It turns out that she was also a dog-loving gossip and heaven help me, the gossip was great. I got a real ripsnorter over coffee and what I think were oatmeal cookies. I tried slipping one to Blue but she wouldn’t take it. I’m an excellent baker and my dog has standards.
Remember Dad mentioned that girls’ school where Deborah was supposedly sent to after her brother’s accident? It wasn’t a school at all but instead a home for unwed mothers; Fulbright Home for Wayward Girls, run by Elijah’s church. Deborah had given birth there and been forced to give the kid up for adoption. Boy or girl, Amelia didn’t know and neither did Deborah. They had knocked her out for the delivery and when she woke up, the baby was gone.
“That must have upset Alonzo,” I said, trying not to cough. I couldn’t very well ask Amelia not to smoke in her own home, though I wanted to. It was making Blue sneeze.
“Sure— but the kid wasn’t his. And what could they do with it anyway?”
My jaw dropped and I left it there.
“Not Alonzo’s? Then who…?”
“Her old man,” Amelia said with the satisfaction of someone who had the world’s best punch-line. “He was a filthy lecher. It’s why she ran away.”
I was so stunned that I couldn’t even think. Could this be true? I am pretty good— I believe— at reading people and Amelia seemed sincere, if rather more smug than saddened at the vile story she told with such relish. And it isn’t like this kind of thing never happened.
“Was it ever reported?” I asked. But of course it hadn’t been. My dad would have stomped the ever loving hell out of Elijah Burns before arresting him (which is another reason that it is better that my father is not involved in police work).
“Nope. She told her mom and Alonzo— and later me. Her mom didn’t do anything except cry and pray. And Alonzo quit school and ran off with her. I guess I could have said something, but she was in San Francisco by then and what was the point?”
“Why are you telling me now?” I asked.
Amelia thought about this.
“Well, they’re saying it was Deborah and Alonzo’s kid that died last night.” Technically he had probably died yesterday afternoon and been discovered last night, but I didn’t quibble. “He’s the last person who might have cared about this. I don’t see why I should keep quiet anymore.”
I nodded, but Amelia wasn’t completely correct. This sad story might be very important to the child Deborah had had taken away, though it wasn’t the kind of genealogical news that anyone would want to hear. Certainly I was not anxious to deliver it if the child was ever found.
And maybe the kid wouldn’t care. After all, he had never known his birth mother. I tried to tell myself that this made things better.
Back on my bike and peddling into the wind, I decided that I would tell Dad and the chief what I had learned, but this wasn’t going in any written report. After all, Amelia could be wrong. Or lying. Either was bad but maybe way better than the story she had related. Incest. I knew it happened all the time. I just didn’t know it had ever happened in Hope Falls.
True or false, I couldn’t chance this rumor getting out. After all, what if the adoption was local? Just because I didn’t know about the home for unwed mothers didn’t mean that other people— like the adoptive parents—didn’t. No one needed to hear news like this in the newspaper or the donut shop.
“Hey, Blue. Want to go see Dad?”
Blue woofed approvingly. She really has an enormous vocabulary.
The farmer’s market closes the first of October, but the Kiwanis Club has an open air flea market out at the fair grounds that runs until first snow. On rainy days, they move it into the stables. It isn’t my kind of thing, but I knew Dad would be there with the van and sharpening knives and scissors for drop-ins. I wanted his take on Amelia’s story before I went to the chief.
But I would talk to the chief eventually, I promised myself. If I was lucky he would still be too shocked by events to remember that he was— technically— supposed to order me off the case.
Chapter 6
Rummage sales are not my thing, unless I am looking for something very particular, but I don’t mind the open air market on a rainy day because of the stables. The warm wood and low ceilings always make me feel safe.
Leaves lay heavily on the ground, too wet now to crunch as I walked through them. I had parked under the overhang of one of the outbuildings to keep the bike dry and we had a way to walk. Blue was happy in spite of the drizzle. The market offers fresh donuts and cider and sometimes roasted corn on the cob and she was sniffing heavily, no doubt selecting what she would like from the wind-borne menu.
Crowds were thin so there were only a few takers for Dad’s services. I wandered about while I waited for him to be free, examining the things people no longer wanted in their lives. Like Blue, my nose was also scenting things. The stables were empty. The rodeo was gone, the county fair a dim memory and it was months before the Celtic Faire and joust would come to town, but there lingered on the friendly ghosts of animals who had stayed in the barns. I like the smell of fresh hay and most farm animals, excepting only some pigs and a few particularly smelly goats. People don’t think of goats as smelling evil, but I had pet one at the fair last year and ended up with a stink on my hands that wouldn’t wash away for days. The cats shunned me. Blue whimpered. My leather jacket had to be sent for cleaning, and after three attempts to remove the smell I gave it away. Those malevolent yellow eyes and the beast’s relative isolation should have warned me to keep my hands to myself, though in all other respects he was a lovely animal.
When Dad well-wished his last customer, Blue and I joined him on the hay bale he’d pulled from the back of the van. Well, I was on the hay, Blue was on the floor.
“You found something out this morning?” Dad asked. “Bad?”
I nodded.
“If it’s true, very bad.” And I told him the story.
Dad said nothing, but I watched his hands carefully as I whispered the tale. Dad has learned to keep his face still, but his hands give him away. He was very angry and I knew a part of him was blaming himself for not guessing what was happening to Deborah.
“But it may not be true,” I ended. “He was a horrible man but maybe not that horrible.”
“The only way to prove it would be to test DNA,” he said at last.
“But… would anyone want to prove this? I know that one should tell the truth and everything but— well, is there any kindness in making people aware of this story? If you were in this adopted kid’s shoes, would you want to know?”
Dad grunted. I didn’t have an answer either. I am a curious person, but I could not say for certain that this is something I would ever want to be aware of.
“This would be a perfect motive for someone killing Elijah Burns. Or for Burns killing someone else who was blackmailing him. I just don’t see what it could have to do with Hector Sayers being murdered. At least not yet.”
“You going to tell your boss?” Dad asked.
“I think I have to. For sure he needs to know about the other child. Or, the city does. If the kid inherits—damn. I don’t know how all this works.”
“Bet you five to one that the chief sends you to interview David Cooper.” Dad’s smile was twisted. I had confessed a couple weeks after the event to what had happened when David kidnapped me. Dad had thoroughly approved of my out of character violence.
“I can’t take that bet. It’s Murphy’s Law. He’s going to make me talk to the pustule.” Blue heard me sigh and quickly stuffed her head under my hand. I pet her silky ears and felt some of the tension die off.
“Blue and I are going to share a corn on the cob. You want something?”
“Some cider would be nice,” Dad said as another customer approached. This was a teenage boy carrying a reproduction sword.
“You sharpen those things?” I asked, alarmed.
“With parental permission only,” Dad said. “And not if I don’t like the
kid.”
Blue and I got Dad’s cider and an ear of roasted corn. I had to let it cool a bit, but then I snapped it in half and gave an end to Blue. She is a very tidy eater and Mr. Vaughn always gets a kick out of seeing her clean the cob.
Unable to put it off any longer, Blue and I loaded up in the bike and set off for the station. I could have called and asked for the chief, but with Gordon on the desk, there was every chance that he would hang up on me.
The chief was in his office and the door was open, so I let myself in. Blue was sitting under my desk being discrete. The chief looked at my face and said: “Close the door.”
I took a seat uninvited. Though I had no wish to, I repeated Amelia Adler’s allegations once again. The chief looked as grim as my father when I was done.
“You know what I want you to do?” the chief asked when I was through.
“You want me to talk to the pustu— I mean, David Cooper.”
“You really are almost psychic,” the chief said admiringly.
“Not really, just very logical. But, chief, really it would be better to send someone else. David and I used to be engaged and we did not part amicably. He’ll stonewall me just for fun.”
“I understand, but I have no one. Bryce has his hands full and I don’t much trust the others to be discrete with a story like this. You’ve been itching to involve yourself in real police work. Well, here’s your chance.”
I glowered, but couldn’t think how to complain since what he said was true.
“I’ll call Mr. Cooper and ask him to meet you at his office. I will make it clear that you are collecting vital information about a homicide and that I expect his cooperation. Even on a Saturday.”
“Fine.” I got to my feet. “But he’s already at his office. Call him there.” I rattled off the number.
The chief blinked and again looked impressed. I didn’t explain that I knew David was at his office because he worked most Saturdays and I had seen his car in the parking lot on my way to the station. Let the chief think I was psychic.
* * *
David was as thrilled to see me as I was to see him, but since his secretary was watching we faked it. Though I would have liked the emotional support, I left Blue in the lobby while I followed the pustule to his office. David doesn’t care for dogs.
“The chief called?” I asked.
“Yes. This death complicates things. For the estate.” David leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. He thought this made him look wise.
“You had already tracked down Hector Sayers?”
“Yes. We were going to meet Monday. I didn’t know that he was already here.” This last bit sounded defensive.
“And now what?”
“And now I have more work to do. The city— and your boss— will simply have to be patient.”
How he loved saying that. I wanted to smack that stupid smirk off his face, but my justifiable opportunity for inflicting physical damage was past. Anyway, I had another idea. David didn’t know it, but his secretary was a snitch of mine. She actively disliked him and would share information with me whenever she could as long as it didn’t betray a client— which it never previously had. Her confidences were mainly about David’s ploys to get back in my good graces. There hadn’t been any of those since June though. I had wondered what it would take to get David to stop stalking me and now I knew; threat of arrest for kidnap and a bloody nose.
I thanked David for his consideration, decided not to mention Deborah’s other child, and cut short his smirk and gloat time. I left the office without shaking hands. Mary Grady, who is also the librarian’s daughter and a new member of the Lit Wits, anticipated my needs and David’s refusal to share any information. There was a file open on the edge of her desk right above Blue’s head.
I couldn’t read everything while I was pretending to fumble with Blue’s leash, but I got the particulars on what interested me most. Deborah Burn’s illegitimate child had been adopted in 1981 by a family named Endicott who lived in the nearby town of Roosevelt.
So, David already knew about the kid. That took care of any guilt I might have eventually developed for withholding information.
Blue and I said a warm goodbye, promised to get donuts next time we met and left without a backward glance. I was so glad that that part of my life was over. I couldn’t recall what good I had ever seen in David Cooper.
Chapter 7
I ended up with both Jeffrey and Mr. Jackman coming for dessert. That was okay, because I had a lot of frozen pumpkin pie filling that needed eating. As we listened to the rain beating on the windows, I gave an edited account of my day, glossing over how I discovered that Deborah Burns had an illegitimate child and not mentioning the incest angle at all. Both men know that I am friends with David’s secretary and didn’t need me to draw a map for them.
We ended up discussing the more minor mystery of who the pumpkin thief might be. Mr. Jackman had a green house so he could leave his pumpkins on the vine and not worry about them being hit with frost. The pumpkin thief seemed to be making weekly visits and helping himself to one of each kind of specimen squash.
“I’d put a lock on the door but the house is just two by fours and plastic sheeting.”
“The thief would just cut through it,” Jeffrey agreed.
“Exactly. And it isn’t that I mind missing a pumpkin here or there. In the garden the deer and squirrels would take their toll. It is just… well.” He paused. “I feel kind of trespassed against, having someone coming into my yard and taking my things. So far he’s left my sugar pumpkins alone— by the way, Chloe do you need any more pumpkins for pie?”
I shook my head.
“I’m good through Thanksgiving at least.”
Thanksgiving…. Thanksgiving, being a holiday about food and family, wasn’t as much fun as Halloween. Unfortunately, it wasn’t something like Arbor Day which one could mostly ignore. Aside from my bad memories of David the pustule betraying me, Thanksgiving had meant all kinds of awkward moments since Mom and Dad had separated. In fact, I think the last thing they had agreed wholeheartedly on was that David the pustule was in fact a pustule. When my family gave thanks, it wasn’t for the peace we enjoyed.
Here is the problem with this holiday— aside from getting parents together— if Dad cooks then we have barbecue. If Mom cooks then it means we have Aunt Dorothy and Althea hanging about like albatrosses and reminding me of how David had committed his infidelity on my aunt’s fur coat. If I have it then it means surrendering my house to Mom from five in the morning to who knows when at night, because if I cook and we have lumpy gravy and potential salmonella poisoning…. It’s hard to decide what to do. But in that moment the slot machine in my brain came up all cherries.
“Would you like to come for Thanksgiving?” I asked Mr. Jackman. “You too Jeffrey.”
“Not me, Chloe. Gillian is going all out this year because of the baby,” Jeffrey said. He tried to sound regretful and failed. He’s had my cooking before.
“Well I’d… I would love to, Chloe.” Mr. Jackman looked pleased.
“My folks will be here,” I warned him. “Unless God intervenes.”
Mr. Jackman chuckled.
“If you are seriously looking for a holiday buffer, I believe Agartha is at loose ends.” Agartha Graves is another Lit Wit, a retired accountant who writes mysteries that actually get published in magazines sometimes. Tara Lee, who hasn’t sold a book in years, is very jealous.
“I’ll call her.”
“And would you perhaps like some help with the cooking?” Mr. Jackman asked. He is a good cook. He does a twice baked potato casserole that makes people moan.
“I’d love it. If Mom helps she’ll rearrange my kitchen and I won’t be able to find anything for weeks.” As a reward for his heroism I added: “I was going to stop by the turkey ranch and reserve a bird. What size should I get?”
“You’ll want leftovers—so say at least fifteen pounds.”
�
��Okay. I really can’t thank you enough.”
Mr. Jackman waved a hand and reached for his coffee.
“I find your family highly entertaining.” He added: “That is because they are not my own family.”
* * *
Some poet— not Althea— once described the town of Roosevelt as having shaggy feet and a craggy brow. This was certainly true in fall when the wild grasses at the mountains foot have dried and become tangled in the wind. And the peaks are always bare and craggy because the soil eroded away years ago.
Roosevelt— formerly Miner’s Gulch— is a dead end, physically and I think in terms of evolution, built on the east side of a deep gully (the west being sheer cliff) that somehow cleft a small part of the Cascades. Its main street runs along the side of a white water stream that periodically floods. The town has a post office, a diner, a bakery, a one-room schoolhouse and three churches. It’s very pretty when decked out for the holidays, but four-wheel drive country especially in winter. The gentlest slope in town is twenty five degrees and some are closer to thirty-five. If I needed to go anywhere off the main drag, it would be on foot. There are only about three hundred homes there, but an almost constant fog which rises up from the river and obscures them in the fall and winter.
In some ways, Sunday is not the ideal time to visit Roosevelt. People tend to be in church or with their families. But there are always a few misfits who don’t care for their hearth and home and I figured these would be the kind of people who would be most likely to talk to me.
I did not go in blind. I looked up the name Endicott in the phone book but found no listing. That was annoying, but in a small town like Roosevelt someone would have a forwarding address for the family.
Bad weather had followed me. Clouds sagged so low with their load of rain that they snagged on the top most houses and began leaking in places. The light was gray and dingy and my enthusiasm for investigation was waning. However, a detective wouldn’t last long if they only detected things in good weather, so I took a deep breath and got out of the car. I put Blue on a leash though it was hardly necessary. There was no traffic.
The Pumpkin Thief: A Chloe Boston Mystery Page 5