A Firm Foundation

by Anne Marie Rodgers

  “Hello,” she called, waving and walking toward them.

  Just then, a dark-haired fellow at the back of the group snapped his head up. Their eyes met for a fleeting instant, then he turned away and walked quickly toward his car.

  “Hey, Jerry,” she heard Sam say. “What’s up? I thought you were coming with us.”

  Jerry ignored Sam and leaped into the Cadillac. He gunned the engine, backed up, threw it into gear, and took off down the driveway.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  What the dickens was that about?” Joe Tucker said.

  Sam laughed. “You must’ve done something to scare him silly, Kate.” All the men guffawed at this jest. All except for Paul, who was watching Kate carefully.

  He walked toward her, calling over his shoulder, “See you in an hour, fellas,” as he took her elbow and turned her back toward the Honda.

  Kate slipped into the passenger seat while Paul held the door, then she waited as he rounded the car and took the driver’s seat. Gratefully, she angled her head up, letting the cool air blow her hair back from her face.

  “Ah, that feels good,” Paul murmured. He draped an arm over the back of the seat and turned to look at her, eyebrows raised. “Was that about what I think it was about?”

  Kate grinned. “I don’t know. What do you think it was about?”

  “I think,” he said slowly, moving down the driveway, “that Jerry Cox is connected to your library demolition, and he knows you figured it out. That’s why you didn’t want him to know you were coming. You knew he’d recognize you and react that way.”

  “Well, perhaps not exactly that way.” Kate hesitated. “You’re right, sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  “I believe,” she said, “his real name is not Jerry Cox.”

  Paul’s eyebrows threatened to climb right up his forehead to his hairline.

  “That man is Gerald Foxfield.”

  Paul was nodding slowly. “It makes sense,” he said to himself. “It makes perfect sense. But wait, didn’t Louisa tell us she knew Jerry Cox?”

  Kate nodded. “I believe she’s been helping him.”

  Paul’s whole face fell. “Are you sure? She seems like such a nice young woman. And she’s such a good mother.”

  “I think it’s possible that he’s coercing her somehow,” Kate said. “I just have to figure out how. And I have to figure out why he’s doing this.”

  “Does Livvy know?”

  Kate shook her head. “She’s so stressed that I don’t think I can talk to her about this much now. I’m too afraid I won’t be able to find a way to stop the demolition, and I don’t want to get her hopes up.”

  There was a dejected silence for a moment. Then Kate roused herself. “So, tell me what you did this morning after I left.”

  “I finished my sermon.”

  Kate turned in her seat. “Oh good! Congratulations.” It was only Friday. She could recall many times when he’d still be polishing his words on Saturday evening, or even early on Sunday morning.

  Paul took one hand off the wheel to point his index finger up toward the sky. “Don’t congratulate me; I’m just the conduit for deepening folks’ faith. You know what the apostle Matthew wrote about moving mountains.”

  Kate thought for a moment. “Chapter 17, verse 20, right?” When Paul nodded, she quoted, “If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there’ and it will move. Nothing shall be impossible for you.”

  “That’s it.” Paul beamed, his enthusiasm for God’s Word evident in his expression. “Nothing’s impossible. All we need is faith.”

  They ordered an excellent lunch of barbeque and coleslaw from the Smokeshack and took it home. Kate added some sliced honeydew melon she had picked up from a local farm and two small pieces of boysenberry cobbler for dessert.

  “Boysenberries.” Paul sighed the word. “I love boysenberries.” He took a bite, eyes closed. “This is heavenly.”

  “It’s a new recipe,” Kate said. “I know you like boysenberry pie, so I thought you’d enjoy this.”

  “There are many reasons I adore you,” Paul said, “but your boysenberry cobbler might be in my new top ten.”

  AS KATE MADE THE DRIVE to McMinnville that afternoon, she thought about the best way to track down Gerald Foxfield. Before she had left Copper Mill, she’d driven by Louisa Pellman’s mother’s home. No blue Cadillac had been anywhere in sight.

  So what now? She couldn’t come up with a better idea than knocking on the doors of Maple Avenue residents, asking questions and hoping to get lucky. So in the end, that was exactly what she did.

  She started on the third block. On the first and second blocks, the houses were small, no more than two stories with attic dormers. On the third block, the homes were on larger lots, spread out beneath lovely old trees. The houses themselves were sprawling brick homes of three full stories, with attached garages and carriage houses. In some cases, she could see a glimpse of a guest house or a pool in the back.

  She pulled into the driveway of the first one she came to, coming to a halt in the circle in front of the house. She got out of her car and knocked on the door, but though she could hear what sounded like a large dog barking somewhere in the depths of the house, no one came to the door.

  No one came to the door at the second home or at the third either. She was beginning to get discouraged.

  At the fourth house, she finally found someone home. After she rang the bell, which pealed with a stately gong, she could hear footsteps slowly approaching.

  The door opened, and an old man—probably in his nineties—with wavy silver hair peered out. He was smartly dressed in khaki trousers, a white shirt, and a blue-and-tan-striped bow tie, and he leaned heavily on a walker.

  “Hello. May I help you?” he said in a surprisingly strong, courteous voice.

  “I hope so.” Kate smiled and held out her hand. “I’m Kate Hanlon from Copper Mill. I’m trying to locate a family that once lived in this neighborhood—the Foxfields. Have you ever met them or heard of them?”

  “I’m Eldan Powers.” The old man smiled as he took her hand, and Kate was careful not to apply too much pressure to his fragile hand. “Please come in, Kate. I’d be happy to tell you what I can about the Foxfields.”

  Kate’s heart leaped. He had said it so casually, as if her request was quite ordinary. “That would be wonderful,” she said in a heartfelt tone.

  “Would you please follow me?” He turned and walked across the wide foyer to a sitting room through a wide arched doorway.

  Kate followed her host, marveling at the lovely old home. It had dark, polished woods; hardwood floors covered with oriental rugs that looked very old and very costly; and what certainly had to be custom drapes at windows that spanned two stories in some places.

  The parlor was beautifully appointed in shades of dusky blue and cream. An ivory baby-grand piano stood near the back of the room. Mr. Powers waved Kate into a brocade wing chair near an unlit fireplace. The house, despite its age, was pleasantly cooled by central air.

  “Thank you for seeing me.” Kate smiled at the dapper old gentleman.

  He returned her smile as he took a seat in an identical chair on the other side of a pretty piecrust table. “Thank you,” he said. “I enjoy guests. Now how can I help you?”

  “Might I ask how long you’ve lived in this house, Mr. Powers?”

  He smiled. “I was born in this house, and I expect I may die here too. It’s been a good life and a good home.”

  Kate was intrigued. “Really? You were born right here?”

  “Right upstairs in the master bedroom in the very same bed,” he said. “Different mattress, though.”

  Kate laughed.

  “But you didn’t come to talk about me. You have questions about the Foxfields.”

  “Just one. I’m trying to locate a descendant of Charles Foxfield. The family would have moved here in the 1920s, I think.”
<
br />   Mr. Powers was already nodding. “Two fifteen. They lived at 215 Maple. Charles and Deenie Foxfield. They had six children. Their oldest son, Willard, was a little older than me. He moved back in after his daddy passed and lived there until he died. He was ninety-six years old.”

  “Gracious,” Kate said. “You must miss him.”

  The old man nodded, the twinkle in his eye dimming slightly. “We were friends for a long time. He was a good man,” he added quietly.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Kate said. It felt like an inadequate sentiment, since this man also may have outlived a wife, siblings, and even his own children.

  “Thank you.” Mr. Powers nodded graciously before he went on. “His son sold the place before there was even grass on Willard’s grave.” His lip curled just the tiniest bit. “Not much like his granddaddy or his daddy, that one.”

  “Is that one’s name Gerald?” Kate was almost afraid to hope.

  He nodded. “It is.”

  “Did he ever marry?” She was quite curious about Gerald after everything she had learned.

  He snorted. “No. Never found a woman that could stomach him, I guess.”

  Kate struggled not to laugh at his obvious disdain. “That bad?”

  “That bad,” he agreed. “Rude, ungracious, downright unfriendly. Why do you want to find him?”

  Kate slumped back in her chair. “I’d like to ask him some questions about the Copper Mill Public Library,” she said. “I understand his grandfather donated the house to be used as a library.”

  Mr. Powers nodded. “I believe that’s correct. But you’ll have to confirm it with Gerald.”

  “I’d like to, but I haven’t been able to talk to him about it.”

  “I don’t know where he moved to,” the old man told her. “Rumor is he had to sell the family home to pay off gambling debts. I believe he stayed in the area, but I can’t swear to that.”

  “Oh, he’s in the area,” Kate said with a sniff. “I saw him this morning. Unfortunately, he saw me first and decided not to stick around.”

  Kate spent a few more minutes talking with the personable Mr. Powers. She resolved to return and visit with him one day when she had more time.

  After she had thanked him for his assistance, Kate returned to her car. She drove to the McMinnville library on the main street through town, mostly because she couldn’t think of another more useful way to find Foxfield. She considered stopping at the post office, but she decided she would save that as a last-ditch effort, since it was illegal for postal employees to reveal information about addresses.

  THE LIBRARIAN at the Magness Community Library in McMinnville couldn’t have been more different from Livvy. Under five feet tall, she was so heavyset that she huffed and puffed when she walked. Her hair was steel gray, and she wore tiny bifocal lenses perched down on the very tip of a considerably prominent nose as she peered over them at Kate.

  The one way in which she resembled Kate’s friend was the sweet smile with which she greeted patrons.

  “Welcome to our library,” she said to Kate when Kate introduced herself. “I’ve seen you here before, haven’t I?”

  Kate nodded. “I’m from Copper Mill.”

  “Oh! Do you know Olivia Jenner, the librarian there? What a delightful lady. I’ve spoken with her at several conferences.”

  Kate chuckled. “She’s one of my best friends. She is a gem, isn’t she?”

  “Indeed she is. How can I help you, Kate?”

  “I’m trying to find someone from your area. Is there a computer I could use to do some searching?”

  “Of course.” The librarian waddled off, beckoning to Kate to follow. “All of our records are on electronic files. You may have some success doing a search that way.”

  She showed Kate to a small computer lab and helped her find the proper program. After showing her how to use it, the librarian left her to her task.

  Kate searched the obituaries and found the one for Charles Foxfield. His address had been listed as 215 Maple Avenue in McMinnville.

  He was survived by six children and nine grandchildren. The grandchildren’s names weren’t mentioned, but the eldest son was named Willard. That, she recalled, was the son Mr. Powers had mentioned who had inherited the house.

  Kate did another search for Willard Foxfield and came up with his obituary. The article had noted that Willard was survived by one son, Gerald, and—oh, God bless small-town newspapers!—gave the address, which was not the Maple Avenue house.

  Kate thanked the librarian, asked for directions to the address she had found, and rushed back to her Honda.

  When she finally found Gerald Foxfield’s house, she was shocked. It was a modest Cape Cod on a very small lot, but it wasn’t the size of the property that disturbed her. It was the air of neglect and disrepute that surrounded the poor little home: peeling paint, missing shingles, grass long enough to hide any number of wild creatures. The shrubbery around the front door was so overgrown that the door was partially hidden. Compared to the elegant homes Kate had seen on Maple Avenue a short while before, the condition of the house indicated that Gerald Foxfield had suffered some kind of serious reversal of fortune.

  There was a weather-beaten garage with sagging boards at the back of the driveway, but no cars in the drive. At the sight, Kate’s heart beat faster. She had a suspicion about Gerald Foxfield, and she wondered if her intuition would prove true.

  Don’t get your hopes up, Kate, she cautioned herself. You don’t even know for sure that the man lives here.

  Stepping over clumps of dandelion that had grown up through cracks in the concrete sidewalk, Kate approached the front door. There was a half-moon of glass above the tarnished brass knocker, but it was so clouded and dirty that she couldn’t see a thing, and she doubted anyone inside could see out.

  She pressed a finger to the doorbell, but there was no sound that she could hear. She pressed it again, then picked up the knocker and gave several hefty raps against the door. She repeated the process twice more before she finally acknowledged that no one was coming to the door. Walking around the side of the house, she approached the garage. It had a sturdy silver padlock on the door that looked newer than anything else she’d seen on the property.

  Her mouth went dry as she peeked through the row of windows at the top of the garage door by standing on her tiptoes. Surprisingly, these windows looked cleaner than the one at the top of the front door.

  Inside, indirect sunlight filtered through a window on each side. It illuminated the interior enough for Kate to see a vehicle parked in each space. On the left was some kind of old truck. Really old. Kate had seen Model Ts before, and this one looked even older. It might be a Model A, although she couldn’t be sure. The one thing she was sure of was that it had been taken care of. The exterior gleamed and the headlamps sparkled as if they were new.

  On the right was a pale blue Cadillac.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Unlike the truck, the Cadillac appeared to have been driven recently. It was a lovely vehicle.

  As lovely as she remembered. Kate had now seen the Caddy in front of Louisa’s mother’s house, downtown cruising past the library, and today at Paul’s work site, where it had been driven away in haste by Jerry Cox.

  And Jerry Cox, she was certain, was the elusive Gerald Foxfield.

  THE MINUTES SEEMED TO CRAWL BY as Kate strategically placed her car on the street outside Gerald Foxfield’s home. She called Paul to let him know where she was while she waited for Foxfield. She had water, which she rationed and drank at regular intervals, knowing how quickly the heat could get to her. The sky was looking a little peculiar, as if rain was on the way. Unbidden, thoughts of Sunday evening’s brush with the tornado crept into her thoughts. It had been one of the most frightening events of her life, and she had no desire to repeat it. She kept a wary eye on the sky, sending up a prayer that a storm wouldn’t break out while she was on the road.

  She thought about the two anti
que vehicles. If they did indeed belong to Gerald Foxfield, she wondered why he hadn’t sold them if money was such a problem. On the other hand, perhaps these were the two items he most valued, and he was sacrificing other things to hang on to them. She recalled what Mr. Powers had said about Gerald spending his inheritance.

  Just before five o’clock, her patience was rewarded when a black Ford truck pulled into the driveway. Kate got out of her car as the driver of the truck stopped along the sidewalk at the back of the house.

  A dark-haired man with a sprinkle of silver at his temples got out of the truck. It was the first good look she’d gotten at him. He was physically fit, although not any taller than Paul’s not-quite-six-feet.

  His face was thunderous. “You’re on private property, lady.”

  “Mr. Foxfield, I believe you already know who I am,” Kate said, refusing to acknowledge the little quiver in her stomach. “I’d like to talk to you about the demolition of the library.”

  Foxfield glared at her. “Why?”

  “You supposedly own the property.”

  “I do own the property.” His voice became even more aggressive, and he took a step toward her.

  Kate steeled herself not to step back. She ignored the statement. “The residents of Copper Mill are going to be very upset that their library is going to be torn down, Mr. Foxfield. Surely there is some way we can avoid that—”

  “There’s nothing you can do,” he said so fast he nearly tripped over the words. There was almost a sneer in his tone. “I own that land. It’s been in my family for years.”

  “So how could the library have been in operation all these years if it wasn’t the town’s property?” She didn’t understand how such a thing could have occurred.

  “It was a mistake,” he said. “Someone fouled up when the deed was being registered. I discovered it after my father died, and I have no interest in hanging on to a useless piece of property.”

  “Like the home your family lived in on Maple Avenue for more than eighty years?” Kate couldn’t help feeling upset at his attitude. “You don’t appear to have much respect for history, Mr. Foxfield.”