No coffin. A photo of Catherine taken on her wedding day graced a small table with flowers.

  Standing at the side of the room gave him a certain advantage. He could see who was there, and recognized most of them. There were his poker buddies—George McKinney, the judge; and Buck Boyce, the prosecuting attorney; who had met in this house for so many years to play cards. He spotted Toby Wilson, the Radcliffs’ lawyer. The few he didn’t know he supposed were relatives from out of town, or busybodies.

  Where was Jorie? Stretching his neck he could see him nowhere.

  The minister, whose job it was to comfort the living and bury the dead, droned on about the rewards in heaven, and then turned his attention to the virtues of the deceased.

  “I can only describe the deceased in laudatory terms. There are many here who can testify to the goodness of Mrs. Radcliff. A more upright and charitable soul would be hard to find.”

  Earl remembered hearing those exact words spoken at other services—all vague generalities. He didn’t believe Catherine had attended the Congregational Church in years, doubted this young minister even knew her.

  The back parlor, though dusted and aired for special occasions, appeared eternally funereal to Earl. He looked around at the mourners. Any tears? He heard the stifled sobs of a woman in the second row—the housekeeper, he thought. But where was Jorie?

  When the service ended, he spotted the smoke haloes coming from the judge’s cigar in the next room. George McKinney was one of those people whom nature had endowed with a perennial red face, always appearing to have just spent a day in the sun. Spared from the labors that aged younger men in the mines, at sixty-eight he still possessed a commanding presence and a fine physique. McKinney was well aware of the effect he had on others, and thoroughly enjoyed his standing in the community.

  As Earl approached he heard the prosecuting attorney ask the judge, “Going to run for another term, George?”

  The judge appeared to be studying his cigar. “Well, you’ll be glad to know, I’ve been thinking of retiring, Buck.”

  “You can’t do that, George — you’re an institution!”

  “And one that’s due for a rest. I guess that opens the gate for you.” McKinney turned to wink at Earl.

  Buck Boyce pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow as though he hadn’t thought of this before.

  “Possibly. Possibly, George.”

  Possibly, indeed! Buck Boyce had been gnawing on that gate for years.

  Earl spoke to George. “Have you seen Jorie?”

  The judge could see over everyone’s head. His eyes swept the room. “No, no, I haven’t.”

  Earl wished George would dump his ashes before they dropped to the floor. McKinney was always doing that. There was a crack about how you could always tell where the judge had been— he left a trail of cigar crumbs behind.

  As he walked away, George reminded him, “Poker tomorrow night.”

  Earl scanned the remaining first floor rooms, then ran to the top of the stairs and called. When he got no response he came back, waved off questions and went out on the veranda to look for Jorie.

  It was possible he’d gone up in the hills, to his old haunts, but Earl had another thought.

  The two-seater privy was built behind the house where the land rose sharply forming the base of the hill behind the house.

  He knocked. “You in there, Jorie?”

  The shuffle of feet was his answer.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  He heard the occupant fumble with the latch.

  With a deep sigh, Earl lowered himself onto the second hole. “I’ve been waiting to do this all day.”

  Jorie was silent, elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. A dozen flies, still clinging to life, crawled around them.

  Earl swatted at a horse fly landing on his thigh. “Someday they’ll invent something to cover up the stink in these places.”

  When he got no response, he said the obvious. “Didn’t see you inside.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Any special reason for that?”

  “Have to mourn her in my own way, not in front of a lot of long nosers, with their own ideas about why she died.”

  Earl nodded. “I have to think about that too, Jorie.”

  “Yeah.” The young man lifted his tear stained face.

  “Anything more you want to tell me, lad?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Where will you be staying?”

  “We’ll be at the O’Laertys. Helena offered to take care of Eliza for awhile.”

  “Then I’ll expect to find you there, if I need you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He gave the sheriff the address.

  Earl couldn’t get it out of his mind that Jorie must have had some terrible falling out with his mother. Still, he didn’t have to resort to murder; he could have just left town. If it was murder, it didn’t appear to be a crime of passion. It was well thought out, pre-meditated.

  And that would be the worse for Jorie.

  Chapter 3

  He was awakened at the O’Laerty’s by the sound of his sister crying in the next room. He wanted to go to her, but he could already hear Helena’s soothing voice comforting the child, singing some Irish ditty. The song seemed to comfort him, too; as long as he could hear the gentle voice of his childhood nanny the world seemed right-side-up.

  He’d offered to sleep on the sofa, so Eliza could have the spare room, but Helena had insisted he take it.

  “Oh, I couldn’t put the wee one in a room by herself. Wakes up cryin’, she does, askin’ for her ma. And isn’t it the deevil’s work that such a thing could happen.” She wiped her eye with the edge of her apron. “Ours is a big room. We moved the little cot in there, so she could be near us.”

  Each time Jorie awoke, for the first tiny moment there was peace. Then the awful realization of his mother’s death would pervade his senses anew, along with a terrible self-loathing. Accident or not, he was responsible.

  He’d been dreaming that he’d broken some kind of chalice. He’d found most, but not all, of the pieces. A thick fog would descend, and he couldn’t remember what happened that day. Bits and pieces would play at the edge of his mind, but trying to grasp them was like trying to catch a handful of that fog.

  Yes, he’d hurried home from work. It was a beautiful day. He’d asked Mother to go for a ride in the country—“probably the last chance we’ll have before weather sets in.” Eliza was at a friend’s, so it was just the two of them.

  And then, in the woods the snow had come—more and more of it, until they were lost in a total whiteness. He remembered the Cornishman with the lantern who’d tried to help him. The lantern, illuminating one tiny speck of this huge and frightening world . It was like trying to find your way out of the blackness of a mine with only the light of one match.

  Poor Eliza. So young to lose her mama. It was all too horrible.

  He helped Helena clear the dishes. But she wouldn’t let him do more.

  “I’m sure you’ve your studies to tend to.”

  “I need to talk to you, Helena.”

  “Your face is long as a red melon. What is it, lad?”

  “It’s very kind of you to keep Eliza. And me as well. But I—I don’t want you to think I take it for granted.”

  “Aw, g’wan with you. I love her like my own. You’d have a tough time getting’ her away from me.”

  He gave her a thin smile. “All right. But perhaps I should move back to the hill—”

  “And rattle up there by yerself?”

  “It’s too much to expect you to keep us both.”

  “Now will you let me be decidin’ how much bother it is? And what about yer poor sister? It’s bad enough her losin’ her ma. Would you deny her settin’ eyes on her beloved bruther, to boot?”

  She had a point.

  “I could pay you something.”

  “Oh, go away. You’ll save your earnings for going to the college next
year.”

  Eliza wanted her rocking horse.

  “Where is it?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “All right. I’ll get it for you,” he said with a resolve he didn’t feel. He had no desire to enter the house on the hill, but he would do it for Izzy. Besides there was another task he had to accomplish there—an unsavory one.

  After work the next morning he set out with a determined step across Frontage Road by the lake and up the incline. Already the house looked forsaken, echoing his own desolation. Sheltered by the grove of pines, the snow still lay about, shrunken and crystallized. Soot from the giant smokestack of the Portage Mine above dotted the surface. It was not the picture of his childhood—sliding down freshly fallen snow, so clean sometimes he’d eat it.

  As Jorie let himself in, he was immediately greeted with the raucous strains of A Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight. He stepped cautiously into the parlor. He saw no one, but the pianola was playing by itself. The ghoulish sounds followed him as he walked through the rooms. Finding no one on the first floor, he ascended the stairs slowly. He wanted to call out, “Who’s here?” but could not sound the words.

  He glanced in the other rooms, then proceeded lastly to his mother’s. The door was closed, but he could hear footsteps inside. Standing in the hall, he tried to banish the nightmarish thoughts that filled his head.

  Finally, he rubbed his sweaty hands against his trousers, grasped the handle and pushed the door open.

  Standing at her dresser was his step-brother. What an appalling violation to find him in his mother’s room!

  The man was fingering the round blue jar with the silver ballerina on top. “Perty little thing,” he said.

  Jorie wanted to shout, “Put that down!” but feared Walter would smash it if he knew what love the little Venetian glass evoked.

  “What are you doing here?” He watched Walter toss the jar from hand to hand.

  “You forget, brother, this is my father’s house.”

  “My mother—”

  “Not no more. They’re both gone.”

  Jorie could feel the sweat run down his back. “You’ve got your inheritance; you’ve no business here now.”

  “Is that right?” The toothpick turned against his lips as he appraised his step-brother. “Just came for the tack and the horses.”

  “We don’t keep them in the house.”

  Walter nodded, appraising his adversary. “That’s a sweet player piana you got down there. A shame to let it go to waste.”

  “Take what you like from the stable, and leave the house alone.”

  “Hey, I ain’t doin’ no harm.” Walter lobbed the blue globe in the air, caught it behind his back with the other hand.

  “How did you get in here?”

  “I got my ways. Don’t forget I lived here six long years. I know it like I know what happened out in the woods last week.”

  “Get out.”

  Walter tossed the jar on the bed. “I’ll follow you down, little brother.”

  “No, after you.”

  Walter shrugged, sauntered out of the room and descended the steps two at a time. “Don’t ‘spect you’ll be getting’ much chance to enjoy this place.” With an ugly grin he turned to the door. “I’ll be takin’ the horses now.”

  When Walter was gone, Jorie thought his heart would explode. He strode to the back parlor, pulled the lace curtain back a bit, and wiped enough lamp smoke from the window to see out. Watching his step-brother head toward the stable, he wondered where he’d found the courage to confront his old nemesis.

  He had planned to go straight to Eliza’s room, but turning, found himself ensnared by the dying remains of the memorial service. He hadn’t escaped it after all; it closed in on him now like a ghoulish prank. The sight of all the dead flowers caused him to catch his breath. A wilted rose, collapsed across the frame, half concealed the small picture of his mother. He held the silver frame, staring first at the wedding dress, with its ribbon rosettes and lace, her tiny waist. Only gradually were his hands still enough to allow his eyes to travel upward to her face, to see, through the scratched glass, the tin-type still showing her features clearly—bright, expectant eyes, so ready for life.

  Shoving the picture in his pocket, he ascended the stairs again. In the almost barren room he found Eliza’s rocking horse upended in her closet, but no other toys. Three pale rectangles on the wall replaced the pictures that had been there. He felt a stab of pain, but no surprise. He racked his brain wondering why he was not astonished: What had he known before that was escaping him now?

  Returning to his mother’s room, he stood in the doorway remembering the many times as a child he’d crawled into bed with her. And the many times in later years he’d hurried past this door.

  The things on her dresser were neatly arranged—the ivory comb and brush set her father had given her years ago, including a small receptacle for loose hair. He opened its lid and touched the contents. The auburn strands still gave off the fragrance of lilac. He could see her pulling the hairs from her brush, winding them around her fingers, and placing them in the receptacle.

  The small blue jar lay on the bed where Walter had tossed it. Round as an apple with a silver lid, the ballerina still stood on her toes, one arm reaching to the sky. He picked it up gently and brought it to his face. A flood of memories coursed through him of the times she’d soothed him with its balm. And the best part—the stories from the old country that followed.

  “I’m drowning, I’m drowning! Will no one come tae save me?”

  “I’ll save ye, Lassie. Just hang on tae my neck and I’ll ta’e you to shore.” He fishtailed across the bed.

  “Oh thank ye Seal, ye’ve saved my life. What can I dae fer ye?”

  “You can bide with me, and be me wife!”

  “Och I canna marry a seal!” She turned away.

  “It’s a man ye’ll be marryin’, not a seal. Look at me now!”

  He assumed a strong man pose, and she turned back to him in great surprise.

  “Ah, and a bonnie one too. It’s a silkie, you are!”

  “That I am. Now marry me.”

  “I cannae marry ye. For I know ye can change back tae a seal as quick as ye changed in tae a man. I’ve heard ‘nuf stories aboot that!”

  “I wonna go back tae the sea if ye will marry me. I’ll stay wit ye, Lassie, and never leave.”

  “And what will ye do fer me?”

  “I’ll build ye a manse finer than ye've ever known where just the two of us will live. It’s there I’ll take care of ye, ever and ever.”

  Queasiness came over him.

  He carried the rocking horse downstairs. The cab he’d hired was due in a few minutes; was there time to accomplish his other mission?

  The clip-clop of the driver’s horses told him the other task would have to wait.

  Delighted to have the rocking horse back that Jorie had given her for her fourth birthday, Eliza craved more.

  When they’d been there about a week, she said, “Jawie, will you talk French with me?”

  Her question caused him to wince, though he didn’t remember why. “I don’t know French, Izzy.”

  “Mummy and I do. I could teach you.” She crawled up on his lap.

  “I’ll read to you.”

  Half way through the story Eliza asked for the hundredth time, “When’s Mummy coming back?”

  He closed the book. “I don’t know, Izzy.”

  He couldn’t bring himself to tell her the truth. Not yet.

  He had trouble keeping his mind on his work. A sealed envelope had been sent up to him; the unsigned note had a single word— “Murderer!” He asked downstairs who’d delivered it, but no one knew: “It was just lying there by the mail.”

  Jorie’d made more mistakes in the past two weeks than he’d made altogether before. His boss called him in.

  “I know this is a hard time for you, lad, but we can’t have this. Sloppy. Makes the pape
r look bad.”

  Jorie nodded. He barely heard him.

  “Are you listening to me?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “You’ll have to watch your Ps and Qs, if you want to set type for the Copper Country Evening News.”