Journey to Yesterday (4 page)

“It’s late,” Clark remarked. “Maybe you should spend the
night. I hate to think of you bouncing over that road at this time of night.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t.”

“I’d feel better if you did. My roommate’s on vacation. He
won’t be back until next week. You can use his room.”

“Well…” It was tempting. She looked at her watch again. If
she left now, she wouldn’t get to Reno before midnight. Besides, how many
tourists had a chance to spend the night in Bodie?

“I wish you would. It’s a bad road. What if you got a flat?
You wouldn’t want to be stuck out there in the middle of the night, would you?”

He had a point, she thought, but she really needed to be on
her way. She was about to refuse when her glance fell on Valverde’s photograph.
She didn’t really want to leave, she thought, at least not until she’d read the
rest of Daisy’s diary. “I think I will stay. I’ll just run up to my car and get
my overnight bag.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re sure?”

She laughed softly. “Of course.”

Some of Shaye’s confidence waned as she left the house
behind. The town was dark, lit only by a full moon and a dark sky filled with
glittering stars. She hadn’t realized how far away the Nolan House was from the
parking area until she had to walk it in the dark.

She was a little breathless by the time she reached her car,
which was the only one left in the lot. Unlocking the rear hatch, she grabbed
her overnight bag which held her cosmetics and toothbrush, pulled a change of
clothes, socks, underwear and her nightshirt out of her suitcase and jammed them
into the overnight case, then closed and locked the door of the Rover.

She stood at the top of the path a moment, looking down at
the sleeping town, trying to imagine what it would have looked like in its hay
day, the streets crowded with wagons and people. A cold chill slid down her
spine. In the drifting shadows of the night, it did, indeed, look like a town
inhabited by ghosts. Wispy white clouds appeared over the hills, moving slowly
across the indigo sky, playing peek-a-boo with the moon.

“There are no such things as ghosts, Shaye Montgomery,” she
muttered. “No matter what you think you’ve seen, there are no such things as
ghosts. Or goblins. Or things that go bump in the night.”

She repeated the words over and over again as she walked
down the path and turned right on Green Street. Yet even as she told herself
she didn’t believe, she knew in her heart of hearts that what she had seen was
real.

A cool breeze seemed to follow her down the street, stirring
small dust devils, carrying the echoes of voices long dead. The childish voice
of the Angel of Bodie. The sultry laughter of the ladies of the evening, a slow
deep voice that she knew was his.

She wanted to run, but something slowed her steps.

She passed the Methodist Church, and the notes of an old hymn
seemed to whisper to the wind. She heard the clanging of a blacksmith’s hammer
and the whinny of a horse as she passed the old barn; the ca-ching of a cash
register as she neared the Boone Store; the faint sound of weeping as she
passed the morgue; the ringing of a school bell, the sound of children reciting
their lessons as she approached Main Street.

When she reached the schoolhouse, she glanced in the window,
and the inside of the building seemed to light up. She could see two dozen boys
and girls sitting at their desks, see the school teacher standing at the head
of the classroom, a long pointer in her hand. She stared, transfixed, thinking
it looked like a scene out of the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland.

What would she see if she went to the jail?

The soft summer breeze kissed her cheek as she reversed her
direction. She turned right on Main Street, her steps quickening as she made
her way through the darkness toward the jail.

As she passed the Kirkwood Stable, she caught the pungent
odor of manure, the sweet scent of hay, and then she was standing in front of
the jail, her body trembling, her heart pounding wildly.

Step by slow step, she moved closer to the iron-barred
window. Took a deep breath. Looked inside.

In the flickering light of an oil lamp, she saw Alejandro
Valverde stretched out on a narrow cot. One arm was folded behind his head, his
ankles were crossed. A thin plume of smoke rose from the cigarette he held in
his left hand. She glanced quickly around the room. There was a square table and
two chairs in the opposite corner. A black coat was folded over the back of one
of the chairs. She could hear snoring coming from the sheriff’s office adjacent
to the jail.

Valverde took a deep drag on the cigarette. Sitting up, he
dropped the butt on the floor, ground it out with his boot heel. He sat there a
moment, and then he stood up and began to pace the floor, his long legs
carrying him quickly from one side of the room to the other.

He didn’t look like a ghost at all. He had form and
substance. She could smell the smoke from his cigarette, hear the sound of his
footsteps as he paced the floor, see his shadow move across the wall.

Shaye watched as though mesmerized. She saw him so clearly.
He wore black wool trousers, a white shirt, a black vest embroidered with tiny
gold fleur de lis, black boots. The candlelight cast red highlights in his
hair, which was long and black with no hint of a wave. His brows were straight,
his nose was sharply defined, his jaw was firm and shadowed by the beginnings
of a beard.

And his eyes were brown. A deep, dark brown. She saw them
clearly when he came to stare out the window.

She started to back away, then realized there was nothing to
fear. He couldn’t see her. She probably wasn’t really seeing him. It was
probably just an illusion, or maybe she was dreaming. Of course, that was it.
She wasn’t really here at all. She was asleep back in the Nolan House…

And then his gaze settled on her face and for one
heart-stopping, soul-shattering moment, she would have sworn that Alejandro
Valverde was alive, that he was looking at her, seeing her. He was close, so
close she could see the tiny lines that fanned out around his eyes, the faint
white scar near his hairline. So close.

Overcome by a sudden, inexplicable need to touch him, she
lifted her hand, her heart pounding fiercely as she reached toward him…

And the moment was gone. The cell was dark and empty, and
she was alone save for the sighing of the wind that had suddenly turned brisk
and cold.

Hugging her overnight bag to her chest, she turned and ran
down Main Street and didn’t stop running until she reached the Nolan House.

Clark was standing on the porch. “I was beginning to worry
about you, “ he said.

“Hey, are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a…”

“A ghost? I have.” She moved past him into the house, stood
shivering in the middle of the room, her overnight case clutched to her chest.

Clark shut and locked the door. He pried the bag from her
arms, urged her to sit down on the sofa, draped a thick red wool blanket around
her shoulders. He left the room for a moment, came back carrying a glass which
he thrust into her hand. “Here, drink this.”

She took a sip, gasped as the liquid burned a path down her
throat. “It’s whiskey!”

“Drink it,” he said. “All of it.”

She coughed, then drained the glass, grateful for the warmth
that engulfed her.

“It was so real,” she said. “So real.”

Clark smiled sympathetically as he sat down at the opposite
end of the sofa.

“Bodie has its share of ghost stories. Some of the workers
have claimed to see lights going on and off in some of the buildings…”

“I did,” Shaye said, her voice rising with nervous
excitement. “I saw lights tonight. In the schoolhouse.”

“Really? My roommate swears he heard piano music coming from
the old Sawdust Corner Saloon last year, but no one I know has ever seen
anything.”

“I heard music, too, coming from the church.”

Clark shook his head. “One of the park employees was living
in the old Mendocini house a while back. He was having lasagna for dinner one
night, disappointed because he hadn’t had any garlic. He said all of a sudden
his eyes began to water and he started sneezing. He went outside for some fresh
air, and when he went back inside, the whole house reeked of fresh-cut garlic.”

Shaye grinned, amused in spite of herself. “I’ve never
believed in ghosts.”

“Until now?”

She couldn’t say it out loud. If she admitted it, it would
make it true somehow. “I think I’d better get ready for bed.”

Clark nodded. “Sleep in, if you want. I don’t have to go in
until ten tomorrow, so I’ll probably sleep late. If you get up before I do,
help yourself to something to eat. There’s coffee in the cupboard.”

“Thank you.” She pointed to the diary on the table. “Is it
all right if I finish reading that before I go to bed?”

“Sure.”

Picking up her overnight bag and the book, Shaye followed
Clark down a narrow hall into a small square bedroom furnished with a double
bed and a chest of drawers. There was a pair of well-worn sneakers in the
corner; a Dodger baseball jacket hung from an old-fashioned brass hook on the
back of the door.

“There’s an extra blanket on the shelf in the closet if you
get cold.” Clark lifted his hand in a gesture that took in the whole room.
“Make yourself at home. There’s plenty of hot water if you want to take a
shower.”

“Thank you.”

“If I don’t see you in the morning, it was nice spending the
evening with you.”

“Thank you. I enjoyed spending the evening with you, too.
Goodnight, Clark.”

“Goodnight.”

Shaye closed the door behind him. With a sigh, she dropped
her overnight case on the bed, popped the lid and took out her nightshirt and
toothbrush. She felt a little self-conscious about taking a shower in the house
of a man she had just met, but a hot shower was just what she needed to relax
her.

She showered quickly, slipped into her nightshirt, brushed
her teeth, and hurried back to her room. Closing the door, she picked up the
diary and slipped into bed.

She turned the pages carefully, skimming over the entries,
pausing to read whenever she saw Alejandro Valverde’s name. As the days went
by, he was mentioned more and more frequently. Strangely, they were never
intimate, yet Daisy’s feelings for him were obviously very deep. He continued
to visit the Velvet Rose saloon and give her money, and in a short time, Daisy
had saved enough to quit.

The entry for May 5th read: I can’t believe it. Rio and I
are partners.

Our new saloon will open next week. We’re going to call it
the Bodie Belle. Instead of being one of the girls, I will be the hostess. It’s
like a dream come true. The only men I’ll have to share my bed with will be
those of my Own choosing, and I won’t have to charge them. Best of all, I’ll
get to see Alejandro every night. I love him so much. I wonder if he knows. I
wish he felt the same…

The new saloon appeared to be a success. Of course, in a
town of ten thousand, that was no surprise. Daisy talked of having money for
the first time in her life, of ordering clothes from New York City and Paris,
of trying to become a lady so Alejandro would notice her.

She had drawn flowers around the border of the page dated
June 3rd. Today is my nineteenth birthday. The girls made me a cake. Celeste
gave me some perfumed soap. It smells divine. Bethie gave me a silk kimono.
But, best of all is the gold locket from Rio . Maybe he does care.

Nineteen, Shaye thought, and already a seasoned prostitute.
She tried to imagine such a life, tried to imagine what it would have been like
to work in a smoky saloon, to sell her body to any man who had the price. She
remembered reading about some of the whores in one of the books she had bought.
One, named Eleanor Dumont, had lived in Bodie. According to the book, she had
been a pretty young French girl with a flare for gambling. Female gamblers had
been rare in those days, and the men had been fascinated by her. She had spent
twenty years following gold strikes from Idaho to South Dakota. When her luck
was bad, she turned to prostitution. As she grew older, Dumont was dubbed
Madame Moustache due to a thin line of dark hair above her upper lip. In 1879,
Dumont was residing in Bodie. In September of that year, she borrowed three
hundred dollars, which she lost gambling. Leaving town on foot, she went out
into the desert and swallowed poison. She was buried in the outcast cemetery in
an unmarked grave.

There were others: French Joe, Nellie Monroe, Emma
Goldsmith. And Lottie Johl, who had once been a whore, but gained
respectability with her painting, and by marrying the local butcher.

Shaye glanced at her watch. It was after midnight. One more
entry, she thought, one more page. But she couldn’t stop reading.

In July, Daisy bought a house, and for the next month, most
of the entries were about the house and the fun she had furnishing it.

But, mostly, Daisy wrote about Alejandro. It reminded Shaye
of her own first schoolgirl crush, of the diary she had kept, when every entry
was about Steve Adams and how cute he was. Shaye had written practically every
word he had said to her, what he wore to school, how jealous she was when he
ate lunch with Sherri Bensal. Daisy had recorded the same kinds of things about
Alejandro, and Shaye realized that for all Daisy’s “experience” with men, she
was very naïve and very innocent.

In early August, jealousy reared its ugly head. Alejandro
hired a new girl to work in the saloon. An entry dated October 8th read:
I
hate her! Why doesn’t he look at me the way he looks at Maddy Brown?

Shaye sighed as she read on. Every entry was tinged with
jealousy. Some of the pages were tear-stained, the words blurred and illegible.