Echoes

by Naida Kirkpatrick

  I managed to locate Cynthia Howard who worked for the Tuxford Heating and Plumbing Company. She told me of her encounter with Max Williams shortly before his parents died.

  “I was making out the daily schedule when he came in to report that the furnace at the Williams home was not working properly. He said it wasn’t urgent, so I arranged for someone to go the next day to take a look at it. He left a key and said he would be out of town and, in case his parents were not there, the repairman could just go inside. Well, when the man got there next day, both the Williams were still in bed. Dead. The coroner said it was carbon monoxide poisoning. Max didn’t get back from his business trip until the next week, even though they were trying to locate him.”

  “Didn’t anyone think that unusual?” I asked.

  “They sure did, but nobody was able to prove he had anything to do with it. They said it was just an accident.” She paused. “And, as far as I ever knew, he never did anything about the so-called furnace problem. I heard he had electric heating installed, but not by us.”

  I had already learned from Gladys Thompson about the young woman and her child that were killed. Several other people brought up the account of Angie Harris as well as other young women from surrounding counties. I was getting many stories about the kind of person Max Williams was, but nothing new.

  Along with all the gossip about Max, I learned a considerable amount about the ‘good citizens’ of Tuxford. As I conducted my research, I discovered I had tapped into a vast cauldron of vitriol. At one time, the town was thrown into near chaos when the Mayor was attacked in his office and some valuable reports were stolen. When the police exhausted their search for suspects, after several weeks, the news broke that the Mayor had staged the whole event as a cover up of the misuse of funds and the supposedly stolen reports were never found. But the real clincher came when it election time again, Mayor Tillis was re-elected.

  The man that taught math when Gerry and I were in high school apparently led a secret life with the church organist. The math teacher married the fourth grade art instructor and the same organist played for the wedding.

  One of my good friends, Elaine Perkins was now the director of a retirement home with the optimistic name of Lakeview Terrace. The only body of water even remotely near Lakeview Terrace is the stagnant pond near Henesey’s stables three miles away. When we were in high school, Elaine lived out on the edge of Tuxford in a small house that overlooked an area of cottages situated in a grove of pine trees. These cottages were rented out to groups for meetings, as well as for use by church groups for summer camps. Her father managed the cottages and sold real estate as well. I thought I knew her well but, as I chatted with the now middle-aged Elaine, I learned there was a part of her life that I never saw. The cottage at the far end, was often a meeting place for those folks who wanted to have ‘private parties.’

  Elaine laughed at my surprise.

  “Maggie, you truly didn’t know? I always thought you were such a prude.” For some obscure reason that made her laugh harder. “Why, even Willie Manning was one of the regular party guys.”

  I was starting to understand all those sudden changes in conversation that occurred when, as a child, I entered a room where Mother was entertaining her friends. With all the garbage I uncovered, smelly as garbage usually is, I still hadn’t found anyone vicious enough, or full of such hate, as it would take to blow Max to smithereens.

  I talked to Sister Beatrice again but she has always been one of those eternally cheerful Pollyanna’s who never see the bad side, so she wasn’t much help. All she said was that Max was a troubled, disturbed man and we all prayed for him.

  I didn’t say it out loud, but maybe they should just have prayed for good weather instead. Prayers apparently bounced off Max.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I got home, started a pot of coffee, still thinking about my conversation with Sister Beatrice and all the others. The sound of footsteps on the porch called my attention to the present. It was Lily. She stepped inside and hesitated as though trying to decide something. She seemed to want to talk but didn’t know what to say. I pulled her into the kitchen.

  “Let’s sit out here, Lily. I still have my notes and things scattered all over the dining room.”

  I indicated a chair at the table.

  “Have a seat and tell me what’s on your mind.”

  She perched on the edge of the chair, leaned her elbows on the table and examined her fingernails as she talked, first slowly as though searching for the correct word, then more rapidly.

  “Rosa told me about her life before Roberta. She and Jacob lived in this small village of LeClare, France where Jacob was the schoolmaster and she made a home for them. She loved children; always had treats for them after school. She said Jacob even made fireworks for the children on holidays. They never gave up hope of children of their own. But every baby came too early and Rosa became more despondent.”

  I poured orange juice into a tall glass and set it in front of Lily. She gulped half of it down and went on with her story. I had heard all this before, but Lily evidently needed to talk to someone, so I listened.

  “When Dr. Franz called her and told her about a baby girl who needed a home, Rosa didn’t understand at first. She had just lost another baby and she couldn’t see through her fog of despair. But Roberta was such a happy child, curious about everything and so intelligent, she chased Rosa’s fog away.

  “Eventually, Roberta met a young soldier and fell madly in love. Rosa tried to talk her out of it, but Roberta had a stubborn streak and wouldn’t budge. When the Yoder’s had to leave, or be sent to the camps, Roberta chose to stay with her soldier.

  “Rosa said it broke their hearts, hers and Jacob’s but they had no choice. They left and then Jacob was killed and Rosa was alone. She got letters for a while, but gradually the letters changed, Roberta sounded worried about something. Finally, she wrote that the Major wanted her to get ‘rid of the baby’ and she decided to leave him and join her mother. That was the last she heard from her.” Lily dropped her head into her hands for a moment, then looked up at me.

  ‘Now, here I am. Maggie, all this instant family is almost too much to take in. I’ve been on my own for so long, and now I have two homes and all this history. It’s quite overwhelming.”

  “Just give yourself time, Lily. Go visit with Miss Harriet and get to know her. Invite her to lunch and serve her some of that marvelous bread you make so well. Perhaps tell her about your mother, or as much as you know. All Miss Harriet knows about her Aunt Emily was what her father told her, and she certainly didn’t know about the family that cared for Emily’s child.”

  Lily relaxed a bit.

  “Rosa’s a good friend and you still have your work at the university,” I said. “Take it one step at a time.”

  A few days after our talk, Lily asked me to come over. I knew this was the evening of the dinner dance at the university, and I was as anxious as if she were my own daughter to see how she looked.

  She was radiant, like a slash of sunlight in the shaded book room. She had arranged her long, black hair up onto the top of her head with a clip. Several long curls dangled over one shoulder. The neckline of her dress was low, her shoulders covered with a filmy, gauze jacket which set off the Washburn necklace to perfection. The silver and topaz earrings glittered and shimmered with the slightest move of her head.

  When the doorbell sounded, I roused from my stupor of admiration and hurried to admit Kevin Thatcher. Kevin is a mighty, handsome young man on any given day but, in a tux, he was magnificent. He and Lily made an astonishing couple.

  “Kevin, you should stop by your home on your way. I’m sure Donny would like to see how gorgeous Lily looks.”

  He shook his head.

  “I won’t need to. The committee arranged for extra security so the local police have been invited. Mom will be there with Archer.” He handed Lily a gold and brown orchid and taking her by the arm, they went out to his
car.

  In the scramble to unravel the life of Emily Washburn, I didn’t notice what was happening right under my nose. At least not right away. Even though Donny Thatcher and Archer Phillips had lived in Tuxford for several years, their paths apparently had not crossed much until I stirred things up.

  Donny visited often and we became good friends quite easily. After about two weeks, I became aware of a change in her. She seemed more animated. Her eyes always lighted up when she spoke of her son, Kevin, but now they lighted at the sight of Phillips’ car when it pulled up.

  Donny and I took a break one afternoon and met at Maude’s. As we sat enjoying some of Maude’s coffee and pastry, Archer Phillips came in. Donny’s smile sent rainbows across the room; I guess he couldn’t miss that, because he came over to our table, cradling his cup of coffee. She pointed to a chair, beamed a bewitching smile at him and said,

  “Care to join us, Archer?”

  I almost heard chimes, the attraction was that obvious. Ah-ha! This I have to watch, I thought.

  I knew Archer was pretty much of a lone wolf. He told me once that he grew up somewhere near Chicago, but all the family he had left was an older sister living in Oregon.

  Over the next weeks, they both came to the house to help me study my puzzles. One evening, we sat around the table full of my old newspapers.

  “Archer, what made you decide to take up police work?” I asked.

  He stared at the window for a long minute. “My father.”

  “He was a policeman, too?”

  “No. He was gunned down one day as he entered the corner market on his way home from work. He taught Phys. Ed. and coached the high school baseball team. He was just going after bananas for breakfast the next morning. I was in junior high school. When I got over most of my anger I decided to go into law enforcement, and here I am.”

  He mentioned he had earned his degree from Ball State University and he and Donny immediately compared experiences. They discovered they both had spent time relaxing at the old Pine Shelf and many times stood admiring the statue of Beneficence.

  All this raced through my mind as I watched Kevin and Lily drive away.

  I realized that Donny had mentioned Archer Phillips quite often, telling me about the movies they saw and going out to dinner. It’s too bad it took something tragic like the murder of Max Williams to bring them together, but I was glad. They were both wonderful people with much in common and I enjoyed watching this romance develop. One disturbing thought peeked through the sunshine in my mind. What did Kevin think about his mother dating?

  One day, while we sorted through the old news stories, I brought up the subject of Kevin’s reaction to Archer.

  “Oh Maggie, they’re great friends. Archer showed him around the station and introduced him to everybody.” She gave me a sly glance. “Were you thinking there was a problem? Kevin doesn’t remember his father very well. He was only three when Colin died. He said the other day that he felt more like stretching his legs now that I have someone my own age to talk to. Isn’t that sweet?”

  I had nothing to say, but I was glad for her.

  Chapter Thirty

  It has been said that time is a river with eddies, currents, and backwashes. Events swirl and float along that river until they get caught like branches snagged by overhanging brush. Perhaps the events that were put into motion, beginning with the birth of Emily Washburn’s child and those begun by Max Williams being raised by the Nazi state, were destined to come together in Tuxford, Indiana so many years later.

  I went back to my notes. Mac had suggested it might help if I could find a thread to connect events, even though they seemed unrelated. I returned the yearbooks to the attic, arranged all the newspapers on Mavis’ table and spent some time going through them again. This time, I searched for anything about the Williams family, Max in particular. Max William’s presence was the jagged rock in the water; he seemed to destroy every boat and passenger traveling along that stream. Whatever prompted his murder wasn’t the action of a disgruntled employee or the spite of a discarded lover. That kind of crime is more in the line of a crime of passion. Crimes of passion are just that--- passionate. They’re usually carried out with little planning for handling the aftermath. How many times has the tearful lover insisted that the ‘gun just went off’ or ‘I don’t know what happened. All of a sudden she was dead?’ It was an intense hatred that smoldered like hot embers in an abandoned coal mine until a burst of oxygen fanned them into open flames. This was a carefully, planned elimination of a monster.

  I put down my notes, walked across the street and stared at the shattered remains of the Williams house. I looked for anything that seemed out of place. The sheets of plastic that were anchored over the remaining furniture inside to protect it from the weather and birds, flapped in the warm breeze. What had been the porch was now only a splintered mess of concrete rubble with green twists of weeds already straggling through the cracks. The shrubs, along the edge of the porch, showed broken branches and dried leaves from being trampled on. I walked slowly across the drive, past the remains of the garage and around to the side. The house sat on the corner with Gerry’s house opposite to the north. Across the street, to the west, was a small corner park, with a couple of benches, an ornamental light and concrete tubs of flowers. Before it became this park, a fruit market occupied this spot every summer. Around the Williams’ house, on three sides, stretched a high thick, privet hedge that obstructed the view of any of the neighbors to the south and east. The backyard was taken up with the old playhouse and the huge, maple tree.

  I continued around to the east side where shrubs huddled next to the house. Seemingly, Max didn’t want anyone looking over his shoulder, or in his windows. If he had lived in the Old West, he undoubtedly would have been a gambler who sat with his back to the wall to avoid anyone coming up behind him. The picture of stuffy, precise Max as a scruffy cowboy made me chuckle as I scuffed through the grass and along the walk, looking for anything that might have been overlooked, and turning up nothing. Back in the front, I stared at the bushes again hoping they could tell me something. I counted thirteen in all. Even though they were mashed and broken, it was apparent they had been precisely arranged. However, they didn’t give up any secrets.

  I turned in a slow circle, looking at the neighboring houses, even those hidden by the bushes. Gerry’s house was completely visible, as was the west side of the Yoder house. Something I hadn’t noticed before was the built out section the entire length of the Yoder house that extended from the ground to the roof. It was along the side facing Gerry’s house. It looked like a box stuck on the side of the house forming a window seat on the upper level. My suspicions kept coming back to one person and it frightened me. Rosa Yoder. Now there was a riddle wrapped up like a package from the past. It was like the fragment of an old song that just keeps repeating in your mind and nothing seems to make it stop. Rosa Yoder. Rosa Yoder.

  I remembered how she tenderly caressed the photographs of Roberta, and described how Roberta danced around in her blue and white striped dress. Her voice was as warm as honey on fresh muffins when she described Roberta’s smile, her kindness, her intelligence and all the awards she won in school. But, whenever she mentioned Roberta’s soldier, she changed and, eventually, the change was expanded to include Max Williams. Her face became stone hard, etched with hatred; her voice sizzled like acid and her eyes! He eyes became glittering points of cold steel. Her hatred of Max Williams was palpable.

  Shaking my head, I started across the street, but a sudden idea made me change direction. I hurried to the Williams flower shop and asked for Mike Chambers. I was directed back to the potting shed where Mike was busy transplanting several small shrubs into large containers. “Mike, that potted plant you delivered to Max Williams; where did the order come from?”

  “Let me look, Ms. MacKenzie.” He pulled off his dirt encrusted gloves and I followed him to the front desk. “I checked once before, but I don’t remember
.” I strolled about a little while he scrolled through a list of orders. “Here it is. I had to go back almost two months to find it.” He turned the monitor around for me to see.

  “There.” He pointed. A potted ficus tree was ordered at the end of April. Delivery on the 7th of June, to Max Williams of 472 W. Roseberry.”

  “Who ordered it Mike?” I repeated.

  He squinted at the screen.

  “No one I ever heard of. A Ms. Francine LeClar.” He pronounced it to rhyme with ‘car’.

  “Francine LeClar? Maybe, LeClare?” I stared at him. “Of course. Thanks Mike. You have no idea how helpful you’ve been.” I turned and rushed out.

  This was no coincidence. Rosa Yoder came from LeClare, France, a place that no longer exists. This confirmed my suspicions. Rosa Yoder was the only person with such a persistent consuming hatred that had reason to kill Max Williams, but I still had a question that put my mind in a twist. And this question was the biggest one yet. How was I going to prove that Rosa Yoder murdered her neighbor? How could this tiny fragile woman, who needed a cane to walk across the room and seemed unable to lift as much as ten pounds, manage to pull off something like blowing up a house? And, by herself?

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I hadn’t found anything helpful about Max Williams in the papers, so I loaded them into the Jeep and returned to the Times office. It was late in the afternoon and I hurried to get there before they closed. I literally bumped into Sister Beatrice as I struggled through the Times door, my arms loaded with old newspapers. The collision sent newspapers flying in all directions.

  “Maggie, I’m sorry. Did I hurt you? Let me help.”