“They looked into that, and they found nothing because there was nothing to find, Mr. Worden.” I lifted my chin sky high.
“Then why are you crying, Mrs. Gunness?” His voice mellowed to a soft hiss.
“Because you keep bringing up my dead husbands!”
“Do you truly mourn them so terribly?” A mocking smile played on his lips.
“Indeed I do, Mr. Worden.” My bad jaw flared to life. “But it has nothing to do with Mr. Lamphere.”
Thankfully, the judge agreed with me—or he did not like the sight of a crying widow. He leaned forth in his chair and said, “Let’s talk about Mr. Lamphere, Mr. Worden.”
The lawyer did not ask more of those unpleasant questions, but the whole affair had rattled me deep. The trial reminded me that my devil’s luck might not last forever, and that it was a good thing I had let my enterprise go. On the other hand, I figured that taking care of things in my own way was surely much easier than going through all these questionings and trials.
Ray was found guilty of trespassing again. His new employer, Mr. Wheatbrook, paid his fine and told everyone who cared to hear that he did not believe Lamphere was guilty.
“She is a vindictive old woman,” Mrs. Nicholson heard him say. “I don’t know why she has it in for Ray, but he must have done something that irked her.”
* * *
—
Shortly after the trial, Asle Helgelien wrote to tell me he was still looking for his brother. He asked me to help him and offered to pay. I wrote him back, trying to appease him by saying there had been a letter from Andrew. Unfortunately, my man Lamphere had made away with it so I could not show it to him. I only knew about it because I had found scraps of it in the barn. I also told him that the same Lamphere had heard that Andrew lived in Mansfield now. I said I would aid him without any cost. Perhaps he could sell what was left of Andrew’s belongings and come down here in May so we could look for him together? If everything else failed, at least I would have that then, the rest of Andrew’s estate for my coffers.
A man from First National Bank in La Porte came to see me next, asking for Andrew too.
“What?” I quite lost my head. “Why? Do they think I made away with him too?” It had not been that long since Budsberg.
I told the man from First National the same as I had told Asle Helgelien, and added that I did not know anything else. Maxon was out in the yard just then and gave the man from the bank a curious stare.
“I worry so,” I told Maxon, who was new to all this, as soon as the cashier had left. “My former man Lamphere is mad and was very jealous of Andrew. God only knows what has happened to him. I hope they’ll find him soon.”
47.
Fate washed up on my shores as a man called Eddie Hinkley. If he was a gift from the devil or the Lord, I do not know, but his arrival at the farm changed everything. He was a horse trader from Minnesota whom I had expected to arrive the year before. Now he was nearby in business, and had decided to show up unannounced to surprise the widow in La Porte.
“To make up for my negligence last year,” he said, standing in my parlor, bowlegged and filthy. He was a stocky man, just shy of sixty. His mustache was unkempt and steel gray.
“I am of course delighted to see you.” I tried for my best smile, but he had caught me at a bad time. My house was in severe disarray after the troubles with Lamphere and Asle Helgelien. Had it not been for Myrtle, the floors would never have been swept. Not that a man like Mr. Hinkley would know the difference. He was probably living in a shack from the looks of it. “Did your business go well?”
“For sure.” He patted a bulging pocket. “I was in luck and made more than I had bargained for. I thought I’d come here to celebrate.”
I itched to ask him just how much that was, but of course I could not. Instead, I insisted that he should spend the night and set out to make a room ready for him. Who was I to say no to an unexpected gift? As I shook out the linen and beat the pillows, I swore to myself it would be just that: one single night. I did not have the patience to keep a man around and was already mad at him for ambushing me. I could not afford surprises; my whole enterprise depended on me being in control of the comings and goings on the farm. Showing up unannounced was unacceptable.
Before I set to making my unwanted guest comfortable, I told Maxon to dig a rubbish pit. “A little off the way,” I said. A place where no bones could worm their way to the surface. Then I asked him to go into town for feed and told him he could stay the night. He had earned it, I said, to have a little fun.
* * *
—
Hinkley was resting in the parlor when I came in. His dirty boots were placed on my bottle green footrests, staining the fine velvet. I told him which room he was to stay in, in case he wanted to wash up a bit and maybe rest some before dinner.
“I have left our soap and a towel for you, a razor too, if you are so inclined.”
“Bless you, Mrs. Gunness.” The man grinned up at me with brown-stained teeth. “A little rest would do me good, I think.”
“I hope you like a roasted chicken. It’s all I can offer today.”
“Of course.” He still grinned and got up on his feet. “I love a good chicken—and bless you again. It has been a long time since I ate a proper meal.”
With him out of the way, I went into the kitchen and found the chicken I had plucked the day before resting on the table. I had meant for my children to have it, but now it would be Hinkley’s instead. It could only feed so many: three children or one grown man.
I blessed my luck that James had sent me a crate of oranges just the other week, knowing full well my affinity for the fruit. I was all out of cyanide tablets, though, so Hinkley had to go by chloral. I cursed myself as I rattled through the amber bottles in the cupboard. Cyanide was quicker and did the job all by itself, while chloral often required the assistance of the cleaver. There was a lot I had let slip of late. The business with Lamphere and Mr. Helgelien had left me horribly unprepared.
I set to cut the oranges, and was generous with the chloral. If I was in luck, it would be enough to kill him out without the mess. It would take some time, though, for a grown man to die from it. Next, I prepared the chicken and rubbed it with butter and set the potatoes to boil. I would serve the bird with peas, as that was all I could find in my pantry. Before long, my kitchen filled with the scent of roasting meat.
The children came in, dirt-smeared and sweaty from working on the vegetable patch, preparing it for this year’s bounty. They crowded around me in the kitchen and looked at the roaring range with hungry eyes. I had not been a good mother to them lately. With all my troubles, I had scarcely had time to feed them. They had eaten much porridge over the last few months and had been looking forward to the bird. The disappointment was visible when I told them they would not taste the chicken after all.