I thought about dropping in on Mina at the news office, mainly to have someone with whom to hash over all the random thoughts that were nagging at me, but my phone rang and Kerby informed me that I had a flight. I chafed at the change of direction but decided it might be for the best. Taking a break from bones, cats and creepy threats could do me good.
Boxes and bags waited near the A-Star when I arrived at the helipad. Chuey approached, carrying a box that rattled with the sound of wine bottles.
“Resupply for the group at Cabin Two,” he said. “Looks like they’re planning to have a great time during their second week.”
The case held a dozen bottles, so I had to agree with his assessment. We opened the cargo compartment and began stacking cartons containing eggs, bread, milk, cereal and fresh produce. I asked him to place the wine on the floor of the passenger cabin, a spot nearer to the craft’s center of gravity and somewhat more stable than the back. We had finished the loading when Kerby walked up.
“I hope I didn’t pull you off something important,” he said to me.
I knew he was fishing for information on Mina’s story. Half the town probably knew that Katherine Ratcliff had come and gone yesterday.
“Nothing that can’t wait,” I said. “Unless you know anything about a guy named Michael Ratcliff who might have hung around town a little in 1975.”
“Too far back for me. I came to Alaska to work for a tour company out of Fairbanks, met Lillian there and the rest is history. First time I set foot in Skagway was ten years ago when she and I returned from our honeymoon.”
“Oh, yeah? Where’d you go?” After our own wedding we’d gone to a ski area, where Drake worked to ferry skiers to the back country. Upside was that we’d managed a three-month honeymoon out of the deal.
“Maui. I flew tours there for two years, stayed in touch with some folks and got us a deal on a seaside condo.”
Drake had flown on Kauai for a long time, yet the two never met during that time. It only showed how, even in the relatively small world of commercial helicoptering, you couldn’t possibly know everyone.
Kerby helped me complete the preflight and then handed me a few pieces of mail for the clients. I climbed in and started the turbine engine. Twenty-five minutes later I had Cabin Two in sight. Two adults and four kids came rushing out, obviously eager to see a new face after a week together in close quarters—either that or they couldn’t wait to break into that wine.
The husband, a Mr. Smith (although, truthfully, they were all beginning to blend into generic Smiths by now), helped unload the supplies. When he instructed the kids to carry boxes to the cabin’s kitchen, a scramble ensued over the one containing the frosted chocolate cereal. I handed over their mail, checked the batteries on their satellite phone, and asked whether they needed anything else.
The missus had already applied the corkscrew to the first bottle of wine; she gave a vacant nod.
“Look what I found.” One of the little girls, who had stayed out of the cereal fray, proudly showed me a glass vial with two decent-sized gold nuggets.
The father spoke up. “I weighed them for her. She’s got close to a thousand dollars worth there.”
“Wow—good for you!” I said.
The kid beamed. I doubted Kerby had seeded the area with anything that valuable, and it was reassuring to know that the customers really did have a chance at finding something worth some real money.
I waved goodbye and cautioned them about standing back while I pulled pitch and headed back toward the airport. Seeing those nuggets reminded me again about the older of the two skeletons we’d found, most likely a gold rusher. So many stories floated around, lots of them about vast fortunes; I wondered how much, in today’s terms, the average man ever really found. Which led my thoughts around to the box of letters I’d been reading. Maybe by the time I finished them I would know the answer to that question.
The heliport came into sight as I cleared the last of the rugged peaks to the east of town and I, as always, felt a rush of relief at seeing Drake’s ship already there. I made a neat landing and started my shut-down procedure, pulling my cell phone from my pocket while I waited for the turbine to cool down. I had missed two calls, one from Mina and one from Katherine Ratcliff.
Katherine’s message was brief but informative. “Charlie, something kept nagging at me on the flight home. I need to tell you about it.”
Chapter 21
Katherine answered quickly, sounding a little out of breath.
“I’m so glad you called right away,” she said. “I’ve just been up to the attic and verified what I thought. It’s here.”
“Can you back up a little? I didn’t get—”
“Oh, sorry. Didn’t I say in my message? It’s an old trunk. I had forgotten all about it but I do still have it. It’s a rather quaint antique, I suppose—leather-covered with brass fittings and thick leather handles that have since rotted through. It was among the things at my grandmother’s house when she died.”
I tamped down my impatience to know where this was going.
“Michael laid claim to it the minute he saw it. That was the thing that sparked his interest in family history, I believe.”
“Have you looked inside?”
“Oh yes. There are some yellowed baby clothes, including a christening gown that my father wore. There’s an old sepia photograph of him.”
“I’m thinking more along the lines of something that would have brought Michael to Alaska.”
“There are some books. I haven’t had time to really look through them yet.”
This didn’t seem to be exactly a hot lead, but I suggested that she look everything over and give me a call if she discovered any references to Alaska. She promised to do that, although I could tell she was tired from the trip. I didn’t expect to hear back from her anytime soon.
“Gonna spend the night here?” Drake said, opening my door and giving me a grin.
I was still belted into my harness. I held up my phone. “Sorry, something I needed to address.”
“I’m done here and I can offer you a lovely Alaskan crab dinner and a ride home, if you’d like to finish your paperwork and call it a day.” He held up a box with two wriggling live crabs in it.
Nothing I could imagine sounded better than that. Thirty minutes later we’d settled at home where I was happy to turn over the task of boiling a huge pot of water to my kitchen-capable hubby. I only wanted a shower.
In the middle of suds and shampoo I remembered that I had not returned Mina’s call but I got distracted when Drake shouted that dinner was being served in five minutes. I rinsed and toweled off and showed up in the kitchen wearing sweats and wet hair, just in time to microwave a stick of butter into golden oblivion. The ripping, cracking and shredding of crab legs went by in a kind of blur.
By the time we adjourned to the sofa Drake was ready for television but I couldn’t concentrate on the scientific program with way too many unfamiliar concepts. I dialed Mina’s number but when it went immediately to voice mail I remembered Chuey saying something about their having a date tonight. I spotted the floral box of letters and picked it up.
On my previous foray into the past, I’d come to the end of Joshua Farmer’s letters. The only thing to do now was to see what his wife might have written once he’d told her of his gold strike and announced that he was on the way home.
Dearest Husband,
I am near frantic with worry. It has been a month since your letter saying you were on the way home and yet there is no sign of you. I have called in at the steamship line almost daily and I fear they are becoming impatient with my presence. There seems no record of your purchase of a ticket. But as no ships have been lost at sea, I can only assume that something has delayed your return journey.
Please forgive my wifely worries, but do find a moment to send a line or two and reassure me that you are all right.
Your loving wife,
Maddie
By postm
ark dates, the next letter was even shorter.
Dearest Joshua,
I have sent telegrams to the offices of the law in Skagway and in Fraser, Canada, hoping for some word of your whereabouts. Neither of them has provided me with any substantial answer, merely stating that thousands of men are on the trail and they cannot possibly know how to find any certain individual.
Please, please, contact me, even if it is to say that you have changed your mind about coming home. I only want to assure myself that you are safe.
Your wife,
Maddie
How awful, I thought. In those times the poor woman must have felt hopeless. Today, we have cell phones, radios, GPS and the Internet, and yet I know first-hand how frightening it is whenever Drake goes out on a job and I don’t hear anything for a day or two. Maddie Farmer’s situation would have driven me crazy.
I picked up the next letter, realizing only after I had extracted the thin sheet of paper that this one was not addressed to Joshua Farmer.
September 30, 1898
Mr. Harry Weaver
c/o The Pinkerton Detective Agency
Seattle, Washington
Dear Mr. Weaver,
I do not know if you are familiar with my name, as I am with yours. My husband Joshua Farmer mentioned you on more than one occasion in his letters home from Skagway, Alaska.
I am writing today to beg your assistance. Joshua wrote to me almost two months ago, saying that he was leaving Alaska after a successful trip into the Klondike. I assumed he would arrive in San Francisco within two or three weeks, but to date he has not appeared here. Understandably, I am nearly beside myself.
I would like to engage your firm to look for him and report to me. I contact you directly because of your connection to him, but please be assured that I am not expecting preferential treatment. I shall acquire the money to pay, if you will advise me as to the rates and procedure. Unfortunately, I am woefully ignorant about such matters.
I look forward to hearing from you at your earliest convenience.
Yours very truly,
Maddie McDowell Farmer
I reread the letter twice. Had Joshua Farmer mentioned that Harry Weaver was a Pinkerton detective in his letters?
The next letter in the stack was written in an unfamiliar hand, addressed to Maddie Farmer. I opened it to discover it came from the detective.
October 12, 1898
Dear Mrs. Farmer,
I am indeed acquainted with your husband, Joshua, and am very sorry to hear that he has not arrived safely in San Francisco. I was unaware of his successful gold strike, but perhaps that is because my Pinkerton duties took me to other locations while Joshua remained occupied in Skagway.
I will be most happy to make some inquiries on your behalf. Do not worry yourself about payment arrangements. It would be my pleasure to pursue this on my own time, for now. If agency involvement is warranted, I shall apprise you of the status and we can discuss a plan.
I shall remain in contact,
Harry Weaver
A gap of two months went by before the next postmark. I opened the letter from Mr. Weaver.
December 20, 1898
Dear Mrs. Farmer,
I regret that my efforts have not brought better results. At this point, I have completely exhausted leads that might take us to Joshua. During a trip to Skagway, I interviewed his former landlady, Mrs. McIlhaney, who remembered him well. She informed me that your husband left many of his belongings behind when he departed, without a word of farewell. She stored the items—an assortment of clothing, some gold panning equipment and a few tools—I looked through them but found no indication of his plans. If you would like to have these personal items, please advise Mrs. Eulaila McIlhaney, Broadway Street, Skagway, Alaska, and enclose twenty dollars for the shipping. She will hold them a few more weeks and then discard them.
I also spoke with a series of tavern keepers and local merchants, with even less result. There are, I fear, too many faces and too few connections to accurately place yet another stampeder in this melee of humanity. I must say, though, that I have wandered the streets of the city and posted myself at likely places where I might see him, and have had no success.
My employer has, today, summoned me to another assignment and I must travel to Chicago. Depending upon the duration of my duties in that case, I may possibly have free time in the coming spring months to return to Skagway, but I hesitate to promise that it would be a fruitful trip. At the present time, the winter winds blow bitterly here in the north, and I hold little hope for anyone who attempts to travel to the gold fields now.
I pray that your husband returns, safe and unharmed. If that is the case, please write to me in care of the Pinkerton Agency and let me know the good news. I was fond of Joshua and always wished him well.
With kindest regards,
Harry Weaver
I set the letter back in the box, the last of the correspondence. How many adventurers met a similar fate? I had not taken time to visit the museum yet, but I imagined history would show that many, many of them never returned home.
Drake’s TV show was ending and I felt my eyelids drooping, the result of our big dinner and the previous night’s sketchy sleep. We turned out the lamps.
My sleep was restful until the first time I rolled over. That act awakened me just enough to get my mind churning, rummaging through names. Something in Harry Weaver’s final letter had stayed with me, the name of the landlady. There were other names, too, ones I’d come across as I’d begun to read the letters in the first few days after our arrival here.
In the meantime, several of those names had become familiar.
Chapter 22
My early awakening had provided enough time to go back and reread all the letters in the box, which only opened up far more questions than they answered. Once the sun had fully hit the streets and warmed the air, I took the opportunity to go for a nice, brisk walk with Freckles and think it over.
While Mina and Chief Branson were giving the majority of their attention to Michael Ratcliff, the more recent of the two murders, a seed of suspicion made me wonder about the older one. The time frame was about right—what if there was a tie between someone named in the letters and the skeleton that dated back to the gold rush era?
We passed Berta’s house, where curtains were still drawn and nothing indicated she was up yet. So many of the names in the letters seemed familiar to me that I’d written them all down and I wanted to run them past either Berta or Mina. An online directory search showed that several of those original families still resided here in Skagway—among those I had met already were McIlhaney, Thespen and Connell. On the off chance, I had also looked up Farmer but didn’t find any.
Maddie Farmer’s last letter still haunted me—the desperately worried wife who never received satisfactory answers about her husband’s whereabouts. Joshua Farmer had come to Skagway full of hopes and the dream of becoming rich. By late summer he had claimed to find gold and said he was on the way home. But he never arrived. Perhaps Joshua had lied to his wife about the gold. It wouldn’t be the first time a man away from home had met another woman and simply abandoned the family back home. The desertion scenario didn’t feel right though; the letters between the two of them were frequent and loving. If there had been anyone named Farmer here today, I would have loved to quiz them.
I spent the rest of the walk trying to decide where to go next for information. The minute I walked into the living room, the answer was staring at me from the front page of this week’s newspaper. A headline about the historical society’s annual fundraiser caught my attention. What better place to gain some additional information?
Drake had left me a note: Got a nine o’clock flight. See you for lunch?
I speed dialed his cell phone and told him I would meet him at Zack’s Place at noon, to let me know if his plans changed. Then I left Freckles happily crunching down a doggie cookie and headed toward the Skagway Museum.
&
nbsp; A man of about seventy sat behind the information desk, wearing a green jacket, a bow tie, and a pleasant expression. I briefly outlined the fact that I had come into possession of some letters from the gold rush period and wondered if there was a way to find out what had become of the writer. He reached under the desk and pulled out a few pages.
“This is a list of people buried in the Gold Rush Cemetery,” he said. “Of course, the person had to be in town at the time of his death. If the man you’re looking for died along the trail, he was probably buried on the spot
“Now here’s the other main cemetery, the one on the Dyea road, the Pioneer Cemetery.”
I quickly scanned the names, which were thoughtfully presented in alphabetical order, but didn’t see any that tied to those in the letters.
“This man, Joshua Farmer, would have arrived about April of 1898,” I told the docent. “I have letters he wrote home to his wife, saying he was gathering his gear for the trail. Later, he says he’s leaving for the Klondike, then in July he wrote that he’d found gold and was going back home to San Francisco.”
The docent gave me a hard stare. “Three months? I think your man may have been fibbing to the wife. Most of the men spent a good year on that trail. The Canadian authorities required that they bring supplies for a journey that long, so’s they wouldn’t get up there and starve to death on Canadian soil.”
“So, you’re saying there’s no way he could have gone to the gold fields and back in the time he says he did?”
“Let’s just say I would be real surprised.” He shrugged and the skepticism was clear on his face. “The Chilkoot Trail was shorter, but you see there was a bad avalanche that spring. Lot of men killed, lot of danger. The Chilkoot was closed for awhile but it wasn’t necessarily a lot faster anyway because it was so much steeper. You want to see the evidence, the displays inside are pretty amazing.”
Legends Can Be Murder Page 17