Feather for Hoonah Joe

by Marianne Schlegelmilch

  Julia Bruce opened her purse and removed a small card upon which she proceeded to write the name and phone number of the person who had witnessed the theft.

  “My friend, Claire, will help you. We have already discussed it,” Julia said. “But please, I want to caution you to be careful. Elzianne LaMonte is a shrewd and ruthless person. Claire has come forward at great risk to herself. Please do all you can to protect her.”

  “And yourself?” Mara asked. “Why are you doing this, and most importantly, will you be safe?”

  “There is little else that Elzianne LaMonte can do to hurt me,” Julia replied. “I have less than three months to live according to my doctors, who tell me that the cancer was so advanced by the time I sought treatment that there is little they can do.”

  Mara reached across the table to lay her hand on top of Julia Bruce’s. The woman looked healthy as best as she could tell, but still, she had no reason to doubt what she was being told.

  “It’s brain cancer,” Julia said, sensing Mara’s skepticism. “They say I’ll be pretty much normal until the tumor begins to invade key areas. I know that right now I look normal, and although I am beginning to have symptoms, it would serve no real purpose to burden you with those right now. Please trust me. This is something I had to do to try to stop Elzianne from hurting anyone else. You seem like a nice person. Please treat this as a gift to me—the gift of allowing me to right one wrong before I die.”

  With that, Julia Bruce rose from the table, steadied herself for a moment, gathered her things and walked away.

  “The check has been taken care of,” the server told Mara a few minutes later. “Please enjoy your day.”

  Chapter Fifty

  Seeking Serenity

  Stunned by what she had heard from Julia Bruce, Mara wandered the streets around Chez Maison de Soleil for the rest of the afternoon, stopping in the many shops and boutiques along the way to try to—as she told Doug on the phone—equalize.

  She had already left a message for Julia’s friend, Claire, and left her the number for Dennis Connor Sr. as well as mentioning her desire that Claire contact him with her information ASAP. She had since received a text from Dennis Connor Sr. saying that he had been contacted by Claire and had taken a deposition from her.

  Doug had told her that he would be talking with Dennis Connor Jr. about correlating his own photographic evidence with his father and Dennis, Jr. had returned a text saying that his father had also taken a deposition from him regarding what he had witnessed while working at Beachmoppers.

  The rest could wait for now, and so she wandered and shopped, even taking a walk along the Hudson River. How strange to see a river confined within the cement walls of skyscrapers, overrun by bridges, its banks lined with miles of barges and freight docks.

  She had seen rivers this way much of her life, but after having lived in Alaska and having seen them in their natural state, the sight left her shaking her head at the way the earth had been violated. She had never considered herself an environmentalist per se, and it could be argued that progress and development had benefitted her as much as it had the rest of mankind, but she still loved to see the wild rivers—essentially untouched by man in any kind of permanent way, and so the walk did little to soothe her psyche.

  She got back to the TriBeca loft around six, having picked up takeout on the way there. She ate out on the balcony, watching the hustle and bustle of the traffic move by on the street below. It created a monotonous din against the emerging coolness of evening. She tightened the sweater she had thrown over her shoulders and when that wasn’t enough to ward off the evening chill, she stuck her arms into the sleeves and buttoned it up.

  Strange to feel so cold here when she was from Alaska, but the humid air, mixed with the smells of the city and her own fatigue had lessened her tolerance for discomfort. When a chain of police cars and rescue vehicles roared by, piercing the dusk with their shrill and distressing squeals, she went back inside, pulled the curtains, and made herself a cup of hot tea.

  Doug wasn’t picking up his phone, so she texted him a message that she was going to go to bed early and would talk to him in the morning.

  After tossing fitfully for close to an hour, she got up and wandered around. There was a guitar on a stand in a corner. Why should it hurt anything to pick it up? She strummed a few cords, tuned it, and began playing in the classical style that she favored. Playing guitar had always relaxed her. Before long she felt drowsy enough to try to sleep again. This time, with the song Lullaby playing in her head, she closed her eyes, not opening them again until the hubbub of morning’s traffic woke her once again.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Albany

  Joe Michael found doing research in Albany almost as tedious as he did being within the confines of a big city. Even Juneau, as active as it could be with its influx of cruise ships and tourists in summer, and legislators meeting at the capitol in winter, did not feel this oppressive—or this old.

  It wasn’t that the city lacked appeal. It had a rustic quality despite its size, but buildings taller than four to five stories blocked the sky and the sun. A person couldn’t even watch the weather come in, and the scurry for cover he saw among the people when rain began to fall amused him. What made them so afraid of a little rain?

  The city was neat and tidy, with a colorful and obviously historic past. The two rivers that intersected there provided a soothing backdrop for the lush greenery, too, but the housing, although neat and charming, was far too dense for the tastes of a man who had spent the majority of his life in the Alaska wilderness, and the houses lacked the individuality of Alaska homes, leaving an impression of sterility of spirit.

  The people he met there were friendly enough, although much less willing to engage with strangers than would ever be the case in Alaska. No, Joe Michael was an Alaskan and for that he was grateful. If nothing else, being here in Albany, and around Rhinebeck and other eastern cities had given him a deeper appreciation of just who Sylvia LaMonte was as a person, and of what influences had formed her character.

  He had married Sal Kindle, but he had been forced to see the woman he loved as more than the crusty persona he had always taken at face value upon discovering that her real name was Sylvia LaMonte. Although the knowledge had left him uneasy, and somehow wondering if the two of them could really continue in the way they had thus far, he had pledged his love to her and she to him.

  The person she was inside was the person he loved, no matter which way she chose to present herself outwardly. This much he had learned, and so he would stay in Albany with Doug to research her past and to clear her good name. He would visit Rhinebeck whenever his wife felt the need, and he would cherish the fact that even though he was well into his 70s, life still held surprise and adventure for an old man, who had been born as an Alaska Native and who had been fortunate enough to have lived close to the earth for most of his long and interesting life.

  “Could use a cup of coffee,” he told Doug.

  “Me, too,” Doug answered. “And maybe a bite to eat.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Turbid Turbidity

  During his research at the library, Doug had discovered all the evidence he needed to help bring forth the truth about the Kindle and LaMonte families, including proof that Melinda LaMonte had changed her will just three months before her death—a time during which, according to Sal, her mother had suffered a stroke that had affected her ability to speak, and had left in question her ability to understand the spoken or written word. Prior to that, Sylvia and Elzianne had been slated to share their mother’s estate equally, but as it turned out, the new will had left the majority of the fortune to Elzianne.

  According to an affidavit provided to Melinda LaMonte’s attorneys by Elzianne just four months before her mother’s death, a private investigator hired by Elzianne LaMonte had submitted a statement alleging that Sylvia had revealed the truth about Melinda’s relationship with Henry Wilson Patterson to h
er and Bert’s attorney after her husband, Bert Kindle, had revealed it to her.

  The divulging of this information had violated the stipulations set forth in Johnson LaMonte’s will, and thus had put both Melinda and Elzianne at risk of losing their inheritance.

  This had been discovered when a series of letters written between Jameson and Bert Kindle had been intercepted by Driscoll Kindle, who was at that time in the process of assuming control of the estate from the terminally ill Jameson. Those letters, which included Jameson Kindle’s sentiment that by putting this all in writing, there could never be any confusion about his intent after his death, had been included in the report on file from the private investigator.

  Apparently Jameson Kindle had revealed the truth to his son, Bert, in a fit of conscience—a surprising shift for a man whose own head had so been turned by the charming Melinda that he had been blind to her attempts to implicate the son he was now confessing to.

  In the correspondence with his son, Jameson had made it clear that he had already turned over the management of the secret and the estate to Driscoll due to his pledge to monitor Johnson LeMonte’s estate.

  “Loyalty to a friend is priceless,” he had said, “and a man cannot claim friendship to one to whom he cannot be loyal. I must warn you though, that Driscoll will aggressively pursue Johnson LaMonte’s instructions.”

  Jameson had further advised Bert that he and Sylvia would be wise to retain the secret of Elzianne’s parentage, pointing out that Sylvia’s inheritance had been generous and unexpected, and to reveal the truth would be to risk the furor of Elzianne LaMonte, who was as devious, desperate, and conniving as her mother.

  “Be assured,” Jameson had written, “that Elzianne LaMonte will stoop to any low to protect her interests. You have little to lose by remaining quiet, but Melinda and Elzianne have everything to lose if the truth about Elzianne gets out.”

  Although the revelation had ultimately gone no further than Sylvia and Bert Kindle, the fact that it had the potential to be revealed had frightened Melinda and Elzianne, who stood to be discredited as legitimate heirs if the truth should become known.

  With Melinda being on her deathbed and now at risk of losing everything she had spent her life fighting for, her lawyers had drawn up a new will to protect both Melinda and her love child. That will had been registered thirty days before the death of Melinda LaMonte. Jameson Kindle had died shortly thereafter, never having been told by Driscoll that Melinda had learned of his betrayal.

  Doug had also uncovered proof that during this time Sylvia LaMonte and her husband, Bert Kindle, had been out at sea and that even after learning of the change in the will, had taken no steps to challenge it.

  Coincidentally, both Bert Kindle and Melinda LaMonte died soon thereafter, leaving Elzianne an heiress and Sylvia a grief-stricken widow, who had shown no inclination to engage with her sister or to challenge the new will, even though records would show that her inheritance had been a fourth of what Elzianne had received.

  Even now, Doug scratched his head as he tried to remember how it had all come together, and how he had been left with the shocking realization that all of the hostility and suspicion about the Kindle family and about Sylvia LaMonte had been nothing more than a smokescreen generated by Melinda LaMonte to cover up the truth about Henry Wilson Patterson, and to protect her own interests.

  In the end, Melinda LaMonte had been backed into a corner from which only a devious and conniving plot of desperation could help her retain her husband’s wealth for both herself and for her illegitimate daughter.

  Presumably, because of his love for Melinda, Henry Patterson had never questioned the facts that Melinda presented to him, and had remained silent as she requested out of loyalty to her. He had, via his silence, allowed Johnson LaMonte to claim the child that he knew was his own, knowing that this would protect Johnson LaMonte’s status as a conservative leader in the tight-knit community of Rhinebeck, where although such things happened, they were never openly discussed. It could also be presumed that the fact that his daughter would now enjoy a life of privilege served as an additional incentive.

  In the end, Henry Patterson, like Melinda’s daughters, had come to realize that he had been nothing more than a pawn in her grand scheme to retain her position as the rightful heir to Johnson LaMonte’s assets, but the knowledge did little to dampen his love for the mother of his only child. His confession, left in the hands of Father St. Jean, had been his only revelation of the truth and the only unburdening of his soul.

  Doug’s discovery of all this had been mind-boggling enough, which made it all the more unbelievable when he found a certified copy of adoption papers, which showed that a woman named Sylvia Kindle had given up a daughter to a couple from Boston thirty-eight years ago—a time frame which coincided with the time that Melinda LaMonte and her daughter Elzianne had ramped up their assault on Sylvia and during which time Sylvia’s husband, Bert Kindle, had died.

  Doug could barely absorb this. Besides learning of the turbid past of the LaMonte family and those close to them, another previously unknown fact about Sylvia LaMonte had now emerged. Who could then blame her for having assumed a new identity, yet, what else was out there left to be discovered about Joe Michael’s wife?

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Joe Michael said.

  Doug backed out of the screen that showed the adoption papers, but not before emailing a copy to his phone. Joe could not know about this right now. Maybe there was a mistake. Why couldn’t he think?

  “I’m just tired, Joe,” he lied. “My head is splitting. Let’s stop for today and go find something to distract us—maybe a movie or a couple of drinks or something.”

  “I could use a day away from all this,” Joe answered.

  “You drive, okay?” Doug said, surprising the old man.

  “Yeah. Sure. No problem,” Joe answered.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Jane

  Doug had already called Mara and asked if she wanted to come back to Rhinebeck for the weekend as he and Joe had decided they needed a break from all the research. When he called Sal to tell her to expect Mara about midday, Sal told him about the busy weekend she had planned. The committee that had formed to erect a memorial to Monsignor St. Jean was holding a fundraiser on Saturday evening that would feature an auction as well as local entertainment.

  “We’re all coming in Friday afternoon,” Joe said when he talked to his wife a while later. “I guess we’re available to help with the fundraiser if you need us.” Indeed she did need them, if for nothing more than to have some familiar faces around. Sal’s stay in Rhinebeck so far had been pleasant, but she felt alone and off her turf, and she missed her husband as well as the young couple that she and Joe called “the kids.”

  By Friday evening, everyone had gotten together at the restaurant across the street from the motel and had filled each other in on what they had learned. Since everything was now in the hands of Dennis Connor Sr., now was a good time to sit back and wait. Helping Sal with the benefit for Monsignor St. Jean would be a nice diversion. So would some quality time between Sal and Joe, as well as Doug and Mara.

  That night, Doug looked at Mara as she slept. He had told her everything except for what he had learned about Sylvia LaMonte having given birth to a child thirty-eight years ago. He wasn’t sure why he chose not to tell her that. Right now, there were a lot of things he wasn’t sure of.

  He had decided not to tell Joe either. He needed some time to think this through—to think of any and all ramifications. Besides, was it really any of his business if Sal had given birth thirty-eight years ago? It looked like it had been right about that time when she lost Bert and her mother. Maybe she had been overwhelmed, thinking she had no money. It could have been a lot of reasons. At least she had realized her limitations and given the child up for adoption.

  He could ask her about it, but was it his place to do so? If she had wanted him to know, she would have told him. A
nd Joe—maybe Joe already knew. Who was he to try to determine what information was private between a husband and a wife?

  It wasn’t until later, when he was scrolling through the files he had sent to his phone from Albany, that he scrolled past the adoption papers again. He went to the lobby while Mara slept and hooked his phone up to the computer there, downloading and enlarging the file. He then printed it on the printer provided by the hotel and began to study the document.

  The child had been a female, born in May and given the name, Jane, with the last name left blank. The mother was listed as Sylvia Anne LaMonte and the father as Bert Kindle (deceased). There was a notation that the child should not be told of the adoption and that Sylvia’s name would not be revealed to the birth parents or to the child. In a special notation, Sylvia LaMonte did request information about the adoptive parents and retained the option to contact them at a later date if she so chose. Otherwise, the adoption would be a private matter with her identity sealed for a time frame of thirty-five years.

  On closer scrutiny, Doug saw that a new birth certificate was attached to the original one that had the identifying information for the birth parents hidden. The print was so small, that he couldn’t make it out, so he found a copy machine in the lobby and blew up the print so he could read.

  A Boston couple with the same name as his wife’s parents had adopted the child. How odd. Benson wasn’t that unusual a name and when he googled the names of the adoptive parents, he found four others by the same name in New England alone. The child’s birthplace had been Bellingham, Washington, which came as no real surprise since Sylvia and Bert had been working in the Gulf of Alaska and other parts of the Pacific Northwest. But then he saw the one entry that made him gasp. The child’s birthday was the same as Mara’s!

  This could not possibly be true—or could it? Hadn’t it been odd that Sal had popped into Mara’s life when she needed her the most? Hadn’t she always affectionately referred to Mara as “Jane”? Could Sylvia LaMonte be his wife’s birth mother? In all he and Mara had been through, in all the strange things that had faced, never, ever would he have imagined this scenario.