turned up Harvey Lane and slowed, for here children scampered through the streets like rabbits in a garden. You never knew when a child might emerge from between the close-knit houses and scurry into traffic.
In the heart of the village, he felt the eyes of the millhands upon him, peering through curtains, watching from porches. The law rarely had reason to come out here, and when it did it was more than likely on a Saturday night to bust up a brawl. Folks didn’t call the sheriff for two young men going at it in the front yard, but they would if a husband and wife came to blows. Houses so tight here you could hear curses and glass shattering from around the block. But that was on a Saturday night, and often a deputy was enough to break up the disturbance. Chambers didn’t know how much word had spread about the Hillside murders. Probably everyone knew he was looking for Mary Jane Hopewell, but he felt the suspicious eyes on him nonetheless.
He parked in front of the Hopewell residence, a gabled bungalow with ferns on the front porch. Cigarette butts and cinders from the mill on the pavement in front of the house. The grass spare and burnt the color of autumn corn, mainly crabgrass and clover over rusty soil. He knocked and immediately there was a click as Susannah Hopewell opened the door. Beyond her, the two boys and the old man sat at the dining room table, and Joe leaned against a doorway.
Chambers’s eyes flickered back to Susannah, and he took off his hat. “Ma’am,” he said.
Despite having two boys nearly grown, she was still pretty. She came to town every once in a while and drew eyes from storefronts. She had soft yellow hair and comely skin and a slender face with soft lines where wrinkles would soon appear. Her hair had thinned some—he could imagine her seventeen, with a full shock of curls and ruddy skin, pretty as a peach and ripe for the picking—but time had its way with everyone out on the mill hill. She’d fared well, but he could see that in a few more years she would look seventy, wrinkled and thin and hunched over. Age hit you like that, a pretty young thing one day and a grandmother the next. He’d seen it with hismother, then with Alma. Same thing happened to men, but they never burned as brightly in their youths, so the transformation wasn’t as stark.
Joe shoved off the wall and came to the door. “Sheriff,” he said.
“Hey, folks,” Chambers said. “May I come in?”
Joe stepped aside. He was dressed in his Sunday shirt, a white button-down with the top button undone, the shirt tucked into cedar-brown pants. He had a lean face with almost gaunt cheekbones and flat, expressionless eyes. Not a happy man, Chambers thought, but he couldn’t pinpoint what made him think it.
Chambers took off his hat and followed Joe back to the dinner table. The inside of the house had dark wood floors and white walls with dark wood trim that seemed to swallow the light. It felt tight and dark even though the sun was still close to its peak.
The boys rose and began clearing dinner plates.
“Offer you anything? Coffee?”
“No thank you. I’m sorry to be interrupting your dinner.”
“Not at all,” Susannah said. “Please, have a seat.”
She stacked a few plates in the sink, wiped the counter, and then left for the other room. When they were alone, Joe sat and nodded at the table for Chambers to do the same. Chambers sat next to the old man, the grandfather whose name he could not recall. Chambers said, “I reckon you’ve heard about what happened at the Hillside?”
“I believe that story has made its way across town and back a few times,” Joe said.
“Made it all the way to Columbia, matter of fact.”
“I can tell you this,” Joe said. “Mary Jane didn’t have anything to do with shooting anybody. I know that bartender said he done it, but he’s not a killer.”
“I’m not saying he is,” Chambers said. “All I have to go on is what Depot told me, but before I can
In the heart of the village, he felt the eyes of the millhands upon him, peering through curtains, watching from porches. The law rarely had reason to come out here, and when it did it was more than likely on a Saturday night to bust up a brawl. Folks didn’t call the sheriff for two young men going at it in the front yard, but they would if a husband and wife came to blows. Houses so tight here you could hear curses and glass shattering from around the block. But that was on a Saturday night, and often a deputy was enough to break up the disturbance. Chambers didn’t know how much word had spread about the Hillside murders. Probably everyone knew he was looking for Mary Jane Hopewell, but he felt the suspicious eyes on him nonetheless.
He parked in front of the Hopewell residence, a gabled bungalow with ferns on the front porch. Cigarette butts and cinders from the mill on the pavement in front of the house. The grass spare and burnt the color of autumn corn, mainly crabgrass and clover over rusty soil. He knocked and immediately there was a click as Susannah Hopewell opened the door. Beyond her, the two boys and the old man sat at the dining room table, and Joe leaned against a doorway.
Chambers’s eyes flickered back to Susannah, and he took off his hat. “Ma’am,” he said.
Despite having two boys nearly grown, she was still pretty. She came to town every once in a while and drew eyes from storefronts. She had soft yellow hair and comely skin and a slender face with soft lines where wrinkles would soon appear. Her hair had thinned some—he could imagine her seventeen, with a full shock of curls and ruddy skin, pretty as a peach and ripe for the picking—but time had its way with everyone out on the mill hill. She’d fared well, but he could see that in a few more years she would look seventy, wrinkled and thin and hunched over. Age hit you like that, a pretty young thing one day and a grandmother the next. He’d seen it with hismother, then with Alma. Same thing happened to men, but they never burned as brightly in their youths, so the transformation wasn’t as stark.
Joe shoved off the wall and came to the door. “Sheriff,” he said.
“Hey, folks,” Chambers said. “May I come in?”
Joe stepped aside. He was dressed in his Sunday shirt, a white button-down with the top button undone, the shirt tucked into cedar-brown pants. He had a lean face with almost gaunt cheekbones and flat, expressionless eyes. Not a happy man, Chambers thought, but he couldn’t pinpoint what made him think it.
Chambers took off his hat and followed Joe back to the dinner table. The inside of the house had dark wood floors and white walls with dark wood trim that seemed to swallow the light. It felt tight and dark even though the sun was still close to its peak.
The boys rose and began clearing dinner plates.
“Offer you anything? Coffee?”
“No thank you. I’m sorry to be interrupting your dinner.”
“Not at all,” Susannah said. “Please, have a seat.”
She stacked a few plates in the sink, wiped the counter, and then left for the other room. When they were alone, Joe sat and nodded at the table for Chambers to do the same. Chambers sat next to the old man, the grandfather whose name he could not recall. Chambers said, “I reckon you’ve heard about what happened at the Hillside?”
“I believe that story has made its way across town and back a few times,” Joe said.
“Made it all the way to Columbia, matter of fact.”
“I can tell you this,” Joe said. “Mary Jane didn’t have anything to do with shooting anybody. I know that bartender said he done it, but he’s not a killer.”
“I’m not saying he is,” Chambers said. “All I have to go on is what Depot told me, but before I can
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