by Janet Dawson
Main Street climbed a gentle hill, past a two-block business district and into a residential area. The street ended, forking into two smaller streets. At the base of this V I saw a sign swinging on a post, reading THE MURDOCK HOUSE–BED AND BREAKFAST — 1857.
I parked on the street and carried my overnight bag down a sidewalk lined with gaslights. The house was a two-story Victorian, painted pale yellow with blue trim, surrounded by a hedge and a wide lawn of winter-brown grass. The bushes hugging the foundation had not yet budded, but I saw a crocus or two poking up from the flower bed.
Another sign directed me to a side porch, where a bell on the screen door tinkled musically as I stepped into a hallway and looked around. To my left I saw a small parlor that served as a lobby. A woman sat at a writing desk, streaks of gray in her short hair and large gold hoops in her pierced ears. She looked up as I entered.
Her name was Nancy Coulter and she liked to talk. As she checked me in she told me that during the summer I’d need a reservation for a Saturday night, but March was off-season. She and her husband had bought the place eleven years before, and they’d done most of the restoration themselves. The house was registered as a historical landmark, she said proudly.
She gave me a brief tour. The front parlor had a fireplace with a long mantel of creamy marble that held a Seth Thomas clock and two lush African violets in matching brass pots. Above the mantel hung a massive oil portrait in an ornate carved gilt frame, a stern-looking Victorian gentleman with gray in his black beard, his hand resting on his watch chain.
On either side of the fireplace were recessed floor-to-ceiling bookcases, painted white and filled with books. An old piano sat in an alcove next to the front door. In another corner I saw a game table with a deck of cards on it. A low shelf nearby held a collection of board games and a carved wooden chess set. An ivory moiré paper decorated the walls, and white lace curtains hung on the tall windows. Several comfortable-looking old sofas with high backs were grouped around the fireplace under a crystal chandelier that had been wired for electricity.
Mrs. Coulter led me back through the lobby to the kitchen and dining room, full of trestle tables and plain ladder-back chairs. “Breakfast is at nine,” she said. “We have coffee set out at eight and all through the day. In the afternoons and evenings we have lemonade and cookies.”
I followed her out the back door and past several cottages on a path made of worn red brick. She pointed out a small guest parking lot and the access road that led from the street. Beyond the parking lot I saw a white frame church with a yard full of gravestones.
Mrs. Coulter showed me to a second-floor room with a slanted roof, a window with flowered curtains, and a double bed covered with a colorful patchwork quilt. She told me the doors were locked at eleven P.M., and if I planned to be out later than that I should let her know so she could give me a key. I left my overnight bag in the room, then went outside and moved my car to the parking lot. When I returned to the inn, Nancy Coulter invited me to join her for a glass of sherry.
“This is very pleasant. The inn and the town.” I sat down in an oak rocking chair. The sherry warmed me as I sipped it. I relaxed against the rocker’s padded cushion, savoring the beauty of the room and the afternoon quiet of the little mountain town. I could almost forget that I was here for a reason other than a weekend’s interlude.
“We love it here,” Nancy Coulter said, seated on the rosewood sofa. “My husband and I are refugees from the city. We decided we wanted to run an inn. This place is a dream come true. Of course, innkeeping is very seasonal. We’re always busy in the summer, though we’ve had more off-season business since Sunset magazine did an article on us last fall. But that’s only the weekends, when people can get away. When the winter comes we generally have the place to ourselves during the week. The whole town’s like that.”
“How do people survive financially?”
“After the tourists leave, you mean? A lot of people work at the sawmill up in Jackson. Or they have two or three jobs. My husband’s an accountant. I substitute teach during the school year. So does the woman who runs the bookstore. The guy who has the framing shop also works as a handyman, fixing things, doing some carpentry on the side. Then spring comes and the season starts again. Business is starting to pick up now, but the busy time is between Memorial Day and Labor Day. What brings you up here?”
“Exploring the Gold Country,” I said. “Right now I’d like to explore Cibola.”
I thanked her for the sherry, carried my glass to the kitchen, and left the inn by the side door. As I walked through the front gate I heard water rushing over stones. I looked for the source. To my right I saw a bridge spanning a creek. The water ran down the hill, behind the buildings on Main Street, then through a little park. I saw a gazebo in the distance, looking like the top of a wedding cake.
Cibola on a Saturday afternoon in March didn’t exactly bustle, but there were people entering and exiting the shops. Some of those businesses sought the tourist trade, selling ersatz miner’s gear, postcards, and shot glasses with CIBOLA printed in gold letters. I strolled past a couple of gift shops and a bakery, then stopped to peer into the window of an antique store. Further down Main Street I passed a red brick building with “1859” carved into its cornerstone. A big wooden sign proclaimed the structure the Cibola Odd Fellows Hall, home of the town’s historical museum.
Just past the museum there was a break in the line of buildings. A waist-high iron railing looked down on the little park, accessible from a staircase on my left. The Victorian gazebo stood on the opposite side of the creek. I saw an elderly couple sitting on the bench inside. I watched a couple of kids skylarking on the wooden footbridge, then I turned and crossed the street.
Just inside the door to a bookstore I saw a yellow Labrador retriever sprawled on the carpeted floor. She looked up at me, tail wagging, so I knelt and scratched her ears. The dog groaned and rolled onto her back for a belly scratch.
“You’ve made a friend.” The woman at the counter was short, with a long, nut brown ponytail and wide green eyes behind her glasses. “Daisy loves to have her stomach scratched.”
“I can see that.” Daisy’s head was thrown back and she looked as though she could remain in that position the rest of the day. I gave her one last tickle and stood up.
The frame shop was next to the bookstore. It was empty when I entered, though somewhere in the back I heard the beat of vintage Rolling Stones. I looked around me. One wall held a collection of paintings, from watercolor landscapes to abstract oils. Beneath them stood several racks of unframed prints. The opposite wall was dominated by a large textile piece in vibrant primary colors, woven with yarn, rags, beads, and strips of leather. Under the wall hanging a long two-tiered shelf displayed an assortment of pottery and sculpture. Each item had a small card with the name of the artist, as did the wall hanging and the pictures on the walls.
A large wooden table at the rear held a telephone, but was otherwise bare. Samples of mats and molding hung on the wall behind the table, next to a door leading to what looked like a workroom. I circled the room slowly, then stopped to look at a serigraph of the Murdock House.
“That was done by a local artist,” a voice behind me said. “She has a studio outside town.”
I turned. A pair of electric blue eyes moved over me, giving nothing, taking measure. He stood in the doorway at the back of the shop, a pack of Marlboros visible in the pocket of his red-and-yellow plaid shirt. A scar slashed down the left side of his face, from the corner of his eye to his mouth. It made him look like a pirate.
The same face had looked out at me from the yearbook, and across the stage in You Can’t Take It With You. The same, yet different. We’d been teenagers then, and fifteen years had passed. Greasepaint and lines drawn on his face aged him for our theatricals. Now life had aged him for real, streaking gray through his dark hair, etching lines at his eyes and mouth. There was something else, despite his grin and the flirtatious glin
t in those blue eyes. Something dangerous, a knife edge honed by twelve years in prison.
“I like it.” I pointed at the serigraph. “You did the framing?”
“Yes.” He moved toward me, graceful in faded jeans and sneakers. He smelled faintly of smoke.
“Nice work.”
“Frarning is an art in itself.” He gave the words a sardonic spin and laughed. “I read that someplace. Are you looking for anything in particular? Or just looking?”
“Just looking.” My eyes were on him instead of the print and he knew it. “I’m sure you hear that a lot.”
“All the time.” He smiled and reached out to straighten a painting on the wall. “I have a few bread-and-butter customers. Everyone else is just looking.”
“You’re the handyman.”
“That’s me. I fix furnaces, mend wiring, replace broken windows, and build kitchen cabinets. Who are you?”
“Jeri Howard.” I stuck out my hand. He took it. His own hand was calloused, though his touch was gentle. His grin was hard to resist.
“Hello, Jeri. I’m Mark Willis.”
Twelve
“I’M IN THE MIDDLE OF SOMETHING BACK HERE,” he said, releasing my hand. “Come talk to me.”
I followed him through the doorway to his workroom. The music I heard came from a radio on top of a wooden cabinet. The Rolling Stones gave way to the Beatles as he reached to turn down the volume. A table, about six feet square, stood in the center of the room, pieces of a wooden frame scattered on its surface. All around me I saw a chaotic jumble: sheets of matting and lengths of frame stacked against the wall, another cabinet spilling tools, bits of debris on the wooden floor.
“When was the earthquake?” I asked.
“This is creative clutter.”
“It looks more like a fire hazard.”
“Very funny. There’s some coffee on that table back there. Help yourself.”
I stepped over a box filled with wood scraps and made my way to the rear wall, where a spindly-legged table stood next to an old white icebox and a deep stainless-steel sink. The table held a percolator and a tray with several ceramic mugs, three mismatched spoons, and a restaurant sugar container. I poured myself some coffee, then looked up at Mark Willis.
“How about you?”
He nodded. “Black.” I poured a second mugful and carried it back to the worktable.
“Thanks,” he said, taking it from me. He looked me over thoughtfully. I wondered if he remembered me from high school, but I saw no recognition in his eyes. “Are you here for the weekend?”
“Just tonight.” I found a wooden stood of uncertain sturdiness and perched on it, my back against the wall. “I’m staying at the Murdock House.”
“Exploring the Gold Country?” His hands fitted together the mitered corners of the frame, fastening them with glue and clamps.
“I’ve been up here before. My grandmother was from Jackson.”
“A lively town. Livelier than Cibola. This is where you come for a restful weekend.” He put the frame aside and took a sheet of paper from the drawers of the wooden cabinet. It was a watercolor landscape of a lake. He spread it on his worktable and placed several mat samples next to it, trying to pick up the blues in the watercolor. “Have dinner with me. You can tell me all about your grandmother.”
“I don’t even know you,” I said, smiling behind my coffee mug. It wasn’t entirely a lie. I’d never really known him.
“Sure you do. I just introduced myself.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“How will you get to know me if you don’t have dinner with me?”
I hadn’t counted on liking him so much. I had to ask him questions about his sister and the crime that put him in prison. I had to watch my step.
“All right. Dinner.”
He smiled. “I’ll pick you up at six-thirty.”
“I didn’t bring any dress-up clothes.”
“This isn’t a dress-up town.”
He made me laugh as he told a yarn about the Cibola Volunteer Fire Department, then we were interrupted by a series of tourists, all of them just looking. I rinsed the coffee mug in the sink and left it on the table, telling Mark I’d see him later. I looked at my watch. I’d spent more than an hour with Mark Willis. He had told me about life in Cibola but nothing about himself. And I hadn’t told him I was a private investigator looking for his sister — or that we’d encountered one another in a past life.
I walked back to the Murdock House. The gray sky had darkened and the chill in the air increased. I helped myself to a glass of lemonade and went to the front parlor, where I rummaged through the shelves until I found a slender volume of Cibola history. I settled on the sofa and read for a while. A cinnamon-colored cat strolled into the room. She rubbed against my legs and jumped into my lap, positioning herself between me and the book. I gave up reading and stroked the cat, which is what she had in mind.
“She’s not supposed to be in the main house,” Mrs. Coulter said as she came into the room a moment later. “She thinks she owns the place.”
“I don’t mind. I like cats.”
“She had kittens two months ago. Want one?”
“I have one. I don’t think she’d take kindly to interlopers in her apartment.”
“They’re at the under-foot stage. I don’t think I’ll have any trouble finding homes for them. Say, if you’re not doing anything there’s a chili supper tonight at St. Anselm’s Church.”
“Thanks for the invitation, but I have a date.”
“Really? Who with?”
“The man at the frame shop. Mark Willis.”
“Mark’s a nice man,” she said, with a lift of her eyebrows. “Good-looking, too.”
I nodded, wondering if she knew Mark Willis had done time for murder. She scooped up the cat and carried it away. I finished the book and my lemonade.
Upstairs, I changed my knitted pullover shirt for a coppery sweater that complemented my hair. At six-thirty I met Mark Willis on the side porch of the Murdock House. He too wore slacks and a sweater. His jacket was black leather, the kind with zippers and studs.
“Where are we going?” I asked as we went through the front gate onto Main Street.
“A place called Ballew’s.” It was on a cross street, past the block where Mark’s shop was located, in a one-story Victorian cottage. The parlor and bedrooms had been converted to dining space, with oak tables covered by white cloths and mismatched wooden chairs. Each table held a crockery jar containing fresh flowers. The tables in the front room were filled. A middle-aged woman with a blue apron over her dress greeted Mark by name and escorted us to a small square table in a room that had once obviously been a bedroom.
I scanned the selections on the menu. When the waitress returned, we ordered grilled trout for me, rack of lamb for Mark, and a bottle of rosé. During dinner I told him about my Grandma Jerusha, who left Jackson in the Thirties for Hollywood. She worked as a bit player in the movies, mostly at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. She met and married my grandfather, just as World War II changed everything.
Mark listened and drank most of the rosé as I talked. Instead of loosening his tongue, the wine made him quiet. His blue eyes watched me, as though he were looking for something. It was disconcerting. Over coffee and dessert he pulled out his cigarettes, asking me first if I minded. I shook my head and he lit one, drawing in the smoke. He moved the ashtray close to him, taking pains to keep the stream of smoke away from me. I watched him watching me and I was fascinated.
I’d done most of the talking, I thought as I finished my coffee. He hadn’t asked me what I did for a living, a natural question for one person getting acquainted with another. Maybe he wasn’t curious, or he didn’t care, or he figured I’d tell him. I would, after dinner. I had to.
When the check came we both reached for it. His hand was quicker than mine and he whisked the check out of my reach.
“It’s on me. I invited you, remember?”
; “I can’t let you pay for my dinner, Mark.”
“Why not?” He smiled, prepared to brush aside my objection.
“I’ll explain it to you on the way back.”
He studied my face for a long moment, then he ground out the cigarette in the ashtray at his elbow. “All right.” He put the check down on the table so I could see it. I pulled some bills from my wallet to cover my portion and he did the same.
It was quiet outside, so quiet I could hear the gurgling of Cibola Creek. We crossed Main Street to the gap in the buildings and stood at the railing, looking down on the little park. A pair of gas lamps on either side of the footbridge left pools of light in the deserted park.
“You were going to tell me something,” he said. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.
“I came up here for a reason.” I felt moisture in the air surrounding us. Then a tiny snowflake drifted down onto Mark’s dark hair, lingering for an instant before it vanished.
He raised one eyebrow and his mouth curved in a tentative smile. “What reason?”
“Looking for Mark Willis.”
His face hardened as the smile vanished. A pair of steel shutters dropped down in his blue eyes. The contrast was almost frightening. When he spoke again his voice had a chill that matched the night air.
“Why?”
“I’m a private investigator.”
“You should have told me,” he said harshly. “This afternoon in the shop.”
“So you could get your guard up?”
“I like to know who I’m dealing with. Especially when I ask that person to dinner.”
“I had dinner with you because I wanted to. It had nothing to do with business.”
“How did you find me?”
“Your Aunt Vee told me where you lived.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m looking for your sister Elizabeth.”