She was suddenly ashamed of the excuses she’d made for Tammy over the years. Judy had made light of Tammy as a character, uncouth but essentially harmless. She had known that Oliver hadn’t had it easy, but she had never put herself in his place, and for the first time, Judy had a feeling for just how bad it must have been for him.
Polly took his face between her hands so he had to look at her.
The sight of her tears undid him. “What the hell is wrong with me?” he cried.
“There is nothing wrong with you,” said Polly. “There just isn’t a killing bone in you. I love you for that.”
“Did you know about the will?” Oliver asked Judy.
“No.”
“Did anyone else know?”
“I don’t think so,” said Judy, whose mind turned to Easter. Would she have kept such a thing to herself?
“You need that paper,” she said. “Do you have any idea where it might be?”
Oliver knew. Tammy’s house was as bare as any other in Dogtown: a bed and a table, a few chairs and a stool, a row of pegs for a wardrobe. But she had one extra piece of furniture, which Oliver had always figured she got through
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blackmail. A dainty little lady’s writing table, with turned legs and a carved shelf, it sat tucked between her bed and the wall. Now chipped and stained, it was crowded with empty pots that once held jam, clouded spice bottles, broken pipes.
Once, as a boy, Oliver had peeked inside the drawer and found a mass of wrapping papers from every fondant and nougat that Tammy had ever eaten.
“Wait until she’s away from the house,” said Judy.
“That doesn’t happen anymore,” he said. “She can hardly walk to the stream and back.”
Judy thought for a moment. “I’ll get her into Gloucester then, and give you a chance to find what’s yours.”
Judy set her plan in motion that very day. After a quick visit to the Allen farm, where she browbeat William into loaning her his wagon, Judy made for Tammy’s house. She was churning butter in the shade by the side of her door. As soon as she saw who was coming up her path, Tammy said, “You can go to hell.”
“Hello to you, too, Mistress Younger.”
“I know you got a soft spot for that half-wit nephew of mine,” Tammy said. “You see him, you can tell him I’ll shoot him if he comes back here.”
“Is Oliver missing?”
“I ain’t seen a hair of him for two days now. My girls are pining for the meadows while he’s having at it with some strumpet or other. Or maybe he fell into a well and drowned. Good riddance, I say.” Tammy looked Judy up and down and, realizing that she needed someone to get her
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to market, changed her tone. “Except that I’ve got a whole lot of sweet butter to sell, and no way to get it into town.”
“Then it’s lucky that I happened by,” said Judy. “I’m aiming to take a bunch of rushes into town on Monday.
Mrs. Cook wants three chairs mended and a new broom.
I got William Allen to loan me his wagon. I could take you with me.”