Scene of the Climb (18 page)

Tapping into both Mother's and Gam's voices, I hunched my shoulders and placed my hands on my stomach, what Gam calls my power zone. “I know your secret, Dave.”

This sent Dave into a fit of chuckles. I gave him my firmest look. He recovered and mimicked my serious face. “Lassie, you've got spunk, eh? Has anyone told ya what a cutie ya are? Ya radiate energy.”

I paused and raised my eyebrows at him.

“Ah, don't wanna play. All righty. What secret is it that ya think ya know?”

“You're broke.” I folded my arms and waited for a response.

Dave's eyes surveyed the room. The receptionist was staring at us, leaning over the desk, trying to eavesdrop. When she met Dave's eyes she busied herself with the log book.

“Now what would make a nice little lassie say a nasty thing like that?” Dave's voice was even, but I noticed his right eye twitched as he stroked his silver beard.

“I'm not being nasty. I happened to learn Race the States is out of cash. Why is it that no one else seems to know this?”

He lowered his voice and leaned closer to me. “Listen here, lassie, and listen good. Ya don't know what you're playing with here.”

I could tell from the measured cadence of his Aussie speech he was working hard to maintain his composure. I'd rattled him. Time to push a bit more.

“From what I heard it's more than rounding up funding. I heard you're personally in way over your head. Is that what Lenny discovered? Is that why you pushed him over the ledge?”

“Ya think I killed Lenny?” Dave laughed. “That's a good one, lassie.”

His laughter irritated me. “Do you have another explanation?”

“Meggie, I don't need one.”

I held my position firmly—arms crossed, eyes piercing, pretending I wasn't shuddering internally.

Dave moved even closer to me. I could smell dried sweat on his skin and a hint of tobacco on his breath. “Ya want a story?”

“Of course.” I nodded.

“I'm the last person on the planet who woulda wanted to kill Lenny. He and I were talkin' about partnering up. He was gonna fund the whole project.”

My jaw dropped. I couldn't fake my shock. Dave and Lenny partners? Questions swarmed in my head. Like, how did Lenny have that kind of cash?

“That's right,” Dave continued, looking smug that he'd stunned me with his revelation. “I never woulda hurt Lenny. He was my way out of this one. Not sure what I'm gonna do now. I've been on the hunt to find somebody else with a chunk of cash. Lenny and I had big plans for future shows all over the globe. Bummer, he's gone. A real bummer.”

“Does anyone else know Lenny was going to fund the show?”

“Nah. I like to keep my cards close to the chest, if ya know what I mean.”

“You're sure? No one else on the crew? What about Andrew? I thought you two were good friends. You didn't mention anything to him?”

“Not a word, Meggie. Not a word. I'm tellin' ya this is show biz. Happens every time. Money always comes through. No sense in worryin' the crew.”

Whether Dave liked it or not, someone knew. Had someone used that information to kill? But why?

Lenny funding the show would have benefited all the contestants. His backing would have guaranteed the show aired. Unless someone didn't want the show to air? That was a direction I never considered. Who might that be? Leaf had made his irritation with the lack of environmental awareness on the show clear. Alicia had threatened to quit.

“We got us a deal, right? Not a word about money to anyone?” His words weren't in his usual relaxed tone.

“Yeah, I promise. I won't say a thing.”

“I'm gonna scale that wall over there again and see if I can't scrounge up another sponsor while I'm at it.” Dave stood.

“You're hoping the gym will fund the show?”

“Ya never know.” Dave sneered. “Money comes in all kind of places. Not a word, lassie.”

“Wait,” I called.

He turned to face me.

“I found your hat.”

“What? Where'dya find it? I've been lookin' all over for it. Where is it?”

“I found it out at Angel's Rest. On a deer trail. Now it's with the sheriff.”

“Huh?” Dave looked confused.

“It was way out in the woods. Probably at least a quarter mile off the main trail. I found it hanging in a tree.”

“How'd it get out there?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing. What were you doing out on the deer trail?”

“Nothing. I wasn't on any deer trail. Must have blown off of me.”

Right, I thought to myself. It slipped off your head and blew a half mile away into dense tree cover. Highly unlikely.

To Dave I said, “I thought I saw someone on that trail the day Lenny died.”

“Wasn't me, lassie. Wasn't me.” He bent in a slight bow and looked at me with hard eyes before racing off toward the climbing wall.

I wasn't sure if he told me the entire truth about funding Race the States, but I knew one thing for sure. He'd been on that trail. The question was, had he accidentally lost the hat, or had someone planted it there?

The next morning, I startled awake to the sound of my cell phone ringing at 6:00
A.M
. Gam's face flashed on the screen. Sunday, Gam. Why can't I sleep in for once? I slid my finger over the phone and answered with a croaky voice.

“I'm so glad I caught you.”

Caught me? Without her early wake-up call I would have slept another two hours.

Gam thrived on little rest. She claimed it was genetic, but obviously I didn't inherit the no-sleep gene. Most mornings she arose at 4:00
A.M
. and spent an hour meditating before walking three or four miles on her treadmill. Normal people would shuffle half-awake to hit start on their coffeepots by the time Gam had meditated, exercised and cooked a full breakfast.

“I know you're not going to like this,” she went on, not bothering to ask if I was awake. “You need to go to your father's house. Your mother is prepping the farmhouse for an estate sale. She asked me to call you, which I think was quite thoughtful of her. It's time, honey.”

My jaw clamped. Tightness spread from my cheeks through my temples. “No way, Gam. I haven't been back since—since, you know.”

“Honey, I know. But it's time. I think this is the Universe's way of forcing you to face this.”

“I can't, Gam. I'm not ready.” The tightness in my head spread like a cobweb through my brain. It left me feeling tingly and lightheaded.

“I understand, but it's time. Your mother can't leave it sitting empty. This needs to happen. Would you like me to come with you?” Gam's voice held its usual calm forcefulness. Although she stood not much taller than five feet, her power towered over her. Strangers on the street adjusted their bodies unconsciously to her presence, giving her a wide circumference, moving to the edge of sidewalks as she passed.

In the days of Lewis and Clark she would have been labeled a shaman, probably burned at the stake if she'd lived in the Northeast. Her present-day healing energy naturally drew people to her, but only on her terms. One look at her serene commanding face told you she'd pack a mighty punch if you crossed the line.

When I was seven, Gam took me on a weekend vision quest. Pops pushed for me to go. Mother refused. She didn't approve of Gam's career choice. I could see it in the way she snuck to a different line at the checkout in the grocery store. She'd try to shush Gam under her breath, when Gam offered to put her hands on a stranger's back.

“Would you like me to give you a little shot of Reiki?” Gam would ask, rubbing her hands together and rocking slightly. Mother covered her eyes with her hand and hissed, “No, they don't want you to touch them, Mom.”

Gam would close her eyes as a warm smile tugged at the edge of her cheeks and she'd rest her hands on the stranger's back. I couldn't tell if she had transported to a higher plane when she tapped into the energy of the great spirits she talked of. Or if she enjoyed pissing Mother off. Probably a bit of both.

Pops and Gam teamed up on Mother. I remember many fights when I was a young child. Mother was infuriated that Pops sided with Gam. Pops was incredulous that Mother didn't appreciate Gam's divinely guided talents. How were they ever a couple?

One night Mother flew around the living room flinging Pops' newspapers in the air, threatening to throw them in the fireplace. “You're as insane as my mother!” she shouted, ripping one in half. “I can't stand it anymore. I'm sandwiched between two loons.”

Sitting with his long legs stretched out on the couch, Pops chuckled as he pulled a well-worn pencil from behind his ear and said, “There's nothing loony about your mother. In fact, she's one of the sanest people I know.”

Thinking on that now, I wondered if he meant that as a dig at Mother. His words launched a new tirade. “Sane? Do you know what she did today when she picked our daughter up at school? Do you?”

I ducked behind the doorway so they wouldn't know I was listening.

“No, dear.” Pops shook his head and tapped the pencil on his salt-and-pepper beard. “What did she do?”

Mother slammed a stack of newspapers on the top of the fireplace mantel. “She got out of the car and hugged the oak tree in the front of the building. Hugged. A. Tree.”

“Mmm-hmm, and?”

“She hugged a tree. She started talking to it—the tree. Telling it what a wonderful spirit it was and how glad she was to be able to spend this time together. Poor Mary Margaret. What will her friends or
teachers
think? Her loony grandmother is hugging the trees. Fortunately I hurried her into the car before Mary Margaret came outside. I don't think she noticed. Hugging trees. Good Lord, hugging trees.”

“You know at the end of the day I think there are much worse things you could spin yourself up on, rather than worry about your mother hugging a tree.” Pops crossed his legs and returned the pencil to behind his ear.

This infuriated Mother more. She grabbed the stack of newspapers from the mantel, flung them in the air and stormed out the front door. I poked my head around the corner. Newspapers floated to the floor like individual magic carpets. I imagined myself riding them.

“You can come in, Maggie,” Pops called.

I stopped to pick up a paper that landed in front of my feet.

“Leave it,” he said, and patted the couch. “Come here, little one.”

The newspaper left black ink stains on my fingers. I crawled onto Pops' lap. He stroked my head and said quietly, “You know your mother loves Gam, don't you?”

I hung my head.

Pops took his warm callused hands and placed them on both my cheeks. He gently cradled my head in his hands, “Listen, Maggie. Your mother loves all of us—you. Me. Gam. All of us. She doesn't always know how to show it, but she does. Okay?”

I nodded, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from crying.

He kissed my forehead. “You are a special, special girl. You know that?” He pulled my head onto his chest and held me tight until I fell asleep in his arms.

 

 

“Margaret?” Gam's voice on the phone shook me to reality. “Are you still there?”

“I'm here.” I sighed. “Thinking about Pops.”

“Exactly, my dear. That's why you need to go. Your mother would really like to go with you.”

“No way.”

“I was afraid you'd say that. That's okay. I think it's good for you to go alone. I told her that too.”

Gam had been playing referee between Mother and me since Mother walked out on Pops.

“Call me later to let me know how it goes. I'm going to zap you with a little energy right now. Oh, and Margaret, Sheriff Daniels stopped by again. He said he's dusting your desk for fingerprints.”

“Don't worry, Gam. It's no big deal. I think someone wanted to get under my skin. I'm fine.”

“Stick a rose quartz necklace in your bra. It's a heart stone. It'll help. Love ya.”

Fine. If Gam wanted me to go to Pops', I'd do it. But I wasn't going to be happy about it.

I was due to meet everyone at Beacon Rock later in the morning, so I pulled on my new hiking gear before heading out.

The road to Pops' wound past miles and miles of tulip fields. They looked like a patchwork of colorful candy fit for Willy Wonka. I kept my eyes straight ahead, hands at 10:00 and 2:00. The meandering one-lane road to our family farmhouse was where Pops had been hit. There wasn't any marker on the side of road where he'd been run over. I wasn't sure if this made me feel relieved or more pissed off.

April rain had returned in fits. Heavy dark clouds rolled overhead, giving way to brief glimpses of the sun and slivers of blue sky.

I spotted the top of the brick red barn first. Pops' workshop. No way, I couldn't do this. What was Gam thinking? I wasn't ready.

Her voice sounded in my head.
You've come this far.

The gravel road that led past the barn and the farmhouse hadn't seen traffic lately. No muddy tracks from Pops' truck. The red flag on the black mailbox at the driveway entrance was down. No mail coming or going these days.

Usually this quarter mile stretch of gravelly road filled me with joy and anticipation. Whether I'd been gone for hours or months, I always felt like a kid again coming home. When I rode in Pops' truck to town, as soon as we passed the mailbox he'd let me honk the horn to let Mother know we were home. I honked my horn. It sounded lonely and echoed.

I pulled the car in front of the run-down farmhouse. The whitewashed wraparound porch housed chopped wood, stacks of bundled newspapers and pots with dead flowers and herbs.

You can do this,
I said as I slowly made my way to the front door. It was unlocked as usual. The space smelled like Pops—musty paper and an old fire. It also smelled rotten, like the trash hadn't been taken out in months. Upon entering the kitchen I realized it hadn't. I had to plug my nose and race the decaying bag out to the porch.

Where to start sorting? I halfheartedly flipped through a pile of mail resting on the kitchen counter. Mainly bills and an invitation to a friend's fiftieth birthday bash.

I milled around the rest of the house. Finding all kinds of familiar objects, like Pops' watch, his favorite biking jersey and of course the familiar pile of newspapers in every room. For a fleeting moment I shared Mother's frustration over Pops' junk. Immediately I slapped my hand, scolding myself for siding with her.

There was nothing here for me, other than the bitter reminder that Pops was dead. Being amongst his things made it all the more evident. I didn't want any of it. I wanted Pops. That's probably why Gam had sent me here. She wanted me to face loss head-on.

Resolved I'd done that, albeit for five minutes, I exited through the kitchen door. A
New York Times
crossword puzzle calendar pinned next to the door hung frozen on the month of June. I slid my finger over the ink where Pops had scribbled in meetings, and in bold red Sharpie circled my graduation date.

The majority of Pops' appointments were written in blue and black ink and read, “Meet John for coffee” or “Bike Alliance Ride.” On the day he died in tiny letters it said, “1:00 P.D.J. bring MM file.”

P.D.J. bring MM file? MM was code for Meth Madness. Was Pops still working on the story? What file? And who or what was P.D.J.? I mentally ran through Pops' friends—none of them started with the letter P. Had Pops found a new angle on the meth investigation? He hadn't mentioned anything the last time we'd spoken over the phone. I guess I'd been consumed with graduation and finals. Had I asked what was new with him?

Allowing the kitchen screen door to slam shut, I returned to the living room and checked each stack of newspapers and the pile of notes on the side of the couch. There was no reference to P.D.J. As I was about to fling the entire collection of old news into the kindling box next to the fireplace, a headline caught my eye.

I'm sure I printed this article when pulling research on Leaf, but I hadn't had a chance to read it yet.

A grainy picture of Leaf Green appeared above the fold on the front page of the paper. The photo showed him perched in a high branch of an evergreen tree. It reminded me of one of my favorite films from childhood,
Swiss Family Robinson.

Leaf held camp forty feet high in a makeshift tree house. The caption below the photo explained that in protest over deforestation in the area, Leaf lived in the tree for twenty-three days, receiving food and water from fellow protesters on the ground using a pulley system, where he'd hoist a basket of supplies with a rope.

I quickly read the article, which had been written last year by an environmental reporter for
The O
. I learned that while Leaf professed a deep commitment to all things green, his family's background was rooted in big oil. Originally from Texas, Leaf's father had procured tremendous wealth mining the oil fields of Texas—to the tune of millions. I whistled out loud. Leaf was loaded. And Leaf's christened name was Jonathan Walker. The article didn't mention when Leaf changed his name.

Reading on, I learned after the Walker family transplanted to Oregon a little over a decade ago, Leaf's father opted to try to his hand at logging. Apparently that venture rivaled his success in Texas, quickly making him one of the most prominent loggers in Southern Oregon.

Turning to the two-page spread inside the paper, I discovered photos of Leaf as a young child, with tightly cropped hair and tennis shoes on his feet, standing by his father's side. His father held a chainsaw as tall as young Leaf. In the photo I could see that Leaf disdained his family's legacy. His father's free hand clamped Leaf's shoulder, which pulled in the opposite direction. His innocent eyes pleaded to the camera, as if to say, “I'm not one of them.”

The last few paragraphs in the feature detailed Leaf's estrangement from his family. It formally began when he turned twenty-five and gained access to the trust fund his father established for him. On his twenty-fifth birthday Leaf held a press conference in the Shakespearean town of Ashland, Oregon. He announced that from that day on he intended to spend his entire trust on environmental projects. Leaf's father, through his PR team, made a one-sentence statement of his own. “Leaf Green is not my son.”

Wow. I'd missed this entire story line while consumed by my collegiate studies. Eugene, Oregon, where I went to school, served as a hub for hippies, hosting a variety of protests and sit-ins throughout the year. Leaf's name was notorious on campus with the far-left fringe. To them he was a hero, a modern-day Robin Hood, working to protect the forest. To the rest of us he was the poster child for marijuana legalization and a college dropout whose lazy radical methods were off the grid.

Did this change anything? Leaf had a wad of cash to burn and most likely an equal amount of pent-up family drama to hash out. He had also mentioned looking into other options. Was he trying to buy out the show too?