Carrie stepped closer to Henry and wondered if Bogardus’s rude shove was intentional. Henry had seen it and his response to the man’s greeting seemed barely polite. She really didn’t blame him; she felt more than a little frosty toward Everett Bogardus herself. Still, maybe the shove had happened because she somehow kept getting in the stranger’s way.
As far as raised eyebrows about sharing a room with Henry, well, she’d expected a little of that from people in her age group, but let them think whatever they wanted. She and Henry had as much right to save money by rooming together as two female friends did. Anything else was discrimination. It would have been foolish to pay extra just for appearance’s sake, and she didn’t want to be paired in a room with some strange woman.
Ms. Hunt said into the silence, “A new badge is easily made for you, Carrie. I’ll take care of that, but I’m afraid the list of those attending is already made up, and most everyone is here now and has picked up a packet. Oh, well,” she laughed, a short burst of sound, “we’ll all go by first names this week anyway. I’m Greta, remember? Good!
“Oh, I almost forgot.” The purr was back, the problem of Carrie’s last name evidently solved to Greta Hunt’s satisfaction. “Your friends Eleanor and Jason Stack arrived about an hour ago and said to tell you they wanted to go for a walk after being in the car for so long. I suggested they try the brick walkway above Bathhouse Row. They’ll see you at dinner and asked that you save places for them if you arrive in the dining room first. As you’ll see in your packet, a buffet will be served for all the Elderhostelers in the hotel restaurant, entrance over there, beginning at six. Right after dinner we’ll have orientation and introductions in the Crown Room. That’s where we’ll be meeting this week.” She pointed to the stairs behind her. “Up there. It’s just 3:45 now. You’ll have plenty of time to get settled and freshen up. See you in the restaurant at six, then. Good?”
“Good,” said Henry.
Carrie got their room keys while Henry located a luggage cart. When he opened the trunk of the car, Carrie wondered, as she had many times before, if she would really need all the clothes she’d brought. It might rain, of course, evenings could be chilly, days could be hot. And, in one of her letters, Ms. Hunt had said to include heavy work gloves, old clothing, and really old shoes or boots for going to the crystal mine. Carrie wondered how people who had flown here got all their stuff in.
Everything went on the luggage cart, thank goodness, and there were hooks at the ends of the clothes rack for tote bags and Carrie’s briefcase. The briefcase was full of all the information about Hot Springs that she’d been able to gather, plus a few magazines, her Bible and Bible lesson study books, and mystery novels by Kate Cameron and Laurel Schunk. She never left home without plenty of reading material.
The room was spacious. It had two double beds, as well as glass patio doors opening on a balcony overlooking the street. After she’d unpacked, Carrie went out on the balcony to look down at Hot Springs’ legendary Central Avenue. The first thing she saw was a sign above the porch of a white multi-columned building across the street. It proclaimed “Mountain Valley Water” in big green letters.
“Well, look at that,” she said as Henry came up behind her, put his arms around her waist, and pulled her close. “I have a brochure about that place; I’m glad it’s nearby. It was built in 1910 and has been the home of Mountain Valley Water since the 20’s. The interior is supposed to be beautifully restored, and they’re still in business, selling water all over the United States.”
For a minute she relaxed against Henry, soaking up the luxury of his closeness. Then she patted his hands briskly, pulled loose, and turned to face him. “I want to see the inside.”
“Well, not right now, I hope,” Henry said. “Besides, it’s Sunday, doubt they’re open. For now, I’m in favor of doing nothing. Join me?” He took off his shoes and laid back on one of the beds without bothering to remove the spread.
“I should take a shower before dinner,” Carrie said. “I’d feel fresher.”
There was a rumbled “Umhmm” from Henry. His eyes were closed.
She looked down at him for a moment, realizing without a bit of surprise that she wanted to snuggle beside him on that bed. She knew very well Henry wouldn’t complain about her presence there, unexpected though it might be.
Of course he couldn’t see her shake her head. “Well, if that’s the way you feel,” she said, “I guess I’ll set the alarm.”
After doing just that she plopped down on the other bed and shut her eyes.
Chapter III
Henry
Everett Bogardus was just leaving the buffet line with his plate piled high when Henry and Carrie entered the dining room. Greta stood by the dessert table making sure her charges were not going hungry, and Bogardus stopped to say something to her. Henry heard what sounded like, “Excellent cuisine...equal to Boston’s finest chefs.”
“Obsequious show-off,” Henry muttered under his breath. The man obviously thought he was quite the stuff. Tall, thin, all that black, and now he was going to take the last available chair at a large round table filled with women. Huh, no surprise there.
Then Henry suppressed a laugh. He’d noticed most of the women at the table looked old enough to be Bogardus’s mother.
Carrie noticed it too. “Nice of Everett to be so friendly toward the single women, isn’t it?” she said.
Henry didn’t answer. Friendly? Carrie was a single woman, and he was still fuming about that adolescent body contact play he’d seen Bogardus make at the registration table.
He picked up a plate, frowned at it as if inspecting for dirt, and attacked the buffet.
They found an empty table for four and were beginning to eat when Jason came up, put his plate of food down, and dropped into a chair. He said nothing, just sat looking at them, bristly eyebrows lifted, lips squeezed into a furrowed circle that repeated the shape of his round face.
Silly old goat, making faces like a clown. Henry knew better than to let Jason irritate him, but why the stupid look? What was he up to, and for that matter, why couldn’t he go through life more smoothly? Why the clowning, all the coy remarks? There would probably be one of those coming soon.
Now that Henry thought of it, this Hot Springs Elderhostel seemed to be bringing out the worst in more than one man.
He glared at Jason, expecting to hear something from those pursed lips at any moment. Instead, after a long silence, the only sound he heard was “Um-hm?” Henry raised his own eyebrows and watched for some sign of what Jason might be up to while Eleanor slipped gracefully into the last chair.
“Sure looks good,” she said, glancing from her husband’s face to Henry’s and shifting her normal speaking voice to a tone Henry identified as Mother, being cheerful with quarrelsome children.
“Isn’t this great? We’re not used to full meals on Sunday evening, but see my plate? You’d think I hadn’t eaten all day. What you guys selected looks good too. Have you tasted anything yet, Pookie?”
Pookie? Henry suppressed a laugh and began to feel much better.
Jason ignored his wife while his gaze rolled over Carrie, then came back to Henry. Finally he said, “Carrie King? Did we miss a ceremony or something? What’s this, what’s this, big boy? Is it because you’re timid about rooming with a woman you haven’t honored with your name?”
There was an exasperated puff from Carrie, and renewed irritation flashed, unbidden, through Henry. What on earth? The man was a good friend, but he could sure be a jackass. The “big boy” nickname, which 5-foot-8 Jason used all too frequently, was idiotic. Put plainly, Henry, who was six feet tall and weighed two hundred-plus pounds, hated it. Jason knew that, which was probably why he used it. And where had the Carrie King come from?
Since he hadn’t a clue what Jason was getting at, Henry said nothing and picked up a piece of fried chicken. Carrie, however, filled the conversation gap.
“Just a mix-up, rather natural under the c
ircumstances. People can call me whatever they want, I’m sure not going to bother with any big explanation. Besides, everyone goes by a first name here anyway.”
“What’s the problem?” Henry asked. “Didn’t they get your name right, Carrie?”
“Right or wrong,” Jason said, “it’s there on the roster of this week’s participants. Carrie and Henry King. Haven’t you looked in your packets?”
“Oh,” said Henry. Now he was silent because he had no idea what to say. He knew Carrie too well to think she’d used his name on purpose.
“No, we haven’t looked at them,” Carrie said. “We took a short nap after we got here and didn’t have time. Greta and I discussed the mistake when I registered, but I came in the hotel before Henry, so I guess he didn’t hear our conversation.”
Dismissing the subject, Carrie turned to Eleanor and asked her about their afternoon walk along the National Park’s brick-paved Grand Promenade.
Effectively cut off by Carrie’s unwillingness to be ruffled or goaded and by Henry’s silence, Jason joined the description of what they had seen on the historic trail.
Henry chewed his food slowly, his good humor returning. Pookie. Oh, boy! He wondered if Eleanor had used the term intentionally. He’d noticed in the past that she was capable of tiny verbal jabs that served to pull her husband back into polite society.
After spending another moment enjoying his knowledge of Jason’s cute nickname, he glanced toward the round table and, keeping his head at an angle so no one would know what he was really looking at, studied Everett Bogardus.
All that black looked ridiculous among the cluster of women in bright colors. The man was talking to a woman with outrageous yellow hair, leaning toward her, managing to make their conversation look intimate. Oily flirt. Too slick by far.
Since Bogardus seemed to have come here alone, Henry supposed he met the fifty-five or older Elderhostel age limit, but he didn’t look fifty-five. Well, he probably dyed his hair, and did men get face lifts? Maybe. A tuck here and there? Henry fantasized about what that could do to a beard. Would you have to shave your temples? Would the hair grow up rather than down, demanding a whole new shaving technique?
Then his speculation turned serious as he wondered, once more, why this man was here.
Not only was he a dandy and a flirt, everything about him shouted “fake.” Henry’s fine-tuned danger warnings had gone up the minute he met him. That, and noticing the body rub, were probably why he’d missed any conversation about Carrie’s name being wrong on some list. He’d been more interested in speculating why this person had come all the way from Massachusetts to Arkansas for an Elderhostel.
Henry couldn’t help being put on the alert by people who seemed out of place in their surroundings; it was second nature after so many years in police work.
He scanned the rest of the area reserved for their group. There were quite a few couples in addition to the single women at the big round table and their attentive companion, who, Henry noticed, now had several gold chains dangling over the front of his black silk shirt. Was that supposed to impress people? Hmpf. This wasn’t New York or Los Angeles. And how did the man even sit down in those jeans?
There were two more single men sitting at a table apart from the others, but if they belonged in the Elderhostel group they were probably rooming together. Bogardus must be alone. If so, he was paying extra for a private room.
Henry felt a hand on his arm. “It’s almost time for the orientation meeting,” Carrie said. “Better dig into that plate of food.”
When the thirty-nine Elderhostel participants were seated at long tables in their assigned meeting room, Greta Hunt gave a short welcoming speech and an overview of their week’s schedule. She explained that she was a native of Hot Springs and had been an Elderhostel Program Coordinator for six years. She then said, “Let’s begin getting acquainted. Would each of you stand up in turn and tell us something about yourself and why you’re here? We’ll start with the Comptons.”
Thank goodness, thought Henry, since Greta had indicated a couple at the opposite end of the room. I have time to think about why on earth I am here.
Why was he? He didn’t mind being here, especially with Carrie, but it felt like she had pushed him into an avalanche heading this direction. He’d simply been bowled over by her enthusiasm. She often had that effect on him. Why?
Many things about civilian life were new and unfamiliar ground after his total dedication to a life in law enforcement. Communication with fellow officers was direct, forceful, easily understood. It sure wasn’t that way now.
When he was alone with Carrie and wanted to say...personal things, he often felt like an awkward boy. Maybe he could convey a message to her in his talk here without having to say anything face-to-face.
He didn’t know these folks, wouldn’t see any of them but the Stacks after this week, so why worry about what he said? He could speak as if Carrie were the only one listening.
As each participant stood, some like professional performers, others with shy hesitation, Henry decided that Everett Bogardus might not be so out of place after all. Though he had expected most of the people to be from Arkansas or surrounding states, he, Carrie, and the Stacks seemed to be the only ones from the area. Many had come from places as far away as California, Florida, or New York, and there was one couple from Alaska. Others were from states between the Mississippi River and the Rocky Mountains, but still a distance from Arkansas. There must be more appeal to this Elderhostel thing than he imagined.
As the people talked, Henry made notes about each of them on his participant roster.
Jane and Russ Compton were from Minneapolis, both retired from the postal service. They had decided they wanted to visit all fifty states and were doing it via Elderhostel.
Tula and Edgar Waverman, from Torrance, California, had been married fifty-eight years. She was a homemaker, he a retired highway engineer. They enjoyed travel, and Edgar, who walked with a cane, explained that the wide range of Elderhostel programs each year gave them the opportunity for activity without having to be athletic.
There were two recent widows, Martha Rae Jones from Oregon and Oneida Bradley from Florida. They were cousins and had decided to meet here. Martha Rae said she loved to travel but the only way she felt safe, now that she was alone, was to be part of an Elderhostel. Oneida said simply that she’d needed to get out of the house. She got a bit teary-eyed during her short talk.
Crystal and Robert Howard, from Long Island, were youngish. Probably, other than Bogardus, they were the babies here. Robert—“Not Bob, please”—was a stock broker.
Crystal said, giggling, that her interest in crystals was natural, but she also owned a new age gift shop and was seeking knowledge and a source of crystals for her shop.
The two men Henry had seen at dinner were indeed part of the group. They were law partners from a large firm in Chicago, and both were still practicing. Marcus Trotter was divorced. Simpson Simpson—“Call me Sim, and, yes, my parents had a sense of humor”—a widower. Henry wondered if they’d come to look for new wives. Why else would they be here?
Everett Bogardus identified himself as a Boston University professor on sabbatical and said his field was history, though he also had an interest in geology. Speaking in a low voice with almost no definable Boston accent, he explained that the unique Native American presence here, as well as the crystals and hot springs, had attracted him.
In fact, most everyone mentioned a specific interest in one or more of the topics to be covered during the week. Carrie did, introducing herself as “Carrie McCrite” without saying anything about a mistake on the list. She explained that she was employed as manager of an Arkansas Tourist Information Center and that she’d read all the brochures about Hot Springs in her center. “I believed every word,” she said. “Besides, I’ve always thought crystals were beautiful, and I’m interested in where they come from, so here I am to find out.”
Eleanor rose to sa
y she was a professional wife and mother, that she and her husband had recently moved to northwest Arkansas from Ohio, and she had come here to learn more about her new state while having a good time.
Jason got to his feet slowly and with exaggerated reluctance said, “I’m here because my wife is,” which brought a laugh from some of the men. But he wasn’t finished.
“I’ve had my nose to the grindstone for years, building a heat-resistant glass manufacturing business in Ohio, which I recently turned over to our son. Tom’s been in training under me for about twenty years, I guess, and I finally decided he’d learned enough that it was okay to turn it all over to him. I’m sorry...uh, glad...to report he’s doing just great without me. Now,” he continued, “I guess it’s time for me to slow down, take up a hobby”—a few people groaned—“but I admit to being what my wife calls a workaholic. We are going to be working, aren’t we, Greta? Studying things? Digging? If there’s no work, I’ll go home.”
That got an understanding laugh from everyone, including Greta, who promised to find lots of work for him during the week.
Henry’s turn had come, and as all those faces looked at him, his mind went white-out blank. Why on earth hadn’t he spent time thinking about what he was going to say rather than making notes about what others were saying?
After a pause that seemed to go on about an hour too long, he stood, cleared his throat, and looked down at Carrie. She was smiling.
He had to say something...
“One night last summer my friend and neighbor, Carrie McCrite, invited me over for a meatloaf dinner, um, to try out her new recipe, she said. After we’d eaten that meal, which was very good, by the way, she mentioned this Hot Springs Elderhostel and said she really wanted to come.
“She told me she thought I’d enjoy an Elderhostel, though I hadn’t a clue yet what they were all about. She asked me to come along as her guest, said it would easily fit her budget, provided we shared a room. I’d have a chance to learn about Elderhostels, see if I’d like to go to more of them with her.”
A Treasure to Die For Page 3