Confessions to Mr. Roosevelt Read online

  Ivy’s voice tensed. “I tried to piece together in my mind how things happened the way they did. Maybe they argued because Malcolm decided to leave town without Nettie. And I suppose it’s possible they planned to run off together, but something went terribly wrong.” Ivy took a deep breath. “I just happened to be there when it did.”

  Agatha leaned forward and patted Ivy’s knee in encouragement.

  “It was late in March 1870. I had been out at the claim helping Clara with spring cleaning and going over plans for my wedding. Riding back to town, I came upon Malcolm and Nettie. They were standing down amid the trees along the riverbank near the place where the country road meets what is now the highway. Nettie’s ridiculous pony cart was just off the road, with Malcolm’s horse tethered nearby. My first thought was a lovers’ tryst, and I felt embarrassed to come upon them. I could have avoided them if I had taken off over a planted field, but I worried about my horse trampling a crop the farmer had worked so hard to get in. I could have turned back to the soddie, but I did neither.

  “I had so much to do in town. I told myself if I rode at a steady pace, and kept my eyes forward, I could pretend not to notice them.” Ivy made a noise to express her own foolishness. “As I came closer, I heard their voices. Nettie’s was angry and accusing. Malcolm’s voice was lower, as if he was trying to calm her. From the few words I heard, I guessed Nettie was accusing Malcolm of breaking a promise to her.

  “I should have spurred my horse and ridden away. That I didn’t is the reason for what happened today.” Ivy stopped to catch her breath.

  “At first, I wasn’t noticed. But then, Malcolm looked up and saw me. He laughed, called my name, and threw his arm out in a big wave. Nettie turned. When she saw me, the anger seemed to roll right off her. Her voice rose, ever more agitated. I saw Malcolm turn back to her. He reached out a hand to soothe her. Maybe he intended to pull her into his arms. But, in that moment, Nettie reached toward the holster hanging about Malcolm’s waist and grabbed for the revolver. For a split second, my only thought was how odd it was for Malcolm to be wearing a gun, but then, lots of men who normally wouldn’t show a pistol or shotgun in town carried them when out in the country.

  “As he tried to wrench the gun out of Nettie’s hands, it went off. I can still see the look of surprise on his face. He stumbled back a few steps, grabbing at his side, and that’s when Nettie pulled the revolver straight up toward his chest and fired twice more.”

  Ellen’s hand flew to her mouth to smother a gasp.

  “I screamed and jumped from my horse, and that’s when Nettie turned and raised the gun in my direction. I threw myself to the ground just as John Featherstone came running up behind Nettie. He knocked her flat and relieved her of the weapon.” Ivy smiled for the first time. “Your technique tonight was very similar to Mr. Featherstone’s.”

  “She killed him?” Ellen’s voice was a whisper.

  “Oh, yes. Malcolm Mahan was quite dead. I believe he might have survived the first shot, but not the others.” Ivy sighed, her story almost finished.

  “Nettie was on her hands and knees, trying to claw her way along the ground to her pony cart. Mr. Featherstone grabbed her around the waist and lifted her upright. She kicked at him. I’ll never forget the scream that came out of her. It was a long, horrible wail. Mr. Featherstone shouted for her to quiet down, but she was out of her head. She kept fighting him, and there didn’t seem to be anything to do but bind her hands and feet. With one arm around her waist, he managed to yank a leather strap out of a coat pocket. His pushed her to the ground and tied her hands, and then her ankles. Finally, he tied an old bandana over her mouth, but not before she began to scream that I had killed Malcolm. Maybe the holstered gun I always wore when I rode alone gave her the idea that I fired the shots. She was hysterical. In her mind, I killed Malcolm out of jealousy because he preferred Nettie over me.”

  “To think Ivy would give that man the time of day, let alone encourage him, was preposterous,” said Agatha, giving Ivy a thunderous look. “You should not blame yourself for what happened.”

  “Over the years, I’ve made a point of avoiding her, which was easy enough seeing how there were few opportunities for our paths to cross. But, more than anything, I’ve felt sorry for her.” Ivy looked at Ellen. “There’s nothing left of the high-spirited girl who enjoyed the fun of parties and made people laugh. It’s sad what became of her, and I hold Malcolm responsible for teasing her with the idea that I was a rival and perhaps making promises he had no intention of keeping.”

  Agatha was not in the mood to forgive Nettie or make excuses for her. “None of that erases the fact she wanted to make you the killer.”

  Ellen turned to Ivy. “But the sheriff back then couldn’t have believed that.”

  “He never knew. Mr. Featherstone was afraid to go the sheriff. His name was Showcross, an ex-Union officer appointed by Sylvester Vine to the job of law enforcement when the town was first established. After the local government got organized, Mr. Vine made sure Showcross kept his office, although some people thought he was too heavy-handed in the way he carried out his duties.

  “Mr. Featherstone was sure the sheriff would side with whatever Nettie said, and Sylvester Vine would protect his girl. If it came to my word against Nettie’s about Malcolm, I’d lose.”

  Ivy sighed. “So, I did what Mr. Featherstone told me to. I went back to town, trailing Malcolm’s horse behind. It had to look as if he had returned the animal to the livery stable. When I left my mount at the stable, I tied Malcolm’s to a post outside. Sooner or later, the livery owner or the boy working for him would spot the animal and think the worst of Malcolm for not bringing it inside.”

  “As for the rest, Mr. Featherstone never told me the details of what he did or how Nettie ended up back in her home. As for me, I told three people. I had to tell Wheat, of course. I told Agatha, because I couldn’t be her friend and hold back that sort of thing. I knew she would insist on Thomas being told, because she refused to keep anything from him.”

  “The skeleton . . .” Ellen began.

  Ivy and Agatha nodded in unison. “We believe it’s Malcolm,” said Ivy. “Nettie must think so, too. Somehow, its discovery and all the talk about it has brought everything back to her, or at least the part she wants to believe that I killed the man.”

  Ellen felt the reporter in her begin to tug.

  “Surely, people wondered where this man was. His employer and friends must have asked questions.”

  “At first they did, but people came and went all the time, sometimes without a backward glance. Malcolm’s things disappeared from the boardinghouse. I never knew how that came to be, but I suspected John Featherstone somehow managed to remove them, with no one the wiser. Ewell Morgan’s father may have had doubts, but it was easy for people to assume Malcolm just packed up and left town, especially when the stationmaster remembered him buying a rail ticket. The man didn’t recall seeing Malcolm board a train, but he could have missed him in the crowd of people that left and arrived on any given day.”

  “Let me tell the rest,” Agatha broke in. “Sylvester Vine hustled his wife and Nettie out of town. His explanation was that Nettie was feeling poorly and would benefit from the sea air at a relative’s place on Nantucket. They stayed over a year. I can’t say I missed them.”

  Ivy leaned back in her chair. “I’m sorry that I brought this down on you.”

  “I’ll always be grateful you told me this story.” Ellen rose, still reeling from Ivy’s revelation. She resisted the urge to go to the woman’s side and offer a hug of support and sympathy. The display would have embarrassed Ivy.

  CHAPTER 24

  NEAR OPAL’S GROVE, 1870

  The seamstress trembled as she got back onto her horse. Tears welled in her eyes as she promised to do as he said. Featherstone didn’t watch her ride away. He wanted to hurry and finish the dirty business before him.

  The Vine girl was tied at her hands and feet. Otherwise,
he had no doubt she’d try to get away. The bandana muffled her cries. He picked her up like a sack of potatoes and carried her to the pony cart, where he dropped her behind the driver’s seat. Nettie immediately began to pound her feet against one side. She struggled to a sitting position.

  Featherstone slapped her across the face, not hard enough to really hurt but enough to get her attention. Her eyes opened wide in surprise. Never in her life had anyone laid a hand on her.

  “Be still.” The man’s voice was rough. “I’ve never hit a woman in my life, but I’m making an exception for you. If you don’t stay absolutely still, the next lick will be with a fist. Do you understand?”

  Nettie’s eyes showed fear. She nodded.

  He scanned the road along the river and then the main one from town. He had to get the girl and the dead man away from this spot. He picked up Malcolm and laid him in the cart beside the girl. She suddenly sat still as stone, her head turned away. Featherstone took the pony’s reins and walked through the woods to where his own mount was tethered.

  He’d come to this spot several times, always finding fossils. Today, he’d happened on what looked like a giant turtle. He’d been carefully digging for it when he heard the shots.

  Featherstone looked around. Satisfied that they were hidden from the view of any traveler, he picked up the shovel he’d been using to unearth the turtle and walked farther along the river. He began to dig.

  When the grave was ready, Featherstone lifted the man from the pony cart and laid the body out on the ground. He bent down and began to strip away the dead man’s clothes. As he did, he went through each pocket. From inside the jacket, he removed a leather pouch. A look inside revealed that some of the folded papers were letters written by the Vine girl. He put those aside and reached into another pocket. Out came a fat wad of greenbacks. In one of the trouser pockets was a small bag filled with silver coins. Featherstone sat back on his heels and frowned, wondering where somebody like Mahan got that kind of the money.

  He stuffed everything, including the dead man’s clothes and revolver, into one of the gunny sacks he always carried for his collecting. With some regret, he loosened the saddle on his horse, pulled off the blanket underneath, and wrapped it around the man. With a heave, he dumped the body into the grave and began to fill it.

  Thunder rolled in the distance as Featherstone covered the grave with brush and river stones. When the job was done, he tied his own horse to the back of the cart and gave its nose a pat. Rain began to fall in a steady downpour.

  Featherstone hauled himself onto the cart’s seat and looked back at the girl. Her clothes were soaked. She watched Featherstone, blinking back water running into her eyes. Her stony-eyed stare had given way to a look of defiance.

  He flicked the pony’s reins and sadly shook his head. She knew what she’d done. Now, the girl was counting on her daddy fixing things. She was already planning how to make life miserable for that seamstress. Featherstone was going to make sure that didn’t happen.

  The downpour lessened. By the time he reached town, the rain had turned into a light mist. Keeping to the side streets, he made his way to the alley that ran behind the Vine mansion. At the carriage house near the back of the property, Featherstone hopped out of the cart and tied the pony’s reins to a post.

  He walked toward the house, stopping when he came to the side door that led directly into the room Sylvester Vine used as his library and office. Featherstone banged on the door with a fist and stepped back.

  Vine opened the door with a look of irritation. “I was just going into supper. What do you want? Don’t you know that decent people don’t call at this hour?”

  Featherstone stood silently, waiting for Sylvester to stop blustering.

  “You’ll want to close the door and come with me,” Featherstone said quietly. “It’s your daughter.”

  Vine angrily pulled on a coat and grabbed a hat off a peg near the door.

  On the walk to the carriage house, Featherstone matter-offactly told the man every detail of what had happened.

  When Sylvester Vine saw his daughter, trussed up and gagged, he rounded on Featherstone, shaking a fist and threatening to call the sheriff.

  “You don’t want to do that.” Featherstone’s tone was flat. He slowly walked behind the cart and untied his horse. As he mounted, he gave the man a long, hard look. “I don’t want any of this coming back on me or on that seamstress girl. And there are lots of reasons you don’t want people, including the sheriff, to know about what’s happened. You may think you own the man, but you don’t own the town. There are people hereabouts that won’t put up with your daughter getting away with this.” He let the threat hang in the air.

  When the man dropped his head, refusing to meet his gaze, John Featherstone reined his horse to one side, ready to leave this sorry mess behind. Suddenly, he paused. “One more thing. In the gunny sack you’ll find the effects of the man your daughter killed, including the money. I could be wrong, but I figure you paid off Mahan. Told him to leave town and never see your daughter again. Now, thanks to her, you won’t have to worry about that money-grubber again.”

  The men glared at each other, neither seeing Nettie Vine trying to scream through the old bandana.

  CHAPTER 25

  NETTIE, 1936

  Nettie lay in the guest bedroom. Dr. Jonathan Fox had wanted to take her to the town hospital, not his surgery, which consisted of an office and examination room attached to his private residence, but Tom Bright overruled him. He wanted Miss Vine to have total privacy, out of sight and away from everyone but the doctor. Fox hadn’t liked the idea, but the prospect of Bright money for a new hospital wing was a powerful argument. Nettie was treated in the surgery before being moved to the upstairs bedroom prepared by the doctor’s wife. Fox called in Nurse Ames, and together they alternated turns at Nettie’s bedside.

  Sedated and then given something for the pain, Nettie willingly submitted to the doctor’s care and then her move to bed, wearing a cotton nightgown belonging to Mrs. Fox. In the early hours of the morning, Nettie began to stir. She groaned and opened her eyes. A woman’s face seemed to float over her.

  “Doctor, she’s coming around.” There were footsteps, and then a man’s face appeared. Nettie couldn’t make out his words. She closed her eyes, drowsy and comfortably drifting in a fog cocoon.

  The man’s voice jolted her back. He said his name. Did she remember what had happened? Did she know where she was?

  She nodded dreamily. Of course, she knew where she was. She was reclining in a chair at that quiet place on the Hudson River. At first, she was angry with Mother for deceiving her. She’d said they were going to Nantucket, not this place where a doctor talked to her most every day and where she was forced to sit in mineral baths and drink water that smelled of rotten eggs.

  She was overjoyed when Mother came to fetch her, saying she was well enough to travel. She didn’t remember being ill, but she didn’t dare ask and risk being left in this place that, for all its picturesque beauty, felt like a prison.

  “Miss Vine. Do you know who I am?”

  Nettie wanted to swat at the man who kept breaking into her dreams with questions.

  When he asked again if she recognized him, the place on the Hudson faded away. Nettie focused on the face hovering above her. “You’re Dr. Fox. Was I in an accident? My wrist hurts. And my head aches.”

  “You had a fall.”

  “Rubbish. I never fall.” Her words slurred. “I’m graceful. Like a ballerina. That’s what Mother says.”

  The man cleared his throat. “Be that as it may, you have a small cut on your head to which I have applied a dressing, and your right wrist is broken. It is bandaged with a light cast. Nurse Ames and I are looking after you.”

  She let the doctor’s words wash over her. She closed her eyes and dreamed. She was in Nantucket. She was alone, walking along the shore. The tide was out. When she looked back the way she’d come, she could see her footp
rints in the sand. That made her smile. So did the white and pink shells she’d gathered in a basket. She enjoyed walking on the beach almost as much as driving her cart across the prairie.

  She turned toward the dunes and her aunt’s summer house just beyond. She had to change for dinner. Tonight would be just the family, for which Nettie was grateful. When they first arrived on the island, she’d welcomed the excitement of summer parties and picnics, but now she was weary of them and the men her mother insisted she meet.

  Nettie stopped at the wooden steps that led up from the beach. There were voices just above. Her mother and Aunt Ruth. She ducked into a stand of seagrass, straining to hear their conversation. As she suspected, she and her prospects for marriage were again being discussed. Mother had become obsessed with having Nettie engaged by the end of summer. Nettie wished Mother would find something else to occupy her time.

  “Not one serious suitor!” Her mother’s voice carried down to her. “It’s incomprehensible that Marie Antoinette should remain on the shelf.”

  Mother’s words rose above the sound of wind and surf. “I took this up with Sylvester in my last letter, and I am shattered by his reply.”

  Nettie edged closer to the steps. What could Papa have said that would so upset Mother?

  “I could hardly believe it! Our Marie Antoinette is not to be married—ever! He demands there be no more talk of marriage. He believes our daughter is too fragile in disposition to manage married life.”

  Her aunt’s reply was lost in the wind. It hardly mattered. Nettie slowly dropped to her knees, oblivious to the sharp edges of the seagrass that surrounded her. She sighed with happiness. Papa refused to let her marry. She no longer had to contend with talking to men who did not interest her. She no longer had to pretend gaiety when she felt none. Best of all, there was no reason for her mother to play matchmaker, eyeing every eligible man as a prospective bridegroom for her daughter.