifted her gaze downward and pecked, I noticed that she was not the only one who had heard me. There was movement at the side of the yard. A woman was feeding additional chickens there.

Are you all right, ma'am?
the young woman said, coming toward me.

Yes.

I was startled—not only by her presence, but by the red of her hair. She was one of the women who sometimes stared at me in church.

She was equally startled to see my face. I knew then that she
knew who I was. She had always known. I was Mrs. Matthew Barnett.

It's a cold day to be out walking with such a small child.

I could not tell if this was a rebuke or a simple statement of fact. Her expression was flat, her eyes unblinking. This was either John McFarlene's young widow, or her sister-in-law. I'd heard through Louise that they lived together now.

Yes.

Can I help you find something? Someone?

I realized that I was reluctant to say I was looking for Frederick Baines. Wouldn't that look strange? Hadn't it always been strange—that Matthew had associated with him at all? Even in the odd and dusky hours that he'd shown up near our house. It had only been two or three times, really. And that perhaps made it even more odd.

Sometimes I like to see unfamiliar parts of town. Simply for the sake of seeing something different from the same old sights.

Your daughter is so small. The sight she loves best is probably still you.

Oh, I don't know . . .

In my surprise, I could think of no response. My feet, instinctually, began to take me away from this woman, even though my heart knew how graceless it was to do so.

Good day to you!
I called behind me.

She didn't reply—at least, not audibly.

I quickened my step. I pushed the carriage toward Frederick Baines's place.

Haverton, Connecticut

December 20, 2014

W
allace flipped through a file cabinet while I settled Lucy on the floor on the towels I had borrowed from the motel.

“Abby.” Wallace swept the cabinet closed, holding an overstuffed file above his head like a pizza pie. “I'm going to preface what I'm about to show you by saying that my exhibit about the McFarlene murder was
very
popular. I believe I mentioned to you that I did this particular exhibit about two years ago?”

“I think so.”

“Here we are.” He pulled out a desk chair for me. “This was among the many articles and photos I had on display during that month.”

Wallace thrust an old newspaper article—covered in a plastic protector—into my hands.

MCFARLENE HANGED

APPROACHED THE DEATH CHAMBER CALMLY,
EXECUTION CARRIED OUT WITHOUT INCIDENT

“He said ‘innocent' four times?” I dropped the article and put my hand on my aching middle. I could picture my coffee curdling in my stomach.

“Yes. Indeed he did. It's rather puzzling. He said ‘innocent'
several times and then essentially admitted he was guilty. Then he added that the people hanging him were guilty as well, just for good measure. Everybody's guilty, really. I've always found that an interesting thought to go out on. A lot of the visitors to my exhibit seemed to feel the same way.”

“Oooh,” Lucy said. She'd commando-crawled her way to the edge of her towel and was examining the historic dirt between the old wooden floorboards.

“Well . . .” I pulled Lucy back onto a towel and gave her my plastic hair clip to examine. “I suppose I agree . . .”

“I do what I think will be my most popular exhibits in October,” Wallace explained. “At the same time as the Pumpkin Harvest Days, and in June, for the Strawberry Festival Fair. I very deliberately did my McFarlene exhibit two Octobers ago. That sort of thing—murder and hanging and such, I mean—draws people in from the town green. Lots of names for the guest book. Justifies the small budget needed to keep the place open.”

“I see.”

“The McFarlene exhibit was one of the most popular I've ever done.”

“Really?” I pushed my hair behind my ears, hoping Wallace didn't notice how greasy it probably looked. I couldn't remember when I'd had my last shower.

“Some of the Haverton High kids came in here and did an extra-credit project for their shop class. Built a sort of gallows on the front lawn to draw people in. I'm not proud of that. I'm really not. But I like to keep this place open, and Pumpkin Harvest Days is my sweeps week, so to speak.”

Wallace planted his elbows on his knees and grasped his hands together. “My point is . . . a
lot
of people came in and saw that exhibit. And see this glass display case?”

“Yeah?” I looked where he was pointing. It had a couple of old quilts hanging in it.

“I had ‘Innocent, innocent, innocent, innocent' written in big letters across the top.”

“Oh,” I said. I wondered why Wallace didn't tell me that from the beginning. “You're saying you think Fonda Manning saw your exhibit?”

“Doesn't that seem reasonable?”

I shrugged. “Umm . . . she didn't seem like a historical society kind of lady. I mean, not to be snooty. But if you'd met her—”

“The Pumpkin Harvest crowd is not an academic crowd. It's a candy-apple, caramel-corn, and wool-sweater sort of affair.”

“Again,” I said. “Not to put anyone in a box, but Fonda didn't seem like the sort who'd even be into
that.
”

“Nonsense. Who doesn't like candy apples and caramel corn? Even if she didn't see the actual display, it's quite possible she heard about it.”

I wondered which of us was more pathetic—me insisting my psychic was legit, or Wallace wanting his dusty little historical society display to have been so influential that people in surrounding towns were chatting about it in their spare time.

“Possible.” I took issue with
quite
possible, but I could give him
possible.
“But how could she know I lived in Matthew Barnett's
house
?”

“You gave her your address when you called her, did you not? And then how long between your first call and her visit?”

“Less than two days.”

“But almost two days?”

“Well . . . yes.”

“Plenty of time to research the history of a house.”

“But where would she have done that besides . . . the Haverton Historical Society? Has anyone been in here in the last week?”

Wallace narrowed his eyes at me. “Zillow, for starters. It wouldn't have been hard to figure out that your house was sold just a few years ago by the Barnett family.”

“Wallace . . .” I sighed.

“Yes, Abby?”

He'd been so kind to me, I didn't want to hurt his feelings. “Well . . . including but not limited to people who saw your Pumpkin Harvest display . . . how well known would you say the McFarlene murder is around here?”

Wallace shrugged. “It's hard to say. I know a lot of townies and history buffs. Among the general populace, however . . . I'd guess not very.”

I nodded. “Well, in any case, maybe I ought to learn more about it. Can you set me up with more of those McFarlene articles? I'd like to educate myself a little more. I know Matthew Barnett was one of the lawyers, but it might help to get some more details.”

“Certainly.” Wallace put a careful hand on his desk, close to mine, but not touching it. “But . . . what have we decided about Fonda?”

Lucy grunted at my hair clip, which was just out of her reach
now. I pushed it back to her. “Were we deciding something about her?”

“Weren't we?”

“Not yet, I don't think. I'll probably want to see her once more before I decide anything.”

Wallace sighed and flipped through his plastic sheet protectors.

“Well. There's a lot of repetition in some of the news coverage. But here is the first article about Walter Beck's death.”

BODY FOUND IN HAVERTON WOODS

“Okay,” I said, setting down the article.

“Later articles will reveal, and much was made in the trial, of how McFarlene's sister was probably being beaten by her husband, which is likely why she took refuge with her brother. It seems like the defense didn't know what to do with that information. Because it made McFarlene more sympathetic, but at the same time helped build the case for his guilt. Anyway, before all of that—here's an article about the first hearing.”

MCFARLENE TO BE TRIED—PUNISHMENT BY HANGING WILL BE SOUGHT

THE HEARING IN NEW HAVEN—SURPRISE EVIDENCE PRESENTED ON THE THIRD DAY

“Okay,” I said. “Wow. This was probably a very big deal for quiet little Haverton.”

“Yes. Nothing as big as the Mary Stannard trial. It didn't have quite that level of sex and scandal. But yes . . . for Haverton. And presumably for Matthew Barnett. A young lawyer from town. His first big case. The main counsel was a seasoned New Haven lawyer, of course. But still. Here's a taste of Barnett's prosecutorial duties. He didn't get to question any of the key witnesses.”

Wallace handed me another article, titled “McFarlene trial continues. Last two witnesses testify for the prosecution.”

Wallace ran his finger down the long article and tapped at the start of a paragraph about halfway down. “Matthew questioned this tavern witness, if memory serves.”

I read a few paragraphs of the article: