A Change in Altitude (10 page)

“Not well. But I believe Adelaide McCutcheon was in the Women's Society with my grandmother.” Cassie flipped to the front of the scrapbook, to a group photo showing a dozen women in long white dresses arranged on the steps of what appeared to be a church. Cassie adjusted her glasses and peered at the photo, then at the accompanying roster. “I think that's her, third from the left in the second row.”

Mrs. McCutcheon was a thin, pale woman with a narrow face and an impressive bouffant of blond hair. She stared solemnly into the camera, a high lace collar almost covering her chin. Sharon thought she looked as if she was holding her breath. “But did her husband kill her and bury the body in the back garden?” Lucas asked.

Cassie closed the scrapbook. “Bob Prescott should be ashamed of himself for making up such wild stories,” she said. “First of all, Eureka was always a law-abiding, peaceful town. I don't believe we've had a single murder in the history of the town. And second, if Cecil had killed his wife, someone would have found out about it.”

“But why would Mr. Prescott say it if it wasn't true?” Lucas asked.

“Because Bob Prescott enjoys putting people on,” Cassie said.

“Do you have any other scrapbooks from the Women's Society?” Alina asked.

“We have several in the collection here at the library,” Cassie said. “Are you interested in local history, young lady?”

Alina at least had the grace to look sheepish. “I was just thinking that if we had a scrapbook that was from later on, after this one, we could look and see if Mrs. McCutcheon's picture was in there, too. If she wasn't, maybe it was because she was dead.”

“Or, it could mean she decided to leave the club,” Sharon said.

“Members did not leave the Women's Society,” Cassie said. “Membership was a great honor, and by invitation only. A member might die, or move away, but she did not quit.”

“Then we should look at the other scrapbooks,” Lucas said.

Cassie hesitated, then nodded. “All right, I'll get them. But I'm sure she's there.” She cradled the scrapbook to her chest and left.

Alina looked up at Sharon. “Mom, don't you have work to do?”

She'd been thinking of waiting around for Cassie's return, but she saw Alina's point. “I do have work to do,” she said. “And you and Lucas have homework.”

Alina let out another tortured moan.

“We could work on the outline for our paper while we wait for Miss Wynock,” Lucas said. “Then we won't have to worry about it later.”

When Sharon left to return to her desk, the two young scholars had their heads together, pouring over a chapter in a textbook on jet propulsion or some similar topic. Sharon returned to the task of updating the library inventory for the state's computer system. The idea was to catalog all the books in the collection so that they'd be available for other libraries to request for their patrons. But Cassie had decided to exclude anything she considered “rare” or “of historical value.” “I learned the hard way never to let those books leave this premises,” she said when Sharon had questioned the exclusions. “I'm certainly not going to send them through the mail to people I don't even know.”

But it made Sharon's task more tedious, since she had to cross-reference the inventory master list against Cassie's exclusion list.

“I found four more scrapbooks.” Though Cassie was a pro at shushing anyone who dared raise their voice within the sacred confines of the library, her own voice carried clearly in the silence. Sharon looked up in time to see her deposit a stack of scrapbooks on the table between the two kids. She resisted the urge to join them—she really did need to finish entering these books—but she kept one ear tuned to the conversation, and she couldn't resist glancing their way every few minutes.

“There she is,” Lucas said. He pointed to something in one of the scrapbooks. “Get a load of that hat.”

Alina laughed. “They all have funny hats. That one's almost like a turban. And look at the white gloves.”

“A lady wasn't considered properly dressed unless she wore a hat and gloves,” Cassie said. “Such a shame the custom has passed. I still have several of my grandmother's hats. Little works of art, I tell you.”

“You should wear them,” Lucas said. “You might start a new fashion trend.”

“That's nice of you to say so, Lucas, but I don't think so.” Cassie flipped through one of the scrapbooks. “Though maybe for special occasions . . .”

“Do it, Miss W,” Lucas said. “I want to see your hats.”

“Is that her?” Alina pointed to a page in the book Cassie was reviewing.

“Why, yes, I think it is,” Cassie said.

“What year is that book?” Lucas asked.

“1963.”

“This one says 1966.” He pulled another volume from the stack. “Let's look in here.”

Sharon focused on her computer once more. If nothing else, the kids were learning a little local history, though in the guise of investigating a fifty-year-old ghost story. Of course, pulling off a murder in a small town like Eureka would be almost impossible. It wasn't as if no one would notice if a prominent woman in the community suddenly turned up missing.

“She's not here,” Alina announced.

“You must have overlooked her,” Cassie said.

“She's not. Look. This is the official photograph of all the members, next to a program with everyone's name, from something called a Spring Tea.”

Sharon gave up and joined the others at the table. Over Cassie's shoulder she studied the photos of the rows of women arranged on the church steps. More color in the dresses and different hats, but clearly the same bunch. Except that the thin-faced woman from the previous photograph was nowhere in sight.

“Maybe they moved away,” Sharon said.

“What year did Mrs. Gilroy and her husband buy the house?” Lucas asked.

“The county keeps real-estate records that could tell you that,” Cassie said. “We don't have that information here.”

Lucas glanced at the big clock that hung behind the checkout desk. “It's after four. If we hurry, we can get to the courthouse before they close at five.”

“Can I go, Mom, please?” Alina stood and began shoving books into her backpack before Sharon even answered.

“You have a social studies project to work on,” Sharon said. “And you're still grounded.”

“Mo-om!”

“Young lady, you will lower your voice in the library.” Cassie's frosty tone would have quieted Attila the Hun.

Alina looked as if she was about to cry, and Sharon braced for a fight.

But Lucas ended the battle before it began—and earned points from Sharon—when he said, “She's right. We can check the real-estate records anytime. I mean, she probably did just move away. Real life is never as exciting as fiction.”

Alina gave her mother one more reproachful look, but settled back into her chair. “It's still more interesting than sitting here doing homework,” she grumbled.

“I don't know,” Lucas said. “This rocket propulsion stuff is pretty interesting.”

“You're such a geek,” she said, but a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

Sharon returned to her workstation. Maybe she'd modify Alina's punishment so that she could work on the rocket—and visit the courthouse—after school with Lucas. Parenting, like pretty much everything else in life, was all about compromise, the perfect ideal warring with flawed reality. If the worst thing Alina wanted to do was build rockets and hunt ghosts, Sharon had no right to complain.

“B
arb, it's just beautiful. I can't believe how you've transformed this old place.” Maggie squeezed her friend's hand as they admired the new wallpaper and refinished wood floors in the entryway of the house Barb was converting to a bed-and-breakfast inn. A chandelier hung from the high ceiling, crystal prisms sparkling, and through an arched doorway Maggie could see the elegant yet comfortable sitting room, with its cherry-wood wainscoting and antique furniture, including a red velvet Victorian fainting couch. Upstairs, each bedroom featured big antique beds and luxurious linens, gas fireplaces, and views of the mountains.

“I'm almost sorry to see the remodeling end.” Barb ran a hand along the polished mahogany table in the entryway. “I haven't had this much fun since I decorated our first home—and we won't talk about how long ago that was.”

“You'll do great at running a B and B,” Maggie said. “You're a terrific hostess—nobody puts on parties like you do. And you get along with all kinds of people; it's the reason all those charities and other organizations in Houston want you to be in charge of fund-raising and outreach, and anything else they can talk you into.”

“I did those things because I wanted to help,” Barb said. “But also because I was bored. It's nice to have a business to focus on for a change, now that Michael is grown and sort of on his own.”

“How is that going, Michael working with his dad?” The previous fall, Barb's husband had left his job with the oil company and started a business with his son.

“Surprisingly well. Jimmy says Michael actually has some really good ideas for the business, and he's great with the golf course owners and store managers. But who would have guessed they could make a living washing and selling used golf balls?”

“I'm glad they're making a go of it, but it doesn't sound like the kind of thing that would do well in the mountains. So how is that going to work, with his business in Houston and you up here?”

“We're still trying to figure that out. As much as I love Eureka and being closer to you, I'm a Texas gal at heart and I don't want to leave. And the thought of spending winter here makes me want to crawl under the covers and stay there. I had enough snow when we got stuck here at Christmas, thank you very much.”

“I'd just as soon not see a repeat of that either,” Maggie agreed. A blizzard had closed the roads for several days, isolating the town, trapping Jameso on the other side of the pass, and forcing Barb and her husband, Jimmy, to spend the holiday as refugees at a fishing camp.

“I figure I'll find a manager to take care of day-to-day operations here and I'll visit every few weeks to do the fun stuff,” Barb said. “That way I won't get bored, and I can spend more time with Jimmy.”

“That's a good idea. It shouldn't be tough to find someone in this economy.”

“Sure you don't want to quit your job at the paper and work for me?”

Maggie shook her head. “It's nice of you to offer, but I like writing for the paper, and I'll have my hands full with the new baby.”

“How are you feeling?” Barb squeezed her arm. “You look tired.”

“I am tired. My back hurts. I have to pee every ten minutes. I'm hungry all the time, but everything I eat gives me indigestion.” She smiled. “But other than that I'm wonderful. I'll just be glad when the wedding is done, we have a house, and the baby is born. Right now it feels like I'm just waiting for so much to happen.”

“Where do you want this?” Jameso came through the door, carrying a stack of boxes so high they obscured his face. But Maggie would have recognized those muscular arms—and the deep voice—anywhere. How had she—who had always dated the ordinary, quiet, “safe” guys—ended up with such a stud?

“Just sit them down over there.” Barb gestured to a space at the bottom of the stairs. “I'll open them later.”

“Whatever they are, they're heavy.” He set the boxes on the floor and straightened.

“Oh, you know you love showing off those muscles,” Barb said. “And you're just the man I've been looking for.”

“Sorry, Barb, but I'm already taken.” He winked at Maggie and warmth skittered through her. Would she ever get over the thrill and wonder of being in love with this man? She hoped not.

“Be serious now,” Barb said. “We need to plan the wedding.”

“I thought that's what you two have been doing for weeks now,” he said.

“I have a dress,” Maggie said. “That's something.” But they hadn't done much nitty-gritty planning. She told herself it was because Barb was busy with the remodeling, and she had work and the baby to think about. She wanted to marry Jameso—she truly did. But a wedding was so big and so much work. Thank God for Barb, or their baby might be in high school before they got around to making things official.

“We need your input,” Barb said.

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Whatever Maggie wants is fine with me.”

“I thought we could have the ceremony here in the front sitting room,” Barb said.

“Fine with me,” he said.

“Though I'm worried the room might be a little too small for all the guests,” Barb continued. “Do you think the weather would be nice enough to have the ceremony outside, in the garden?”

“That sounds good.”

“But will there be many flowers blooming that early in the summer?”

Jameso shrugged. “Could be iffy in June.”

Maggie wanted to shake him. “Jameso, we asked you here because we wanted your opinion,” she said. “It's your wedding, too.”

He blew out a breath. “If it were up to me, we'd elope.”

“Elope!” To her horror, she burst into tears.

“What did I say?” Jameso reached for her, then drew away, as if thinking better of the gesture. “Why are you crying?”

She shook her head. She didn't know really. Stress. Hormones. Or maybe just that he was being so unhelpful. Such a
man.
“You want me to do everything while you just keep going like you always have,” she said. “If we have a wedding, I have to make all the decisions. If we want a house, I have to find it. Is this how it's going to be when we're married and have a baby to look after?” Was life with Jameso going to be the same as life with her first husband—where she ended up doing all the work in the relationship? Was that simply the way marriage worked?

“I'm letting you take care of the wedding and the house because those things matter more to you,” he said. “I don't care what kind of ceremony we have or where we live. What comes after—the marriage and spending the rest of my life with you—is important to me.”

“But the wedding is important, too.” She dug in her purse for a tissue. Barb handed her one, and she scrubbed at her nose and tried to regain her composure. Jameso was looking at her as if she were a bomb about to explode. “A wedding is a public commitment and a symbol of our love,” she said. “And . . . and it ought to mean something.”

“It will mean something, I promise.” He patted her shoulder tentatively. “When I say those vows, I'll mean them; but it doesn't matter to me if I say them in front of a preacher and a room full of people or a judge and no one but you. Because I'm saying the vows to you. Not anyone else.”

He knew the right words to say, but did he mean them? Part of marriage was accepting each other as you were. But it was also important to work together—to be partners. “You're right,” she said. “The wedding and the house are more important to me than they are to you. But you need to care about them because I care about them. And I can't keep doing everything to make this work. You've got to pick up some of the slack and help.”

Jameso looked at Barb. She held up her hands. “I can't help you. You two are going to have to work this out amongst yourselves.”

He turned back to Maggie. “Fine. Tell me what you want me to do.”

“That's the point!” Her voice rose and a fresh wave of tears threatened. “I shouldn't have to tell you.”

“Now I'm supposed to be a mind reader?” Jameso threw up his hands. “Women!” He turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Maggie gave in to the tears. Barb came and put her arm around her, and Maggie leaned into the embrace of her friend. “Now I've done it,” she said. “He'll probably head for the hills—literally.”

“He probably would have a few months ago,” she said. “But not now. I think he's going to stick it out.”

Maggie mopped at her eyes and blew her nose. “Do you think he understood what I was trying to say?”

“It'll probably sink in after a while. It's good that you said it anyway. You probably never told Carter anything like that, did you?”

“No.” She couldn't remember ever standing up to her first husband, Carter Stevens. “Whenever I was angry with him, I told myself it wasn't worth rocking the boat, that my anger was my problem and I had to learn to adjust my expectations, that I was responsible for my own feelings.”

“Sounds like something from one of those books about how to be the perfect wife—the subservient kind who focused on pleasing her man.”

“It probably was.”

“Can you believe we were ever so dumb?” Barb patted her shoulder. “So see, blowing up at Jameso was a good thing. You can say what you need to to him and trust that he won't run away or pout like a little boy.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Well, he might pout for a little while, but he'll get over it. Now, come on. I know just what will cheer you up.”

“What's that?”

“Homemade pie from the Last Dollar. I hear Danielle's making strawberry rhubarb today.”

The baby inside her gave a mighty kick. Maggie laughed and rubbed her belly. “I think the baby likes that idea.”

“Then we'd better go, or she'll keep you up all night. And don't worry about Jameso. He'll come around.”

“You always have more confidence in him than I do.” Barb had been Jameso's champion from the first day they met; it had taken Maggie a lot longer to see his good qualities.

“I have confidence in both of you.” One hand on the doorknob, Barb looked back over her shoulder at her friend. “Remember—I was a cheerleader in high school.”

“Obviously, you were a natural.” She followed Barb out the door, toward pie and whatever other sweetness life could offer. She and Jameso would make up later; they'd figure out how to negotiate marriage—how to be together and yet separate, which she supposed was really the big puzzle of marriage, after all.

 

Olivia marveled at how much a year could change a person. When she'd first arrived in Eureka the year before and started work at the Dirty Sally, she liked the night shifts best. The bar was always busy and she served up drinks, cleared tables, flirted with the customers, and scarcely had a moment to think about anything. Avoiding her thoughts was better than wrestling with them, she'd believed. The work had bought her the time she needed to face her fears and straighten out her life.

Now she preferred afternoons, before the evening rush, when sometimes she and whoever else was on duty were the only people in the place. The customers who did come in were quiet, undemanding, and low-key. She had time to let her mind wander, or to talk to her coworkers.

Or, as was the case this afternoon, to listen to them talk. She and Jameso were inventorying the liquor supply behind the bar, checking the level of each bottle, wiping it down and returning it to the shelf, grouping like spirits together, and making note of anything they needed to reorder. While this occupied their hands, Jameso was telling about his fight with Maggie over the wedding preparations.

“I told her we could do whatever she wanted—that I only wanted her to be happy, and she accused me of not caring.” He shoved a bottle of bourbon back onto the shelf. “How is that not caring?”

Olivia wiped down the next bottle and handed it to him. “Do you really want to know?” she asked.

He glared at her, his darkly handsome face forbidding, though she'd long ago learned there was little venom behind the black looks. “Of course I want to know,” he said. “Why would she think I don't care?”

“You were taking the easy way out—you want her to do all the work, and all you have to do is show up and put the ring on her finger. It sets a bad precedent.”

“What precedent? We're only going to do this once.”

She grabbed the next bottle in line and began wiping it. “It sets a bad precedent for the marriage,” she said. “First, Maggie plans and executes the wedding. Then, she decides what's for dinner every night. The next thing you know, she's buying all the clothes and dealing with the kid's teachers and planning all the vacations.”

At his blank look, she shook her head. “You still don't get it, do you?”

“Get what? Isn't that stuff what women do? What they want to do?”

“In a lot of marriages, yes. But Maggie has been there and done that, and now she wants a different kind of marriage. One where the two of you are equal partners, and you share responsibility. And she wants to start with the wedding.” She handed him the bottle. “It makes perfect sense to me.”

“It makes sense to you because you're a woman.”

“What do you want—a partner and a lover, or a live-in housekeeper and surrogate mother?”

“Maggie is not my mother. That's sick.”

“Then stop acting like a kid. Grow up and speak up. Have an opinion about the wedding—and saying you want to elope does not qualify as a valid opinion.”

He clammed up, shoving bottles into place with so much force she feared one might break. But his agitation soon subsided. He turned to face her. “The problem is,” he said, “I never had a model for what a marriage is supposed to be. My parents certainly didn't know.”