“Typical,” Joe Michael sputtered as he walked with Sal and Mara to an indoor waiting area that would keep them out of the heavy rain.
“Really?” Mara asked.
“If they can mess with Alaskans, then that’s what they love ta do,” Sal spewed. “Danged righteous, bureaucratic, tight as—”
“I guess they’re just doing their job,” Mara said, in a weak attempt to dispel any friction between Joe, Sal, and the customs official, who was leading them toward the customs building.
Once inside, they provided their passports as well as the required documentation for the plane. Although everything involving Thor’s paperwork was in order, they still brought him out of the plane, with one agent snarling something about wolf-hybrids.
“I think our documentation will show that we are certified to own and transport—” Mara said, but the official just kept walking as if he didn’t hear her. “But, sir—”
“Ma’am, consider yourself fortunate that we aren’t going to find a reason to seize the animal right now,” he sternly interrupted her.
“Thank, you, sir,” Mara replied, biting her tongue to keep from telling the official that if he made one false move towards her dog that he’d be dealing with her as well.
“It’s not the first time they’ve acted like jerks to Alaskan pilots or tried to throw their weight around with the passengers,” Joe said quietly when Mara entered the building. “In all my years of flying, my one dream was to never have to fly through Canada again.”
“Well, I know a lot of Canadians that are very nice, although I know what you mean about how some of them treat Americans.”
She paused as her mind drifted back to the service station whose staff had refused to serve her in the Yukon several years ago during her move to Alaska. If it hadn’t been for Doug’s intervention, she might have had to stay hungry till the next stop some hundred miles down the road.
“I guess they’ve had reason to be thorough,” Mara said in the way of trying to dispel any tension. “You know how all the fringe people seem to come here and all.”
The three nodded in silent agreement. It was true that every adventure seeker, every person on the run, every near-broke runaway seemed to find his or her way up to Alaska for some reason.
“Might as well take it in stride,” Sal said, adjusting the fit of her shirt.
If they were lucky, no one would find the pistol she had tucked down into her cleavage. If they weren’t—well, no sense borrowing trouble.
“Your plane’s just about ready for you to reboard,” the customs official said, looking up from his intense focus on his computer as Sal turned to face him after tugging on her blouse to make sure that the gun didn’t show.
Fortunately for her and her travel companions, she had not triggered anyone into making a decision to strip-search a nearly eighty-year-old woman, because if they had tried, well that would be a story unto itself.
When the three travelers reached the Cessna, Doug was just lifting the last of their luggage into the plane.
“We’ll talk about it later,” he said, before anyone could say anything.
“You’re cleared for takeoff,” the customs official told him, “or there’s a motel down the road about a half mile if you feel like staying over. As long as the plane stays here and we keep the keys, there’ll be no added delays in the morning.”
“Thank you,” Doug replied, “But we’d just as soon get moving on.”
Even though the stop had set them back four hours and he was exhausted from re-loading the plane for the second time that day, there was no way Doug was going to stay in Prince Rupert.
For the next hour, sensing his frustration, no one said anything. Mara stared out the window, Sal read, and Joe Michael simply sat there, finally reaching into his pocket and feeling the feather resting there before picking up the newspaper that Sal had left in the seat pocket the other day. As the plane lifted off, leaving Prince Rupert behind, he proceeded to read yesterday’s news.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Destination: New York
Six days later, with the rest of the journey remaining uneventful, they landed at a private airport that advertised it was open to the public. It was small, rural, and only a few miles from Rhinebeck.
Doug had arranged to have a rental car waiting for them and they had already made reservations at the motel where Joe had stayed on his earlier trip.
The plan was for Sal and Joe to mingle with some of Sal’s old friends around Rhinebeck under the guise of being there for a vacation. As Sylvia mentioned to the church secretary at lunch a few days later, “While I’m here trying to honor my good friend, Monsignor St. Jean, I want to retrace the steps of my youth before it’s too late for me to travel anymore, but first we must get things rolling with his memorial.”
The truth was, that even though this was a fact-finding mission under the guise of a vacation, it did not take away from the fact that Sylvia LaMonte Kindle Michael had every intention of following through with a fitting memorial to Monsignor St. Jean. After all, he had been the loyal spiritual advisor to everyone in the parish for his entire adult life, and he had also proven to be her true and loyal friend. The least she could do would be to see that he was honored in return, and in a way befitting the sacrifices he had made to remain in Rhinebeck—sacrifices not obvious on casual observation, but that those such as one who had been raised there could understand so well.
Although Joe had agreed to attend several social functions with his wife, he was also determined to help Doug in any way he could, so he rented another car for his wife and gave her the keys before preparing to take off with Doug to the New York’s capitol city of Albany, about an hour away.
“We should be able to research just about everything we need to in the way of licenses, death certificates, wills, and just about any kind of public record we can find on the LaMonte and Kindle families,” he told Joe. “I’ve done plenty of that kind of research—you know, deep research on titles, laws, and the like for the fishermen’s lobby.”
“Should be interesting,” Joe replied, reaching into his pocket to feel the security of the feather. “I just hope we don’t learn about more than we can handle.”
“Well, first, let’s just see what we can dig up.”
Doug wanted to say more, to get Joe thinking along more positive lines, but the events of the last few years had taught him to dismiss nothing. Nothing was impossible. Nothing would come as a shock, no matter how surprising it might first appear. And so, too, nothing would deter them from their mission to exonerate Sylvia LaMonte, and free her from the lifetime of repression her mother and sister had inflicted on her tender spirit.
And Mara needed to know some peace. They all did. No, he would not be deterred from digging up anything and everything he could in clearing up this latest assault on their well-being. He owed it to his wife and to himself. He owed it to Joe and Sal, and most of all, he owed it to all the people that Elzianne LaMonte had tread upon in this life.
“We can drive back here every night, or we can just find a room in Albany and let Sal and Mara do their own thing,” Doug mentioned to everyone over dinner that evening.
By the time dessert had been served, they had all agreed that Sylvia would remain around Rhinebeck, Doug and Joe would do research in Albany, while Mara would go to New York City, where she would stay at Sarah’s friend’s apartment and do some investigating of both the New York Cultural Museum, and a certain Elzianne Jeanette LaMonte. Fortunately, Sarah’s friend would be gone on assignment to Europe for Mara’s entire visit, leaving her free to come and go as she pleased from the upscale loft in the TriBeca section of the city.
Thor would stay at the motel with Sal. He was safe there and everyone else felt better knowing that he and Sal would take care of each other while they were out doing their thing.
Chapter Forty-Eight
New York, New York
New York City was the polar opposite of Hoonah, Juneau, and eve
n Bellingham, but Mara quickly learned to find her way around the well-run city.
She spent the first couple of days getting acclimated—stopping for a bagel and espresso each morning, reading the many newspapers that were available on virtually every corner, and otherwise allowing herself to sink into the culture of the area.
She called Sarah several times, and for about half a day, the two thought that Sarah might be able to join her in the city, but B.D. suddenly came down with a fever, and so Sarah needed to stay in Palmer to take care of her son.
Doug called every evening so the two could stay up on what each of them was doing, and even Sal called once and reminded her to avoid making eye contact with New Yorkers even though it was such a natural part of Alaska living.
“Jest don’t do it, Jane,” Sal barked. “If there’s anything that’ll tag ya as a danged touri, it’d be that.”
On a sunny Wednesday morning two days later, Mara went to the New York Cultural Museum, paid the $27 admission fee, and signed the guest book as Mara Benson Williams, Juneau, Alaska (including listing her email and phone for notification about future promotions), a notation that did not go unnoticed by the museum attendant, who was a tall, thin, well-dressed woman with a nametag that read Julia Bruce.
“I nearly visited Hoonah this past year,” she said in a soft, well-modulated voice.
“I’m sorry that you missed the opportunity,” Mara answered.
Suddenly, Julia Bruce became all business.
“May I direct you to a specific area of the museum?” she inquired.
“I’d like to visit as much as I’m able to today,” Mara answered. “Do I begin here?”
Julia Bruce personally accompanied Mara to the elevator, suggesting that she begin on the third floor.
“Being that you are visiting from Alaska, you may find this exhibit quite interesting,” she said. “Once you are finished there, we have an unusual collection of rare porcelains from around the world, including a rare Edo Period Japanese porcelain that I believe was found somewhere near where you live.”
Julia Bruce pulled a small piece of paper from her pocket and studied it.
“Yes, it was found in Hoonah, Alaska—near Juneau,” she said stiffly.
Mara fought to maintain her composure, brushing her hands down her calf-length white trumpet skirt as if to straighten any wrinkles, before adjusting the matching peplum jacket.
“Why, thank you, Ms. Bruce. That does sound interesting,” she said, forcing a smile.
“Please let me know if I can be of further assistance,” Julia Bruce replied.
For both women, the encounter had been surprisingly stressful, although neither could be sure just why. It was with a great sense of relief that Mara watched the elevator door close, and with a subsequent sense of trepidation, watched it open again on the third floor.
She silently thanked Julia Bruce for having given her the heads-up about the display, for there, in every direction she looked, were artistically arranged pieces of what looked like the very tsunami debris that Sal and her company had been collecting all summer.
She looked around to see if anyone was looking, even scanning the ceiling for cameras that she felt certain were there, before discreetly taking several photos of the exhibit with her smartphone. Almost immediately, she emailed them to Doug—just in case anyone decided to confiscate her phone or something.
Feeling jittery as she did took her back to her days on the run from the South American drug cartels, so she didn’t linger, taking a stairway down to the next floor, glancing back over her shoulder several times as she hurried along.
She walked slowly through the area, before suddenly locking her gaze onto a solitary exhibit within a circular glass cage, before which stood an armed guard.
“My, but how lovely,” she whispered to the guard, who showed no sign of emotion and instead stepped backward slightly to allow her to view the contents of the glass case.
There, inside the tubular floor to ceiling enclosure, stood a tall pedestal that held one single object. It was Thor’s water bowl.
“All of this for one bowl?” she said, trying to engage the guard, but he stepped back into position again, not responding, and not allowing his gaze to meet her own.
“May I?” she asked, taking her smartphone from her purse.
“Of course, ma’am,” the guard replied.
And so she took pictures of the bowl from several angles, including one that captured the unique dip in the glaze that assured her that the bowl was Thor’s water bowl. Then she emailed the photos to Doug and to the Dennis Connors—both junior and senior—went down to the lobby on the elevator, bade her goodbye to Ms. Bruce, and hurried back to the apartment still trembling inside at what she had just seen.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Collaboration—of Sorts
When her cell phone rang the next morning, Mara wasn’t sure whether or not to answer. The caller ID said private caller and she had long ago learned to be cautious about opening herself up to those she didn’t recognize.
“Hello,” she said, silencing the ringtone of Hawaiian music that was meant to keep her in a positive state of mind.
“Is this Ms. Williams?” a woman’s voice said.
“This is Mara Williams,” she answered.
“Pardon me for disturbing you, Ms. Williams, but this is Julia Bruce from the New York Cultural Museum. You know—from yesterday?”
“Yes, Julia. Did I forget something?” Mara said, before taking a deep breath and hoping against hope that this call was not about the photos she had taken inside the museum while there.
There was a long pause before Julia Bruce spoke again.
“I know that you do not know me and—I hope I am not intruding by suggesting . . .”
As Julia Bruce paused, Mara could hear a deep sigh.
“Would it be an imposition if I asked you to meet me for lunch this afternoon, or as soon as it is convenient?” Julia Bruce said after regaining her composure.
This time it was Mara who hesitated.
“I know this seems unorthodox and forward,” Julia Bruce continued, “but I have some information that I would like—that it is imperative that I share with you. Information that will be of interest to you and your friends who operate Beachmoppers in Hoonah.”
“But how . . .” Mara gasped.
“I’ll explain at lunch,” Julia Bruce replied. “Can we meet at two at Chez Maison de Soleil? It’s about thirty minutes from you, but the food is worth the long drive. And don’t worry about a cab, I’ll send a driver to pick you up from a location of your choosing.”
“A driver won’t be necessary, although I do appreciate the consideration,” Mara answered. “I’ll see you there at two.”
“Yes, two,” Julia said before hanging up.
~~~
Chez Mais, as the locals called it, was indeed one of the finest restaurants Mara had ever visited. Thankfully she had followed Sarah’s advice and dressed in a conservatively upscale urban manner.
“Hello, and thank you for coming,” Julia Bruce said as she stood and shook Mara’s hand.
“It looks like the pleasure will be all mine,” Mara answered coyly. “At least I hope this is mostly social.”
“I’m sorry to say that as much as I would like to get to know you better, my reason for asking you here was to somehow present to you some information that I feel you should have.”
Mara was worried enough to order both a glass of wine and a small salad instead of one of the grand entrees she had wanted to try.
“Well, then I guess I’m all ears,” Mara answered. “Please begin, Ms. Bruce.”
“For more years than I can recall, I served in the position of first assistant and executive secretary to a woman named Elzianne LaMonte,” Julia Bruce began. “But when I was made to realize by her own actions that she had been taking unfair advantage of me for all those years, I left her employ and took the job as museum attendant.”
At the
mention of the name, Elzianne LaMonte, Mara was fully tuned in to Julia Bruce and whatever she had to say.
“Do you know her?” Julia asked.
Mara nodded. “Slightly. Please go on.”
“At the time that I left the employ of Ms. LaMonte, she was preparing for a lengthy stay in Hoonah, Alaska, for the purpose of scouting for and buying tsunami debris from the earthquake in Japan. That’s how I discovered Beachmoppers. Do you remember taking a call about a large party wanting to visit? About six months ago? You emailed me your contact info then.”
Mara nodded again, as if to indicate that she remembered, but the truth was that she fielded several calls a day about summer reservations and apparently there had been nothing about this one that had made it stand out in her mind.
“Because my only daughter had been planning her wedding for close to two years, and because Ms. LaMonte chose to callously disregard the importance of yet another major event in my life, I decided I had had enough of her selfish and self-centered ways and decided to leave,” Julia Bruce continued.
“First I made all of the travel arrangements that were necessary and then I left her employ and went on a two-week vacation to Hawaii. I had no sooner returned and taken this new position when the tsunami debris began coming in.
“At first it seemed essentially uninteresting from an artistic viewpoint, but then when she brought in the Edo period porcelain, I became very intrigued, especially when someone from the expedition—someone who had been there the day the bowl was, shall we say, ‘found’, and a former coworker—took me aside and said that Ms. LaMonte had stolen the bowl from the yard in front of Beachmoppers.”
Mara could feel the blood draining from her face. She glanced quizzically at Julia Bruce, then downward. Picking up her fork, she pushed her salad around on her plate, took a sip of Malbec, and looked squarely at the stranger who had just presented her with the gift of the truth.
“Am I to understand that you have definite knowledge that the dish was stolen?” she asked.
Feather for Hoonah Joe Page 12