Carried to the Grave and Other Stories

by Leslie Budewitz

  “You girls splitting those huckleberry pancakes again, or you gonna live dangerously?” Tina, our waitress, asked as she set two cups of coffee on our table, unrequested but most welcome.

  My friend stared, disbelieving, but I laughed. Like most good waitresses, Tina has a fabulous memory. Order something twice and the next time, she’ll ask if you’d like your usual. I could not have remembered what I’d ordered here last week, let alone what my friend and I ordered last year, if my life depended on it, but to Tina, that was all in a day’s work.

  “As long as you still vouch for them,” I said.

  “You know it, darlin’,” she replied and marched off to the kitchen, leaving us to the serious business of catching up.

  More than an hour later, she topped off our coffee for the umpteenth time. “Get you anything else, girls?”

  “Thanks. Just the check,” my friend said.

  “Don’t you dare. It’s my turn,” I told her, then raised my gaze to the waitress. “Tina, memory test.”

  “Ooh. My favorite kind.” She cocked a hip flirtatiously and ran a hand through her short, curly hair.

  “There’s an older man in town, short—about my height, slender. I’m guessing seventy-two, but it’s hard to tell. Dark hair. He might have a dog. He might be an early riser, and he might collect stamps.”

  I could almost see her flipping the pages of her memory.

  “When the economy hit the last big downturn,” she said, “my husband lost his job. People weren’t eating out as much, and I wasn’t making nearly enough to tide us over. Then my son broke his leg wrestling, and that about wrecked us.”

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth and exhaled heavily. “A man came in for breakfast—two eggs over easy, whole wheat toast, no butter, and a glass of grapefruit juice. Ate up, left cash on the table, and walked out the side door without a word. It might have been him. From your description, it mighta been him.”

  The back of my neck began to tingle. “How much, Tina?”

  “That man—” Her voice broke and she choked back a tear. “That man left me a one-thousand-dollar tip on a ten-dollar ticket. Soon as I found that wad of cash, I went running after him, but he was gone. I told the owner. I insisted we had to find him, I couldn’t keep the money, I just couldn’t. She told me to calm down, be grateful, and put the money to good use. And I did.”

  That had all happened before I moved back. If my mother had heard the story, she’d never mentioned it.

  “Then my husband found a better job, and my son made the honor roll—when he couldn’t play sports, he actually studied—and I started believing in people again.” Tina gestured toward the big bank of windows overlooking the corner of Front and Hill. “I’ve got the best view in town and there isn’t anything wrong with my eyes. But I have never seen him again. Not back then, and not since.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Honey, I am never in doubt.” She let out a cackle. “Occasionally mistaken—don’t you tell my husband I said that—but never in doubt.”

  I’d chided myself for not having paid better attention. But if I didn’t know the man, if the Reverend Anne couldn’t identify him, and his description rang no bells for Polly Paulson, Detective Kim Caldwell, the clerk at the shipping depot, or my mother, and even sharp-eyed Tina hadn’t spotted him . . .

  Talk about a mystery.

  ∞

  The closer it gets to Christmas, the more people spend and the less time they take to do it. It was true in the giant SavClub warehouse and it was true in village retail. In fact, it might be the one thing the members of the Merchants’ Association agreed on. And it was certainly true this year, thank goodness. My first few months running the Merc were shaky, especially when my mother had trouble remembering she’d hired me to run the place so she didn’t have to. But my first full year as manager was coming to a close, and we were going to finish with a flourish.

  I thanked Tracy and Lou Mary for their hard work and locked the doors behind them. I had a few details to wrap up, making sure the day’s receipts matched what our system said we’d sold, and getting the shop ready for Sunday. Only a half day, but guaranteed to be crazy busy.

  The phone in my apron pocket rang. I didn’t recognize the number.

  “Miss Murphy, Sam Silver calling. About that stamp.”

  “Mr. Silver. How nice to hear from you. I hope you’re well.” I perched on one of the red-topped stools.

  “And I hope you’re sitting down, young lady.”

  I assured him I was.

  “I talked to a dealer in Denver. He’s my nephew, but that aside, he’s the sharpest young man I know in the business. Young.” He laughed. “Fifty is young to me these days. Two years ago, he got fifteen hundred dollars for a stamp like that, in not as good a condition, and he’s quite certain he could get a little more for yours.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Young lady, I never joke about philately.”

  Phil-what? Oh, stamp collecting.

  “Did your nephew tell you where he got it?” Maybe we had a chance of finding my mystery man. Anne had given me the perfect opportunity to put the money to good use, to excellent use, but I still felt the urge to find him. To correct the mistake, and raise the funds for the refugees another way.

  “A most unusual occurrence,” Sam Silver said. The stamp that crossed his nephew’s desk had not been dropped in a Christmas kettle or left as a tip, and it hadn’t been given to a stranger in exchange for forty cents’ worth of photocopies. No, it had been tucked inside a card handed to a woman on a Denver bus by a nondescript older man, short, slender, with surprisingly dark hair for his age. A woman who had left her abusive husband on Christmas Eve and was on her way to a shelter with her two young children. She’d been sure the gift was a mistake and the nephew had searched high and low, using all his contacts in the business to trace the stamp’s prior owner, with no luck. So, finally, he’d sold it to a collector and gave the woman the full proceeds, refusing to take a commission. He himself, Mr. Silver told me, had not been aware of the discovery at the time; he’d been in the hospital with pneumonia and his sister, the stamp dealer’s mother, had feared the story would distress him and set back his recovery. “Stuff and nonsense,” he said. “Stamps don’t distress me. Stories don’t distress me. What distresses me is men who beat their wives and terrify their children. That there are hardworking people with too little and lazy bums with too much.”

  What could I say to that? I thanked him for his kindness, promised to be in touch, and stepped out the front door. Gazed up and down the street. The shoppers and shopkeepers had gone home, leaving behind windows filled with magical scenes. A light snow had begun to fall, and in the glow cast by the bulbs woven into the garland that hung from every roof and eave, the flakes sparkled.

  I’d lived in Jewel Bay more than half my life, leaving for college, then worked in Seattle, a city I loved. But if I’d ever had any doubt that coming home had been the right choice, that doubt was gone. Adam and I were in agreement: Jewel Bay was where we belonged, and where we meant to stay.

  A gust of wind blew a blast of wet snow in my face, and I dashed back inside.

  After Mr. Silver’s news, there was no way I had the presence of mind to reconcile our accounts tonight. But a nervous energy coursed through me, so I got the coffee maker ready for the morning. Checked our bestsellers to make sure we were fully stocked and cleaned the bathroom. Walked every corner of the old pile of bricks, debating, deciding. But I knew what I had to do.

  I realized I had always known.

  Adam had offered to drop me off this morning, knowing my reluctance to take a parking space better left for a shopper, but I’d chosen to drive in case I needed to run an errand that required wheels. I’d tucked my car at Riverbend Park, well away from the shopping district, on the other side of the old one-lane bridge. I wrapped a muffler around my neck and zipped up my parka. Pulled a knitted cap over my ears, looped my lea
ther bag over my shoulder, and locked the door behind me. The closer I got to the bridge and the river, the heavier the snowfall, and I shoved my gloved hands deep in my coat pockets, head down to keep the cold, wet flakes out of my eyes. The wind had whipped the snow up onto the bridge, making the narrow walkway along one side impassible, so I stepped onto the bridge deck.

  As if out of nowhere, a hand clapped against my chest and pushed me backward. I staggered, my feet slipping on the ice beneath the snow, arms flailing as I tried to catch my balance. My hip hit the high guardrail at the end of the bridge and I grabbed the rail. The deck boards rattled. A horn blared in my ear and a delivery truck zipped past me, into the village.

  I blinked, the truck’s headlights still flashing in my brain. Instinctively, my gloved fingers reached for my lucky stars. A few feet away stood the man I’d been looking for all week.

  “You,” I said, stupidly. “You saved me.”

  He said nothing.

  “I’ve been searching for you, asking about you. No one knows who you are.”

  In the glow of the Christmas lights strung high on the steel trusses, I saw him grin.

  “You saved Lynette from going over the side of the road.” If he did have a dog, it was nowhere in sight. “And a few years ago, you gave Tina the waitress a huge tip that helped her keep her family afloat and gave her back her hope. Now you gave me that stamp, just when a deserving family needs exactly what it’s worth.”

  He waved an ungloved hand in front of his face, whether to wave away my comments or chase the snow from his vision, I couldn’t say.

  “And you knew my father,” I said. “Who are you?”

  “Sadly, my dear, I can’t save everyone.”

  The deck boards rattled again and an unfamiliar pickup came across the bridge. But I was safely out of the way this time, and so was my rescuer. The truck passed and I turned to speak to the man, to ask his name, to ask him to let me take him to meet my mother, to ask how he knew that stamp was worth exactly what the refugee family owed and why, oh why, had he chosen to give it to me.

  But the stranger was gone. In his place was nothing. Not even a footprint.

  I closed my eyes. Pulled off my hat and tipped my head back, letting the snowflakes fall from the sky and kiss my face.

  A Death in Yelapa

  The waves broke over the bow of the water taxi and the cold salt spray misted my face. I smiled up at my husband. The sea breeze whipped his dark curls, his sunglasses reflecting the diamond glint of a January day off the western coast of Mexico.

  My husband. Adam and I had been married all of twenty-three days, but our Christmas Eve wedding on a dude ranch in Jewel Bay, Montana, might as well have happened on another planet.

  “Bahia de Banderas is the seventh largest bay in the world,” said the blond man seated in front of me, his voice rising above the roar of the outboard motor. “The name means the Bay of Flags.”

  His wife, her highlighted hair tied back with a black chiffon ribbon, turned her gaze in the other direction.

  “Erin, look.” Adam pointed at a school of fish leaping through the water, not thirty feet off starboard.

  “Dolphins?” I asked.

  “Dorado,” he said. Adam had spent a few months in Mexico after college, hiking and kayaking. He’d planned our slightly belated honeymoon himself, telling me to make sure my passport was current and that I had a good bathing suit. Then, three days ago, he’d said we’d be vacationing in our own private casita on the most unspoiled beach in western Mexico.

  Is there any wonder I’m head over heels for the man?

  “Mahi-mahi. Dolphinfish.” The blond man rested his arm on the back of his wife’s seat and spoke over his shoulder. “Not to be confused with Flipper.” He cackled.

  “Oh, shut up, Max,” his wife said. “No one wants to hear your stupid jokes.” In profile, I could see her prominent cheekbones and strong jaw, makeup so expertly done you almost couldn’t tell it was makeup. Full lips in a trendy red-orange, though I suspected the pout came naturally. Chic tortoiseshell sunglasses. I was sure I’d seen her browsing in an art gallery off the Malecón, when we were in Puerto Vallarta.

  The two women sitting next to us raised their eyebrows, and one winked.

  Max faced forward with another chuckle, and Adam and I exchanged a quick smile before turning our attention back to the jumping fish.

  Twenty minutes and a hundred fish later, we landed in Yelapa. My mouth fell open, literally, at the sight of the picture-perfect village wrapped around the calm, blue inlet. A row of three-story haciendas, each a different color, faced the water. Some were private homes, others small hotels. Then came the charming casitas with their deep porches and a cluster of open-air bars and restaurants. Bright umbrellas dotted the beach.

  Adam and I grabbed our backpacks and scrambled onto the pier, new since his last visit. Max stood in the boat, surveying the surroundings, while his wife tried to disembark. Her white skirt was too narrow for her to get both feet on the pier easily and she stumbled, hands flailing as she shrieked, one cork-soled sandal flying.

  Adam caught her. I rescued the errant sandal.

  “Thank you, thank you,” Max said. He stepped onto the pier, hand out. “We’re Max and Parisa Porter, from Calgary.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Max,” she said. “You were willing to let me fall in the water. They don’t care who you are.”

  “Teresa? Nice to meet you. I’m Erin Murphy, and this is my husband, Adam Zimmerman. From northwest Montana.”

  “PUH-reesa,” she said. “Like Paris with an a on the end.”

  “You been here before?” Max had the manner I associated with a college football player-turned-stockbroker, but not the size—halfway between my five-five and Adam’s six-one, neither fat nor slender, he had thick lips and parted his hair in the middle.

  “I have, she hasn’t,” Adam said. “It’s our honeymoon.”

  “I knew it,” Max said. “Didn’t I tell you, sweetheart? On the boat. They gawk at each other like newlyweds.”

  We said a quick goodbye, though not before agreeing to meet them some evening for a margarita. “Or that raicilla,” Max said. “Bootleg booze. Puts hair on your chest and ideas in your head. You know—loco.” He pointed a finger at his ear and twirled it.

  A few minutes later on the beach, I paused to kick off my flip-flops, eager to feel the golden sand between my pale, northern toes. On the pier, Parisa stood beside a huge pile of luggage, arms folded, while Max waved his hands at the boatman.

  “Negotiating for delivery?” I speculated. “To one of the big houses?”

  “This ain’t the Grand Hyatt,” Adam replied and gestured to a turquoise casita with a palm-thatched roof.

  The perfect honeymoon hotel.

  ∞

  “Well, if it isn’t our American newlyweds,” Max Porter called when he spotted us the next afternoon from the beachfront palapa. The palm-thatch canopy covered a few white plastic tables surrounded by white plastic chairs. “Looks like you’ve been out making waves. Not what we did on our honeymoon, eh, Parisa?”

  What was your first clue? I wanted to ask. The bathing suits? The snorkels, the paddleboards?

  A dark-haired young woman delivered a basket of chips, a bowl of salsa, and two frosty margaritas. Max beckoned. “Join us for a drink.”

  Chips and salsa and a cold Pacifico or two had been our plan but not with the Porters.

  “Uh, thanks,” Adam said, then turned to me. “I could do with a quick shower. What about you?”

  Saved. “Good idea. Maybe if you two are here later—”

  “Ohmygod, this is awful!” Parisa Porter flung her tortilla chip onto the table, bits of salsa splattering across the white plastic. “They can’t even wash dishes right. It tastes like soap.” She shoved her chair back—not easy to do in the sand—and flounced off, also not easy to do in the sand, especially in platform sandals.

  Max’s jaw tightened and his nostrils flared, then the jo
lly look returned. “My wife knows what she likes. We’ll catch up with you two lovebirds later. When you’re not out adventuring.” He cackled and followed her.

  Adam picked up the chair Parisa had knocked over, and by unspoken agreement, we sat, trying not to laugh.

  I dipped a chip in the salsa and took a tentative nibble. “Oh, it’s fine. It’s got cilantro in it, that’s all.”

  Adam cocked his head.

  “About fifteen percent of the population thinks cilantro tastes like soap. Maybe less down here.” We gave the waitress our order, and she picked up the Porters’ untouched drinks. “I read about it recently. It has to do with your ability to detect certain bitter compounds. So some people taste soap while the rest of us—”

  “Get to eat all the chips and salsa,” Adam said, sporting the crooked grin I love. The waitress set a tin bucket of beer on the table and popped two caps. Adam raised his bottle toward me and we clinked.

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  ∞

  On our third morning in Yelapa, our luck ran out. We’d taken a guided sunrise kayak trip and were now relaxing under the palapa, sipping fresh juice and waiting for our huevos rancheros.

  “Look who the tide washed in,” Max said. He sat, not waiting for an invitation. I glanced in the direction he’d come from and spotted Parisa. She’d given up on her shoes, the sandals dangling from her well-manicured fingertips as she slipped on the loose sand.

  Adam popped up. “Max, Parisa, hello. Join us?” He pulled out the fourth chair and Parisa sank into it gratefully. At least, I thought she looked grateful, the way her shoulders dropped and she heaved out a ragged breath. I couldn’t tell for sure—she kept her sunglasses on, despite the shade.

  Our plates came. I didn’t hear Max’s order—I was too busy salivating over the glorious fried eggs dressed with pico de gallo and perfectly placed on a crisp tortilla, a sliced avocado and a spoonful of refried beans and rice on the side.