Authors: Mary Daheim
He gave another dour laugh. “We’re about twenty minutes away from the dock. There isn’t time.”
“Try me.”
But Leo Walsh shook his head. “No go, Emma Lord. You seem like a nice gal. You don’t need it. Consider that you’ve done your good deed for the day. Get your car fixed and find yourself a stray dog to rescue.” He got up, gave me his crooked grin, and walked away.
I wasn’t about to chase Leo Walsh around
The Victoria Express
. Finishing my coffee, I sat at the table until we began to slow down for the maneuver into the ferry slip. If Leo really had been thinking about suicide, he wouldn’t attempt it this close to shore. I hoped that it had been a passing mood. Better yet, that I’d misjudged him.
Whatever the case, the interlude with Leo had saved me from thinking about myself. Now that I was almost back in Port Angeles, I could resume thinking about the Melchers and their mystery. Love and death, I mused, heading for the passenger debarkation area, were the themes of my aborted journey. They were also the themes of my life, and everybody else’s.
I went ashore in the sunshine, but I felt a big black cloud hanging over me.
Jackie Melcher was blooming like an English garden. “I did it!” she cried as I came through the back door. “I
got somebody in Seattle to check the marriage licenses! Hurry, hurry, I’ve got tons to tell you!”
As I entered the kitchen, I suffered a sudden pang of guilt. I should have brought a hostess gift or even a baby present back from Victoria. A Royal Albert plate, a Hudson Bay blanket, a wee tartan kilt—all had been in easy reach, if maybe out of my price range. But I hadn’t. Shamefaced, I offered my apologies to Jackie.
She waved my regrets aside. “Paul and I can go over to Victoria anytime. Sit, Emma, have some pop. Let me tell you about Meriwether and Bell.”
“Hold it—what about the marriage licenses?” I asked, accepting a cold can of pop from Jackie and clearing away a pile of paint samples from the nearest kitchen stool.
Jackie clambered onto one of its mates, not bothering to first remove a couple of mail-order catalogues. “Desmond will call back later from the King County courthouse, tomorrow probably. He’s a sweetheart. I told him I was a movie producer.”
I didn’t ask Jackie to elaborate on her lie. Instead, I steered her back to Meriwether and Bell. She grew serious and got out her notes.
“They weren’t too happy about it. Digging in the files, I mean. Mr. Bell sounded like he was about a zillion years old, but it turns out he’s the same age as Paul. His father’s the senior partner. I told him I was—”
I held up a hand. “I don’t think I want to hear—”
“—a romance novelist and I was using Simone Dupre Rowley for a true-life book.” Jackie displayed her dimples. “That’s how I found out how old he was. Mr. Bell, I mean. Richie. I told him the hero of my book was in his early thirties, and he said so was he, and I asked what he looked like, and he described himself, and I said, ‘Wow, that’s wild! My hero looks just like you!’ So then he agreed to get the files out and call
me back, which he did about an hour ago.” She relapsed into her serious mode. “Do you suppose he’ll want a free copy when it’s published?”
I sighed. “Jackie, just tell me what Mr. Bell—Richie—told you about Cornelius Rowley’s will.”
“Oh.” Jackie scrutinized her notes. “Cornelius Rowley left the house to Eddie and Lena, plus twenty-five thousand dollars. He left fifty thousand dollars to Carrie and her kids. The rest went to Simone except for some charities and five thousand to a sister in Saginaw.”
I considered the bequests. “It sounds fair. But it raises some questions, doesn’t it?”
“It does?” Jackie looked blank.
“Right. For one thing, how much
was
the rest?”
Jackie consulted her notes again. “It didn’t say in the will, but Richie checked some other records. He figured Simone got over a quarter of a million, including stock in the mill. That would have been a big fortune back then, huh?”
I nodded. “But why not the house? A widow usually gets the house. Did Cornelius know Simone wouldn’t stick around? Did he also know Carrie and Jimmy were leaving town? And what about the mill? Did Simone sell the stock? If Eddie ran the business into the ground, eventually the stock’s value would have been nil.”
Jackie was concentrating very hard. “Yes, I see.… Gosh, Emma, you’re good at this stuff. You take these bits and pieces of dry facts and give them meaning. It’s like magic!”
“It’s like journalism,” I said dryly. “If you’ve ever read a government press release, you wouldn’t be so amazed. Ask your mother.”
Still gazing at me with admiration, Jackie finally removed the catalogues she’d been sitting on and placed them next to the coffeemaker. “Carrie and Jimmy might
have been planning to move for some time. But did Carrie go with him?”
I related the interview with Claudia Malone Cameron. It took me awhile, trying to recapture all of the data and some of the nuances. Even as I told my tale, I sensed that something was amiss. It wasn’t just the basic inconsistency of who was whose mother but a feeling that there were other aspects of Mrs. Cameron’s account that didn’t mesh. I didn’t think she’d lied. More likely, she herself didn’t know the truth. Yet in going over the morning’s conversation, I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was wrong.
When I finally finished, Jackie jumped on the portion that had struck her as the most odd. “The sister—Julia—maybe she never got along with Minnie because she was older than the other two kids and knew she wasn’t their real mother. I mean, she was around four when the family moved to Seattle. She could tell the difference between Carrie and Minnie.”
“Good point,” I remarked, my mind racing in several directions. “But Walter, the brother, was only two and Claudia was a year or so old. It must have been confusing for such little tykes, having a mother and a governess. Today we call them primary caregivers and we speak of bonding. Maybe Minnie was closer to the kids than Carrie was. The two younger Malones might have been happier with Minnie than they were with Carrie. But Julia was old enough to understand.”
Jackie had gone to the refrigerator to get a bottle of mineral water. “Wouldn’t Julia tell the other kids?”
I pondered the question. “Maybe she did. Maybe Claudia and Walter were into denial. Or it was like when one sibling tells the other, ‘You’re not Mom and Dad’s real kid. You’re
adopted
.’ They might never have taken it in, especially if Minnie and Jimmy reinforced the idea that Minnie was their real mother. Then the
question is, Why would they do that? And getting back to Cornelius’s will, why did he leave the house and money to Eddie
and
Lena, but the other bequest was specified for Carrie and her children? Jimmy was left out. Or did I hear you wrong?”
I hadn’t. Jackie assured me that Jimmy Malone wasn’t mentioned in Cornelius Rowley’s will. “It was made in 1904, so Carrie was already married to Jimmy by then,” she explained. “The kids aren’t mentioned by name. It was one of those legal deals where they talk about lawful
issue
and
legal heirs
or whatever.”
Pensive, I sipped my soda. “Cornelius wanted Carrie to have control of the money. He passed over Jimmy. So if that’s Carrie in the basement, the three kids got the fifty grand.” I shot Jackie an enlightened look. “That, and another woman, make a motive.”
“Wow!” Jackie wiggled excitedly on the stool. “Jimmy gets control of the money because the three kids are minors, right? He’s in love with Minnie, so he bumps Carrie off! Emma, we did it! We’ve solved the mystery!”
I wasn’t quite ready to celebrate. “We’ve got an awfully good theory,” I admitted. “I wish I knew where the money went. Did your pal Richie say anything about a trust for the children or the administration thereof?”
“No.” Jackie was still rocking on the stool. “In fact, the only other legal papers he found—besides the stuff on Cornelius’s estate—had to do with Eddie and Lena. The mill, too. It went out of business in 1913.”
I winced. “Terrible timing. That’s just before the town got electricity and the railroad came in. If Eddie had held on, he might have made a go of it.”
Jackie stopped rocking. “Poor Eddie. He’s like the forgotten man. A domineering father, a bossy wife, no children of his own—nothing worked out for him except
that wood-basket invention. What happens to people whose dreams never come true? Are they crushed by failure? Do they stop dreaming? Do they give up hope and spend their lives on park benches feeding the seagulls and despising themselves? I’d like to tell every single person in the world that nobody lives in vain as long as they’ve loved somebody or had someone love them. How can I do that?”
I didn’t know. Jackie’s ruminations would have driven me crazy if they didn’t demonstrate her kind, if whimsical, heart. “Sometimes our dreams may be what we want but not what we need,” I replied. It was a pat answer, and of no help to anyone, myself included. Jackie gave me a quizzical look; I shrugged, feeling inadequate.
I was shaken from our philosophical mood by the realization that it was time to call Dusty’s. My watch told me that three o’clock was drawing nigh and the Jag was supposed to be ready by four. Using the cordless phone, I dialed the number for the auto repair shop.
A recording came on the line. “Hi, this is Dusty’s Foreign Car Repair. Our normal hours are seven to five, Monday through Friday. This Thursday, July 29, we will be closed at one o’clock in honor of our owner’s birthday. Dusty sends you his best wishes and accepts yours with his thanks. Happy motoring.”
It’s dangerous to slam down a cordless phone, but I almost did it. “Damn! It’s Dusty’s birthday! I hope he chokes on his cake! Why didn’t they tell me that?”
Jackie seemed unaffected by my dilemma. “I’ll bet it’s a surprise party. Dusty probably didn’t know about it. Don’t worry, Emma, I wanted you to stay the extra day.”
I had jumped off the stool and was pacing the kitchen. “But I can’t! I’ve got a paper to get out for
next week! It’s a special edition!” I felt like tearing out my hair.
Jackie had confiscated the phone book from me. “I know what let’s do,” she said, thumbing through the Yellow Pages. “Let’s call Mike and we’ll all go out to dinner. Someplace really nice like Downriggers. They’ve got a great view of the water.”
The only view I wanted to see was of my car with its engine running. I grabbed my handbag off the counter. “Come on, let’s go over to Dusty’s and see if the party is at the shop. Maybe my Jag’s ready and I can get it out of there.”
Jackie’s arguments were futile. She finally gave in, and ten minutes later we had found Dusty’s Foreign Car Repair. Unfortunately, we found it locked and shuttered. My Jag was nowhere to be seen.
I glared at the big black letters that read
CLOSED
. Unpredictable work hours were one of the hazards of small-town life. I knew that only too well from living in Alpine. Muttering curses, I allowed Jackie to drive me back to her house.
“You see,” she said cheerfully as we tooled down Oak Street, “it’s meant to be. I’ll call and make a reservation at Downriggers. How does six-thirty sound?”
It sounded like the toll of doom, but I tried to act enthusiastic. As soon as Jackie had phoned the restaurant and left a message at the college for Mike, I dialed
The Advocate
.
Vida was out. Carla was still sick. Ginny Burmeister, who is a borderline stoic, sounded upset. I explained my predicament, then anxiously asked how things were going at the office.
“Carla says she’ll be in tomorrow,” Ginny said slowly. “She still doesn’t feel good. She isn’t sick to her stomach anymore, but her head’s stuffed up. Peyts has put her on a decongestant and nose drops.”
I was thankful that Dr. Peyton Flake and my reporter were a romantic duo. At least I could be sure that Carla was getting professional tender loving care.
“Where’s Vida?” I asked.
“She’s taking a picture of Crazy Eights Neffel,” Ginny answered, still in a strangely nervous voice.
“What? We just ran something on that old nut. Why is Vida doing such a thing?” My House & Home editor was acting out of character. Something. must be going on, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear about it.
Ginny sighed. “Crazy Eights is up a tree in Old Mill Park. He says the bear is after him.”
“The … bear?” I remembered the bizarre story about the board games. “How long has he been in the tree?”
“Since last night. He says the bear chased him because he won.”
“He won the board game?”
“Yes, but the bear said Crazy Eights cheated. Crazy Eights says he didn’t. He wants Milo Dodge to arrest the bear. But Sheriff Dodge can’t find him, and Crazy Eights won’t come down out of the tree. The tourists think it’s funny.” From the serious sound of Ginny’s voice, she didn’t agree.
“Okay.” I was accustomed to small-town oddities. The picture of Crazy Eights up a tree would make for good filler. Page four, I figured off the top of my head. “Where’s Ed?”
Ginny was slow to answer. When she finally did, her response wasn’t very helpful. “I don’t know,” she said simply.
“Is he coming back this afternoon?” I glanced at my watch. It was after three-thirty. As lazy as Ed was in the past, he rarely left the office so early. “He must have a pile of work to do with the Fixer-Upper edition next week.”
“Well … actually, Ed’s gone. I’m working on the
special section. And the rest of the ads.” Ginny’s gulp plunked in my ear. “I kind of hate to mention it when you’re on vacation, but I suppose I’d better. Ed’s not coming back at all. He quit.”
I
HADN’T WANTED
a drink so much since my son Adam asked me how you could be absolutely sure a girl was a virgin. Now I felt like an idiot, but I had to ask Jackie if she had any serious liquor on hand. She didn’t. I’m not particularly fond of wine—I have no palate for it—and all the reds upset my stomach. I only drink beer when I’m with Milo Dodge.
I settled for another Pepsi. It crossed my mind that I could replace Ed with Ginny on a full-time basis. But while Ginny was eager and hardworking, she was too young and inexperienced. The older, conservative business men and women of Skykomish County wouldn’t be keen on a twenty-three-year-old advertising manager. Nor did I know if Ginny wanted the job. She seemed perfectly happy running the front office and occasionally pitching in with the ad side.