Mining for Justice Read online

“She can’t really be dead,” Loren said. “Not here.”

  Investigator Higgins put a bracing hand on Loren’s shoulder. “Could you wait for me over there? I’d like to speak with Ms. Ellefson for a moment.”

  “I—it’s just that … of course.” Loren walked away.

  Higgins turned to Chloe. He didn’t look like the man who was Adam’s friend, and who’d dropped by Tamsin’s apartment to eat a saffron bun and share the news. He looked sterner, older.

  Abruptly, the refrain of “With A Little Bit Of Luck” from My Fair Lady began echoing in Chloe’s head. Honestly, the investigator even looked a bit like Rex Harrison playing Henry Higgins in the film version. Why hadn’t she seen the likeness before? Same height, same hair swept back from his face. Same—

  “Ms. Ellefson?” he said, interrupting her mental foray into something much more pleasant than a dead freelance historian.

  “Sorry. I, um … what did you say?”

  “I asked if you touched Ms. Miller, or moved anything in the area.”

  “I tried to find a pulse, but couldn’t.” Chloe shoved her hands into her pockets. “Otherwise, no, I didn’t touch anything.”

  He scribbled in his notebook. “I know you’re a friend of Adam’s and Miss Tamsin’s, but why are you here at the historic site?”

  “I’m a visiting curator. I’m also employed by the State Historical Society of Wisconsin.”

  “How did you know the deceased?”

  “I only met her two days ago. She’s writing a book and has been doing research here. That’s about all I know. When I got here this morning Evelyn mentioned that—”

  “Who is Evelyn?”

  “The volunteer receptionist. She said Dr. Miller had already stopped by the office, wanting to get inside Polperro House. Claudia Doyle, the curator, took her. When I went inside the house I called, but nobody answered.”

  “Where is Ms. Doyle?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her today.” The admission made her feel a little squirmy, but Claudia had to be around here somewhere.

  “Thank you, Ms. Ellefson, you’ve been very helpful.” Investigator Higgins slid the notebook away. “I will want to speak with you again … ”

  Why? she wanted to ask. What more do you need to hear from me? Dr. Miller suffered a tragic accident and died. But Chloe lived with a cop, and she knew the answer. Any unattended death was considered suspicious until proved otherwise.

  “ … so please,” he was saying, “don’t leave the site.”

  Interview over, Chloe retreated to a quiet bench. The shock and adrenaline had faded. Melancholy filled the void. She hadn’t liked Yvonne Miller. Now that the woman was dead, she felt guilty for not liking her. Not that Yvonne gave anybody much of a chance. Still, Chloe thought, I could have tried harder. It seemed terribly sad that the woman who’d died so young had been, it seemed, a very unhappy person.

  Chloe watched a butterfly dancing through the native plantings nearby for a few minutes. Then she took a deep breath and headed up the hill.

  In the row house office, Evelyn turned to greet her. “What’s going on?”

  Chloe sat at Claudia’s desk. “I went into Polperro right after the site opened, and I’m sorry to say I found Dr. Miller at the bottom of the stairs. It looked like she’d fallen. She didn’t survive.”

  “What?” Evelyn pressed a hand over her heart.

  “Don’t be surprised if the police want to talk to you. It’s just routine. Has Claudia been here?”

  Evelyn shook her head. “I haven’t seen her.”

  Claudia’s absence was fast sliding from odd to worrisome. She hadn’t shown up to brief her staff before opening, hadn’t left a note or message for Chloe. “I’ll go look for her,” Chloe told Evelyn.

  Outside, she headed for the gift shop. Audrey, the cashier, shook her head when asked about her supervisor. “Haven’t seen her.”

  Chloe repeated the “terrible accident” summary. “Unless Loren tells you otherwise, I think we need to tell any general visitors who show up that the site is temporarily closed. Once the coroner has come and gone, and the police have finished studying the accident site, you can welcome visitors again.”

  On the lower property, Investigator Higgins was still talking with Loren. Chloe skirted Polperro House and checked Pendarvis and Trelawny Houses. Both empty.

  There was nowhere else to look. Claudia, Chloe thought, where on earth did you go?

  Roel­ke stayed out on patrol until half past noon. Back at the station, he walked straight to the refrigerator. Breakfast had been a long time ago. “Hey, Marie.”

  The phone rang before the clerk could answer. “Eagle Police Department … Officer McKenna? He’s right here.”

  Roel­ke put his sandwich aside and picked up the receiver. “This is Officer McKenna.”

  “Roel­ke? He took my baby girl!”

  It took him several seconds to realize that the shrill voice belonged to his cousin. Every muscle clenched. “Libby? What happened?”

  “Deirdre!” She began to sob. “Dan, took, Deirdre!”

  Oh Jesus. “You’re at your house?”

  “Y-yes—”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He slammed down the receiver. “Family emergency,” he told Marie, who was watching with concern. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  His truck was in the garage a block away, so he slid into the squad he’d left parked out front. Mistake, whispered a faint voice in his brain, but it was too late; he was already tearing down Highway 59 toward Palmyra.

  When he got to Libby’s house, she ran down the front walk to meet him. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. “Come inside,” he said. He put an arm around her shoulders and led her toward the house, wondering if Raymo was nearby, watching his ex-wife dissolve.

  In the living room he settled her on the couch. He pulled a single chair close and sat down, leaning forward, elbows on knees. “Okay. Tell me what happened.”

  “I went to pick Deirdre up at preschool, just like always. And when I got there, she was gone! I kind of went a little nuts, and her teacher said that Deirdre’s father had just left with her.”

  “The teacher let Raymo walk out with her?” Roel­ke demanded. Of all the stupid, irresponsible—

  “Well, I’d never told her that Dan couldn’t pick up Deirdre. Why would I? He’s never even been to her preschool before. He’s never asked to spend time with her. Half the time he doesn’t even show up for his court-appointed visits.”

  “Where’s Justin?”

  “I called his school. The principal said he’d ask for a cop to come for the rest of the day, just in case Dan shows up.”

  “Good.” But Roel­ke didn’t believe Raymo would show at Justin’s school. Raymo would expect Libby to have warned the principal, and he was way too clever to walk into a trap.

  Tears welled in her eyes. “Oh God, Roel­ke. What if he hurts her?”

  “He won’t.”

  “What if he never brings her back?”

  “Dan Raymo doesn’t want to be a full-time dad. He’ll bring her back.” Roel­ke got to his feet and prowled the room. “Do you have a recent picture of Deirdre? We should—” Movement out the window caught his eye. “Wait. He just pulled up.”

  “He’s got her?”

  Roel­ke watched Raymo pull Deirdre from the back seat and deposit her on the lawn. “He’s got her.” He felt almost light-headed with relief.

  Libby ran to the door, flung it open, and started down the front walk. “Deirdre? Deirdre, come here!” Deirdre ran to meet her. Libby snatched her up and buried her face in the little girl’s hair.

  Then she looked over Deirdre’s shoulder at Raymo. “Don’t you ever take one of my children without permission again.” Her voice was low and fierce.

  Her ex stood by his car wi
th a smug expression on his face. He’s pleased with himself, Roel­ke thought. Libby freaked out: mission accomplished.

  Dan Raymo was lean and dark. He’d been in trouble since his teens. Roel­ke had never liked him, never understood what Libby had seen in him. He must have satisfied some rebellious streak within her, or maybe he was just great in bed. He ran his own business now, and wore suits instead of tight jeans, but he’d never let go of his high school sneer. Or his sense of entitlement.

  Roel­ke locked one hand around Libby’s arm in an iron grip. “Take Deirdre inside and shut the door. Go.” He physically propelled them back toward the house. He stared at Raymo in hard silence until he heard the door close behind him.

  Then he walked down the sidewalk until the two men stood a foot or so apart. He was aware that he shouldn’t have this exchange in public, while in uniform. He shouldn’t give Raymo opportunity to claim that an on-duty Village of Eagle police officer had accosted him. But what was he supposed to do, go home and change?

  The hell with it. “You,” Roel­ke said grimly, “have crossed a line.”

  Raymo went all innocent. “What line is that, officer? I wanted to see my little girl, so I stopped by her preschool. I was just planning to peek into her classroom, but she spotted me and got so excited. She said she wanted me to drive her home. I could hardly disappoint her, could I?”

  “You’ve made a career of disappointing your children,” Roel­ke growled. “Besides, that fairy tale is utter bullshit. No way would Deirdre get all excited just because you showed up at preschool. No way.”

  Raymo’s eyes narrowed, but not before revealing a flash of triumph. “Want to take her back to family court and have her questioned by the judge?”

  Dammit. Roel­ke struggled to keep his cop-face in place. Raymo had quickly out-maneuvered him, and they both knew it. Dragging Deirdre into the argument, having strangers question her, was much more likely to harm her than her father. To a stranger, his innocent tale could sound plausible. A judge might deliver a slap on the wrist—Your motives may have been good, Mr. Raymo, but from here on I expect you to stick to the visitation plan worked out at the time of the divorce—but that would almost certainly be all.

  Raymo sauntered closer, until only inches separated them. “So, Mr. Policeman, whatcha gonna do now?”

  Roel­ke’s hands curled into fists. Don’t give in, he ordered himself. He leaned closer. “You have been harassing Libby. I expect it to stop. At once.”

  “Or what?” Raymo leaned in too. The self-satisfied tone flickered and died, replaced with suppressed rage. “It’s bad enough that all I ever hear is ‘Roel­ke says this’ and ‘Roel­ke does that.’ I am Justin and Deirdre’s father. Not you, not Bolitho, not any other scumbag Libby drags home.”

  He knows Adam’s name, Roel­ke thought. Not good.

  “And there’s not a damn thing you can do to change that,” Raymo hissed. “I have a right to take part in my children’s lives.”

  They were so close that Roel­ke could smell the man—aftershave, a faint stink of sweat. Roel­ke’s fists trembled with the desire to punch the bastard in the gut. Don’t do it, he willed himself. Don’t. Don’t. You’re better than that.

  Raymo broke first. “Sucker,” he whispered, but he turned away.

  Roel­ke watched as Raymo slid into his Firebird, started the engine, and drove off. He stood still even after the car had disappeared around a corner. All the things that had disappeared during the confrontation eased back: the smell of fresh-cut grass from the lawn next door, the harsh bark of a dog down the way, the everyday sight of a woman pushing a stroller.

  Roel­ke took it in, trying to anchor himself in normal. He couldn’t calm Libby down until he’d calmed himself down.

  Fifteen

  november 1835

  “Be calm,” Mary muttered to herself, using a long-handled spoon to stir up the glowing chirks left from her breakfast cookfire. It was a chilly morning—the sun just a pale blur in a gray sky, the ground still rimed with frost. Andrew and Jory had already left for their own digging, and Ruan was at his forge. But Ida and Mr. Penberthy were inexplicably late.

  Ida had become Mary’s shadow, helping with baking and other chores, roaming the crumpled hillsides with baskets of bread. Mary loved to hear the girl laugh, loved watching her little fingers struggling to knead a mass of dough, loved the smell of her. Andrew and Jory provoked helpless giggles with jokes and funny stories. Ruan had showed her how to make a game of tossing small iron rings over sticks pounded into the ground.

  Now Mary looked over her shoulder again—and felt a spasm of panic. Mr. Penberthy was approaching, without his daughter.

  Mary’s heart raced like a runaway colt. “Where’s Ida?” she cried. Bad things—illness, accident, death—could snatch little girls all too quickly. And the man’s eyes were red, as if he’d been crying.

  “She’s well.” Mr. Penberthy fished a red kerchief from a pocket and mopped at his nose. “The thing is, my brother and me, we’re done digging.”

  “Oh,” Mary said softly, as her heart crumpled like fisted paper. She hadn’t let herself dwell on this possibility. Well, now she must face it.

  “We’re game for the work but don’t seem to have the knack of it. We don’t have nearly the earnings most of the boys have. I’ve heard they might be hiring dockhands down south on the Mississippi.”

  Mary managed to get words past the lump forming in her throat. “May I come say goodbye to Ida?”

  Mr. Penberthy tucked his woolen muffler more snugly beneath his shirt collar. He glanced away, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Finally he met her gaze. “Ida’s taken quite a shine to you. I can see the change in her. Ever since her ma died I’ve given my girl a rough life, sure enough. And I’ve no call to think that will change. I’d almost forgotten what her smile looks like, but she smiles when she speaks of you.” He shifted his weight again. “It breaks my heart in pieces to ask, but might you see your way clear to taking her in?”

  A muffled explosion cut through the morning as some miner nearby fired carefully placed gunpowder down below to blow open the stubborn rock. The sound echoed in Mary’s mind as she tried to assure herself of his meaning. “You mean … to raise her?”

  “Everything would be different if her ma hadn’t died.” His voice was husky. “But she did, and I’m no good for Ida. I know it’s a lot to ask. But I’d be that grateful.”

  Tears of joy and pity welled in Mary’s eyes. “I will happily raise your daughter. My brothers will agree, I know.”

  He nodded.

  “I don’t have a lot to offer Ida, Mr. Penberthy. But I will.”

  “Well, then.” He swiped at his eyes. “I’ll go fetch her.”

  Mary’s family moved into the stone hut where Mary had met Ida, which opened into a small cave in the hillside. It was fearfully damp but provided protection from snowfall. Ruan decided to stay with them. The miners overwintering would work whenever the weather permitted. They’d need sticking tommies for their tallow candles. They’d need pigtails—iron corkscrews used to hang buckets from windlasses. They’d need powder spoons to deliver gunpowder into a crevice they wanted to blow open.

  Sometimes Ida cried for her papa, but that happened less and less as the winter descended. Mary cooked and scoured dishes, baked bread and made the rounds, selling to miners with runny noses and homesick eyes. She took satisfaction from the growing hoard of lead chips and coins. She had a little girl to raise now.

  The Cornish Methodists gathered on Sundays for prayers and hymn-singing. Ruan had a surprising tenor voice, and it pleased Mary to discover that he knew all the words to some of her favorites. Sometimes the women sat together in a hovel, sewing and chatting. Sometimes they trundled barrows of ore to the stream and sieved away grit with chapped fingers.

  But sometimes Mary and Ida just rumped up together in thei
r blankets, dozing, whispering to each other. On truly bad days, the men huddled inside the dim dugout too. They shared tales of their boyhoods back in Cornwall, and regaled Ida with legends that had been shared around Cornish hearths for generations. Ruan had a surprising dramatic flair, and he delighted in making Ida laugh.

  One sleety January morning, after Andrew and Jory had left for the mine, Ruan sat down near the smoky fire as Mary and Ida began mixing bread dough. “Mary?” he asked, strangely hesitant.

  She sat back on her heels. “Yes?”

  “It’s some cold out.”

  “It is.” Mary couldn’t imagine what he was getting at.

  “With all the sucker diggers gone for the winter my business has slacked off, so I had some time on my hands, and … ” He thrust a metal box into her hands.

  “Why, it’s a foot warmer!”

  “One day maybe you’ll use it in a cutter. Now, you can warm your blankets.”

  “Oh Ruan, what a thoughtful gift. And so beautifully made.” He’d constructed the rectangular box of thin sheets of iron, set in a wooden frame with carefully carved corner posts. He’d punched holes in the iron so once the box was filled with coals, heat would escape. And … Mary held her gift closer to the meager flames for a better look, and felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment or pleasure, or perhaps both. Etched into the iron was a series of interlocking hearts.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said again, not quite able to meet his gaze. “And it will be wonderful to have this winter. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, and left her alone with Ida.

  Mary traced a finger over the hearts and thought about Ruan. Theirs was a strange courtship. If it even was a courtship. Ruan and Mary never spoke of marriage, of the future. But it seemed that a wordless understanding was growing between them. With every story told they learned more about each other. As they endured howling blizzards or still days of bitter cold, they learned more about each other. They were at ease together in a way that felt ripe with promise.

  Most mornings, Ruan fired up his forge while Andrew and Jory trudged from their hut with collars turned up and heads bent low. Some days they struggled through drifted snow. The two of them would descend into their mine, cold and wet but at least sheltered from the shrieking wind. They had a windlass now, and Ruan would leave his forge from time to time and go wind up the heavy ore buckets. With Andrew loading below, Ruan manning the windlass, and Jory emptying the buckets, the work proceeded well. When Ruan was at the site he could also lower her brothers back into the mine. They rode with one foot inside the bucket and the other free to kick away from the shaft walls. Mary liked knowing that instead of creeping down a slippery ladder, her brothers’ safety was in Ruan’s strong hands.