“I owe you an explanation,” Rouse said.

“I should think so.”

“Your mother would have understood. We grew very close those last months before she died. Near the end, she confided in me. So I’d understand what the clinic truly meant to her. It was a work of…” He looked to Clare. “What’s it called when you do something to make up for a sin you’ve committed?”

“Expiation. Atonement. Redress.”

“That’s it. Lacey, for your mother, the clinic was a way to atone-”

“If you’re going to tell me my mother killed my father, save your breath.” Mrs. Marshall crossed her arms. “I already know.”

Dr. Rouse stared.

“We sent a dive team into Stewart’s Pond looking for your body,” Russ said. “They brought up remains tentatively identified as Jonathon Ketchem’s. The M.E. ruled cause of death was blunt-force trauma with a wide, flat instrument.”

“A frying pan,” Rouse said under his breath.

“Ahh,” Mrs. Marshall sighed. “So Chief Van Alstyne was right.” Clare looked at the older woman for any signs of distress or grief, but she seemed to have gained strength from Rouse’s confirmation. Maybe having her father restored in memory outweighed the knowledge of what her mother had done.

“But you don’t know why.” Dr. Rouse’s voice grew more certain.

“There are only a few reasons why people kill their spouses, and we see the same sad stories over and over again.” Russ shifted forward in the barrel chair, as if he were about to rise. “Repeating one of ’em isn’t going to help Mrs. Marshall. And it certainly can’t make a difference to either of her parents at this point.”

Dr. Rouse continued to look at Mrs. Marshall. “I know why,” he said. “Do you want to know? Do you want to know what I’ve been carrying around ever since your mother made me her secret accomplice? God only knows, I’m tired of hauling it around.”

Clare glanced around the room. Everyone, including Officer Durkee, was looking at the slim woman at the far edge of the archway.

“Yes,” Solace Ketchem Marshall said. “Tell me.”

Chapter 39

Thursday, March 13, 1924

She saw them arrive in the pale silver light before dawn. She was up early, after the first good night’s sleep she had had in three days, to check on Peter and Lucy. They were both sleeping, exhausted to the bone by the relentless coughing that had finally gotten all of the clinging phlegm out of their throats yesterday. They were cool to the touch when she laid hands on them, and as she walked soundlessly out of the back bedroom, where she had quarantined them, she thought about sending Jon over to the Norridges’. Mrs. Norridge bottled up lemon juice, and honey and lemon tea would help soothe the children’s raw throats.

She paused at the kitchen window and there they were, three trucks this time-three!-barely visible against the ground fog rising from the water field. They turned up the barn lane and disappeared into the huge hay barn.

The scrape of boots on the floor turned her away from the window. Jon entered the kitchen, dropping a kiss on her cheek before opening the bread box and pulling out a half loaf. “How are they?”

For a moment, she thought he meant the men in the trucks. Then she recollected herself. “Better. They both slept through the night, and I expect sleep will be what they need for the next few days. I was hoping you could run to the Norridges’ and pick up some of her lemon juice.” She went to the icebox and grabbed a crock of butter. She dropped it onto the table next to him and watched while he sliced off a thick piece and buttered it. He liked something in his stomach before morning milking.

“Sure. I can take Jack along. Get one of them out of your hair.”

She hugged him. “Would you? Thanks.” She stepped back, her eyes falling on the window again. “They’re here again. Three trucks this time.”

“Huh. They must be hauling enough booze to float the fleet down in New York City.” He patted her fanny, which always made her jump to make sure no one could see. “Don’t worry about it, honey. They’ll stay out of our way and we’ll stay out of theirs.”

“Have you gotten the money for this month yet?”

He tipped back his head and laughed. “You’re the practical one, aren’t you?” He grinned at her and she couldn’t help smiling. “It’s already swelling our bank account to unheard-of proportions. Demon Rum is going to make you a rich woman, Janie girl.”

She slapped at his arm. “Rich or poor, those cows aren’t going to wait. Get on with you.”

She had breakfast ready and Jack and Mary up by the time he returned from milking the herd and turning them out to water. Jack was a handful, cranky one moment and tearful the next. She clapped her hand to his forehead but didn’t feel any fever coming on, thank God. She poured an extra lick of maple syrup into his oatmeal to keep him quiet while she buckled Mary into the high chair. She heard the splash of water at the pump outside where Jon cleaned up, and handed the baby her spoon.

He came through the back door, his normally cheerful face somber.

“What is it?” She laid his oatmeal bowl at his place and crossed to the stove to turn the eggs. “Something wrong with one of the cows?”

He glanced at Jack, busy scooping oatmeal into a pile and stirring syrup around it. “Seems the police have had extra patrols out. There was a close call. Some gunfire.”

She turned toward him. “Good Lord. Anyone…” She didn’t want to finish the sentence.

He shook his head. “No. But it’s best if there isn’t any activity tonight.”

She spread her hands. What?

“No traveling tonight,” he said, checking Jack again to see if he showed any signs of interest in the adult conversation. “Maybe tomorrow night.”

“Oh, no.” She flipped the eggs off the skillet onto a plate and slapped the cover on. “That wasn’t the agreement. One night per visit, that’s what they pay for.”

Jon stood up from the table and crossed to the stove. He took her into his arms. “Janie, girl,” he whispered in her ear, “these are desperate men with guns. If they want to extend their stay, they’re going to do it.” He released her and sat back down to his breakfast. “After all, what are we going to do?” He took a bite of oatmeal. “Call the cops?”

She cleaned off the breakfast dishes and helped Peter and Lucy to the privy, since they were both so weak they could scarcely stand. Peter made her wait outside, but she sat with Lucy, singing and smoothing her hair while she did her business, and then propped them up on pillows and gave each of them a tray. Sweet tea and milk bread. She had just cracked open The Blue Book of Fairy Tales for a read when she heard Mary wailing from the nursery. Jane had gated the two littles in with enough blocks to make an entire city and the toy farm and Lucy’s doll things-which were normally off-limits to Mary and therefore very enticing-and she had counted on at least a half hour before any crises. She was wound up to light into Jack, since she figured he had whacked Mary a good one to make her cry, so she was shocked beyond speech when she stepped over the gate to see her four-year-old sprawled unmoving among the tiny farm animals.

She snatched him up. Mary sobbed and sobbed, reaching for her mother for comfort. Jane sat on the floor Indian-style and rested her son in her lap while wrapping one arm around her frightened toddler. Jack was hot to the touch, but pale, his lips and the edges of his ears and nostrils tinged almost dusky blue. His little chest shuddered beneath his shirt, heaving with the effort to breathe. Jane pried his mouth open and recoiled when she saw the gray and white blotches coating his tongue and throat as far as she could see.