The scream echoed through the house, waking Lucy from a troubled sleep and bringing her upright in her bed. It sounded again, this time accompanied by baby Joseph's angry demand for food, or for changing—sometimes they sounded the same—or maybe just for comfort because he had to be frightened; his mama was the one who was screaming. Unless, oh please no, there was something wrong with him.
Lucy swung her legs over the edge of the bed and tugged her long flannel nightgown down to cover them. She shivered in the chill early morning air and made herself hesitate long enough to find her house slippers before she ran toward the screams.
Aunt Marian's room was on the other side of the house, halfway to the back, at the end of the first hall. Papa got there before Lucy did, and neither he nor Aunt Marian saw her when she skidded to a halt in the doorway between Aunt Marian's sitting room and bedroom.
The light on the table beside the bed was on, and Lucy saw Joseph in his crib, screaming and waving his little arms and legs. Aunt Marian was all but collapsed against Papa, crying and every once in a while pointing, but not toward Joseph—toward the other side of the room.
The barrels and crates they had brought in earlier were there, in the corner, only now they were tumbled and open, and between them, in the shadows on the floor—
Lucy sucked in a big breath. There he was. All spread out like he had been in the truck, only better, neater, taking up much more space, with the poles around him making a kind of frame for him, and with all his treasures heaped around him.
Mama came into the room behind her and stopped in the doorway with her hands on Lucy's shoulders. Then Papa noticed the two of them standing there. "Go back downstairs, Ellie," he said, moving a little to stand between Mama and the man on the floor. "Everything's all right up here. Marian just had a scare."
Didn't Mama see it? Maybe not. She just nodded toward the crib and frowned. "Take care of your baby, Marian."
"Go," Papa said again. "And take Lucy with you."
Of course Mama left, using her strong hands on Lucy's shoulders to propel her along with her. She always did what Papa told her to do. But at the top of the stairs, she stopped and looked at Lucy. "Will you go back to sleep if I send you to your room?"
Lucy nodded.
"I mean it, child. I know you've got more curiosity than any ten other girls, but you don't need to be sticking your nose in where you might get it cut off."
Lucy looked up at her mama. She wanted to ask her about the man on the floor, but maybe she hadn't seen him. Maybe Lucy hadn't really seen him, not like she'd thought she did. She wanted to ask her what she could poke around in that would get her in trouble, but she knew better than to do that. So she nodded again. Her mama hugged her. Her mama gave the best hugs in the whole world, Lucy knew that for a fact, and this morning she smelled real good, like she'd already been in the kitchen, like cinnamon and apples and nutmeg. "Go back to bed, child."
Lucy didn't say she would; she couldn't say she wouldn't. Instead she smiled and headed down the hall toward her bedroom while Mama went back downstairs. Then Lucy turned around and went back toward Aunt Marian's room.
Joseph was quiet at last. And she didn't hear Marian crying anymore as she slipped into the sitting room and tiptoed across to the bedroom door. Papa and Aunt Marian were just standing there, staring at the man on the floor, and Papa was not happy.
"What do you mean, you don't know how it happened? You expect me to believe someone came into your room and spread this out and neither you or that screaming kid heard anything?"
"Well, that's exactly what happened, Ralph Hansom. And don't you dare yell at me. I didn't want that dirty old mess in my bedroom anyway—"
"The hell you didn't! You couldn't stand the thought of something worth that much money being out of your control for even a day."
"My control—I'll have you know—"
"And how do I know you didn't do this?" He waved his hand toward the man on the floor. "Why in God's name you'd scream about it, though—"
"Me! You think I had anything to do with—with rearranging that corpse. Oh, wait. Is it all there?"
"How the hell should I know? We didn't inventory, remember? You were in too much of a hurry to get it all stashed before Ellie's family showed up. I doubt anyone knows just what's supposed to be there, even Jackson."
"Jackson." Aunt Marian sounded like Grandpa sometimes did when he said Papa's name. "I wouldn't put it past that piece of white trash to have come looking for a little more of the take.
"Oh, Ralph, do you think it could have been Jackson, that he came in while we were all asleep. My God, he could have killed all of us in our beds."
Now why would Mr. Jackson do a thing like that, Lucy wondered. But she didn't have time to wonder long. Papa turned toward the door and started marching her way.
"I don't know," he said, coming into the sitting room just as Lucy ducked behind the wardrobe. "But I'm dammed sure going to find out." He turned and looked at Marian, who was standing there, staring down at the man on the floor with the strangest, saddest look in her eyes. "Come on," Papa told her. "I'm not leaving you here. Not now anyway. For all I know, you've been prowling through the lot of it half the night. But don't forget, Marian, that no matter what you found or find there, it's not worth a dime to you until I find a buyer."
Lucy stayed hidden behind the wardrobe until they'd left the room, until she heard their voices floating up the stairs, still arguing. Still mad. Then she crept out of hiding. She knew where they'd be going: Papa's study. And she knew she couldn't get close enough downstairs to hear what they were saying, and she also knew she had to hear what they were saying.
But first, she had to look once more at the strange, wonderful man on the floor. The copper covering him glowed softly in the dim light. He looked almost peaceful lying there. Slowly, careful not to disturb Joseph, who was now happily sucking at a bottle, Lucy made her way to the foot of the wooden pallet. Papa might not know what had been with the man, but Lucy counted one more basket than she had seen in the truck, and on the very edge of the pallet, half on, half off the cedar rail, sat a carved statue. Just a little one. One that looked just like—Lucy reached out to touch it but couldn't seem to make her fingers work. She shook her head. It looked just like one of the pieces that Mr. Jackson's boy had taken when he didn't think anyone was watching. But it couldn't be.
A small box rested near the man's foot. Lucy knelt and this time had no trouble picking it up. It had a delicate, engraved top, which she touched with gentle fingers then slid open. Inside, in a nest of shattered fabric, lay two small medallions. Lucy turned the box toward the light enough to see that each carried an engraved likeness, one of a man, the other of a woman. And they made her hurt to look at them. Hurt almost to tears, and she didn't know why. She sucked her lower lip between her teeth as she knelt on the wooden floor and rocked back and forth, seeking—comfort?—seeking something she couldn't understand, until Joseph gurgled and tossed his bottle to the floor. Quickly Lucy replaced the box and rose to her feet. Just as quickly, she found Joseph's bottle for him and silenced him as he opened his mouth to wail a protest at being left alone.
Papa's study was at the north end of the house. The room directly above it was a guest room, almost never used even though it had one of the few closets in the house. This one was in the sloping space beneath the attic stairs, and one end wall was made by the brick chimney of Papa's fireplace. She'd found a loose board there ages ago, and while she knew she couldn't see anything—she'd given up even trying to do that—she didn't know if she could hear anything. She'd never tried while Papa was in his room.
Now she thought it was worth the risk of being caught.
She lifted the board and bent down until she had her ear to the opening. She heard Papa cranking the telephone. He didn't like telephones, said he thought the nosy old operators listened to every word, so he had to think this was important.
"Yes, Gladys," he said. Mrs. Porter was the operator. "Get me Tom Jackson at Atwood. I know what time it is. Just ring the number will you? Yes, Gladys, I know it's long distance. My God, woman, I don't care if the Atwood operator is asleep. Wake her up."
Then Papa was quiet for a moment. Aunt Marian said something but Lucy couldn't understand her words, just her tone, and she was still mad.
"Mrs. Jackson?" She heard her papa's voice distinctly. "I'm sorry to bother you at this—What? No. No, this is Ralph Hansom. I need to talk to Tom. What? I'm sorry. I can't hear you over the static." There was silence, and Lucy strained to hear, to make sure she wasn't missing anything. "I see," her papa said at last, and this time he didn't use his 'important man' voice. "I see. Yes. I'll call back later. No. No, it was no trouble. You—You take care now."
"Well, what did she say?" Aunt Marian all but shouted.
"Tom isn't there."
"So he was here!"
"I don't think so. There was a crash. The brakes on that new truck of his failed, up in that straight, flat farmland, and the car hit the one tree within three hundred yards. Jackson's son was driving. He was alone when it happened, and they only found him an hour or so ago. Jackson's still talking with the sheriff and the undertaker."