Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(73)

Ruth sighed. “His wife said he wasn’t sleeping well, and he was drinking more than he ought to. More than anyone’s supposed to, since our prohibition. But that’s not peculiar, is it? Considering the circumstances?”

“Not at all, dear. Not at all.” I handed the letter back to her.

“What should we do?” she asked.

Wolf and I exchanged a look again.

I let him answer. “First, Lizbeth and I will see you home. Your husband might want to know that you’re all right, since you left him in such haste this morning and haven’t yet returned. Then you’ll have a little rest, perhaps a tipple of your own, if there’s anything on hand. It’s been a difficult week for you, too, and you mustn’t jump to conclusions or leap into premature action.”

“But—”

“And meanwhile,” he asserted, “Lizbeth and I will see if we can track down George. Something’s sent him off the rails, and we should probably find out what—before he gets himself into trouble.”

“What about the box? The one with the dead man’s things in it? It’s in that storage room, and I want to see it.”

He patted her hand and said, “Yes, that’s where we’ll begin. George might have left some other hint or clue behind, and if that’s the case, we’ll let you know.”

Ruth gave us both a pointed frown. “But I want to go, too. I want to see for myself.”

I didn’t think it was a good idea, and I told her so. “No, dear—not while you’re still so very interesting to the newspapers. Everyone knows you now, Ruth; you’re famous here, most especially with the new commissioner and his regime. Barrett will be there, and perhaps Tom Shirley, and maybe even the reverend . . . there’s really no telling, but any given one of them might make trouble for you, if they see you.”

“So? They’ll make trouble for you, too. Everybody saw you keeping me company at the courthouse.”

She had a point, but Wolf waved it away with a flap of his wrist. “Oh, we were only in your background. No one has the slightest bit of interest in us. I’d be stunned if we were to be recognized.”

“I wouldn’t,” she sulked. “You’re out-of-towners, and you’re friends of mine and George’s. Somebody’s noticed, I can promise you that. People around here, they notice everything—they’re always suspicious of everything and everyone they don’t know, and they gossip like hens.”

But Wolf was unswayed. “That’s true everyplace, I assure you. It’s not a trait special to Alabama. We’ll be fine, and we’ll be happiest knowing that you’re safe at home while we brave the corridors of injustice on your behalf.”

“That’s a funny way to put it, and I don’t like people doing things on my behalf. I want to do things on my own behalf.”

“But surely you understand,” he pressed, less cavalier and more kindly, “that we’re less likely to be stopped, or detained on some trumped-up charge, or harassed out of the building . . . if we proceed without you. I’m an inspector, Ruth. Let me inspect, and let me do so while being confident of your security.”

Finally, she gave up. I suppose she figured she might as well, as Wolf’s impenetrable wall of fatherly firmness stood in the way of any argument.

? ? ?

Wolf had a car at the ready, so we dropped her off and promised to report back by dinnertime, a promise which she reluctantly accepted—and vowed to hold us to. Once we’d seen her safely inside, we climbed back into the sedan.

“Where to now, sir?” asked the driver.

Wolf hesitated, giving me an uncertain look. “I suppose you want to see the mysterious storage room, too, don’t you?”

“The sooner, the better—and you said it yourself: Right now, that’s our best hope for finding George, or finding out what he’s up to.”

He nodded, and to the driver he said, “Kindly deposit us at the civic building downtown, if you please.” Then he leaned back into the padded seat, and said more quietly, just to me, “But it’s a worrisome place, he was right about that. The one time I visited . . .”

“How bad can it possibly be?”

“The one time I visited,” he repeated, still letting the thought dangle for a moment, “I left it hoping it was indeed the only time I would ever visit.”

“That’s a sinister thing to say.”

“It’s a sinister place. I didn’t want to oversell it too much in front of Ruth, but George has a point about it being unwelcoming and hungry. I can’t explain it with any precision . . . there’s a miasma down there, the whole basement, even—not just that particular storage room, though I do believe that’s where it’s concentrated most.”

“And George had been spending so much time there. More time than anyone knew, it would appear—since he offered that little aside about trying to feed it like a stray cat.” I thought of my own strays, and I hoped they were well without me. I was certain they must be, for cats always have that competent way about them. They don’t need people in the slightest, so when they choose our company, it’s such a pleasant surprise.

“It can’t have been good for his mental state—and it won’t be good for ours, either. You should be advised of that before we arrive.”