24. Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Two
T he radio played in the background while Lenore did some sewing, sitting in a chair in the parlor. Her current project was a skirt for the kitchen sink, and she was working on the rod pocket at the top of it. After a while, she set it aside, stood, and rubbed her hand along her aching lower back. A cup of tea was called for but on her way to the kitchen, she peered out every downstairs window to see if she could see anything going on. But all was dark and quiet.
She made herself a cup of tea and a small plate of saltine crackers and took them back to the parlor, trying to get comfortable in the chair. She ate a few crackers and set the plate and half-empty teacup on the end table. With a sigh, she picked up a magazine and flipped through it, not really seeing the pages. Finally, she laid that aside, too, and stood and began to pace back and forth to the front door, peering out the window, searching for any sign of headlights. Shortly after ten, she looked out a back window and thought she saw lights in the distance, further down the beach, but then there was nothing. Only darkness.
Despite the fear and worry that had consumed her all evening, by eleven, she began to get drowsy, and started nodding off in her chair. At each little sound, her head snapped up, and she half expected to see John walking through the front door. There was a crick in her neck from dozing in an uncomfortable position. She stretched and yawned. Placing her hands on the arms of the chair, she pushed herself up and went around the downstairs, checking all the locks on the windows and doors, just like John did every night before they went upstairs to bed. In the past, she’d thought John had been too overprotective but now that she was alone in the house and it was getting late, she could see the sense in making sure she was safe and secure. It dawned on her that she’d never spent a night alone. When she lived at home, sometimes her parents went away for a short trip, but Laura and Hilda were always in the house with her.
A few minutes before midnight, she made herself another cup of tea, deciding if John wasn’t home in half an hour, she’d go up to bed, but she’d leave a lamp on downstairs for him. He could tell her all about what had happened tomorrow morning over breakfast. While she drank her tea, she picked up the magazine again and by twelve thirty, she’d dozed off and the magazine had slid out of her hand and lay on the floor at her feet.
A banging on the front door, punctuated by the doorbell buzzing, woke her from her sleep, and it took her a moment to realize where she was and why she wasn’t upstairs in her bed. Hastily, she stood up and went to answer it, surprised to see her father’s face through the glass pane. And he wasn’t alone.
Why was her father there in the middle of the night? She hoped nothing had happened to her mother or her sister. Or Hilda. She undid the locks and threw the door open. A swirl of snow blew in and she shivered, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders.
“Dad? Is everything all right?” she asked. Her heart had jumped to her throat.
The other man was one of John’s deputies, and to see the two of them standing there on her front porch in the middle of the night made no sense at all. She looked back and forth from one to the other.
They stepped in, silent, wearing grave expressions. They removed their hats. The only sound was the tick-tock of the mantel clock. In the golden-hued light from the lamp, she saw that her father was pasty-looking and that John’s deputy, a young guy not much older than Lenore, was shaking and did not make eye contact with her. What had John said about him? He shows promise. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember his name .
A sinking realization began to take hold of Lenore, rearing up within her and making its way to her brain. A knowing, before anything was said, that something terrible had happened.
And that little voice inside of her told her this was about John.
“Dad?” she said, her voice full of anguish.
Mr. Wainwright cleared his throat. The deputy next to him started crying, silent sobs. Lenore’s eyes widened. “Dad?”
Her father’s voice shook when he spoke, his eyes two pools of sorrow. “John is dead.”
“What?” That comment made zero sense to Lenore. That was impossible. She’d just sent him off earlier with two roast beef sandwiches, wrapped in wax paper.
Her father stepped closer, his own eyes welling up. “There was an incident on the beach, and John’s been killed.”
“Killed,” she echoed. This couldn’t be true. Her legs started to shake, and she reached behind her, trying to grab onto the little end table but knocking it over in the process. She was falling into what felt like a terrible void beneath her, a void that was about to swallow her up, but her father and the deputy immediately caught an arm each, righting her and guiding her to the chair she’d been sitting in all night. The deputy had snot on the end of his nose, and she thought she should offer him a handkerchief. John had half a drawer of them, neatly ironed, upstairs behind his undershirts.
“But Dad, why are you here?” she asked. The things you thought of when you were in over your head, swimming and drowning in grief.
“They called me.” He nodded toward the deputy beside him. “Matthew came to the house.”
That was his name! Matthew Nash. He had a wife and a baby.
She was trying to make sense of all this, but nothing was slotting into place. John couldn’t be dead. That was impossible. He was only thirty-five. That was way too young to die. Thanksgiving was coming up, and she’d been excited to plan her first holiday in their new home. John would get the turkey and she would make pies . . .
“I want to see him,” she announced.
Her father scowled. “That’s not a good idea.”
“Dad, please. It’s the only way I’m going to believe what you’re saying.”
Her father relented; he’d always had a soft spot for his oldest daughter.
“I will take you to see him,” he said. He nodded to the deputy. Lenore told him where he could find her coat, and he held it for her as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. She remembered her pocketbook and as they stepped off the wide porch steps, she turned back .
“I forgot to lock the door,” she said, going through the motions.
On the way to the town’s municipal buildings in the deputy’s car, they told her what had happened. The police department had gotten wind of some bootleg liquor coming across the lake late at night in small boats from Canada. John and his deputies had been waiting, and things had gone horribly wrong.
“Was he shot?” Lenore asked, remembering him checking his gun for bullets.
“No, no shots were fired,” the deputy said, finally speaking.
“Then how was he killed?” Had he drowned? Had he fallen and hit his head? A thousand scenarios played out in her mind.
“He was stabbed.”
“Stabbed?” she repeated, unsure that she had heard correctly.
There were no more questions to ask. They’d come to her later when she was alone. She sat silently for the rest of the short ride.
When they pulled up in front of the municipal building, her father looked over at her in the back seat. “Lenore, you don’t need to do this.”
She nodded. “I need to see him.” She was determined in her resolve. He was her husband. He was a good man. The least she could do would be to see him, so new and fresh in death.
The only wobble she had was when she spotted their car parked a short distance from the deputy’s. The car John had driven away from her that night. She took her father’s arm for support and made her way inside.
To see her dead husband.
Later, the memory of the drive to her parents’ house would fail her. Numbness and shock lanced through her after seeing John, chalky white and lifeless in death. As they approached, every room of the house was lit up as if they were expected. And if they were expected, then they knew . That John was dead and no longer walked this earth. No longer breathed the air that she breathed.
Her father helped her from the automobile.
“Careful now, love, you’ve had a shock,” he said gently.
Is that what John’s death was? A shock? She could think of so many better words. Abomination. Tragedy.
As they stepped up onto the porch, the door was thrown open and her mother pulled her into her embrace.
“Lenore!” she sobbed.
It was then that Lenore broke down, safe against the bosom of her mother, enveloped in her perfume—something light, but for the life of Lenore she couldn’t think of the name of it.
Her mother and sister got on each side of her, propping her up and directing her inside to the nearest chair. Hilda hovered, eyes red-rimmed, and like Lenore, not knowing what to say or think.
“What happened?” Mrs. Wainwright demanded. She pulled up a chair next to Lenore. “Is it true?”
Lenore nodded. The truth was irrefutable. John was definitely dead. She’d seen his lifeless body laid out on a table in the police chief’s office until the coroner arrived. Despite the scarlet bloodstain that crept around to the front of his shirt, he’d looked as if he were asleep, and his hands were still warm. Not far from where he lay, the small black-and-white engagement picture of her that she had gifted him shortly before they were married sat next to the cup of pencils on his desk. He would never set eyes on it again.
Her father paced the floor, the boards creaking beneath his weight. All the lamps and lights were turned on, giving the room an artificial brightness that offered no comfort.
Something had gone horribly wrong that night. How did John end up dead in a sleepy community like Lavender Bay? How, how, how ? These questions played round and round in her head like a merry-go-round .
Hilda laid her hand on Lenore’s shoulder and Lenore held it for a moment, tears falling, grateful for the comfort of a friend.
“I’ll make some tea,” Hilda said, choking the words out.
“That would be appreciated,” Mrs. Wainwright said, looking as if she’d aged twenty years since the last time Lenore saw her. When had that been? Tuesday? Wednesday? Chronologically, it was days ago. But it felt like a lifetime. A different life.
Laura sat on the other side of Lenore.
Mr. Wainwright continued to pace, leaning forward, his hands clasped behind his back, as if he held the weight of the world on his shoulders. He looked deep in the throes of conflicted emotions.
“Dad?” Lenore asked.
“Tell us what you know,” Mrs. Wainwright encouraged. “Lenore has the right to know.”
Mr. Wainwright stopped pacing and stood directly in front of them. “Yes. Lenore has the right to know what happened to her husband.” He looked at each of them individually, his gaze finally resting on Laura, who shrank back.
“What I’m about to tell you is so unbelievable I can barely grasp it myself,” he said. He shook with anger.
The ensuing silence was interrupted by the arrival of Hilda and the rattling of teacups as she carried the tray in with shaky hands .
Without looking at her, Mrs. Wainwright said, “Hilda, just set it anywhere.”
With half a nod, Hilda did, and went to leave.
“Hilda, please don’t go,” Lenore said, reaching out for her. “Please sit down.”
Unsure, Hilda looked to Mrs. Wainwright, who nodded, and she pulled a chair over and sat on the other side of Mrs. Wainwright.
“Put us out of our misery and tell us what happened,” Mrs. Wainwright said.
“John had gotten wind of the transport of alcohol and firearms coming across the lake from Canada,” Mr. Wainwright said. “They wanted to bypass Buffalo because the authorities up there are always on the lookout for things like that, so they chose Lavender Bay.”
Lenore waited, wanting to hear the details of how her husband’s life ended. Especially the why of it.
“When they landed in small boats down at the base of the cliffs, John and his deputies were waiting for them. They took them by surprise. And initially, there was no violence. Even with all those guns coming across the water, all those guns at their disposal, not one shot was fired.” He huffed and paced again.
The four of them hung on his every word.
“But there’s always someone for whom escape is necessary, no matter the cost. ”
He let that sink in, coughed, and cleared his throat as if trying to get his emotions under control. He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and blew his nose loudly. He finished by wiping the tip of his nose several times before shoving the hankie back into a pocket.
“The attack came from behind, and John was stabbed in the back.” He paused, coughed again, and when he spoke his voice shook. “He never saw it coming.”
“That’s awful,” Laura said vehemently. She grabbed Lenore’s hand and held it.
He leveled his gaze at her. “It’s more than awful.” He straightened up as questions came all at once.
“Did they catch him?”
“Do they know who did it?”
“Why? Why kill John?”
It was a cacophony of voices, impossible to distinguish one from the other. The only one who remained silent was Lenore. The details made no difference to her, for the ending was always the same: John was gone.
“Oh, they’ve caught him all right,” Mr. Wainwright said with an angry laugh. “And there’s a load of witnesses. I’m sure some of his co-conspirators are ratting on him right now to save their own necks!”
“Have you identified the man who did it?” Mrs. Wainwright asked.
“Yes, we have.”
“Stop it and tell us! ”
He wagged a finger at Laura. “It was your Horace Howard.”
Laura gasped, dropped Lenore’s hand, and jumped off her chair as if it were on fire. “That’s a lie! That’s a lie!”
“I’m afraid not, young lady. Your charming beau has murdered your sister’s husband.”
Lenore groaned and slumped in the chair.
“That’s a lie. You’re making it up,” Laura cried, tears in her eyes. “You don’t like him, and you want to blame him for John’s death. All because you don’t want him around. He would never do anything like this!”
Mr. Wainwright was angry now. “Wouldn’t he? Well, he has. He’ll get the chair for it, and even that is too good for that man!” His face was beet red, and spittle had gathered in the corner of his mouth. Raising his voice until Lenore thought the roof would blow off, he yelled, “And when his time comes, I’m going to pull in every favor that’s owed to me to be the one to pull that lever!”
“You are so cruel!” Laura screamed, and ran from the house, leaving the front door wide open. A cold draft of air blew into the house.
Mrs. Wainwright looked after her, half got out of her chair, and sat back down and mumbled, “Maybe we should go after her.”
“No,” said Mr. Wainwright with finality. “She brought this down on our family by her own selfishness and foolishness. Let her go.”