The Alpine Escape (20 page)

Jackie was beginning to twitch, too. “What happened to her?”

“My wife? Got cancer and died twenty years ago. I tried to teach myself to cook, but it wasn’t any good. I ate out all the time till I came to this godforsaken place.” Flint’s gaunt features were etched with aggravation.

Jackie gritted her teeth before she spoke. “I meant Minnie Burke. You must have been around when she … went away.”

The watery eyes glared at Jackie. “She went away? Probably did. I don’t recall. After the fire we moved over to Ennis Creek while the new place was being built. When we got back, everything had changed.”

I inched forward on my chair. “Everything? Like what?”

Flint gave an indifferent shrug. His face was masked with boredom. “What I said. Old Cornelius was dead, Smooth-Bore and his family had moved, the Frenchie was gone, too. I suppose Minnie Burke went with ’em. No real loss—she was another foreigner you couldn’t understand half the time. The only ones left were Eddie Rowley and that old bat he married. And her nambypamby son. Eddie was all right, but I steered clear of the rest of ’em. The old girl—Lena was her name, but you had to call her Mrs. Rowley.
Everybody
had to kowtow to that one. She was always ranting and raving about this cause or that. I’ll say one thing for her, she pitched in when we put through the port bond issue back in Twenty-five. Old Lena helped close down all the businesses that day to man the polls and get out the vote. There was a few that didn’t like it, but we gave
notice that their opinion wasn’t real popular.” Jerkily, Flint sat up. His thin fingers clawed at the sheets. “Where’s that grub? They’re late.”

Giving Jackie a discreet nod, I stood up. But I had one last question for Flint Bullard. “When was the fire that burned down your first house?”

The old man answered promptly. “September sixth, 1908. We moved back in the day before Christmas, same year. As fires go, it wasn’t much, just enough to put us out of house and home. Now back in Oh-seven, there was one hell of a forest fire in the Sol Due Valley.…”

We thanked Flint Bullard for his time and trouble. He didn’t say that we were welcome. With a querulous gesture he muttered something about a “bunch of bullshit. Nobody wants to hear about the important stuff …”

Eager to escape, I almost fell over the tiny figure leaning on a metal cane. In the process of righting the little old woman, Jackie ran into me. We staggered and struggled, gaining the attention of two elderly men and a nurse’s aide.

I apologized, but the old lady didn’t seem perturbed. “I was listening in. Why not?” she demanded in a wispy, lisping voice. “What else is there to do in this place except make scrapbooks and play bingo? I’ve never been one for worthless pastimes.”

“It’s fine,” I said hastily. I couldn’t say much else, being an eavesdropper by profession.

“He’s such a windbag,” the old lady declared. The wispiness of her voice didn’t detract from the accusation. “I’m Clara Haines.” She put out a birdlike hand.

The cart containing the supper trays was moving toward us. Jackie and I stepped aside. Clara didn’t budge. “I’ve known Flint since he was knee-high to a grasshopper,” she went on as the orderly rerouted his cart.
“He’s a conceited bully. What did you want to know about Minnie Burke?”

Swiftly, I glanced at Jackie. She was looking startled but game. “Is there somewhere we can sit down?” I inquired of Clara Haines.

The visitors’ lounge was just around the comer at the end of a short hall. At this time of day it was empty. We sat on turquoise Naugahyde chairs and noted the view of the strait. Clara reached into the pocket of her housecoat and pulled out her dentures.

“My lower plate,” she announced, then inserted it in her mouth. “It rubs my gum. I’ve got a sore spot right here.” She pointed to her wrinkled cheek.

It was well after five and I was growing anxious to leave the nursing home. The arrival of the food cart hadn’t improved the smell that clung to the atmosphere like a noxious fog. In theory my heart went out to these old folks; in practice I was antsy to get back to a world that included dinner in a restaurant with a view.

But Clara Haines wasn’t one to dwell on herself. Neither did she seem interested in who we were. Or maybe she had been lurking at the door long enough to know.

“I knew Minnie,” she said. “I’m not going to tell you how old I am, but when I was a girl, I lived down the street from the Rowleys and the Bullards. The house is gone, but we had berry vines all over the backyard and my brother and I used to sell them to the neighbors. Five cents a box. Blackberries, mostly, but some raspberries and boysenberries, too. Mrs. Rowley—the French wife—loved raspberries. It was Minnie, though, who bought them for her. That was because Minnie was the one out in the yard watching the children.” Clara Haines paused, adjusting her dentures.

“Minnie was a livewire, quick to laugh. She was a hard worker, too, especially for a little thing. You can imagine that with two Mrs. Rowleys and one Mrs.
Malone, it wasn’t easy to satisfy the women of the house. Minnie had that Irish brogue, and sometimes my brother and I didn’t always understand her jokes. Teasing was more like it. We were sorry to see her go.”

A couple in their middle fifties escorted a large woman with sparse white hair into the lounge. They nodded, then sat in the farthest corner from us. I suspected that they had stopped by after work to call on Mother.

“Where did Minnie go?” Jackie asked, sounding a bit breathless.

“I don’t know,” Clara replied, frowning. “Flint Bullard was right about that part. After Mr. Rowley died, it seemed as if most of the family—including Minnie—went away. We hadn’t called on the neighbors after the berry season in August, but that fall my folks were hard up and my mother decided to sell some of her jam to make ends meet. We took a wagon filled with jars around town, but Mrs. Rowley’s maid slammed the door in our faces. That was Mrs.
Edmund
Rowley I’m speaking of. The other Mrs. Rowley was gone, so was Mrs. Malone, and Minnie, too. My brother and I didn’t bother to go back the next summer.”

The time frame was shrinking. Cornelius Rowley had died in May; Clara had peddled her berries in August; the Bullard house burned in September; the departing family members were gone by December when the Bullards returned.

“Do you remember exactly when you were selling the jam?” I asked.

“Not exactly.” Clara wiggled her jaw. “It must have been in late October because the leaves were on the ground. My brother was younger and I recall having to speak to him about rolling around in the piles that had been raked up. We didn’t have many spare clothes if he ruined what he was wearing.”

I tried to guess Clara Haines’s age. She was remarkably unlined, especially for such a thin woman. I doubted that she was five feet tall. Her shoulders were faintly stooped, and she had walked to the lounge with a pronounced limp. Still, her mind seemed as clear as her hazel eyes. If she had known Flint Bullard forever, she must be at least as old as he was. Even older since she’d implied as much. Clara had to be a hundred. I marveled at her well-being.

While I was marveling, Jackie was interrogating. “Was the second Mrs. Rowley a good wife? Were Carrie and Jimmy Malone a happy couple? What about Minnie? Did she have a boyfriend?”

“My, my!” Clara fanned herself with her hand. “One thing at a time, dear. I couldn’t tell you about Mrs. Cornelius Rowley. I don’t think my mother approved of her, though. But of course she was young, beautiful, and foreign. That made a difference in how she was accepted in those days. As for Carrie Rowley, I know she doted on that Irishman. Oh, yes, some people thought she married him out of desperation—afraid of being an old maid—but my impression is that she loved him quite madly.” Clara Haines stopped abruptly. Her hazel eyes were keen as she eyed us both in turn. “You must find me a loquacious old woman. I hope this is the sort of thing you’re interested in.”

“It’s perfect,” enthused Jackie. “It’s wonderful of you to remember so much! I suppose that happens when you’ve lived forever in a small town.”

“Oh, but I haven’t.” Clara came close to a smile but didn’t quite make it. Maybe she didn’t trust her teeth. “I spent forty years teaching astronomy at USC. I didn’t move back here until long after I retired. I won’t say when. Los Angeles became so difficult. Port Angeles is a better place for the elderly. They’re coming here in droves.”

There was no need to steer Clara back to the subject at hand. “Now Jimmy Malone was another matter. I think he was looking for the main chance. Or so my parents felt. An opportunist. To be fair, he seemed to treat Carrie well. He had to, I suppose, since she was the one with the money. And Jimmy was living under the scrutiny—not to mention thumb—of his in-laws.”

“I don’t get it,” Jackie said, wearing a very serious look on her face. “Why didn’t they move into a place of their own, especially after they started having children? I’d hate that, living with my relatives.”

Clara nodded with understanding. “How very true. There was talk that they were building a house, first on Pine Hill, then on the bluff overlooking the strait, and finally way out by Morse Creek. Nothing ever came of the plans and they left town. Perhaps it was just as well. I don’t think Carrie got along with her sister-in-law, Lena.”

“And Minnie?” Jackie urged. “Did she create any problems for Carrie and Jimmy?”

“Minnie?” Clara’s hazel eyes widened. “Are you suggesting that Minnie and Jimmy were romantically linked?” Clara paused briefly. Jackie gave a nod; I remained silent. “I understand why you might think so. They were both from Ireland, but so were a great many others at the time. Indeed, I have a vague sense that they may have courted early on. But once Carrie took a fancy to Jimmy, he wouldn’t have given Minnie the time of day. Besides, she had her sights set on someone else. Perhaps she was an opportunist, too. You can’t blame those emigrants. They came to this country to better themselves. Marriage was one way to do it.”

“Do you know who Minnie was after?” Jackie was so eager that she ran the words together.

“Oh, certainly,” Clara Haines replied blithely. “Sanford Melcher. My mother always wondered why it didn’t work out.”

M
Y TRAVEL WARDROBE
was limited. I hadn’t expected to eat anywhere fancier than a pancake house. For Downriggers I would have to make do with a cotton denim shirt and a pair of khaki cotton slacks. The only outerwear I’d brought along was a black gabardine battle jacket. Fortunately, I wasn’t out to make a fashion statement.

Dressing quickly, I had time to make a phone call. An idea had been brewing at the back of my mind ever since I’d left Oak Bay. I went downstairs very quietly, not wanting to alert Jackie and Paul. They were still in the master bedroom getting dressed. I was particularly concerned that Paul not know what I was about to do.

I took the cordless phone into the music parlor, where I’d have greater privacy should my hosts come down before I finished my call. It was after six, and I knew that Sheriff Milo Dodge was on night duty this week. I also knew that he was usually bored stiff. Criminal activity in Alpine comes to a virtual halt during the dinner hour. Even the speeders slow down as dusk descends over the mountains.

I had not confided in Milo about why I was taking my little trip. I couldn’t, since he was part of the reason for it. Maybe I expected him to be thrilled to hear my voice. He wasn’t.

“Where the hell are you?” he asked in that laconic
drawl I knew so well. “I was just going over to the Venison Inn to grab a steak.”

“I’m in Port Angeles researching a story,” I half lied. “I need a favor. You aren’t in the middle of a big drug bust or hauling in local Mafia dons, are you?”

“I’m in the middle of a crossword puzzle. What’s a four-letter word for
sluggish?
”

“M-i-l-o,” I responded. “Or it will be, if you don’t shut up and listen. I don’t have much time.”

I heard the sound of a newspaper being folded. “Okay, what is it?”

“I want you to check on criminal records for the following people.” I gave him the list of names I’d put together in my head. “All of these will be from a long time ago, maybe back seventy years or more. Can you do that from your database hookup?”

Milo groaned. “Sure, and then I can go find Crazy Eights Neffel’s invisible bear and serve him with a warrant. Damn it, Emma, you’re as crazy as he is. This’ll take all night.”

“So what else are you doing, Sheriff?” I actually lowered myself to uttering a throaty laugh.

It was lost on Milo. “Who knows? Maintaining law and order, I hope.” He sounded truculent. “I’m not sure I can pull records on a statewide basis that go back this far.”

“Try. Please?” I turned meek.

“I’ll see,” he grumbled. “Don’t count on it. If I do, you owe me two steaks and a fifth of Scotch.”

“Done. I promise. You want candlelight, too?”

“Is that how you plan to cook the steaks?”

“Never mind. I’ll barbecue. Afterward, I’ll help you with your crossword puzzle. ’Bye, Milo.” I disconnected the sheriff. Milo should have asked me for a five-letter word for
evasion
. It would have been d-o-d-g-e, in more ways than one.

* * *

Downriggers was located in a mall by the city pier and the Chamber of Commerce. The view was predictably spectacular and the menu was pleasantly varied. The specialties included steaks and seafood. I chose salmon, which I hoped was fresh—and not left over from the run before the killer whales arrived.

Mike Randall was wearing a tie, which surprised me. I wondered if he thought we were on a double date. He apologized again for missing our session at the nursing home. Jackie and I spent the cocktail round relating our interviews with Flint Bullard and Clara Haines.

Paul was taken by his grandfather’s alleged romance with Minnie Burke. “Just think, if he’d married her instead of Grandma Rose, I wouldn’t be here. That’s amazing when you think about the quirks of fate.”

“Well, you
are
here,” Jackie said, fondling her glass of mineral water, “and that’s not the point. Why didn’t Sanford marry Minnie? I think she left Port Angeles with a broken heart.”