The deep voice startled me.
“Willie Manning?” I blurted out. Until yesterday, I hadn’t thought of Willie Manning for what? Fifty years? We were in the same classes all through school, both played in the high school band. My grandmother called us the ugly ducks because we were both so nearsighted we needed thick glasses. He was still tall, but his sandy hair was entirely grey now, what little was left. The glasses were still there, just as thick as I remembered and making his eyes look tiny. He looked trim enough, but something told me he was working hard to pull in a gut that insisted on slipping. When he turned sideways I could see I was right.
“Gosh! It’s been so many years. You look just great, Maggie, you haven’t changed a bit.”
Well that proved he still needed those glasses.
“Why are you following me?”
“You hung up on me yesterday. I came over to talk, but you didn’t answer the door. When I saw you walking along the old Cannery Road, I decided to catch up with you.” He panted like the out of condition middle-age man he was. “You set a pretty fast pace, you know.”
“You came to talk to me? At this time of day?” Am I the only person in this place who doesn’t wake up before the sun? “What about? What’s so important that you have to interrupt my morning walk?” I felt a major grouch building.
I stood there gripping the fence and all at once, Willie placed his hand over mine and squeezed, slightly.
“Maggie, there’s a special reason why I want to talk to you.”
I snatched my hand away, and turned to look at him. He had a sly look on his face like a cat ready to pounce. Suddenly the scene in the woods flashed through my mind. Willie Manning was not one of my favorite people by a long shot.
“I’d love to hear your reason,” I snapped at him. “But not until I have my breakfast.”
“Fine. We’ll go back to your house and talk while you eat.” He took my arm and pulled me away from the fence.
Jerking away from his grasp, I stalked away as fast as I could, my heels digging into the ground. The sound of his wheezing behind me gave me a perverse feeling of satisfaction. When we reached the back gate I waited until Willie caught up.
“I’m eating breakfast by myself. I’ll meet you for lunch. We’ll talk then.”
I didn’t look back until I reached the door. Willie was standing in the alley staring after me. Just like that time long ago when we got caught in the storm.
I always felt a little sorry for Willie Manning. His full name was Wilfred Reginald Manning and kids made fun of it. What kind of parent would saddle a baby with a name like Wilfred Reginald? We were in the same grade all through school. Willie was a good student. He and I usually had the highest grades in our class. But I’m sure he was lonely, because the other kids made fun of him, laughing at his thick glasses and gawky way of walking like a puppet with loose strings.
His eyes were the color of an old, bleached-out, work shirt and he constantly brushed back his oatmeal colored hair that insisted on falling in strings across his eyes.
Willie played the tenor saxophone, and when the band marched at football games, he lost his clumsiness and became precise and elegant. The last football game of the season was Tuxford against Mason High and we won. It was a glorious victory because our team almost never won any games. We were all feeling like we owned the world and after burgers and pop at the Hangout with the rest of the band, Willie suggested a walk out to Washburn’s woods. He said he had something to show me. During the game dark clouds had piled up and, by the time we reached the lane to the woods, the wind was blowing pretty steady and the air smelled of rain.
“It’s over here, Maggie.” Willie motioned me to follow him.
A layer of fallen leaves covered the ground. I stumbled over protruding tree roots as I tried to keep up with him. It was too dark to see anything except the outlines of trees when the lightning flashed. The storm that had been rumbling in the distance was closer now, and the first splatters of rain rattled against the leaves.
“I can’t see you, Willie,” I called.
“Here, Maggie.” His voice came from behind as he grabbed me and pulled me to the ground. I felt mud squish under the blanket of damp leaves as I flopped to the ground with Willie falling on top of me. Along with the stab of panic as I realized his intentions, a surge of anger flashed through me. I shoved him away.
“Willie, you creep!” I grabbed for a stick or rock or something, but got only a handful of leaves. We rolled about, me pushing and shoving and Willie grabbing and clutching until a blinding streak of lightning followed by a crack of thunder shattered a huge branch from the tree above us. I saw it all in the flash. Shoving Willie as hard as I could, I rolled to one side just as the branch crashed onto the ground where we had been. Somehow, I got my feet under me and ran as fast as I could. I felt I was trapped in one of those old nightmare movies with tree roots tripping my feet and branches clawing like fingers at my clothes. I heard Willie crashing along behind me. By the time we reached the main road, the wind was driving the rain before it in sheets. We were soaked to the skin in no time.
At my back gate, Willie clutched my arm.
“Maggie, I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t hurt you when I pushed you down.” He shrugged. “I didn’t think it would work, anyway.”
“What are you talking about? What wouldn’t work?”
“The guys bet me I couldn’t get you to -- you know, do it.” He almost looked embarrassed.
“What?” I stared at him. “You mean you betyou had the audacity to actually bet the guys that I—” I took a deep breath. He stepped back, probably because of the steam coming out of my ears. “Wilfred Reginald Manning. You detestable little slug. How could you! You go back to the guys and tell them that you are all the most despicable, mangiest, wormiest, contemptible pieces of fungus in existence, and if I never seen any of you again, it will be too soon.” By then, I was crying, I was so furious.
I slammed the gate hard pinching his fingers in the latch and savoring the sound of his yelp of pain. I looked back when I reached the door. He stood in the pouring rain, cradling his hand and staring at me, then shrugged and walked away. I told Mother that Willie and I had gone for a walk after the game and got caught in the storm.
All that flashed through my mind as I looked at him standing at that same back gate. I decided he was still a creep.
The coffee brewed while I took a shower. I could tell today was going to be hot and sticky, a preview of summer. When I was dressed, I padded barefoot back to the kitchen to fix the rest of my breakfast. Earlier, I had brought in the newspaper from the front porch and I opened it and read while I drank my coffee. The whole front page was about the Williams disaster. There was a short biography and photo of the Williams family. It was an old picture probably taken just after Max arrived in Tuxford. Apparently there were no other relatives.
Willie phoned while I was washing dishes.
“I feel we got off to a bad start, Maggie,” he said, laughing a little. “How about lunch with Faith and me?”
“Who’s Faith?”
“Faith’s my wife. We can pick you up, if you like.”
“No, I’ll meet you. Where?”
“Downtown, at Dutton’s. You can’t miss it. Twelve-thirty?”
“Fine. I’ll be there.”
Mac phoned while I was putting away the breakfast things.
“Oh, Mac, I have a real mystery to unravel.” I read him parts from the newspaper article, and told him about the Williams house. “You should have seen it, Mac. There wasn’t enough of old Max left to fill a grocery bag.” I went on to tell him about Lt. Phillips’ questions. He laughed when I told him about Lt. Phillips, and his terrible coffee. He knows how fussy I am about my coffee.
“I won’t be able to come for a while yet,” he said, when I stopped for breath. “This project is taking longer than we thought. Maybe you can get some helpful information from the files at Gerry’s paper.”
We talked a little longer.
“Be careful Maggie, darlin’. Don’t step on any important toes,” Mac said, hanging up.
When I first met Mac, he was studying forensic medicine and, when finished, he began working with the police department as a consultant, so he’s had plenty experience at solving all kinds of mysteries. He finds my stories amusing.
“Maggie, love, things never happen like this in real life.”
After talking to Mac, I remembered the old, high school yearbooks we used to keep stashed in the attic. I climbed the narrow stairs to the door that always stuck. It creaked open on arthritic hinges into a world of yesterday’s leavings.
Gerry and I used to pretend there was a monster or fairy godmother on the other side of the door. It depended on who was doing the pretending. Today, all I found were the ghosts of the past covered with years of dust. After stumbling against old rocking chairs and tables I found the books piled against an old chest. I took as many as I could carry and sneezed my way back downstairs.
A little before noon, I changed out of my dusty clothes. I didn’t want to walk into the best eatery in town looking like a charwoman. I chose navy, linen trousers and a white, linen shirt. I clipped on my lucky, silver earrings. Charlotte is always saying to me that I should really pierce my ears. It’s so difficult to find clip earrings. Like I should poke holes in my head for her convenience.
Dutton’s elegant sign lent an air of refinement to Tuxford that bordered on pretension. I guess Willie wanted to make an impression. I just wasn’t sure whether it was me he wanted to impress, or himself. Dutton’s took over the old Carriage House that used to be Tuxford’s only hotel. The building was situated on a corner with the entrance recessed and set at an angle. The sidewalk gave way to dull red and blue flagstones that extend from the door to the curb. I pulled around the corner and parked in the lot across the street.
When I was in school, The Carriage House was THE place for all school events. The Senior Prom was held there and each year the decorating committee tried to outdo last year’s decorations. None of the students had his own car, so most of us arrived in a taxi or one of our fathers drove us. The year I graduated, 1948, my escort picked me up in his grandfather’s old Packard. It sputtered and jerked, but we arrived in style to the envy of all.
When the Prom Queen and King arrived, a red carpet was rolled out for them. My daughters thought the whole idea of going anywhere without a car was positively medieval, even though I tried to explain that this was just after WWII, and car production had not yet restarted.
Today, large white ceramic pots filled with masses of multi-colored petunias squatted on either side of the door. The intimidating front door was dark wood, framed in brass with a stained glass insert and the name DUTTON’S in gold letters. I was glad I wore my earrings. I pushed the door open and stepped into darkness.
Chapter Three
A hostess materialized out of the darkness, eyeing me from head to foot. I stretched to the limit of my five foot four inches.
“I’m meeting Mr. Manning and his party.” I choked back the laugh that threatened to burst out at her change of expression.
Willie’s table was tucked into a cluster of potted ferns beside a small, gurgling fountain. Very relaxing. All it lacked was a burping frog.
“Margaret, this is Faith, my wife.” Willie stood and introduced us. “Faith, you remember Margaret Randall, don’t you? Gerry Randall’s sister.”
“Of course.” She smiled and held out a pudgy hand dripping with enough jewels to have paid my college tuition.
I don’t know why he called me ‘Margaret.’ Everyone has called me Maggie for as long as I can remember, except for Sister Beatrice. We weren’t Catholic, but she had ‘story hour’ at the library on Saturday mornings. She called me ‘Margaret’ and made me feel special.
I sat, and smiled at Faith.
“It’s MacKenzie now.” It was a few minutes before I remembered Faith. Ah! She was that arrogant, little, blond sophomore who butted into every conversation, showing off her latest new something. She was as vain and rude as she was cute and always trying to get all the attention.
“I would have known you anywhere, Faith. You haven’t changed a bit.” Wow. Two lies in one breath. I decided if Willie could lie to me, I could lie to his wife.
If memory serves, Faith Devereaux of those years was tiny, petite and slender with a head full of blond curls and empty of any ideas other than herself. This Faith was still tiny but the petite has become pudgy. I’d bet she hadn’t missed a chocolate in fifty years, and I was sure it was more than nature that maintained those blond curls. A gorgeous, amber necklace filled the scoop neckline of her dress and matching earrings flashed from her ears. A skimpy, yellow jacket showed off her tanned shoulders, double chin and pudgy arms. Under the jacket, she wore a tight fitting dress of ivory gauze. Very summery and would look stunning on someone thirty years younger and much thinner.
I studied the menu, trying to keep from saying what really popped into my mind. When I changed Willie’s order of lobster salad to chicken salad and breadsticks I sensed his resentment, but I really didn’t care.
We talked about the weather, and what I thought about the changes in Tuxford and the Manning’s two boys, both grown. The small talk sputtered out just as the food arrived. Dutton’s may be pretentious, but their food was exceptional.
Faith burbled on about the latest soap opera happenings and rumors of the neighborhood. To say it was boring would be an understatement. During the gaps in her recital, Willie talked about his successful practice in Tuxford. She hung on his every word. I felt like throwing up. But Ma Randall’s words echoed in my head. “Manners, Maggie, manners.
After the waitress cleared away the dishes, and brought more coffee and little wafers, Willie finally got around to what he wanted.
“I need information about a former resident of Tuxford, Maggie, and I think you can help me.” He leaned back in his chair and beamed his cat smile at me.
“Me? Why do you think I can help? Why not hire a private detective to find this person for you?”
“Oh, I’m not looking for the person, I know where she is. I just want information.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Why me?”
Another cat smile. “Because of my foot.”
I just stared at him. “Willie, you really should exercise more. Your brain is full of fat.”
“You’re going about this all wrong.” Faith reached out and covered my hand with hers. Her hand felt cool and damp, like a dead fish.
“Last winter, Will broke his ankle and had to stay off it for a few weeks. I got books from the library so he wouldn’t be bored. One was your Out the Back Door and, another, your Storage Compartment Thirteen.
“I really enjoyed them,” Willie interrupted. “And, when I learned you’d be back in town for a while, I thought maybe you’d help me.” He took a deep breath. “I need to find out what happened to Emily Washburn.”
“Of the old Washburn family?”
Willie and Faith both nodded. “The younger sister of Robert Washburn, and the aunt of Miss Harriet who lives in the Washburn House at present.”
“Is Miss Harriet still living? She must be, let’s see, close to a hundred by now.” I gave up trying to do the math. “And Emily’s been dead for years. Why do you need to know any more than that?” This didn’t make any sense.
“I just need to know if you’ll help me.”
“Sure, if I can.”
We talked a little longer about trivial matters, then I stood up and slung my purse over my shoulder.
“Thanks for a lovely lunch, but I must be going.”
Willie jumped up as Faith pried herself out of her chair.
“I have some information at my office that might help you. Why don’t we stop there? It’s just across the street.”
“I’ll just go on home.” Faith smiled at me. “It’s about time for my favorite program.” She straightened her skirt
. “Come for tea some afternoon, Maggie. I’ll give you a call.”
We filed out of the restaurant in a nice, straight line just like children at school. This time I did laugh out loud, shocking the snooty hostess, but who cares.
Willie’s office was just across the street from Dutton’s in the old, Denevan home. Old Man Denevan was our high school principal and stricter than a drill instructor. He terrified all of us. It was beautifully restored with dark, wood paneling and pale, mauve embossed wallpaper. In the center of the outer office was a low, round table large enough to be a small stage, displayed precisely arranged magazines. A long table against one wall held a china tea service.
“You remember Mable, don’t you, Maggie?” Willie’s cat grin flashed as he introduced his secretary.
“Of course. But is it still Prentiss?” I asked.
“Afraid so, Maggie.” Mable shook my hand. I was so glad she didn’t hug me.
“It’s good to see you after all this time. Just let me know how I can help. I know where all the skeletons are buried.” She winked and returned to her desk.
Willie ushered me into his office and closed the door. He motioned me to a leather chair facing the dark, mahogany desk. A faint odor of honey and tobacco floated on the air along with soft strains of jazz. The walls were lined with shelves of books. A TV dominated one corner, a wrap-around window in the other corner. Apparently, Willie had done well for himself.
“I had Mable copy everything we have on Emily Washburn.” He handed me a folder. “Feel free to use any of our files or equipment.” His big chair groaned like a tortured soul under his weight. “I’m trying to determine whether Emily Washburn had any children. I have a personal reason for asking this. I want it to be kept as confidential as possible, you understand.”
“Of course. Are you going to tell me or do I have to guess?” He gave me that cat smile again. I stared back at him. I didn’t trust him. I stood, deliberately placed the folder on his desk, and slung my purse over my shoulder. “Thanks, but no thanks, Willie. I don’t feel like playing guessing games. Thanks again for lunch.”
Echoes Page 3