The Serpents Trail

by Sue Henry

  The sound of the lawn mower stopped and I suddenly remembered Tomas in the backyard. He could come with me into the house. Decision made, I left Stretch in the Minnie and went to request the once-a-week gardener’s assistance.

  As I had the night before, we went in the back door. One by one we searched every room, even the basement, which we reached via a stairway behind a door in the kitchen. Chivalry is not dead. Tomas gallantly insisted on leading the way, a pair of pruning shears in one hand with which to do battle if necessary. I thought of Don Quixote as I followed along behind, but kept a straight face.

  It was evident that the whole house had been searched.

  All the doors to the upstairs rooms were now open, as were their closets, though I wondered if that might have been the result of the previous night’s police investigation. Sarah’s bedroom remained as chaotic as I had found it the night before, but did not appear to have been touched again. Other evidence of the search concerned me, however.

  The desk in an alcove off the living room that Sarah had used as an office had clearly been ransacked. All the drawers gaped open and some of the contents had been tossed out onto the floor. One drawer deep enough to hold files had been emptied and particular attention paid to searching them individually as the contents had been dropped into a pile on the carpet by someone who must have been sitting in the desk chair.

  Volumes from a bookcase in the alcove, as well as one in the living room, had been pulled from their shelves and cast onto the floor. Pictures all over the house were askew on the walls.

  Storage shelves in the basement had been disturbed too; tools, paint, and supplies shoved aside, boxes moved onto the cement floor. A light had been left burning in a side room that had once been used to store coal before the furnace was replaced with one that consumed natural gas.

  Tomas was bewildered and disgusted by the invasion.

  “Who would do such things?” he demanded, tone sharp with indignation. “Missus Sarah was such a nice lady.”

  I had no answers for him. But I did have a pretty solid idea that this intruder was not an ordinary burglar looking for odd items of value. This was a disturbance with a particular goal in mind. Whoever it was had been hunting specifically and I had an uneasy feeling it might have something to do with the important things Sarah had wanted to tell me—with which she had said she needed my help.

  Oh, Sarah, I thought, there are so many ways to miss you.

  Finding no one threatening in the house, Tomas went back to his yard work, and I, deciding not to phone the police, began the process of clearing up the mess. Perhaps I could learn something that would tell me what the object of the hunt had been by reversing the destructive process. With the house empty, the perpetrator had obviously had time to complete his search. He was gone, so either he had found what he was looking for, or now must believe it was not to be found in the house. If he had found it, there was no use looking. But, as I began to sort out the papers from Sarah’s desk, I wondered about that.

  At the house, Maxine. I wrote it all down. You can read it, Sarah had said. Going back to my thoughts in the park about her love of secret hiding places, I considered the possibility that she had one, or more, somewhere in the house and had used it, or them, to hide what she said she had written down. The idea made her mention of that game of Sardines more understandable. It had taken me days to solve the riddle of my birthday puzzle box. If she had created some, could I find her hiding places in less? It was worth a try. Where to start?

  I looked around the alcove in which I sat with a new objective. The desk itself, of course, was one possibility. The drawers hung open, but only two of them had been removed, though all the contents had either been sorted through or tossed out. Carefully, one by one, I pulled the drawers free of the desk and turned them over to see if there might be an envelope taped to the underside. There was not. One of the lower ones, however—where the angle made it almost impossible to discern by anyone sitting in the desk chair—had been shortened a couple of inches in the back by moving the rear edge forward to accommodate the addition of a narrow box that could be opened only if the drawer was removed and turned around.

  Except for a single key that didn’t seem to fit anything, the box was empty, but it told me that I was not searching in vain. I put it back, then sat on my heels where I had knelt on the floor to gain a purchase on the drawers, and chuckled in satisfaction. At some time during her occupancy of the house she had been up to her old tricks.

  Clever Sarah.

  Rewarded, I was encouraged to go over the desk from top to bottom, knowing there were other ways to create hiding places within it. Rapping knuckles over all the flat surfaces, I found no hollow spaces that could not be accounted for in its basic construction. None of the joints were moveable, nor would any of the decorative molding on this antique piece move, slide, or swivel. Under the large center drawer at the top I found several paper clips, a grocery receipt, and an eraser from some vanished pencil—all of which had probably slipped behind it by accident over the years. The chair held no secrets, either.

  The bookcases in the alcove and living room were next. Standing back, I examined the balance and conformity of their structure. It was easy to see that the large set of living room shelves—now minus the books, thanks to the intruder—held no possibility of hidden spaces. It was very plainly made, the frame and shelves of equal width and depth. I moved back to visually inspect the shelves next to the desk. These were of a different design, heavily decorated with carved panels around the frame and across the front. Examining them carefully, I noticed that the decoration on one of them seemed slightly wider than the rest, extending a little below the shelf.

  Ah-hah!

  Taking a huge step forward over the pile of books on the floor, I laid one hand over, one under, that middle shelf. A two-inch disparity that held my palms apart was revealed. No shelf would reasonably or innocently be made that thick.

  “All right,” I said to the empty room. “How does this one work, Sarah?”

  The decorative panel did not slide out of the way, nor was it hinged to lift up, as I half expected. Switching on a gooseneck lamp on the desk, I aimed it at the bookcase and once again dropped to my knees to look closely. Could there be a latch of some kind hidden in the scrollwork of the carved wood? Like a Braille reader, I worked my fingers across it, with no results. Tugging at the piece was also unsuccessful. It was solidly attached to the rest of the case.

  Frustrated, I used one of Daniel’s oaths: “Bloody hell!”

  The answer was there. I knew it had to be there.

  At sixty-three my knees tend to seize up periodically when I’ve been down on them too long. I have been known to crawl away from weeding a flower bed, with Stretch padding along at my side, until I can find a rake or a fence to use as a prop. Those knees determined that this was another such time, so, pushing a couple of the fallen volumes out of the way on the floor, I leaned a hand against that carved middle shelf to help pull myself back to my feet.

  There was a click, and I felt the panel loosen under my fingers. Released by the pressure, it swung easily away.

  So simple—so efficient.

  Good going, Sarah.

  Within the narrow cavity behind the decorative panel lay a few pages neatly held together with a large paper clip. The handwriting on the first page was familiar. I had seen it many times through the years in cards and letters from my Colorado friend. Under the pages lay three sealed envelopes with names neatly written across them: Ed Norris, Alan Nunamaker, and Jamie Stover.

  Who, I wondered, was Jamie Stover? The envelopes were heavy enough to contain more than one page—perhaps two or three. Not meant for me to open, though I was inquisitive enough to consider it. I tend to lay, if not all, then, most of my cards on the table and appreciate the same from others. If she had named me executor of her affairs, wouldn’t Sarah have expected me to know what was inside these communications? Would I, if they were mine? I decided not. They
might be her personal good-byes to those three people—Stover included, whoever he might be. It remained to be seen if Westover could identify him. Still curious, but reassured of my own reliability, I laid the envelopes aside with only a lingering glance.

  Sitting down at the desk, I thumbed quickly through the pages. On top was what appeared to be the first few lines of a handwritten draft letter. The lines were full of words crossed out, some replaced, by Sarah’s editing. It seemed she had struggled to accurately communicate her thoughts and feelings, and had given up, perhaps intending to finish it later. Behind the draft were four other pages that I recognized as family group sheets and pedigree charts, partially filled in with names, dates, and places. Some of the names I recognized as belonging to Sarah’s family, but many were unfamiliar. The contents of the spaces on the last page had been filled in on a typewriter and I didn’t recognize any of the names at first glance.

  Sarah, to my knowledge, had never been particularly interested in genealogy, but it seemed she must have developed a fairly recent interest.

  I went back to the first page and read through those few lines in the draft of the letter she had started to write in ink.

  My Dear

  An unsettling thing has recently come to my attention, as it is something that may turn out to be important to us and, because of my condition, especially to you, very soon. Because I may not be able to discover the truth or resolve this confusion and, if not, I hope, you will be able to do both.

  One at a time, a few days ago I received two horrid pages through the mail from someone who did not identify himself, or herself, nor was there a return address, though it was postmarked in Salt Lake, Utah.

  I believe that . . .

  The draft stopped abruptly at that point and the rest was blank, except for the letters—“FHL”—and a phone number—“801-240-2331”—scrawled in pencil toward the bottom of one of the group sheets in Sarah’s handwriting, along with a name—“Wilson.”

  I sat staring at the pages in concern and confusion. The subject had clearly been something that seriously troubled Sarah. Evidence of that was all over the page, in corrections and deletions as well as her choice of words.

  What and who could have caused her distress? I could see nothing frightening about the sheets of genealogy and there were four of them, not two. So where were the two horrid pages she had referred to? And who was Wilson, the person who must be at the other end of that phone number?

  I considered for a second or two, then picked up the receiver of the phone that sat on the desk and dialed the number. It rang once and was picked up by an automated answering machine. A man’s voice told me “Thank you for calling the Family History Library of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. If you would like our hours of operation, press one. If you have questions about records or research for the United States and Canada, press two. If you have questions about records or research for the British Isles, press three. For other questions, press four. For Family Search, press five.” It then instructed me that I could press zero, or wait on line, for a real person. I waited. When a woman came on line, I asked if there was a person there named Wilson and was told he was not in, but would be on the day after tomorrow. Would I like to leave a message? I refused, told her I would call back, thanked her, and hung up, not knowing what else I could ask that would make any sense. But I now knew two things: to whom the number belonged and that someone named Wilson at that number might be able to help me if I could figure out what to ask him.

  Rather than pursue any more of the puzzle, I thoughtfully laid the pages and the envelopes on the desk to take with me to the Winnebago, then went back to work and finished clearing up the mess left by whoever had attacked Sarah’s desk and bookcases. It was possible that Don Westover would have answers to my questions and could enlighten me at our meeting the following morning. Meanwhile, just in case the intruder made another attempt, those envelopes and pages would be safe with me in a place that wouldn’t be found, even if my rig were searched.

  As I finished replacing the last book on a living room shelf, the phone rang on Sarah’s desk. I hesitated a moment, but then answered it to find Ed Norris on the other end of the line.

  “Tried your cell phone,” he said, causing me to realize that I had left it in the motor home. “It’s cooling off outdoors. Would you like to take a drive before dinner—get out of town for a bit?”

  I would, indeed, and he agreed to pick me up at five.

  Deciding I would confront the chaos of the upstairs bedroom and other parts of the house the next day, I took the papers I had recovered, and went out the back door to find that Tomas had already vanished but, true to his word, had mowed, swept, pruned, and cleared everything as if a funeral for Sarah would be held right there on her own property. Not a weed, fallen leaf, or faded blossom remained to spoil the splendor of that yard.

  Hiding the papers and envelopes in the space in the Winnebago that held my shotgun, I closed it up again. Then I retrieved clean clothes and my shower kit, and went up to Sarah’s upstairs bathroom, where I took a long cool shower that improved not only my cleanliness, but also my disposition. I seldom use the shower in the motor home, for there are almost always facilities available in the RV parks I visit and using them allows me to empty the gray water holding tank less often.

  After Ed’s suggested drive, I had a favorite restaurant of Sarah’s in mind—Gladstone’s on Twelfth Avenue, a comfortable and welcoming place with a more than acceptable menu. A Jameson and water would also be appreciated. Meanwhile, I refused further search or speculation and spent the remains of the afternoon with Stretch, who was feeling—and rightfully—neglected. Once again missing Sarah, and confused over what I had found, I could do with his unconditional appreciation of my company as well.

  I did not, however, intend to hand over the envelope I had found with Ed’s name on it until I’d had a chance to talk with Westover about all three of them, the family group sheets, and the draft of Sarah’s letter with its reference to the two pages that appeared to be missing. It had waited this long, it could wait another day.

  There was a long silence after the shower stopped running, the sound of the woman’s feet had gone down the stairs, and the back door had been closed and locked. Then the metal latch made only a soft click as a door was opened in the upstairs hallway and a figure stepped out into the late afternoon shadows to stand listening, cautiously, to be certain of its singular presence in the house. A trickle of sweat ran down the forehead into an eyebrow and the hem of an oversized T-shirt was lifted to absorb it. Assured it was alone, the figure moved slowly, barefooted to the bathroom, where a thin stream of water was allowed to run into cupped hands that several times carried it to the thirsty mouth and splashed it over face and arms. They were quickly dried on the damp towel the woman had left hanging by the tub, which was used to wipe out the sink as well, and carefully hung back as it had been.

  Refreshed, the figure slipped noiselessly down the stairs and through the rooms to the kitchen, where a bottle of juice was retrieved from the refrigerator and taken to a comfortable chair in the living room that faced a window overlooking the motor home now parked near the house. For a long time there was nothing but waiting and watching, until a car with a man at the wheel pulled up at the front curb and the woman locked the Winnebago and went to join him, with the dog on a leash trotting beside her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  TRUE TO HIS WORD, ED APPEARED PROMPTLY AT FIVE o’clock, as the shadows from the trees were lengthening across Chipeta Avenue. As the afternoon grew later, I had turned off the air conditioner and opened the doors and windows of the Winnebago to let a bit of breeze blow through. In the shade of Sarah’s two-story house it was cool enough so that I could have left Stretch in the rig while I was away. But, deciding he had spent enough time alone in the last—could it possibly be only twenty-four hours?—I took him along. He would be happier to ride along with his humans.

  The car’s air c
onditioner, on full blast, had cooled the interior, and as I slid into the passenger seat, Ed handed me a tall paper cup full of iced lemonade.

  “Oh, you dear man,” I told him gratefully.

  “Thank some fast-food emporium on Horizon Drive,” he said smiling at me. “I figured the temperature would be pretty warm for you since your blood must be thick from all that Alaskan cold weather.”

  He was right. Even in the long days of summer it was never so hot in Alaska. But, noticing that he had set the air conditioner to recycle, I lowered the window on my side a half-inch to let in some fresh air, so I wouldn’t feel we were depleting the oxygen with each breath.

  “Where are we going?” I asked as Ed turned right and headed north.

  “Thought it might be nice to drive up to the Monument,” he told me. “It was something Sarah liked to do late in the day. That okay with you?”

  “Sure.”

  The day had been such a tangle of sadness, not to mention the confusion that littered Sarah’s house, that I was glad to leave it all for a space and focus my attention on something else for perspective. I am so used to driving my own wheels that, be it car or motor home, it always feels strange to be relegated to the passenger seat of a vehicle. I can’t seem to stop analyzing my way through traffic and completely trust whoever is behind the wheel to take us wherever we’re going without incident. This had been strongly reinforced by my husband Daniel, who hated driving under any circumstance and was inclined to leave it all to me. This had filled me with relief, as he was a self-admitted horrendous driver.

  I had been to the Colorado National Monument more than once before, but not for several seasons and the last visit had been in spring. It would be different with sun-dried grasses instead of early green. Late afternoon shadows spreading to define the rock formations of the plateau above the Grand Valley would be pleasant and we could look down at Grand Junction from the west side of the Colorado River.