The Alpine Escape (25 page)

“Well?” I inquired.

Jackie leaned back on the stool, running a hand
through her hair. “I got mixed up! I forgot I was a movie producer instead of a romance writer! Yikes!”

“So I gathered,” I remarked dryly.

Jackie sat up straight. Her ebullience had vanished. “Well. Desmond—he’s so sweet—says that there was no marriage license taken out between a James Malone and a Minnie or a Mary Burke during 1908 or 1909. Do you think that’s possible?”

I gaped. “I don’t know. Unless they were married outside of King County. Tacoma, maybe. Everett. It’s hard to say.”

Jackie and I stared at each other. We still had no answer to our puzzle. Desmond had done a lot of work for nothing. And he’d never be honored in a book’s dedication. Minnie and Jimmy’s union remained a mystery. Maybe it would stay that way.

I felt obligated to inform Vida that I would be home by late afternoon. While Jackie was putting in a load of laundry, I took the cordless phone upstairs. I packed my meager belongings even as I waited for Vida to answer the phone.

She was in a hurry. Yes, Carla was back at work, already out taking pictures of a couple of gardens that had recently been landscaped. No, she hadn’t seen Ed and didn’t expect to. Certainly, Ginny was doing her best with the ads but was overwhelmed with the Fixer-Upper issue.

“I’m off to interview Rip and Dixie Ridley about their new deck. They put in a hot tub.” Vida sounded as if she didn’t approve. “Coach Ridley says he’s going to use it for motivation with the football team when the Alpine Buckers start practice at the high school. Honestly, it’s a wonder they won’t all drown. What’s wrong with a regular bathtub?”

I could offer Vida no justification for Coach Ridley’s
game plan. A bunch of beefy Buckers wedged into a hot tub might make an amusing photo later on. But I put the idea on hold. It was a good thing, because Vida didn’t give me a chance to talk.

“Your son called this morning. He didn’t realize you weren’t here. Don’t you keep Adam posted with your whereabouts?” Vida’s voice held a note of reproach. Again.

I hadn’t, and Vida knew why—my decision to leave Alpine had been made on short notice. Adam was with my brother. I wasn’t worried about either of them, not any more than I ever was. And I doubted that Adam was worried about me. Ever.

“What did he want? Is he okay? Is Ben all right?” Now I
was
worried.

“Yes, yes. Their flight has been changed for next month.” Suddenly, Vida’s tone changed. “Emma, are
you
all right?”

“Sure, I’m fine. Why?” Vida’s abrupt transformation made me wonder.

“Well, you called Milo last night. I found that odd.”

I closed the lid of my suitcase. Vida’s pipeline was working efficiently as usual. One of her nephews, Bill Blatt, was a deputy sheriff. “It’s no big deal, just some information for the people I’m staying with. You know, Mavis’s daughter and her husband. I’ll tell you about it when I get back.”

“Oh! Mavis’s daughter! So that’s where you are! Why didn’t you say so?” Vida sounded faintly put out. Maybe she really had thought I was in a love nest.

We rung off with mutual assurances, for her to hold down the fort, for me to drive safely. I immediately called the rectory in Tuba City, where Adam was residing with my brother. A soft voice I recognized answered. It was Violet, a thirty-year-old Navajo who worked as secretary, housekeeper, and Eucharistie minister
when she wasn’t being a registered nurse, a wife, and a mother of two. Ben hadn’t returned from saying Mass; Adam had just left for the dig. Should one of them return the call? I thanked Violet but told her no, I’d ring back in the evening. Violet’s soothing voice had calmed me. My son and my brother were fine, they would be coming to Alpine in less than three weeks, and we would have a summer family reunion. I tripped lightly down the stairs. It was a lovely morning, and I was going home.

I was back in the kitchen when I reminded myself that so far, my trip was a failure. Yet for some reason I didn’t seem to care.

Jackie knew she couldn’t avoid the grocery store forever. She also knew she had to stock her cupboards with more than the basic items I’d picked up Wednesday afternoon at Safeway. I volunteered to accompany her on a shopping expedition.

“I’ll run interference to keep you away from veteran mothers,” I promised. “I will spare you gruesome stories concerning veil of pregnancy, toxemia, and conniption fits.”

Jackie took me up on my offer. At precisely nine o’clock we headed for the supermarket. I was browsing in produce while Jackie studied meat and fish. It seemed to me that she knew nothing about vegetables except for celery and green beans. I decided to introduce her to eggplant and broccoli and cauliflower. Com was in season, of course, so I chose a half-dozen ears, some white, some yellow. Pleased with myself, I was contemplating brussels sprouts when I heard a familiar voice at my elbow.

“Hey, don’t tell me you can cook, too! Why don’t we say to hell with it and run off and get married?”

With a grimace I turned to face Leo Walsh. “Gee,
Leo,” I said with more sarcasm than I intended, “how come your body isn’t being washed ashore off Agate Beach? I thought you would have jumped by now. Instead you’re scouting wholesome vegetables.”

Leo’s expression was mocking as he fingered a turnip. “I’m getting tomatoes to make Bloody Marys from scratch. What’s your excuse? I thought you didn’t live here.”

I uttered an impatient sigh. “I don’t. I’m shopping with a friend. Why don’t you grab a lime for your vodka martinis?”

Leo picked up a long, large turnip. “I kind of like this. What do you think?” He leered at me.

“Leo,” I said coldly, “you’re a mess.”

He flicked at the end of the turnip. “I’ll bet you’re wondering how I always seem to … turn up?”

I whirled away. “Hit the road, Leo.” I didn’t want him to see my smile. I’m a sucker for bad puns.

“Lettuce,” he was murmuring. “Let us … what?”

Over my shoulder I managed a faintly appalled look. “Stop it. I’m leaving town in less than three hours. Good luck, Leo. Goodbye.”

“I’m taking the Greyhound at two,” Leo replied, mercifully replacing the turnip. “Where are you headed?”

“Mars.” I had turned back to the brussels sprouts. I had a feeling Jackie wouldn’t go for them. I reached for some peas instead.

“You got your car back?” Leo’s voice held a note of envy.

“Almost.” I was forced to look at him again. I couldn’t stay in produce forever. On this Friday in late July Leo Fulton Walsh wore a faded plaid summer-weight shirt, gray Dockers, and the same loafers he’d had on in the library. The hollows under his eyes were dark, and his gaze seemed haunted rather than bloodshot.

Haunted
. I recalled what Paul’s aunt Sara had said about Sanford Melcher. His eyes had seemed haunted as he wandered through the Rowley house, composing his poems and playing the piano. Sanford had ended up in an institution, apparently the result of losing a son in World War II. Or maybe it had been more than that; maybe he’d always been on the verge of madness; maybe he’d cried for help, but no one had heard him.

“I’m going home,” I said finally in a quiet voice. “I live in Alpine, up on Stevens Pass.” Noting that my words didn’t seem to mean anything to Leo, I amplified: “It’s in the mountains outside of Everett.”

Leo’s face fell. “You’re not headed for Seattle then?”

I shook my head. “No. Is that where you’re going?”

“I was.” Leo’s gaze went beyond me, somewhere in the vicinity of the chives.

The Kingston ferry plied the waters of Puget Sound between the Kitsap Peninsula and Edmonds, a suburb north of Seattle. I planned to hit the 1-5 freeway out of Edmonds, hook on to the 405 link that went east, get off by Monroe, and head up Highway 2, also known as Stevens Pass. But it was possible to drive to Winslow on Bainbridge Island and catch the ferry that went right into downtown Seattle. I could reach 1-5 from there, take 520 across the Evergreen Point Floating Bridge, and get on 405 in the maze of eastside suburbs. It would take a little longer, but not much.

“I’ll pick you up shortly after noon,” I said. “Where’s your motel?”

Leo showed no sign of amazement at my generous offer. He was staying out on Highway 101, just inside the city limits. “I don’t have much luggage,” he added. “I’ll be waiting in front of the motel office.”

Briefly, we strolled the aisle side by side. Leo bagged a couple of Rome Beauty apples; I sniffed a cantaloupe to test its ripeness. A sense of panic overcame me. Was
I crazy to offer a ride to a virtual stranger? Leo Walsh could be wanted in eleven western states for all I knew. He might be a serial killer. He could be the Root Cellar Rapist reincarnated. Distractedly, I dumped the cantaloupe into my grocery cart.

But we’d be traveling in broad daylight on a busy highway. The ferry would be jammed with summer traffic. Before Leo got in the car, I could always pat him down for weapons. The idea made me smile. He noted my droll expression and jiggled my cart.

“What’s up, Emma Lord? Are you thinking about pulling off the road and trying to ravish me?” Before I could answer, he gave a sad shake of his head. “Don’t bother. You’d be beating a dead horse.”

“Leo …” I was exasperated. “Has it ever occurred to you—or any other man I know—that sometimes women aren’t thinking about sex? Once in a while we look at a man and consider him as just another human being. I realize that’s a pretty tough concept for men, but for women it actually works that way. Honest.”

On the other side of potatoes, onions, and summer squash two older women were standing in front of the frozen-food case, staring. It seemed that Leo and I were making a habit of drawing an audience. At the far end of the aisle I spotted Jackie, pushing her cart past dairy and wearing a dazed expression. I didn’t want her to see me with Leo; I certainly didn’t want her to find out that I planned to give him a ride.

Leo had started his comeback, but I waved him into silence. “I’ve got to run. I’m meeting a friend.” Seeing the disbelieving look in Leo’s eyes, I jerked my head in Jackie’s direction. “There. I’m meeting her in cheese.”

Jackie had fewer than a dozen items in her cart. “It’s all so confusing,” she complained as I briskly led her to the fresh pasta section. “I never really shopped for groceries until I got married. My roommates always did it.”

Her lack of experience showed, but it wasn’t up to me to teach Jackie the rudiments of food buying. For the next twenty minutes we scooted up and down the aisles. When I figured she had enough supplies for balanced meals to last a week, we checked out. The total was a hundred and seventeen dollars and fifty-three cents. Jackie was dismayed.

“I never spent that much on groceries in my life,” she moaned as we loaded the Honda’s trunk.

“That’s because you’ve been eating junk, which costs more in the long run,” I said sternly. “Shop once a week unless you’re having company. Pay attention to the specials. Use coupons. Buy things like hamburger and rice in bulk. Didn’t your mother teach you anything?” I couldn’t believe that the practical Mavis had sent her daughter out in the world so ill-equipped to run a household.

Once more Jackie appeared tearful. “Cans. We should have bought lots of canned food for the poor. I keep forgetting. The only things I’ve given them were some marinated artichoke hearts and chocolate-covered ants we got at one of the wedding showers. Was that so wrong?”

It didn’t sound exactly right to me. But I couldn’t handle Jackie’s peculiar attitude toward charity and nutrition at the same time. I sighed and closed the trunk. “Jackie, excuse me. I feel like an aunt. I’ve never raised a girl. I should keep my …” I stopped, my eyes widening. “Olive,” I whispered. “We never checked on Olive!”

Jackie’s sorrowful gaze followed mine over to Lincoln Street. I was looking in the direction of the museum. Jackie wasn’t. “Olive,” she repeated after me, her voice dull. “Olives and double cheese and Canadian bacon and green pepper. Emma, I can’t stand it.
Please
.” Her knees buckled; her fingers were entwined in a pleading gesture.

There wasn’t time to argue with Jackie. The courthouse clock was going on ten. I took the wheel, driving us over to Lincoln Street.

“Who’s Olive?” she finally asked as I braked in front of Gordy’s.

“Olive Rowley, the forgotten woman. Cornelius’s first wife, the mother of his children.” We were again blocking traffic. “Go. I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

I found a parking place in the block below the museum. To my relief, Tessie Roo was on duty. Her smile was wide when she saw me. While she hunted for the appropriate file folder, I told her what we had learned or surmised since the previous night.

Tessie was impressed. “I’m going to write down as much of all this as I can without jeopardizing my genealogical integrity. Much of it can be verified. The part about Walter Malone is shocking.”

“If we figure this whole thing out, there may be more shocks,” I said wryly. “We might hang a killer on the Rowley-Melcher family tree. That won’t do them any favors.”

Tessie didn’t agree. “There’s never any harm in the truth. It’s the deep dark secrets that cause problems. Part of growing up is facing the fact that nobody is perfect, including your ancestors. Ah, here’s Olive Rowley.”

The first Mrs. Rowley was there, all right, but only in an obituary. Born Olive Ross in 1847, in Bridgeport, Michigan, she had married Cornelius in 1866. She had joined her husband in Port Angeles in 1895 after he had jumped his first land claim.

A handwritten note was scrawled in the margin of the newspaper clipping. I couldn’t decipher it. I asked Tessie if she could read the uneven script.

“I should think so,” she replied, squinting at the page. “This was done by some busybody before me who knew all the local scandal. I’m rather used to it by now.” A sharp chortle erupted from Tessie’s throat. “Well! That’s to the point! It says ‘Died of syphilis’! That makes you think, eh?”