—
Lamphere was not much at the farm after our row, but when he came, he was rude and threatening. He still wanted to come back inside, still wanted to be let into my bed. Sometimes he wanted money for another bender. I kept worrying that the children would see him, reeking of drink, screaming and shouting. I did not know if it was true that he kept that box at the bank, but I could not risk it either. He had not lied when he told me his family had some standing. If they raised the alarm, there would surely be consequences—of a kind I did not want. I could not make up my mind about what to do. I could give in, of course, and let him have all he wanted—for a while—but just the thought of his smugness if he had his way made me feel cold with shame. I could kill him and brave that box, but it jeopardized the enterprise, and I could not have that either.
In the end, I figured the best thing to do was to sow doubt about the messenger himself. Ray was a drunk, so people already distrusted him, but if I could make them think he was truly deranged, no one would believe the story in that safe deposit box. They would think it the yarn of a madman for sure, left with the bones of a sow.
When the new hand, Maxon, arrived, his first task was to clean out Ray’s belongings from the barn. I dug a pit and burned it all, as I had told him I would do if he did not remove it.
He was livid when he found out and asked me what plans I had for the new farmhand, if I was to marry him too. I told him Maxon had a room inside and he could make what he wanted of that.
In truth, I had no taste for Maxon. I had no taste for company at all just then. Asle Helgelien, Andrew’s brother, had sent me a note asking for his brother’s whereabouts. He had found letters from me to Andrew, and his brother had not written to him in weeks. I wrote back in early March and told him Andrew had been to see me in January but had left to go to New York to look for another brother. I said he had mentioned going to Norway after but had planned to come back to me after the trip. What else could I say? Mr. Helgelien had read my letters and knew very well what plans we had made.
Then one morning, as I came out to help Maxon with the animals, I saw a dark-clad man running across the fields. It did not look like Ray, but I figured it could just as well have been, and on March 12, I filed a complaint against him, charging him with trespass. He denied ever having been on my property but was not believed as I had often told people about it. The whore Lizzie Smith paid his fine.
In late March, after countless sleepless nights, I went back to the police to file an affidavit to declare Lamphere insane. He was trespassing daily, I told them; he refused to leave me and mine alone. In truth, I had not seen the man for weeks, but that did nothing to ease my worry. It was almost worse not seeing him at all; then I knew nothing of where he was or what he said to whom. I would feel better if he was deemed insane—no one would believe him then.
Dr. Bowell would not have it, though. He refused the declaration, and that was not what I had expected. I had believed it would be easy to have him deemed mad. I was furious with Bowell but could not air my complaints, remembering only too well the inquest after Peter died, so instead I filed another trespassing charge to gather ammunition for another try. This did not turn out as I had planned either.
* * *
—
“Your husband died under mysterious circumstances, isn’t that so, Mrs. Gunness?” Lamphere’s lawyer, Mr. Worden, was a soft-looking man in a gaudy suit with blond hair that looked much like a mop of feathers. He was a slick fish who meant to undercut my attempt at smearing Ray by smearing me instead.
“He was hit by the sausage grinder.” I clutched the handkerchief in my hand. I had known ever since I took the stand that this would not be easy. The way that lawyer looked at me with something like disdain—his blue eyes glittering with cunning—I did not like him at all.
“Oh, Mrs. Gunness,” Worden said. “I was not talking about your latest husband. I was talking about the one before that.”
“Who? Mr. Sorensen?” I was sweating in my corset; every item of clothing on my body felt too tight. I had not expected to be questioned like this—had not expected this ambush!
“Well, yes, did you have any other husbands we don’t know about?” Worden answered, and the gathered erupted in laughter.
“No . . . no . . . of course not.” I dabbed at the crook of my eyes with the cotton square while my heart raced as well as my mind. “My husband, Mr. Sorensen, that is, died of a defective heart. It was hardly mysterious.”
“But the insurance companies in Chicago found his death mysterious enough to have you questioned, wasn’t it so?”
“I did talk to them,” I admitted, “but they believed it when I told them the truth.”
“Your brother-in-law had the body exhumed, didn’t he? He did not believe that his brother died from illness.” Worden was prancing before me.
“He was mad with grief—he did not think straight.” I shifted in my seat and added some more tears. On the bench before me was Myrtle, primed and ready to support my claim. I took some comfort in looking at her, my sweet and gentle girl. Oh, how I hated Worden just then for saying such things in front of my daughter. I watched his plump lips with terror, fearing what he would say next. “I don’t see what any of this has to do with Mr. Lamphere,” I said. “Mr. Lamphere is not dead, just a nuisance.”
“Well.” Mr. Worden paused on the floor before me. “If you say Ray was there and Ray says he wasn’t, it’s interesting to look at who has a history of lying.”
“I have never lied about anything.” My voice was loud and indignant.
“Some people think you have.” He smirked. “Let’s look at it this way, Mrs. Gunness: if you had been a woman of impeccable reputation, I would have taken your word for anything, but you are not. You have lost two husbands under strange circumstances and been questioned more than once about those deaths—and fires too—no less than three of them in Chicago, among them one at the store that you owned.”
“I have been very unlucky,” I said. Before me, I could see Ray sitting by a table, looking down. On the bench behind him were his mother and sister; both of them looked at me with scorn. It was they who had paid for that horrid lawyer.
“Have you truly been so unlucky, or are you a maker of your own luck?” Worden looked straight at me, defiant and rude.
“I am not here to be interrogated by you.” I looked straight back at him—who did he think I was? I was not so easily frightened, least of all by a small-town lawyer like him. “I am here to make a complaint about trespassing—again—and I expect to be believed—again!”
“Why is that? Because you have always been believed before?”
“My husbands—”
“Died in strange ways—”