The Giver of Stars(96)

‘Well, Bob, I can’t say I’m surprised. You know she’s been causing trouble the whole year, destabilizing our community, spreading wickedness.’ He leaned forward and lit the sheriff’s cigar with a click of his brass lighter.

The sheriff sat back in his chair. ‘I’m not entirely sure I’m with you, Geoff.’

‘Well, you’ll be arresting the O’Hare girl, won’t you?’

‘What makes you think it has anything to do with her?’

‘Bob … Bob … We’ve been friends a long time. You know as well as I do the beef the McCulloughs had with the O’Hares. Goes back as far as any of us can remember. And who else would be riding all the way up there?’

The sheriff said nothing.

‘And, more pertinently, a little birdie tells me there was a library book found by the body. Well, that just about settles it, I’d say. Case closed.’ He took a long drag of his cigar.

‘Wish my boys was as efficient at solving crime as you, Geoff.’ The sheriff’s eyes crinkled with amusement.

‘Why, you know she was responsible for persuading my Bennett’s wife away from him, though we’ve tried to keep that on the low-down, to save him embarrassment. They were happily married until she came along! No, she puts wicked ideas in girls’ heads and causes mayhem wherever she goes. I for one will sleep better knowing she’s locked up tonight.’

‘Is that right?’ said the sheriff, who had known about the Van Cleve girl’s movements for months. There was little in this county that escaped him.

‘That family, Bob.’ Van Cleve blew smoke to the ceiling. ‘There’s bad blood, shot all the way through the O’Hare line. Why, do you remember her uncle Vincent? Now there was a rogue …’

‘Can’t say as the evidence is conclusive, Geoff. Between us, as it stands, we can’t prove beyond doubt she was on that route, and our one witness is now saying she can’t be sure whose voice it was she heard.’

‘Of course it was her! You know darn well that the little polio girl wouldn’t do it and nor would our Alice. That leaves the farm girl and the coloured. And I’d put money on it she don’t ride.’

The sheriff turned down the corners of his mouth in a way that suggested he was not convinced.

Van Cleve jabbed a finger on the desk. ‘She’s a malign influence, Bob. Ask Governor Hatch. He knows. The way she was spreading salacious material under the guise of a family library – oh, you didn’t know about that? She’s been fomenting discord up on North Ridge so they wouldn’t allow the mine to go about its legal business. Every bit of trouble around here for the past year you can pretty much trace back to Margery O’Hare. This library has given her ideas above her station. The longer she’s locked up the better.’

‘You know she’s with child.’

‘Well, there you go! No moral compass whatsoever. Is that how a decent woman behaves? Is that really someone you want going into houses where there are young and impressionable people?’

‘I guess not.’

Van Cleve mapped it out with his fingers in the air, looking at some distant horizon. ‘She took her route, crossed paths with poor old McCullough on his way home, and when she saw he was drunk, she had an opportunity to avenge her no-good father, and killed him with the nearest thing she had to hand, knowing full well he would be buried under the snow. She probably thought the animals would eat him and nobody would ever find the body. It’s only luck and the grace of God Almighty that somebody did. Cold-blooded, that’s what she is! Contravening the laws of nature in every possible regard.’

He took a deep draw of his cigar and shook his head. ‘I tell you, Bob, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she did it again.’ He waited a moment, then added, ‘That’s why I’m glad there’s a man like you in charge around here. A man who will stop the spread of lawlessness. A man who is not afraid to make the law count.’

Van Cleve reached for his cigar box. ‘Why don’t you take a couple of these home for later? Tell you what, take the whole box.’

‘Most generous of you, Geoff.’

The sheriff said nothing more. But he took a long, appreciative drag on his cigar.

Margery O’Hare was arrested at the library on the evening they moved the last of the books back to their shelves. The sheriff arrived with his deputy and at first Fred greeted them warmly, thinking they’d come to examine his newly replaced floorboards and relined shelves, as townspeople had been doing all week; checking on the progress of everyone else’s repairs had added a new dimension to the daily passing of time in Baileyville. But the sheriff’s face was long and cold as a tombstone. As he planted his boots in the centre of the room and gazed around him, something in Margery plummeted, a heavy stone in a bottomless well.

‘Which one of youse takes the route up to the mountains above Red Lick?’

Their eyes slid towards each other.

‘What’s the matter, Sheriff? Someone late returning their books?’ said Beth, but nobody laughed.

‘The body of Clem McCullough was found on Arnott’s Ridge two days ago. Looks like the murder weapon came from your library.’

‘Murder weapon?’ said Beth. ‘We don’t have no murder weapons here. Murder stories, we got those.’