by Beth Urich
“You are most welcome. See you tomorrow for lunch, Katie.”
“Thanks again. I owe you,” Kate said.
“Lunch will do.”
Kate convinced Etta to go home and check with Sarah’s husband later. They stopped at the grocery store to get a couple items which didn’t survive the rain. The reporter put the bags on the hall table, and then joined the older woman at the archway.
“I’m not sure where to begin,” Etta said, bracing against the wall.
Every shelf in the living room had been emptied, including the mantel over the hearth. Fingerprint dust was everywhere. From where the women stood it was hard to tell how many of the boxes—now lying on the floor—were damaged. Restoring order seemed insurmountable.
Kate said, “Why don’t we sit down and make a plan.”
“Can we plan order out of chaos?”
“I’m ready if you are.”
Getting comfortable on the sofa, Kate took Etta’s hand in hers. They both sighed, unable to process the mess on the floor. Despite her qualms about seeing more damage, Kate ventured into the kitchen to brew some tea. Nothing like a nice warm cup of chamomile to calm one’s nerves. At least she hoped that would be the case.
Everything seemed to be in place in the small room. The chamomile was in the first cabinet she tried—where her mother would have kept it given the layout of the cabinets. The third door was the charm in finding the kettle. It was a gas stove, which wasn’t surprising. At least I don’t need a match like at Grandma’s house. While the tea was steeping, Kate found two mugs, then peeked into the living room to make sure Etta was okay.
She was not surprised to see the octogenarian sitting cross-legged next to one of the large bookshelves. Apparently, she’d already dusted each shelf. As she selected a box from the floor, she cleaned it, and returned it to the appropriate location. No doubt Etta knew where every item was displayed and would soon know which, if any, were missing.
The reporter placed one of the mugs on the table by the sofa and handed the other to Etta. Since she was halfway to the bedroom, she decided to see if the intruders went that far.
An old mahogany chest sat against the wall next to the closet. Every drawer and its contents were strewn on the bed or floor. A jewelry box had been emptied on top and tossed to the side of the room. The mattress was askew, and the closet door was open. All the hangers, many of which held nothing, had been moved to the sides. She suspected some of the clothes were in the pile on the floor.
Two places had not been touched, probably because of the resident’s unexpected arrival. One was the nightstand by the bed. Three drawers remained shut. The items on the top—among which were two small boxes—were neatly arranged. The other area which seemed undisturbed were the two shelves in the closet over the hanger rod. Each held a couple of medium-sized storage boxes. A small suitcase was on the far left of the top shelf. A metal letter-sized file box lay empty on the floor, sheets of paper and folders strewn under and around it.
“Oh, my,” Etta said, her hand covering her heart as she caught her breath at the bedroom door. In a moment, she moved to the bed and sat down, slowly taking in the turmoil.
“Are you okay? Maybe we’ve done enough today,” Kate said.
Spying the discarded jewelry box, Etta crossed the room and returned it to the dresser. She replaced the contents, then paused to evaluate the arrangement. “Clay’s wedding ring,” she said, quickly examining the floor.
Kate joined the search and discovered a man’s ring buried under several scarves. “Is this it?”
“Thank you.” Etta took the ring and placed it carefully. She closed the top of the jewelry box and centered it on the dresser. After arranging some pictures and other items around it, she returned to the bed and sighed deeply.
Kate went back to the living room to get Etta’s mug of tea. Two of the five shelves on the largest display case were back to normal. Most of the keepsakes were still in the center of the floor. The framed pictures had been returned to the mantelpiece, but the whatnots previously displayed with them were not. Kate scanned the floor and selected one of the items she remembered seeing—the one next to Clay and Etta’s marriage photo.
As Kate returned to the bedroom she said, “You left your tea. And I found this. Can you help me put it in the correct spot on the mantel?”
Etta accepted the mug and stared at the carved piece of wood in Kate’s other hand. “Do you mind if I lay down for a while?”
“No, that’s a good idea. How about I grab a quilt and get you settled on the sofa.”
Kate helped Etta into the living room and arranged the throw pillows at one end. She covered her with the quilt, then sat down in the chair by the window and finished her tea. “I’ll try to put your things away in the closet and drawers. I may not get them in the right place, but they’ll be off the floor.”
Etta made a little sound, her eyes closed, the quilt nuzzled against her chin—tacit approval.
Before starting in the bedroom, Kate called Helen and explained the situation. Her boss understood but reminded her she had a deadline to meet for the weekend edition. She took a blouse from the floor, trying to remember how far she’d gotten on the history article. Somehow, it didn’t seem important.
Most of the items were easily divided into the drawer or closet categories. The process took less time than expected. A pile of miscellaneous non-clothing items remained, which Kate allocated to the two small catch-all drawers at the top of the dresser. Etta will have to divvy the items to the correct spot later.
One square metal container was behind the dresser trapped between the bottom and the wall. She rocked the chest forward slightly and reached behind to recover the tin. With some difficulty she freed the top from the bottom’s rusty hold. Fifty or so small keys—suitable for use in opening the collection of boxes—were inside. She took it with her to the living room, where Etta had resumed the task of restoring order to her shelves.
“Look what I found,” Kate said, handing the metal box to Etta.
“Where was it?”
“Behind the dresser, for a long time by the look of it.”
“I haven’t seen it for a while. You’re welcome to try to find the key for your box.”
“I’m borrowing it, remember?”
“Yes, and it needs to have a key.”
Kate accepted the proffered box and dropped it into her jacket pocket. Clearly that was the end of the discussion, at least for now. She called the hospital and was connected to Sarah’s room. She had been admitted for observation and her husband suggested postponing a visit until the next day.
“Thank you for doing that,” Etta said.
“How about I pick you up in the morning to go to the hospital. Is nine too early?”
“That would be fine.”
“Don’t forget to lock up everything when I leave.”
Chapter Twenty
Helen’s “see me” note was in the middle of Kate’s desk. The reporter decided to make the corrections she’d marked on the draft so she’d be more prepared for the meeting. The last page was printing when her boss appeared in the doorway.
“Perfect timing. The draft is ready for you. If it’s okay, I’d like to do one a week maybe putting more than one profile in each article.”
“Sounds like a good approach,” Helen said. “I recommend you start with people who are still alive, perhaps work in others who were contemporaries.”
“Good idea,” Kate said even though she already planned that approach.
“How’s Etta?” Helen asked, accepting the pages. “Are you helping her again today?”
“I dropped her at the hospital. She’ll stay with Sarah for a while and call me later. She’s doing much better, moving into the angry stage. Her friend is doing okay too.”
“That’s good news.”
Helen remained, but did not sit down. At the risk of a long conversation, Kate said, “Something else we need to discuss?”
“I�
��ve gotten a call. A complaint.”
“About me?” Kate asked, trying to imagine what she’d done recently to offend someone.
“To be honest the complaint sounds like you were doing your job. But I want you to be aware so you can smooth things over. Maybe you can try a more subtle investigative technique.”
Kate chuckled, then noticed her boss wasn’t laughing. “I’m sorry, Helen. Smoothing things over and being subtle are not skills I have fully developed.”
A whisper of movement in Helen’s lips, then a full-out smile.
“Who made the complaint?” Kate asked.
“A city councilman.”
“Let me guess. Larry Allen.”
“Yes. He says that you’ve agitated ... he actually used that word ... his grandfather. And that you’ve interfered in his business. And last, certainly not least, that you have been snooping at City Hall.”
“Snooping?”
“You have obviously made an impact on his life.”
“He doesn’t like me.”
“Since he wouldn’t give me specifics, I’ll say go easy with him. See what you can do about developing those people skills.”
WELL, HELEN’S ATTITUDE toward me has certainly changed. Maybe mine has too. Either way, working with her has been much more enjoyable lately.
Kate rounded up photographer Barry Turner and headed toward Table Rock Lake and her appointment with Harold Wainright. The new area-resident had agreed to what Kate told him was a customary profile on interesting transplants to the Ozarks. Fortunately, he enjoyed her articles on Etta and Branson in general, so he agreed. She decided it would be more productive—if not easier—to go to the source. Sitting on hold for ever or trying to figure out what an internet was and what it could do for a journalist did not appeal to her.
Barry, a willowy brown-haired twenty-one-year-old, joined the part-timers at Tri-Lakes News last spring. He primarily helped the staff with research but had been pressed into service more recently to take photos for various articles. Besides, Barry wouldn’t lend her the camera, which he had owned since being on the high school yearbook staff—not too long ago.
Getting to the lake road turn-off was a cinch, after that Marge’s directions became a challenge. The looping roads and hidden turns weren’t unusual for the area around Table Rock. The lake itself was created in the late 1950s when the White River was dammed not too far south of Branson. It served as a major tourist attraction with all the fishing and camping, enhanced by the beautiful, still rustic, scenery.
The final turn led to an asphalt road which curved in front of a simple log structure perhaps forty feet wide. A separate two-car wooden garage sat at the far end of the curve, which headed back to the main road. A matching wooden covered walkway spanned the distance from the garage to the house.
Kate continued on to a cleared area so as not to obstruct the photography. Barry snapped several shots from various angles as the two approached the entrance. The clear sky and fall foliage made for a breathtaking view.
Harold Wainright greeted them almost immediately and ushered them inside. He was at least two inches shy of Barry’s six-foot-one height. His well-groomed thick dark hair somehow made him seem taller. But the most disarming aspect of her subject was his ear-to-ear warm smile and cordial demeanor.
The foyer ran the entire length of the building. Across from the door, the largest picture window Kate had ever seen provided a panoramic view of the lake and surrounding hills. Hallways exited the entryway to the left and right. Although the wood paneling was impressive and the entry spectacular, the place had been grossly overpriced.
But first impressions can be deceiving. Their host turned left and down a short hallway, at the end of which a curved stairway descended into the main—and previously hidden—part of the house. Barry started clicking at the top of the stairs and didn’t stop until he reached the bottom. He continued, as if mesmerized, to the center of the lakeside wall, a series of glass doors framed in oak.
“My wife fixed some iced tea and lemonade,” Wainright said, motioning toward the bar at the back of the fifty-by-fifty-foot room. “Help yourself.”
Barry took some shots of the view, including one with Wainright posed next to the center door. The width of the deck beyond the glass wall matched the room, with L-shaped extensions on either side. A relatively small hot tub occupied one of the extensions. Three separate conversation areas took up the rest of the deck area.
“This is amazing,” Kate said.
“We were pleased to find it,” Wainright said.
“I’d love to include your wife in the interview.”
“Rachel planned to be here, but something came up with the volunteer work she’s doing. It was unavoidable.”
“I’ll leave my card. If she’d like to meet me somewhere to chat, that would be great.”
He took the card and placed it on the table next to the sofa, then sat down across from Kate in an oversized chair next to the hearth that dominated one wall.
“If it’s okay, Barry will take a few pictures while we talk. Then he’ll probably go out on the deck and gawk at the lake.”
Wainright chuckled. “You’re welcome to wander around, Barry. That stairway on the left goes down to a path below the deck leading to our dock.”
“Of course it does,” the photographer mumbled.
Once Kate cleared the use of the recorder, she asked a few introductory questions. Wainright and his wife, as many before them, had come to the area to retire after spending several vacations over the years. He loved to fish and they both loved boating and hiking. It was an easy and natural choice for them. His wife had jumped in quickly to do volunteer work at the hospital. She’d been a nurse when they met and for a brief time after they married in the 1960s. He spent twelve years in the United States Air Force with his final tour in Southeast Asia.
“You got out after twelve years?” Kate asked.
“I was too old to risk another tour in that war. Rachel and I were married four months before I left for Vietnam. She begged me not to reenlist. To be honest, I was easily convinced.”
“And after the air force?”
“When we separated from the service, we went to Evanston, Illinois, close to Rachel’s family. Living near my family was not a good option. I used the GI Bill to finish my degree at Northwestern University. Eventually we moved to Chicago.”
Wainright told of how they struggled as a couple with three young children in a Chicago suburb during the 1970s. He commuted to his entry level position at a real estate development company in the city. He got his big break by impressing the CEO of a rival firm with his expertise. That company—Illinois Land Futures Inc.—offered him a promotion, a corner office, and more money.
“And you’d found a home.”
“For over twenty-five years.”
“Still, you were young when you retired.”
“The time was right.”
“Fair enough. But you’ve been here for a year or so and recently purchased some residential properties.”
“You’ve done your research.”
“I have a few sources. So, are you going to expand that new venture?”
“Anything is possible. But I’m basically a frustrated retired workaholic. I tried some volunteer work, thanks to Rachel’s urging, but it wasn’t enough. I’m not embarrassed to admit I like to make money.”
“Not much remuneration in volunteer work. You should join the area Chamber of Commerce.”
“Started attending meetings last spring. Branson is a charming town that’s expanding at an exponential rate. It would be dishonest to say I’m not interested in taking that ride.”
“Plenty of contacts at the chamber. I’m not sure how many big players we have, but they care about the city and the area.”
“I met a couple of players.”
“Jack Brighton was one,” she guessed.
“I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. He’s one of the few in tow
n who are in your league.”
“Smart and blunt too.”
“Sorry, I’m told I need to tone it down some.”
“Don’t listen to that advice.”
“Well, I’m sure you and Mr. Brighton got along. Did you meet his grandson?”
“I’ve spoken to his son, Randy, and his grandson. Larry Allen, right?”
“You all will make a good team,” she said, fishing a bit.
“You may be jumping the gun on that collaboration, Kate. I’ve purchased a half dozen rentals, nothing more.”
“This area, especially Branson, is breaking loose, Mr. Wainright. Anything is possible.”
“That’s what Larry tells me.”
She decided not to press her luck regarding other gems Larry imparted.
The spicy smell of fall filled the air, damp leaves covering the path, as Wainright walked her down to the dock. Barry was sitting next to his boots at the end, his bare feet dangling in the water.
“Time to head back, Barry,” Kate shouted.
“Sorry, can’t hear you,” came the reply.
In fact, she also hated to leave. Something about the water and the bucolic atmosphere relaxed her. Maybe she and Tom could live on the lake.
WHEN SHE RETURNED TO the newspaper office, she drafted a piece without reviewing the tape. She’d listen to it later and expand the article for Helen’s review. Maybe the Branson transplant series is a good idea after all.
A message from Marge requested Kate to call, but she walked up the street to Connarde Realty instead. One of the best things about being a reporter was not staying in the stuffy office all day. With that in mind, she invited Marge to take a walk to the lakefront to discuss their mutual progress.
“I interviewed Wainright at his home this morning,” Kate began. “You were right about the house and the setting. He seemed like a nice man. I’m doing an article for the paper, so I won’t spoil it for you. But he knows both Brightons and Larry Allen.”
“Lots of people know them. It doesn’t mean they’re in cahoots,” Marge said.