On the other side of the alley, Mr. Williamson stomps out his side door and across his backyard but slows when he sees Orin, a gun to his shoulder, his cheek resting against the wooden handle. Though he no longer has a job to go to, Mr. Williamson dresses every morning in a shirt and tie, belted trousers, and his calfskin wingtips. His silver hair is as thick as the day Grace met him and is smoothed back and held in place by a hair dressing. Probably Top Brass, the same as James uses. Mrs. Williamson follows her husband, but stops near her clothesline. As always, a blue scarf covers her thinning white hair, and the bib apron hanging loosely from her neck has been left untied at the waist. Mr. Williamson stops short of reaching Orin and doesn’t move any closer until the gun’s barrel begins to sink.
“What are you shooting at there, Orin?” Mr. Williamson says.
“Someone’s in there.” Orin waves the gun’s narrow tip at the garage. He stumbles as if he’s dizzy. His eyes settle on Grace and the twins, all three still standing in a cluster, their arms intertwined. His cheeks and nose are red. He brushes away sweat that drips down his temples. “Look at that right there.” He stabs the gun toward the garage, stumbles again. “I told you, didn’t I? Those two started a fire.”
The smoke coming from the garage has thinned to little more than a trickle. Mr. Williamson takes another few steps toward Orin.
“Think whoever stirred up this trouble is long gone by now,” Mr. Williamson says. “How about you let me have that gun of yours?”
“I heard them. Heard them tossing things about.” Orin swings around to face Grace and the twins. The rifle swings around too. “You done this,” he says. “You two girls.”
Izzy starts to say something, but Grace gives her a squeeze, silencing her.
“I seen it with my own eyes,” Orin says, shaking his head as if clearing his thoughts.
“Say, why not let me take a look at this for you,” Mr. Williamson says as he edges up next to Orin, then lays one flat palm on the gun’s barrel and slowly forces it toward the ground. “You know I clean all my own guns.” When the barrel’s tip points directly at the ground, Mr. Williamson eases the gun from Orin. “I’ll give it a good once-over and get it back to you lickety-split. Even bring one of Martha’s cobblers when I return it.”
Orin stares at the gun as it passes into Mr. Williamson’s hands.
When the gun is safely with Mr. Williamson, Izzy shakes loose of Grace and looks her straight in the eye. “We didn’t do anything. We didn’t start that fire. I promise. Please, you can’t tell Aunt Julia. We didn’t, I promise.”
“You two set that fire at my place. Broke my goddamned windows, too.”
“No, that’s not true,” Izzy says. “None of that’s true. We wanted to hide, that’s all. We saw Mr. Schofield’s chair in the alley and didn’t want him to catch us. Right, Arie? Isn’t that true? Please, Mrs. Richardson. Don’t tell.”
“It’s the coloreds, then,” Orin says, pushing Mr. Williamson aside so he can see down the alley. “Every day, they’re coming through here. Coloreds starting fires and breaking windows.”
Grace grabs one of the twins, takes no time to decide which one. “Did you see them?” she says.
The girl’s eyes shine and she tries to pull away, but Grace squeezes tighter. Arie. The other twin, Izzy, grabs at Grace’s arm to drag her away.
“Did you see those men?” Grace shouts.
With both hands, Izzy pulls at Grace’s arm. “We didn’t see anyone, Mrs. Richardson. We didn’t see anyone and we didn’t start any fire.”
“I suppose it’s best we all calm ourselves,” Mr. Williamson says. “Let’s not look to stir up trouble we don’t need. How about we get you home, Orin?”
“By God, I’m not going anywhere,” Orin says. “My chair. Sit me down right there.”
“Why don’t you ladies go on inside,” Mr. Williamson says. He winks in Grace’s direction and tugs at his tie though it doesn’t need straightening. “I’ll see that the fire is out. Doesn’t appear any harm’s been done.”
Grace loosens her grip on Arie. “I’m so sorry,” she says, rubbing the red spot on Arie’s slender shoulder. “Come, girls.” She wraps an arm around each, nods her thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Williamson, and walks the twins to the side of the house. She’ll take them inside, wash their faces with a cool cloth, call Julia to come fetch them. She should probably feed them something, a peanut-butter sandwich, and give them milk to drink. Someone may call the police. They may come and look inside her garage.
“We’re fine, Mrs. Richardson,” Izzy says, reaching for Arie’s hand and yanking her away from the stairs leading into Grace’s kitchen. “We’ll go home now, straight home.”
“We should wait for your aunt. I can’t let you go alone.”
Izzy continues to pull Arie down the driveway toward the street.
“She’s out shopping. We’re fine. We’ll go straight home. We didn’t start that fire, Mrs. Richardson. I promise we didn’t.”
“I’ll walk with you,” Grace says.
“No,” Izzy says, holding up one hand to stop Grace from following. “Straight home, I promise.”
Arie says nothing and every time Grace looks her way, she drops her eyes or looks off to the side. While Izzy is clearly afraid of what Julia will have to say should she find out the twins disobeyed her, Arie is frightened of something else. It’s almost as if she is frightened of Grace.
“Please,” Izzy says one more time. “Please don’t tell.”
Grace lifts a hand and points. “Straight home, you two. And until Elizabeth is found, please stay there.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Arie and Izzy run all the way to Aunt Julia’s house, not once looking back at Mrs. Richardson. They drop the length of rope on the front porch, flip off their sneakers at the back door, and run through the kitchen and up the stairs, even though running is not allowed in the house. They toss the slender, jeweled belt in their bedroom closet, change into clean blouses that won’t smell of smoke, and return to the living room. While Izzy acts as lookout for Aunt Julia, Arie sinks into the sofa, hugs one of Aunt Julia’s ruffled throw pillows to her chest, and takes deep breaths until her heart begins to slow. The pillow smells like the cologne Uncle Bill wears to church, and it makes her feel even worse for having done something she knows will scare him and Aunt Julia. They’ll worry Izzy and Arie are going to end up like Elizabeth because they won’t stay inside and do as they’re told.
“Do you see her?” Arie says for the third time in twenty minutes.
Izzy lifts a finger, signaling Arie should wait. Alder Avenue has been quiet since a group of ladies marched down the street almost half an hour ago, their arms full of groceries. Aunt Julia was not among them.
“No,” Izzy says, “But there’s men at Mrs. Herze’s house now. Looks like police.”
Arie jumps from the sofa and joins Izzy at the window. Across the street, two men in dark suits stand on Mrs. Herze’s porch and a police car is parked in her driveway.
“Is that about the fire?” Arie says. “Are they here because of us?”
“Uh-oh,” Izzy says, letting the drape fall closed and pushing Arie back to her seat.
Uncle Bill never uses the driveway. He always circles the block, drives up the alley, and parks in the garage. But that’s his car pulling into the driveway and that’s Aunt Julia sitting next to him. An engine rattles and falls silent. Two doors slam. Footsteps, one light set, one heavy set, cross the front porch. Izzy and Arie sit side by side on the sofa, hands in their laps, feet dangling near the floor. Keys rattle in the front lock. The door swings open.
Aunt Julia is the first inside. Her hair has frizzed since she left the house this morning. Later in the day, when she tires of trying to tame it with pins and hairspray and it becomes a tangle of wild red hair, she’ll tie a scarf over it. She holds one bag of groceries that she tosses on the entry table before rushing into the living room. Behind her, Uncle Bill carries a few more bags, but he doesn’t toss his aside.