by Bobbi Holmes
“I’m curious about that myself,” Walt said as he appeared in the room, standing next to Ian.
Times like this Danielle wished she couldn’t see spirits, because they could be very annoying, especially when she was trying to have a conversation with someone and the spirit was chiming in—and only she could hear. Closing her eyes briefly she willed herself to focus on what Ian was saying, while ignoring Walt’s presence in the room.
“Sometimes when I’m on vacation I would just prefer…well, a sense of anonymity. Where I can just be myself.”
“Ahhh, you mean like avoiding all those pesky paparazzi so they don’t start following you around?” Danielle asked sarcastically.
“Umm...no…” Ian shifted nervously. “I didn’t mean that. Of course I don’t get paparazzi following me.”
“Ian, you’re still not being straight with us. This isn’t about you taking a little break from your celebrity status as an author—you’ve told people you’re writing a travel book about the Oregon Coast—including Marlow House. I don’t really believe it, because you don’t write those kinds of books. But you are up to something, and your lying to us had nothing to do with you wanting some privacy,” Danielle said.
“Who told you that?” Ian asked.
“You tell me? How many people have you interviewed for your travel book?” Danielle asked.
“Damn, you don’t want to get Danielle pissed off,” Walt said with a chuckle. Amused with Danielle’s tone, he sat on the arm of the sofa, his arms folded across his chest as he watched.
“Shut up,” Danielle hissed.
“How can I answer your question and shut up at the same time?” Ian frowned in confusion.
“Just…explain what you’re doing here,” Danielle said, flashing Walt an annoyed look. Walt smiled in return and gave a little shrug.
Ian sighed. “I’m writing a book. But you’re right, it isn’t a travel book. I’ve interviewed a few people in Frederickport, but I couldn’t tell them what the book was really about.”
“Why is that?” Lily asked.
“When I’m working on a project I tell people as little as possible about what I’m working on—that goes for people I interview.”
“So you are working on a book, but it isn’t a travel book on the Oregon Coast?” Danielle asked.
“Correct,” Ian said.
“But it is about Marlow House,” Danielle said.
“He’s investigating Marlow House? Why? Do you think he knows about my death?” Walt stood up and walked to Ian.
“I can’t say,” Ian said.
“So all of this friendliness on your part was just a way to get some information from us? But what information?” Lily asked angrily.
“I will admit I initially arranged a meeting with you both for research purposes. But I like you, Lily; I like both of you. I’m sorry I lied to you.”
“So you admit you lied,” Lily said.
“I suppose I did. I never considered that we’d become friends. But I do think of you as my friends.”
“Are you married?” Lily blurted out.
“Married? No where did you get that idea?”
“Joanne said a woman was with you. She assumed it was your wife,” Danielle explained.
“Oh…it was Joanne who said something to you about me. What happened, did she mention I was writing a travel book and you looked me up online, then recognized me?”
“Not exactly,” Danielle said. “When she came over here yesterday she saw you talking to Lily. She saw you walk across the street to the Hemming house.”
“Joanne Johnson was here? I never saw her.” Ian frowned.
“She had just pulled up in her car. She recognized you. Obviously, you didn’t see her,” Lily said.
“When I interviewed Joanne I gave her my pen name, not my real name. I figured that way if she looked me up online, she’d recognize my picture. I didn’t expect to run into her again.”
“I don’t know why not. Frederickport isn’t exactly a big town,” Lily said.
“You are writing about Marlow House, aren’t you?” Danielle said.
“I really can’t discuss it,” Ian stood up.
“I don’t understand,” Danielle said. “You admit you arranged a meeting with us because of the story you’re working on, yet I can’t remember any questions you asked me.” She glanced over at Lily.
“I just wish you both would understand none of this is personal. I just don’t feel comfortable discussing my current work in progress, with anyone. Maybe I shouldn’t have led you to believe I was still a teacher, but at the time I didn’t know either of you and I just felt it would be easier not to say what I really did for a living—what my pen name was—because then you wouldn’t ask me questions, like you are now.”
“If you’re writing about Marlow House, I think it is my business,” Danielle said.
“And mine,” Walt chimed in.
“I can’t, Danielle. I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss that now.” Ian walked to the doorway. He paused a moment and looked back at Lily. “Lily, I’m sorry this got all twisted around. I was hoping you would go out to dinner with me tonight.”
“I think I’ll pass.”
“Maybe some other time.” Ian smiled sadly, gave a little nod, and then walked out of the parlor and to the front door.
“If he is writing about Marlow House, why hasn’t he asked me any real questions?” Danielle asked after she heard the front door open and close. “Maybe it’s a story on Frederickport and not really about Marlow House, per se.”
“I don’t know…” Lily walked to the window. She pulled open the curtain and watched Ian cross the street to the rental.
“Are you going out to dinner with him? He does seem to genuinely like you. I guess I can understand what he was saying.”
“I can’t believe you’re telling her that!” Walt said.
“Does he really?” Lily asked, still looking out the window, her right hand holding the curtain to one side. “Maybe he just needs to pretend we’re friends so he can get what he needs for his story.”
“But what does he need from us? From you? If you think about it, if he’s researching a local story—which I assume he is—neither of us have ever been at Frederickport before. Of the two of us, I’m the only one who has a connection to the town, through my aunt of course. So if he wanted to interview one of us to see if we knew something about the town or even the history of Marlow House, I would assume that someone would be me, before you.”
“He needs something from me.” Lily let the curtain fall back in place. She turned and faced Danielle. “He needs the portraits.”
“The portraits?” Danielle asked.
“My portraits?” Walt echoed.
“Remember, I told you. He wanted a photograph of the portraits in the library—of Walt Marlow and his wife. But he wanted to take them with his own camera, not my iPhone. I bet anything he wants it for whatever story he’s working on. And he needs to get back in my good graces so he can take the pictures.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Marie Hemming sat at the oak table sipping a cup of warm tea. Waiting for her guests to arrive, she looked out the kitchen window and admired the flowering geraniums. Gardening had always been her passion, and while it wasn’t easy for her to get down on her hands and knees these days to work in the soil, she managed to do it, much to her grandson’s annoyance. He’d been badgering her for months to hire a gardener.
She smiled at the thought of her grandson Adam. When she had called him earlier to ask if he would stop at the deli and pick up some sandwiches for lunch, he had sounded somewhat annoyed. Yet once she explained she was having company and who that company was, his tone changed. After Danielle Boatman called that morning, asking if she and her friend could stop over for a chat, Marie had insisted they come over for lunch. The moment she got off the phone, Marie realized she had nothing to serve the young women, which is why she called her grandson. It was obvious to her Adam
was interested in Brianna’s niece. Before Marie died, she wanted to see her grandson married and starting a family. Perhaps Danielle might be the one.
“Get a sandwich for yourself, too,” she had told him. “You can have lunch with us.”
An hour later Danielle and Lily arrived at Marie’s and parked in front of her house. They were just getting out of the car when Adam pulled into Marie’s driveway.
“Afternoon, ladies!” Adam called out as he got from his vehicle and slammed the car door shut. In his hands he carried two sacks of food from the deli. Lily and Danielle paused at the front gate and watched as he approached.
“Hello,” Danielle and Lily chorused.
He lifted the bags up for them to see. “I come bearing lunch!”
“Now I feel guilty,” Danielle said as she opened the gate. “I wanted to ask your grandmother a few questions, but I didn’t mean for you to go out of your way.”
“Don’t be silly,” Adam said as the three made their way up the front walkway to Marie’s door. “My grandmother loves having company, and I was more than happy to stop at the deli for her. Anyway, I get a sandwich out of the deal.”
“So you’re joining us?” Lily didn’t mean to voice the question, especially considering she sounded less than enthusiastic.
“If that’s okay with you ladies.”
“Certainly,” Lily quickly replied, feeling a blush of embarrassment for being so transparent.
Inside the beach cottage they found Marie anxiously waiting for them. Instead of wearing her gardening clothes as she had when Danielle first met her, the elderly woman wore a flowered print cotton dress and straw hat.
“I thought we could eat outside, since it’s such a lovely day,” Marie said after she was introduced to Lily. The three followed Marie out to the back patio where they found a glass-topped wrought iron table already set with linen napkins, tumblers filled with iced tea, and china luncheon plates. Marie had carefully set the table, arranging the folded napkins neatly on the left of each plate, adding slices of lemon to the beverages and a bouquet of freshly cut flowers on the center of the table.
“This is lovely, I didn’t mean for you to go to all of this trouble,” Danielle said. She and Lily stood by the table while Adam pulled sandwiches—each wrapped in paper—from one sack and handed them to Marie, who set them on the plates, fussing a bit as she removed the wrappings and arranged the sandwiches.
“Oh, it’s no trouble, we’re delighted to have you,” Marie insisted. “Please, please sit down.”
From the second sack Adam pulled out several containers of salad, and set them on the table. Marie quickly removed the lids and added a spoon to each plastic container.
Danielle and Lily each took a seat. Before Marie sat down, she handed the discarded lids and paper she had removed from the sandwiches to her grandson, who took them with the paper sacks into the house to throw away. When he returned, he sat at the table between Danielle and his grandmother.
“I was so glad you called.” Marie motioned for her guests to help themselves to the salads and start eating. “I hope you like pastrami sandwiches. The local deli has absolutely the best pastrami.”
“It looks delicious.” Danielle took a small bite from her sandwich.
“Neither of you are vegetarians are you?” Marie glanced from Lily to Danielle.
“No, no we aren’t,” Lily assured her as she helped herself to a portion of pasta salad.
“You mentioned you had some more questions about Brianna?” Marie asked.
“Not really about Aunt Brianna. I have a few questions about Walt Marlow’s death.”
“As you already know, I was just a small child when he died.” Marie took a sip of her tea.
“Popular opinion is he killed himself. Of course my great-grandfather thought he was murdered,” Adam said before taking a bite of his sandwich.
“At the museum I could only find a couple issues of the newspaper during that time,” Danielle explained. “But I went online and found several articles—in other Oregon newspapers—on Walt Marlow’s death.”
“Oh my, you can find old newspapers on the Internet?” Marie asked.
“Yes,” Danielle said. “And it seems as if there was some confusion about Roger Calvert.”
“Roger Calvert—was he the one that was shot by his bride?” Adam asked.
“Yes dear, he married Brianna’s mother.” Marie reached over and patted her grandson’s hand.
“Another good reason why not to get married,” Adam said under his breath.
“Oh, Adam!” Marie shook her head. “Don’t listen to him Danielle. Adam is waiting for the right girl to come along, and when she does he will be just as anxious as his bride to get married.”
“I will?” Adam looked over at his grandmother and frowned.
Danielle smiled and took a quick gulp of tea and continued on with what she was saying. “I read something online that suggested Roger Calvert may have been in Frederickport when Walt Marlow was killed.”
“According to my father, Roger arrived in Frederickport hours after he found Walt’s body. In fact, a man Father knew ran into Roger about 15 miles out of town, when he was on his way in.”
“Someone also claimed to have seen Roger the day before—before Walt Marlow was killed. According to this witness, Roger’s car was seen coming down the road from Frederickport, but he had car trouble and was forced to spend the night until he could see the mechanic the next day,” Danielle told her.
“That’s interesting. My father never told me that story.” Marie frowned.
“Why does it matter? It was almost ninety years ago,” Adam asked.
“I intend to turn Marlow House into a Bed and Breakfast, and when I share its history with my guests, I’d like to give them the real story.”
“Plus it wouldn’t hurt to have a little mystery in there to spice things up,” Adam said.
Danielle flashed him a smile and thought, if you only knew the real reason I want the truth. She then said to Marie, “I was hoping your father had mentioned something about it.”
Marie shook her head. “No, I hadn’t heard that story.”
“Would it have mattered if he had been in Frederickport before Marlow was killed?” Adam asked.
“I would think so,” Marie said. “Since he had made such a point of telling everyone he arrived after the murder. I remember my father talking about that. The newspaper article must have had it wrong.”
“Apparently the person who told the story later recanted,” Danielle explained.
“Perhaps she simply was confused about the date she saw him, and later realized her mistake.” Marie smiled and took a sip of her tea.
“It wasn’t about the dates. She basically said she got her white folks mixed up,” Danielle explained.
“The woman was black?” Adam asked.
“Yes. She worked at a diner outside of town. One minute she claims she saw him arriving from Frederickport, and the next she says it was all a mistake.”
“Considering the time, she may have decided it was not in her best interest to get involved,” Adam suggested.
“That’s what we thought,” Lily said.
“I wish there was some way to turn back the clock and talk to Emma Jackson,” Danielle said.
“Emma Jackson?” Adam asked.
“She’s the woman who said she saw Roger coming from Frederickport.”
“There is something familiar about that name,” Adam puzzled then asked, “Do you remember the name of the diner she worked at?”
“I think it was Bluebird…or Bluebell…something like that. Why?” Danielle asked.
“Well I’ll be damned. I wonder if it’s possible,” Adam mumbled.
“What are you talking about?” Danielle asked.
“Maybe the newspaper you should be reading is the current one and not some ninety year old edition,” Adam said with a laugh. He stood up and tossed his napkin to the table.
“Where are you
going?” Marie asked.
“Grandma, do you still have yesterday’s newspaper?” Adam asked.
“Yes, but why do you want it?”
“I want to see if my hunch is correct,” Adam told her.
“Is this about Walt Marlow’s death?” Lily asked.
“Not exactly, but hold on a second and let me get the paper.” Adam looked at his grandmother.
“It’s in the laundry room where I put all the newspapers for the recycling bin.”
“I’ll be right back,” Adam said before going to retrieve yesterday’s newspaper.
“What was that all about?” Marie asked.
“Maybe there was something in the paper about Marlow’s death,” Lily suggested.
“I would have seen that,” Marie insisted.
When Adam returned to the table he held yesterday’s newspaper in his hand, folded over to a story he wanted Danielle to read. He handed the paper to her and took his seat.
“What’s this?” Danielle looked at the paper.
“Go ahead, read it,” Adam said.
“What is it?” Lily asked, leaning toward Danielle to read over her shoulder.
“It’s an article about a woman in Astoria who’s celebrating her 106th birthday this month…Emma Jackson?” Danielle looked up at Adam. “It couldn’t be the same woman.”
“Read the article. Talks about her life, how she worked at the Bluebell Diner when she was a young woman. How many black women named Emma Jackson were working at the Bluebell Diner back in the 20s?”
“Dani, we need to go talk to her!” Lily said excitedly.
“She’s 106, Lily, I can’t imagine what she’d remember,” Danielle said.
“Hey, you said you wanted to turn back the clock,” Adam reminded. “This is the next best thing. And by the article, sounds like she’s still pretty sharp. What do you have to lose?”
“How could I get ahold of her? I don’t just want to show up.” Danielle wondered if Emma Jackson—assuming she was the same woman—would remember anything.