by Tena Frank
“I agree. They are nice. I like the waves and imperfections in the old glass. But what can we do with them? I’ve tried to think of things, like maybe using them as picture frames . . .”
“We could put them up on Freecycle and see if someone wants them. I bet they’d go fast.”
“Freecycle? Never heard of it.”
“It’s a great website. Anything you don’t want, you can post there and someone who can use it will come and pick it up. In fact, we could post all the old cabinets, the refrigerator . . .”
“That old refrigerator? Who would want that?” The previous tenant had left food in the decrepit appliance which probably dated back at least twenty years. Its surface, the color of split pea soup, sported a vast array of dents, scratches and pock marks. All the food left behind had rotted, leaving a smelly, dripping mess.
“Never can tell. But it’s worth a try. Freecycle keeps stuff out of the landfill, and lots of times people are thrilled to get it. It may seem like junk to you, but it might be useful to someone else.”
“How do I do that?”
“I can handle it for you. But if you want to know more about it, just Google Freecycle.”
Just Google it. Tate chuckled to herself as she left the apartment and headed downtown, grateful for the beautiful weather on this early November afternoon. Wasn’t that long ago I railed against getting an answering machine, now I’m told to “just Google it,” and I know exactly what he means!
Her plan for the afternoon had been forming since she left Mazie. She had learned a lot about Harland Freeman, but she still knew virtually nothing about Leland Howard, the beneficiary of the trust that held title to the house on Chestnut Street. Her determination to find out more about who he was and how he came to own that property sent her back to Pack Memorial Library
FOURTEEN
2004
Tate’s love affair with libraries emerged the minute she entered her first one at the tender age of 10. She could not remember what prompted that original foray into the world of books and her tentative search for heroines who spoke to her. Perhaps it had been a teacher or a schoolmate, but for whatever reason, she had embarked on a mission of discovery.
“Do you want me to go with you?” asked her mother.
“No.” Tate had learned independence long ago out of necessity, and she refused to give up even a tiny bit of it now.
“Okay, honey. Pick out something, good.” And with that Tate was released to explore on her own.
She hopped onto her bicycle and headed for the huge old house sitting atop a small hill at the other end of the village where she lived. She rarely traveled beyond the shops along Main Street so her eagerness for adventure propelled her forward. The hot summer sun burned through her thin cotton top and onto her bare legs as she rode.
The shade of the wide porch provided welcome relief once she reached her destination. Dating back to the late 1800s, the place had been the home of a wealthy couple, Charles and Agatha Putnam, who had no children. When they died, they left their home and a sizable collection of books to the town to serve as a lending library. A square, brick structure two stories tall, its long windows dressed in white shutters, the building seemed both inviting and intimidating. Tate took a deep breath to steady herself, pushed open the huge wooden door and stepped into another world.
Long shafts of sunlight filled with fat dust motes slid through the windows and came to rest on the dark, polished floor. Her footsteps seemed to echo through the enveloping quiet and she inhaled deeply, taking into her lungs the heady, musty odor of the unfamiliar sanctuary. She hesitated just inside, not sure what to do next.
A spare woman with graying hair pulled into a knot at the back of her neck approached from behind a desk which sat in an alcove of stained glass windows.
“Can I help you, young lady?” she asked kindly. Tate whispered her answer, mimicking the woman’s own tiny voice.
“Nancy Drew?”
“Ah, yes. Nancy Drew. Of course.” She took Tate’s hand in hers and they walked through a tall doorway into the adjoining room. Floor-to-ceiling shelves covered every wall; ladders with wheels provided access to the higher rows of books; huge old chairs filled the center of the room. Tate had never seen anything like it.
“Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys . . .” The woman gestured to a collection of books lining a shelf just at eye level to the right of the door. Awestruck, Tate tried to take it all in. “Just Nancy, thank you,” she squeaked softly.
“Then I’ll leave you to it. When you want to check out, see me at the desk.” The woman bent close and spoke these hushed words into Tate’s ear. The scent of lavender wafted behind her as she walked away, leaving Tate to herself in Wonderland.
Woozy with anticipation, Tate ran her fingers gently over the spines of the books before her. Tilting her head to the right, she read the titles without removing the books from their spot. Several caught her eye: The Hidden Staircase. The Clue in the Diary. The Secret of Red Gate Farm. The Sign of the Twisted Candles. There must have been more than twenty Nancy Drew mysteries available, and she wanted every one of them.
She stepped back to the alcove and whispered to the librarian: “How many can I have?”
“Only three at a time. But as soon as you bring one back, you can take out another.”
“Okay, then.” Tate went back to the row of books and eventually made her difficult choice.
“I’d like these.” She delicately placed the books on the librarian’s desk.
“Very good choices, my dear.” The woman kept smiling at Tate as she opened the cover of each book, took a card from the pocket pasted to the inside front cover and wrote Tate’s name down. She then rubber-stamped the due date on the slip in the book and on the card before placing the latter into her file. A few minutes later, Tate returned to the everyday world, clutching the precious cargo to her chest. The Secret of the Old Clock. The Mystery at Lilac Inn. The Password to Larkspur Lane. Those were her final choices and she could hardly wait to get home and begin reading them.
Pack Memorial Library, modern and well organized, air conditioned and brightly lit, welcomed its patrons, but it did not transport Tate to another realm as did her visit to Putnam library decades ago. She stepped inside and headed to the North Carolina Collection, hoping to find a reference librarian to help her locate records related to Leland Howard.
She found a stack of Asheville City Directories dating back to the early 1900s. She selected several starting in the 1940s and took them to a nearby table where she could spread out. On her first try, she found the following notation:
Howard, Leland, 8 Cumberland Ave (Marie) cabtmkr
“Wow!” Tate quickly hushed herself and gestured apologies to the people sitting in the reference area.
There he is! That was so easy. Tate looked at subsequent directories and found numerous entries for Leland Howard at the same address until he disappeared from the books in the mid-1960s. She also found one notation for Harland Freeman at 305 Chestnut Street, owner of Freeman’s Mercantile, no spouse and no additional information. No further mention of him appeared after 1942, the year of his death. Gathering up her notes, she went again in search of help.
Carla Geoffrey came to her rescue.
“You can look over here in the biography clippings,” she suggested. “And we can check for birth and death information. The full records are in the Registrar’s office over at the Courthouse, but we have an index here.”
“That would be great. Anything I can find will be helpful.” Tate searched for biographical information but found nothing. The clippings file contained hundreds of biographies for a variety of professionals and artists, politicians and business owners, but nothing for Leland Howard or any other craftsmen, for that matter. She sought out Carla for help with the birth and death indices.
“I checked the archives at the newspaper office yesterday,” Tate said, “and found a couple of references to Leland Howard. His wife died in 1962. Actually, she was murdered. And
he was a craftsman—made furniture for wealthy folks here in town. The notation in the City Directory says cabtmkr—cabinetmaker. Think we can find anything about him?”
“We’ll try. But birth certificates were not required by law until 1913, and then only within the city itself. So depending on when and where he was born, we might come up empty-handed.”
Carla’s prediction proved accurate. They searched the birth index—no more than a computer printout of the records housed at the courthouse—and found nothing about the birth of Leland Howard. Neither did they find anything for Marie Howard, but she would have had a different maiden name, so the dead end did not surprise them. The Ancestry.com database proved much more helpful. Details of the 1930 census had been released the previous year, and in it they found a listing for Arlen Howard. Living in his household were his wife, Mary Alice; his son, Leland; his daughter-in-law, Marie Eleanor; and his grandson, Clayton Samuel. For the first time, Tate realized Leland and his wife had a child born in 1927.
“Well, that’s an exciting piece of information! But why would Leland himself be so elusive?” Tate mused. “Let’s see what else we can find.” Tate noticed Carla glancing at her watch. “Oh, I’m sorry! I’ve been monopolizing your time.”
“It’s okay. I can give you a few more minutes before I have to attend a meeting. I’m happy to help for as long as I can.”
“Then let’s look at the death index. I can search the Ancestry database on my own.”
A tantalizing bit of information turned up as they continued their search in the death index: Marie Eleanor Howard had died, as Tate knew, on March 15, 1962. Her son, Clayton Samuel Howard, died the same day.
“Beware the Ides of March!” Tate exclaimed under her breath.
“I guess so!” Carla and Tate exchanged a look of amazement. “This is fascinating! Why are you looking into these people?”
“It all has to do with that old house on Chestnut. I really had no idea what I was getting into, but I can’t seem to stop!”
“Oh, that old place has been a problem for ages. People have been trying to get it knocked down for I don’t know how long!”
“Well, I guess I’m the only person alive who wants to see it saved, but I just can’t let go of the idea that’s what I’m supposed to do.”
“It’s a big task you’ve taken on. From what I hear, they are moving as fast as they can to finalize the deal with the developer and begin demolition. Of course they have to go through the whole legal process of taking possession from the current owner.”
“Then I have to move fast, too. According to the tax records, the house is held in trust for a Leland Samuel Howard. The trustee is the law firm of Paige and Schmidt. I assume Mr. Howard is dead, but if so, why didn’t he show up in the death index? Is there any other way to find him? Maybe something about surviving family? Hopefully he has living relatives somewhere.”
“If he’s dead, he would appear in the index.”
“But he’d have to be in his nineties . . . and if he’s still alive, why doesn’t he show up anywhere?” Tate’s growing frustration resided dangerously close to resignation. “I guess I’ll head over to the Registrar of Deeds and see if they have anything there we couldn’t find here.”
“Sorry I have to leave, but I’ll look further when I get back. How can I reach you if I find something?”
Tate gave Carla her phone number and headed home, exhausted. She completely forgot about going back to Ancestry.com, and the Registrar would just have to wait.
As Tate trudged home, she wished she had driven downtown instead of walking. Once there she brewed a cup of strong coffee and loaded it up with half-and-half, then settled onto her long comfortable couch. As usual in quiet moments like this, she looked around and began hatching plans for how she would fix her place up.
This couch has to go. Love it, but it’s way too big for this tiny living room. Wonder how much replacement windows would cost for this place? Those sills are rotting and it’s so drafty . . .
Just as she was about to drift off, the phone rang, yanking her back from dreamland.
“Hello?” She tempered her irritation. Few things annoyed Tate more than being jarred awake by a ringing phone.
“Miss Marlowe? This is Carla Geoffrey.”
“Carla? Oh, Carla, yes, of course. What’s up?” Tate planted her feet on the floor.
“I found something!”
“What? Tell me!”
“I couldn’t stop thinking about how to find Leland Howard. It occurred to me he might be mentioned in places other than the clippings file since he was a well-known craftsman. So I searched some more, and I found a reference to him. He made a mantelpiece for the Princess Hotel during its renovation back in the 1950s.”
“That’s great, Carla! I wonder if they know anything about him over there?”
“Maybe, but the place has changed hands several times through the years. It’s worth a try, anyway.”
“Okay. I’m heading over there tomorrow. If I find anything, you’ll be the first to know!”
FIFTEEN
1939
“I swear, Leland, you need to stop piddling around and get some real work done today,” Ellie complained. Her search for Leland ended just where she expected, in the old log cabin at the back of their property. Once the home she knew and hated as a newlywed, it now housed Leland’s workshop.
Leland nodded and continued carving a delicate pattern into the piece of birdseye maple in his hands. “I will, Ellie, I will. Just want to get this finished first.”
“What you’ve got to do, Leland Howard, is get to work on that job Mr. Bloomfield gave you. You know we’ve got bills to pay and groceries to buy, and the boy has been asking for a bicycle for his birthday.” Ellie heard the hardness in her own voice and felt the familiar twinge of sadness in her stomach.
She surveyed her husband as he sat in his rickety chair, turning the piece of wood lovingly in his hands. She had made her bed long ago, and she would lie in it for the rest of her life. She never questioned that. But sometimes he could be so stubborn, so difficult. She swallowed back her anger, turned on her heel and walked back to the house.
When she felt frustrated with Leland, Ellie often calmed herself by recounting all the reasons he made a good husband. His kindness. His dependability. His gentleness, loyalty, calmness, level-headedness, even his stubbornness . . .
Ellie continued to tick off Leland’s admirable qualities as she went about her work in the kitchen. She had plenty to count, and they clearly outweighed the negatives, such as his occasional episodes of stubbornness, his lack of ambition and the fact that he loved her—probably his worst fault by far because Ellie’s feelings for her husband fell far short of the intensity of his love for her, and that left her feeling guilty and resentful.
Ellie loved her husband, of course. But, she did not love him with the devotion Leland showered upon her. She had never felt passion for him, never had the sense her life would be incomplete without him. Once long ago she hoped for that kind of love, but Ellie learned at too young an age just how fragile hope is. One wrong move and her dreams had slipped away irretrievably. Everything from that moment on led her to this life, a safe and secure life with a devoted husband, a rambunctious son and not a single passionate dream for her own future.
Leland secretly longed to hear Ellie’s voice tinged with the sweetness he remembered from their brief courtship. She most often spoke with a hard edginess these days, and her exasperation had cut through his reverie. Leland enjoyed nothing better in the world than moments just like this one, sitting in the sun and working on one of his own projects. Yes, paying work demanded attention, and plenty of it waited, but right now he wished he could just finish this one special thing for his own pleasure.
Leland watched his wife as she retreated to her kitchen. Her kitchen, his workshop. Her chores, his duties. The summation of those tasks and things that belonged to her and those that belonged to him added up to their marriage.
They lived compatibly, occupying the same time and space. They even slept in the same bed every night, side by side, but they did not truly share their life together. No matter. Leland still considered himself blessed to have married Ellie, to hear her quietly breathing beside him in the early morning hours, to sit at the breakfast table while she cooked eggs just the way he liked them and to spend the evenings in their favorite chairs in companionable quietness. Those mundane activities did not quench the yearning deeply buried inside him, but at least they assuaged the pain a bit.
The one exception to their separate lives resided in the person of their son. Ellie shared the boy with him fully and without reservation. She expressed her love easily when the child served as the focus, and Leland allowed himself to imagine what it would have been like to grow up that way himself.
He had no doubt his parents loved him, but they had not demonstrated it the way he and Ellie did for Clayton. Clayton joined in everyday activities with each of them. At least in the early days he did, before he started changing. He worked the garden side-by-side with Ellie and sat next to his father in the workshop, often chattering away nonstop. Ellie had taught Leland how to cuddle and coddle their child, though Leland never became adept at it. Still, the two of them showered Clayton with attention and love at every opportunity, and Leland longed to experience the feeling of love like that.
As a child, Leland had wandered the woods on his own, often for hours on end. When with his parents, most often each of them focused on their own activities. His mother cooked, cleaned and did laundry. She held sole responsibility for the garden and the chickens, in fact for all household activities, and Leland ceased to be her helper as soon as he grew old enough to work with the men.
His father spent most waking hours in the workshop, first on the old homestead and then in the shed behind their cabin in town. In his youth, Leland served as his father’s apprentice. Even though they occupied the same work space much of the time, each had his own solitary projects and social interactions rarely occurred.