Authors: Mary Daheim
“It is if he was Sanford Melcher’s stepdad,” I replied. “And Eddie was Carrie’s brother.”
We had reached World War II. “Weird,” Jackie remarked. “Eddie’s sister may be in the basement under a plastic drop cloth. I wonder if we should put her in a box.”
I concentrated on the bunkers that had been built outside
of town to help protect Port Angeles from a possible Japanese invasion. “I think it’s called a coffin,” I said lightly.
Jackie didn’t see the humor in my remark. “We’ll do that after we make sure it’s Carrie. And find out what happened to her. Paul was going to phone the prosecutor’s office from work this morning. I hope he doesn’t press them to act. We need time to solve this on our own. Officials tend to meddle and muddle.”
I glanced at the mock-up of Peninsula College, then moved on past Modern Fishing Methods and Global Industry for Tomorrow. Port Angeles and Alpine had many things in common, including their semi-isolation. But my present hometown wasn’t as diversified. We had no window on the sea. Timber and tourism were the mainstays of Alpine’s economy. The logging business was as endangered as the spotted owl, and due to the cool summer the tourists weren’t flocking through town. I foresaw a winter with no snow, thus ruining business at the ski lodge. A vague sense of depression began to envelop me again.
Jackie was enveloped by another hunger attack. It so happened that Gordy’s had a second restaurant on Lincoln Street, two blocks from the museum and a stone’s throw from the public library. While Jackie ordered three slices of green pepper, black olives, and pineapple on double cheese, I browsed through the collection of memorabilia housed at the rear of the restaurant. Among the items on display was a woman’s tan felt hat faced with emerald velvet and decorated with a bright green bird. It was said to be from Paris, circa 1905. I was charmed, and also curious. If Cornelius Rowley’s second wife was French, had the chic
chapeau
belonged to her? But the busy waitress who was putting Jackie’s pizza in a cardboard box had no idea where or how the exhibits had been acquired.
“You can’t eat that in the library,” I cautioned Jackie as we emerged back on the street.
“I know,” she mumbled, gulping down the pizza. “You go ahead without me.”
I started to demur, then shrugged and went into the library. At the rate Jackie was devouring her eleven
A.M.
snack, she wouldn’t be far behind. I headed for the periodical section to go through old newspapers. I expected them to be on microfiche, but some were still in bound volumes. Almost immediately I became confused.
Before the turn of the century it seemed that newspapers had broken out all over the Olympic Peninsula like an epidemic. The simplest method would be to trace the history of the current paper,
The Peninsula Daily News
, but its origins only went back to 1916. I was running an agitated hand through my short brown hair when Jackie wandered up to the table where I was seated.
“Do you ever worry about women who live alone?” she asked in a whisper. Her chair scraped on the floor. “Especially when they get old. They’re so vulnerable, and often frail and handicapped. What happens when it snows?”
Trying to sort out
The Democrat-Leader
from
The People
from
The Herald
from
The Beacon
from
The Daily Pop
from
The Simoon
, I wasn’t ready to cope with lonely elderly women. At the rate I was going, I would become one of them. I couldn’t even figure out what the hell a
simoon
was.
“I live alone,” I said in a voice that made a middle-aged man at the next table jump.
Jackie brushed pizza-crust crumbs off her oversized Reebok T-shirt. “I remember how the old men used to come into the downtown library in Portland and sit all day and read the papers.… It was so sad. But I hardly ever saw old women there. Where were they? Afraid to
go outside? Shut in, needing food and medical attention, waiting for a neighbor to come …”
“Jackie.” I smiled kindly and patted her arm. “Why don’t you volunteer? As long as you’re not working and you’re feeling good, check in with some of the service centers. They’re crying for helpers, I’ll bet.”
Her heart-shaped face was bewildered. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”
Neither did I, but a sudden inspiration struck. I got out of my chair and went over to a computer terminal. Keying in
ROWLEY
,
CORNELIUS
under subject heading, the screen showed me a list of four articles. One was entitled “Tireless Tycoon Ushers in Gracious New Era—The House That Rowley Built.” A second appeared to be about a hunting trip in eastern Washington, a third featured Mrs. Rowley, and the fourth—and final—was an obituary. I started to rejoin Jackie when the middle-aged man at the next table swiveled around and gave me a cockeyed grin.
“I can’t imagine why you’re living alone,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “You’re too damned cute.”
With that, he fell facedown on the front page of
The New York Times
.
O
NE OF THE
librarians called for the medics, but I could tell from the reek of whiskey that the man was drunk. With a mixture of pity and revulsion I studied his profile, which rested on a story about Croatia. The features were regular except for the nose, which probably had been broken in a fight. The dark red hair was plentiful but graying. In repose, the man looked pale, almost ashen, but I suspected his complexion was usually flushed with broken capillaries caused by boozing. He wore tan pants, a denim shirt, and loafers that looked as if they had originally cost a bundle.
Jackie was shivering beside me, clutching at my arm. “Is he dead?”
I shook my head. “He’s drunk. He’ll probably end up in jail.” I sighed. “Maybe we should check his pockets and get some ID. He’s probably got a wife someplace who’s tearing her hair.”
The man didn’t stir as I reached into the back pocket of his slacks. The wallet, like the loafers, was well worn, but made of real leather. I flipped through it, finding a California driver’s license issued to Leo Fulton Walsh of Culver City.
“He’s a tourist,” I said in a low voice. Jackie and I had been joined by three librarians, four patrons, and the mailman.
“There’s an old beat-up car from California parked a
couple of places down the street,” volunteered the mailman. He was young, with fuzzy side whiskers and a rabbitlike expression. “I keep track of out-of-state cars. I’ve got thirty-nine states, five Canadian provinces, and the Canal Zone so far this summer.”
“Wonderful,” I responded. One of the librarians asked the postman if he thought the people from the Canal Zone had driven all the way to Port Angeles. Before he could answer, the medics arrived. Leaving the open wallet on the table next to the man’s outstretched hand, Jackie and I backed off.
“Now what do we do?” Jackie asked in a worried voice.
I shrugged. “Go about our business. We’ve got four articles on Cornelius Rowley. You can start with the one about the building of the house. You might get some decorating tips.”
But Jackie seemed fascinated by Leo Fulton Walsh. The medics were not. Mr. Walsh was just another boozer who had interrupted their gin rummy game. Still unconscious, the man from Culver City was whisked away. I could have sworn that his mouth curved into a smile.
The hunting-trip story, dated September 2, 1906, wasn’t very enlightening. Presented in the fulsome style of the early 1900s, the writer waxed on about Cornelius Rowley’s prowess as a hunter, particularly with moose. Mr. Rowley, “one of this city’s most prominent and successful businessmen, has used his manly skills and native cunning to triumph over all manner of game, from the lowly chukar to the fierce black bear. His palatial home on Lincoln Hill is filled with trophies.…”
I rolled my eyes. Ninety years ago there had been enough wildlife in the Pacific Northwest that a hunter could have herded it into his dining room with a broom. Cornelius Rowley hadn’t needed a gun to bag those trophies.
I sensed that his expertise had been highly exaggerated.
“Hey,” I said, giving Jackie a poke, “what happened to the mounted heads and stuffed birds?”
Jackie’s expression was blank. “Huh? Like antlers, you mean?”
I showed her the hunting piece. “Somebody must have redecorated since Cornelius Rowley died. Lena, maybe? Or Grandma Rose?”
Jackie shook her head. “Don’t ask me. I never saw the house until this winter. Emma, look.” She pointed to a paragraph midway down in the Rowley house story. “It says here that Cornelius hired an architect from Seattle to design the house. Two architects, I should say—Kerr and Rogers. Then he had his own mill build the place. Mrs. Rowley added her special decorative touches. Listen to this: ‘Like all Frenchwomen, Simone Dupre Rowley possesses an inherent ability to make her home a tasteful showcase for entertaining. Mr. and Mrs. Rowley expect to launch many gala evenings for the city’s social elite.’ ”
I gaped. “In Port Angeles? I mean,
then
, in Port Angeles? The town sounds too rough-and-ready for top hats and diamond tiaras.” But Mike had mentioned an opera house. Port Angeles hadn’t been as primitive as I’d envisioned it.”
Jackie was wearing a dreamy expression. “Think of it! A small orchestra, servants with silver trays, women wearing jewels and long white gloves and gowns with tiers of lace! It must have been wonderful!” She swayed on the stiff wooden chair as if she could hear the strains of a Strauss waltz.
I confiscated the article. Jackie’s quote was accurate and perhaps the glowing prophecy had come true. But I wanted to see the rest of the story for myself. The writer was obviously impressed by the grandeur of Rowley
House, calling it the “finest residence yet in Port Angeles, surpassing even the Van Kuren, Filion, and Grable homes. Construction is expected to take a full two years, with yet another year to finish the interior craftsmanship.” Several paragraphs were lavished on the architecture and embellishments; more were devoted to the sheer number of rooms. “When completed, the basement will be no dreary dungeon for laundry, storage, and furnace, but will include a sewing room, furnished with all the latest dressmaking accessories from Paris, and the first private billiards room in the city, with a hand-carved table made of teak from Ceylon.”
The article was accompanied by sketches of the house and a plan of the main floor. Except for the recent enlargement of the kitchen, it appeared that the architects had stuck by their original renderings.
I moved on to Cornelius Rowley’s obit, which had rated a full fourteen-column inches. Born in Saginaw, he had served under Major General John Sedgwick at Antietam and Chancellorsville. His postwar exploits were condensed until he moved west. Upon arriving in Port Angeles, Rowley had been a comet of activity. His job as a timber cruiser had encouraged him to strike out on his own, to build a mill, to purchase more and more tracts of virgin forest. At last he moved his family to the farthest comer of the country and erected his gracious home. His success was lauded by his peers and his hearty manner “was an uplifting source to all who knew him. Ever a generous man, Mr. Rowley’s employees revered him for his many kindnesses, particularly to those in need.”
Funeral services were held on May 14, 1908, at the parlors of the Lyden Company, with burial in Ocean View Cemetery. His survivors were listed as his widow, Simone; his son, Edmund; his daughter, Caroline; and three grandchildren, all of Port Angeles.
Jackie was absorbed in the Simone Rowley article. A two-column photo showed Mrs. Rowley in a box-pleated bolero jacket and long skirt, tailored shirtwaist, and a straw hat with flowers. She balanced gracefully on a parasol. A second smaller picture was primarily a headshot. A wave of dark hair fell seductively over her forehead. Simone wore a thick, pearl dog collar at her throat and showed off what I assumed to be a milky-white bosom and shoulders. All I could see of her dress were black ribbons and the top of a lace big-bertha collar.
“She got all her clothes in Paris!” Jackie exclaimed in awe. “Dishes and upholstery fabric and lace, too! Wasn’t she a lucky woman?”
Jackie handed me the bound volume, and I scanned the story. It was not about Simone Rowley but about the things that belonged to her. Simone’s sulky mouth seemed to mock me and the rest of the world; the faintly hooded eyes held sensual secrets. I didn’t think I’d want to do lunch with her, either.
“Mrs. Rowley isn’t given to philosophizing,” the writer concluded. “Of her Paris origins, her move to this country, and the journey to its most distant comer, Mrs. Rowley says little, except to shrug and murmur,
‘C’est la vie
.’ ”
“Mme. Cliché,” I remarked, hoping that Simone had been beautiful but dumb. “We haven’t raked up any scandal so far.”
Jackie slumped in the chair, her toes pointing at one another. She looked very young and quite ungainly. “It’s hopeless, isn’t it? How can we find answers to questions that are ninety years old? I feel like giving up.”
“Courage,” I said, ready to try for clippings on Edmund Rowley. “This is like an in-depth reporting
job. We have to keep digging. What we’ve found at this point is all surface material. Background, as it were.”
Jackie looked dubious, then brightened. “Hey, it’s lunchtime. Let’s go to Drake’s for pizza. It’s a U-bake place. We can fix our own toppings.”
I didn’t think I could bear the sight of another pizza. I was trying to figure out a tactful way to say so when a wiry little woman with tight blue curls hurried over to our table. Behind outsized spectacles her lively eyes almost matched her hair.
“You were in the museum,” she said in a husky voice that didn’t go along with her sprightly style. “Researching the Rowleys, I heard. I’m Tessie Roo, genealogist.”
We shook hands. Tessie’s collection of dangling chains jingled on her flat breast. “I was afraid I’d lost track of you,” she continued, her chipper smile in place. “The library turned out to be a good guess, eh?”
My own guess was that Tessie originally hailed from Canada. Her pronunciation of
out
as
oot
gave her away. I couldn’t help but ask.