“Ya, it sure was a jewel in its day. So, what brings you girls to Cotati? We don’t get many guests these days. Now they all stay at that Doubletree Hotel in Rohnert Park.”
“I’m on an antique buying trip.” Goldie’s smile sparkled as she thought about the good deals she negotiated with Andy. “I have a shop in Alaska.”
“
Mein gott
! People buy antiques for their igloos? It must be all ice and snow up there. How do you get the antiques home? By dog sled?” Hilda chuckled at her own joke.
Goldie gave Hilda a feeble smile. She had heard it all before. “Oh no, you’ve got it all wrong. Where I live, in Juneau, it rains more often than it snows. The whole city’s in the middle of a Northern rainforest.”
“Rain?”
“Yup, and believe it or not, we have regular houses, schools, shopping centers, movies—even two McDonald’s—you name it, we’ve got it.”
“No igloos?”
“Not even one.”
“Humph! Alaska? I thought you were from Los Angeles.” Hilda was clearly confused.
“Oh, my sister lives in Beverly Hills. She’s a...uh...journalist. She’s writing a story...uh...about the history of the Accordion Festival for the L.A. Times.”
“But you two look exactly alike. I’m surprised you live in such different places.”
Of course this assumption made no logical sense at all, but Goldie nodded politely.
“Well, when she comes down for breakfast in the morning, your sister will get plenty of spicy stuff for her story from Mr. Buttons and me.” With a wink, the old lady toddled off through her curtain once again.
Hilda Hammacher always treated her guests to big German breakfasts. The plates were heaped with farmer’s omelets stuffed with potatoes and vegetables. Mouth-watering aromas from the platter of bratwurst and basket of fresh-baked bread filled the air. A tray of colorful homemade jams brightened the table, and Hilda herself sat down and joined them. This morning she had a starched white apron over her faded lavender dress. “Sit down. Dig in.” She picked up the basket of bread. “We never stand on ceremony here.”
Godiva had conked out early and slept like a baby despite the lumpy bed. This morning her fashionable gray linen suit and silk crepe blouse had
Big City Journalist
written all over them.
Mr. Buttons was already working on his second helping of brats. “Hilda says one o’ you gals is writin’ a story on the Accordion Festival. Well, ya sure come ta the right place. Hilda used ta have a houseful o’ us squeezebox bums back in those good old days. Kinda tapered off now, ain’t it ol’ gal? Them stayin’ at the new hotels roundabouts an’ such.”
“Ya, but that’s okay. I couldn’t handle all them rowdies these days. Just a few quiet guests at a time. That’s the way I like it.” She forked a load of eggs into her mouth.
Mr. Buttons rapped the table with his knuckles. “Get out your pad and pencil, girlie, an’ I’ll spin ya some yarns.”
“I don’t really use a note pad, Mr. Buttons, I keep it all up here.” She tapped her forehead.
His eyes became moist and dreamy. “Oh the times we had...”
“We’d love to hear about them, Mr. Buttons. You know, our folks were vaudeville magicians back in the day...”
Goldie nodded. “...yeah, when we were kids, our house was always filled with strange characters, some of them were even famous. Harpo Marx used to come over for coffee all the time.” Goldie smiled over her own cup of tea.
“What can you folks tell me about the top dogs, you know, the accordion kings?” Godiva asked, looking from one to the other.
“We had the King himself living right there on the corner!” Hilda pulled back the dusty curtain and pointed out the window. “Buck Wellington. Wasn’t he something, Pearly?”
“Oh, indeed! Made that squeezebox sing, you never heard nothin’ like it.” Pearly Buttons went on to describe Buck’s best loved songs in between bites of bratwurst. “He truly was the King. Don’t make ’em like that anymore.”
“Is he still around?” Godiva asked, the picture of innocence.
“The old boy’s been gone a few years now, ain’t he Hilda?”
“Ya, he passed, oh, must be over ten years now. Not long after the boy disappeared.
Himmel
! What a sad story.” She shook her tired head, the tidy gray bun wagging back and forth. Despite her sagging shoulders, her eyes twinkled with an old woman’s pleasure at the chance to share some gossip.
“Ach, what some parents endure! Poor Winnie, that was Buck’s wife, you know, never had a day’s peace with that child. The boy wasn’t right in his head, if you ask me, always beating up other children when he was young...”
“I remember one time, right at the festival—” Mr. Buttons raised his fork and waggled half a bratwurst in front of Goldie’s nose, “—he beat up a little fella so bad. Just an itty bitty wisp of a lad, put him in the hospital, broke his leg an’ all.” He clicked his tongue and scratched his hairy ear.
Goldie and Godiva exchanged glances.
Probably Darla’s son
.
“That boy broke his mama’s heart. When he was a teenager he was thrown in jail for beating up an old bum. Old Gilly, that’s what everyone called the poor fellow. A local fixture, wouldn’t hurt a fly. There was no call for that boy to do that.” Hilda leaned forward and assumed an air of confidentiality. “Of course, his daddy got him off the hook. That Buck, everyone loved him. If he told the judge, ‘jump,’ he would fly up twelve feet in the air. How could such a fine couple produce a son like Biff?”
“I’ll bet he learned his lesson when he got arrested. Did he behave himself after that?” Godiva knew what the answer would be.
“Ach, no, it only got worse. He wore his mama down, poor thing! Covering up for him, running over to the school each time he got in trouble. Poor Winnie, she had a heart attack the next year and died.” Hilda’s hands cradled her cheeks as she murmured. “Broken heart, I think.”
Pearly Buttons had his own gossip to add, “Knocked up a nice li’l gal, too. Sweet thing. Ol’ McWharter’s daughter. Boy, weren’t he a hot head? McWharter brought out the shotgun, made that boy marry her. Worst thing he ever done. How that li’l gal suffered! The baby, too. Last time I saw that ruffian he was cookin’ ribs at the festival. They tasted mighty fine, but ya know...they left a bad taste in my mouth...” His voice trailed off and Hilda picked up the story.
“Lucy was her name, poor little thing. Biff would beat her up all the time, black eye, swollen jaw, I get hoppin’ mad just thinking about it.
Himmel
! The last time he knocked her around she almost died. Ol’ Mr. McWharter went looking for him, swore he’d kill him for sure. That’s the last time anyone saw that troublemaker around here. I hope he’s in jail somewhere, I surely do.”
Mr. Buttons winked a china blue eye and raised a bushy brow. “Hilda, I hate to tell you this, but he ain’t behind bars. You won’t believe it, but he’s some kind o’ cookin’ show star. My daughter watches him all the time on that cable TV.” He turned to the twins, “I bet you gals have seen ’em. Ain’t I right?”
“Oh, we don’t have time to watch much television I’m afraid. So what became of his family?”
Hilda sniffled into her linen napkin. “Lucy never recovered. Died sometime after that terrible last beating. Little Wesley, that was his name, he went to school with my grandson.
Ach
! He was a timid little guy, so nervous, you can imagine. After she died, no one seemed to want him. He went from one McWharter to another and then to some foster home. That’s when he left school. Never saw him again.”
A dismal air settled over the small group gathered around the table. Pearly Buttons harrumphed a few times, then told a couple of amusing Accordion Festival stories between bites of brats and eggs. The sisters excused themselves, explaining they had an appointment with Roy Menzies, the editor of the
Cotati Clarion.
“You be sure to tell him Hilda said hello and he should come by any time for strudel and coffee.”
CHAPTER 14
“Afraid this is it, Sis.” Goldie squinted at a nearly unreadable sign above the old glass door. “Not quite the
Los Angeles Times
.”
The red brick was pitted with age and the glazed tile trim, sculpted with scrolls and quill pens, was streaked and dingy. So were the windows. Godiva crinkled her nose and studied the 1920s façade of the
Cotati Clarion
offices. “My guess is they haven’t turned a profit in years.”
The hinges creaked as Goldie pushed open the door. Godiva hesitated, “Are you sure this paper is still being published?”
The receptionist was as withered and faded as a stalk of winter wheat, her thin hair twisted into a 1950’s chignon. Goldie sized her up in a minute.
Old gal’s a living antique. Probably started working here after school when she was sixteen, tapping away at an upright Underwood.
Godiva finished her sister’s mental commentary...
Fifty years later she’s still here. Same desk. Computer instead of typewriter.
Goldie picked up her twin’s thought and smiled.
“May I help you?” She was perkier than expected. Looking from one sister, dressed in a stylish pearl gray linen suit, to the other, clad in layers of mismatched vintage clothing, she said, “Wow, we could use you two on our fashion page.” She smiled broadly exposing a pronounced overbite and wiggled her fingers to indicate quote marks. “
Twins Dress to Express Individuality
. No...wait...” She held up her hands and gestured like a Hollywood producer envisioning a lighted marquee. “
Saks Fifth Avenue and Salvation Army.
”
Godiva pasted a polite smile on her face and flashed her press card. “I’m Godiva DuBois and I’m on assignment for the L.A. Times. This is my sister Goldie Silver, she’s just along for the ride. Is your editor in?”
“Roy’s back in the press room wrestling with a cranky ink valve.” She made a second visual sweep of Godiva’s fancy outfit. “But it’s pretty dirty back there. My name is Helen, maybe I can help you.”
“Well, maybe. I’m looking for some background on one of your local boys—the TV chef Biff Wellington. It seems he wasn’t such a good boy when he was growing up here.”
“That creep? I’ll never figure out how he made the big time.” She mumbled something about TV viewers being shallow. “I know we have a few articles about him in our archives because a while back some guy came in looking for stories about Wellington. I sent him downstairs to the catacombs and he had me make copies of everything he found. We charge ten cents a page, you know. Actually, you don’t need to bother Roy for that. I can show you where to look.”
Goldie leaned forward. “So, someone else was doing research on Biff Wellington recently? Like from a newspaper or TV show or something?”
“Well, I don’t know about that. He was a nice enough young man, but very strange. He talked a mile a minute. So jazzed up about his project I could hardly understand what he was saying.”
“Did he say what kind of project?”
“No, but I figured he was a graduate student. Maybe doing a paper for Sociology 101,” she put up her hands again, headlining in the air. “Something like,
What Makes the Masses go Bonkers over Bozos?
Anyway, I think his name was Larry...no Lenny. He didn’t look like an ace reporter, not like you, Ms. DuBois.” She gave Godiva a little nod of professional respect.
Godiva returned the salute. “Did you know Biff when he lived here, Helen? Seems a lot of folks knew the family, according to the owner of that
quaint
B&B where we’re staying.” She aimed the last remark at Goldie.
“Oh, you must be staying at the Squeezebox. I doubt that I can tell you anything you haven’t already heard from Hilda. She knows everything about everyone in this town, the dear old soul. She probably told you that Biff’s dad was the Accordion King, so they were famous in a way, but I didn’t come in contact with any of them. Truth of the matter is I don’t care for that kind of music, so all I know is what I read in the paper.”
“What about your editor, did he know the Wellingtons?”
“Roy?” Helen gave a little bird twitter, “He’s from New Jersey, only been in Cotati for two or three years, no sense of local history at all.”
“Well, in that case, lead us to your catacombs!”
Helen came around the counter and led them past two empty offices that looked as though they had been abandoned by their occupants right before a tornado hit. At the end of the hall was a door labeled ARCHIVES DOWNSTAIRS.
“It’s kind of dusty down here and I apologize about the bad lighting,” she said over her shoulder as she started down the dimly lit stairs.
The air was musty and cobwebs festooned the dark brick walls like decorations left over from last Halloween. Dusty file boxes filled endless rows of wood and metal shelves. The four meager light bulbs in metal cages didn’t begin to illuminate the massive basement. Helen stopped beside a library table just inside the door and turned on a gooseneck lamp with a green glass shade. She pointed to a tall bookshelf full of faded green and tan binders.
“This is the filing system,” she said apologetically, “I’ll show you how it works.”
“Don’t you have any of this on microfilm, microfiche, database or something like that?” Godiva surveyed the
Cotati Clarion
basement as if she were Hercules looking over the Augean stables.
Helen uttered another little avian chitter. “I’m sorry, Ms. Dubois, no time for that, we’re lucky if our tiny staff can just get out this week’s paper.” She showed the Silver sisters how to navigate the system then disappeared up the stairs.
Godiva took a tissue from her purse and vigorously wiped the seat of one of the two available chairs before sitting. Then she dusted a corner of the table and gingerly set down her gray leather bag.
“OK, we’ll divide up the work. I’ll look things up in the books while you dig around in the stacks, bring stuff over to the table and I’ll take notes.”
“No way, Godiva, I’m not doing all the dirty work while my sister, the Donna Karan model, sits on the edge of the chair like a china teacup on a saucer. Looks like this will take hours, so either you go back to the Squeezebox and change into jeans and a sweatshirt or roll up those lovely linen sleeves and kiss your fancy suit goodbye.”