Mining for Justice

by Kathleen Ernst

  An old-model blue Mercury he didn’t recognize sat in the drive. He committed the license plate to memory, drove around the corner, and pulled over so he could call it in. Three minutes later Marie, the EPD clerk, called back on the radio. “George 220. I ran the plate. License and registration up to date, no outstanding warrants.”

  “Thanks. George 220 out.”

  He’d hoped the Mercury owner was driving with expired registration or something. He needed to talk to one of the visitors, but he couldn’t pull the driver over and search the vehicle without cause.

  In the course of an hour a young couple in a Ford sedan came and went, and a single man in a black pickup. Neither party gave him reason to stop the vehicle. Well, druggies weren’t the sharpest pencils in the box. Sooner or later somebody would screw up.

  “I’ll carry the food basket, Grandma,” Adam said as he helped Tamsin from his car.

  “And I’ve got the flowers,” Chloe added. The three of them had left early for the meeting about Pendarvis so they could stop at the nursing home where Tamsin’s sister Lowena lived.

  “It’s nice of you to come up, Chloe,” Tamsin said.

  “My pleasure,” Chloe said honestly. If it wasn’t for the meeting about saving Pendarvis, she would have been content to settle in for a nice chat.

  “Lowena recently had her hundred-and-first birthday. She has good days and bad days, but visitors are always a nice distraction.”

  “Has anyone interviewed Lowena?” Chloe asked. “Done an oral history?”

  “Not that I know of, dear.”

  “Somebody should,” Chloe said. Surely the local historical society would be interested in Lowena’s memories. Pendarvis staff too.

  The nursing home was much like others she’d visited. Cheerful prints of children and gardens decorated the walls. A hint of Lysol lingered in the corridors. Someone was playing “Moon River” on a piano in the lounge.

  They found Lowena sitting in a chair in her room, staring out the window, but a smile lit her face when her company arrived. Tamsin waved Chloe forward. “Lowena, this is Chloe. She’s a museum curator, and a new friend of mine.”

  Chloe smiled. Lowena studied her. She was a tiny woman with thin white hair. She wore a blue sweatshirt and sweatpants—easy to put on and take off—and matching slippers. Glasses with thick lenses were perched on her nose. But behind the plastic there was a spark in the old woman’s blue eyes. Her body might be frail, Chloe thought, but there’s still a real person inside.

  “I’m glad you’ve come.” Lowena’s voice was thin, quavering. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Tamsin caught Chloe’s eye and gave a little shake of her head: She’s confused. Chloe nodded. But she wished she knew who the elderly woman had been waiting for.

  Adam leaned in and kissed Lowena’s wrinkled cheek. “It’s good to see you, Aunt Lowena.”

  Lowena looked up at him. “Adam? They were talking about you today. Something about the cottage … ?”

  Tamsin and Adam exchanged a resigned look. “The nurses must have been gossiping,” Tamsin murmured, before pulling a spare chair close and taking a seat. “Lowena, Adam found some old bones buried in the cottage today. It’s nothing to worry about. The police will take care of it. Now, are you hungry?”

  Lowena’s gaze grew cloudy. “Is Billy coming?” she asked, with a mixture of hope and confusion and wistfulness that broke Chloe’s heart.

  Adam patted Lowena’s arm. “Not today, sweetie.” He picked up a framed black-and-white photograph from the dresser and gently placed it in Lowena’s hands. Chloe glimpsed the portrait of a young soldier posed in a uniform from the First World War.

  “Oh, yes,” Lowena said. “He’s still at the front.”

  Tamsin began excavating the basket. “I brought you supper.” She removed foil from a pasty and placed it on a plastic plate.

  “Sit,” Lowena told Chloe, gesturing at an empty chair. “We’ll have a nice dish o’ tay.”

  “Now, we can’t stay long enough for tea,” Tamsin interjected, while Chloe was still deciphering Lowena’s comment. “We have a meeting to attend. But I’ll visit you tomorrow, all right?”

  After Adam and Tamsin said their farewells, Chloe took one of Lowena’s fragile hands in hers. “It was lovely to meet you.”

  “I’m glad you’ve come,” Lowena said again. Her gaze held Chloe’s. The clouds seemed to be gone.

  “I’ll be in town all week,” Chloe told her. “Perhaps I can visit again.”

  They left the old woman with her memories. “She does get a bit confused,” Tamsin murmured to Chloe apologetically.

  “Was Billy a husband, or a sweetheart?” Chloe asked. “Did he die in the Great War?”

  “He was her first husband. She was in her early thirties when they met, quite old for a first wedding in those days.” Tamsin gave Chloe a wry smile. “I never knew him. Lowena and I are half sisters, you see, and didn’t grow up together. Anyway, he survived the war only to come home and die of influenza, poor thing. Her second husband died in a mine cave-in.”

  Chloe imagined how it must have been for Lowena to see her husband home safe from the war, only to lose him in the pandemic; to marry again, only to lose her second husband in a mine accident. And yet she survived, Chloe thought, and was still going … well, if not strong, pretty darn good, considering. Cornish women were made of sturdy stuff.

  In fact … Lowena might be a good person to ask about old stories of a missing person in Mineral Point. Chloe made a mental note to do just that.

  The Walker House was a huge old stone structure built against the southern end of Dark Hill, with dining and lodging on the second and third floors and an atmospheric pub on the ground floor. Tamsin, Adam, and Chloe arrived in time to eat dinner before the meeting started. “It’s always good to support a local business,” Tamsin said.

  “Absolutely,” Chloe agreed. She’d just noticed that the menu featured Babcock Hall ice cream, made at the University of Wisconsin Dairy, so she was feeling slightly more optimistic about the evening.

  Lots of people stopped by their table to greet Adam and Tamsin. Chloe also spotted the two interpreters she’d met that day: Gerald, still in period clothes; and Rita, the young college graduate, who had changed into jeans and a rugby shirt. Super-volunteer Evelyn Bainbridge was there, and Audrey from the gift shop. To Chloe’s surprise, Dr. Yvonne Miller, Ph.D., came too. She did not stop to say hello, and seemed to be taking notes.

  Claudia approached with her daughter, who wore an 1840s dress made of yellow cotton, with pantalets peeking out beneath the hem, and black ankle boots. “May we join you?” Claudia asked. “My husband is out of town for business all week, so I brought Holly with me.”

  “Please do,” Tamsin urged. “Holly, you look lovely.”

  “I’m sure you remember Miss Tamsin and Mr. Bolitho,” Claudia told her daughter. “And this is my friend, Ms. Ellefson. She’s helping me at Pendarvis this week.”

  “Hi, Holly.” Chloe smiled.

  Holly leaned against her mother, avoiding eye contact. She had delicate features. Her eyes were wide and green. Her shyness, her prettiness, and her period clothing gave her an almost fey air.

  Claudia and her daughter slid into empty chairs. Holly had brought a set of dominoes in a cloth bag, and she carefully placed them on the table and began arranging them. Chloe debated trying to start a conversation with the girl, maybe even help with the dominoes, but she wasn’t sure if that was a good idea.

  By seven o’clock the place was packed. Adam’s friend Winter, the potter, stepped to a podium at one end of the room. She wore overalls again, with big earrings and what looked like a hand-dyed scarf holding back her hair.

  “Thank you for coming,” she began. “We all were shocked to read that the state historical society is considering closing Pendarvis. The historic site con
tributes to Mineral Point’s economy, but it’s not all about money. Pendarvis reflects a vital period in Wisconsin’s history. We simply can not let bureaucrats make such an arbitrary decision.”

  That prompted a wave of applause.

  “Most of you know Loren Beskeen, site director at Pendarvis,” Winter continued. “Loren, what can you tell us about the situation? Is it true that Pendarvis funds got siphoned off to Old World Wisconsin?”

  Chloe concentrated on scraping up the last molecule of butter pecan from her dish.

  Loren, seated at a corner table, got to his feet. He was a man of middling height, in his thirties, going soft around the middle. Unruly chestnut hair flopped over his forehead, touching his wire-rimmed glasses. Chloe didn’t know Loren well, but he was the youngest and most energetic site director, outgoing and friendly at meetings. She liked him.

  “That’s probably a bit too simplistic,” he said. “But it is true that development costs at Old World Wisconsin exceeded original estimates. It’s also true that Old World’s annual operating costs exceed the budget for the society’s five other historic sites combined.”

  A low collective grumble rolled through the room.

  “The state historical society is governed by a board of curators,” Loren continued. “At the present time there are thirty-six curators serving on the board. Only one of them comes from southwest Wisconsin, even though half of the state’s historic sites are in southwest Wisconsin.”

  More unhappy rumbles.

  “What we must remember,” Loren said, “is that the State Historical Society of Wisconsin is both a state agency and a membership organization. Members have power. Members must speak up.” He took his seat again. Chloe had to admire his probably rehearsed remarks. Fire up the crowd, then place much of the power squarely on their shoulders.

  A woman sitting near the front waved her hand. “My family donated some valuable heirlooms to Pendarvis when it opened a decade ago,” she said. “If the state is going to close Pendarvis, I want to get them back before they go to Old World Wisconsin. How can I do that?”

  Oh, geez, Chloe thought. This could get very ugly, very fast.

  “Claudia?” Winter stepped back from the podium with an It’s all yours gesture.

  “I’ll be back,” Claudia whispered to her daughter, then rose and made her way forward. “As many of you know, I’m the Pendarvis curator. At this time I don’t have any reason to think that our artifacts are going anywhere.”

  Chloe felt a warm presence at her shoulder—Holly. Astonishingly, she slid onto Chloe’s lap. She was heavy and warm, and her hair smelled of shampoo. Chloe felt something in her heart hitch, as if a bow had just been tightened.

  “Anyone with a specific concern should call the site,” Claudia was saying. “I’ll be happy to discuss the situation with you.”

  “I’d like to say something,” someone called.

  Oh, this oughta be good, Chloe thought, recognizing the voice.

  “I’m Dr. Yvonne Miller, Ph.D.,” Miller said to the crowd, before turning back to Claudia. “I’d just like to point out that you may have brought this situation upon yourselves. Research and interpretation at Pendarvis are derisory.”

  Stunned silence settled on the room. Claudia’s mouth opened, but no words emerged. Chloe narrowed her eyes at Yvonne. What a witch, she thought. Witch with a B.

  Tamsin raised her hand and spoke directly to Yvonne. “My dear, that’s both unkind and inaccurate. You are of course entitled to your opinion, but the rest of us are here because we’re proud of the wonderful work done at Pendarvis.”

  “I agree,” Winter said quickly, before Miller could respond. “Let’s open the floor to anyone with a positive suggestion for action.”

  Claudia returned to the table, and Holly slid from Chloe’s lap and snuggled next to her mother. Over the girl’s head, Claudia and Chloe exchanged an incredulous look: Can you believe Miller actually said what she said?

  Two hours later, a pad on the large easel by the podium was covered with suggestions. “We’ve done good work tonight,” Winter said. “Let me summarize the main points. We’re forming a support group called Protect and Preserve Pendarvis. We’re appealing to our political representatives to demand increased funding for Pendarvis. We’re inviting leaders from the historical society to come and explain their vision for the future of Pendarvis. And we’re going to collaborate with the other southwestern historic sites to increase regional tourism.” She stepped back, studying her own scrawls. “Did I miss any-thing?”

  For a moment it appeared that nobody thought Winter had missed anything.

  “I am impressed,” Chloe whispered to Adam. “I expected angry rants, but instead the community is coming together to get the job done.”

  Then Gerald slowly rose to his feet. “I believe we should get ownership of Pendarvis back from the state.”

  Hoo-boy, Chloe thought.

  “The state obviously doesn’t really want it,” Gerald pressed. “As far as I can tell, the state considers Old World Wisconsin the only site worth investing in.” He leveled a baleful stare at Chloe. Heads turned as others looked to see who he was glaring at. Chloe forced herself to refrain from sliding down in her chair like a guilty child.

  “What would happen if the state was willing to give it up?” somebody asked.

  Gerald shrugged, clearly unconcerned about the finer points of his plan. “The town can manage the site. Or the Mineral Point Historical Society.” He sat down again.

  “The Mineral Point Historical Society already has its hands full running Orchard Lawn,” another man called from the back of the room.

  Claudia leaned close to Chloe and murmured, “Orchard Lawn is a gorgeous nineteenth-century Italianate mansion.”

  Chloe nodded. Managing one historic building was plenty for most local historical societies.

  The sound level rose as people discussed the proposal. Finally Winter grabbed a knife and tapped it against her water glass. Other people took it up until conversation died.

  “Maybe the thing to do is raise money for a special fund,” she said. “The idea would be that if the State Historical Society of Wisconsin announces that they are definitely closing Pendarvis, we’ll try to buy them out. If you would like to explore that further, Gerald, and learn what would be involved, you can present your findings at our next meeting. Thanks for coming, everyone. I’ve got a clipboard up here with a signup sheet for anyone who wants to get more involved.”

  Chloe fished a bill from her wallet and laid it by her plate to cover her sandwich and the ice cream. “I’d say that was a productive meeting.”

  Adam helped his grandmother shrug into her sweater. “Once Winter gets her teeth into a problem,” he said, “she doesn’t let go.”

  “This will turn out well. You wait and see,” Tamsin added. “This town cherishes its history.”

  Chloe concluded that Tamsin was right. Winter was engulfed with supporters.

  But Dr. Yvonne Miller, Ph.D., sailed from the room with a serene expression on her face. Chloe frowned after her. What was up with that woman?

  Then she became aware of Gerald. He stood leaning against one wall, arms folded, glowering at Chloe.

  Chloe raised her eyebrows: Yes, I do see you. Then she turned her back with a nonchalance she didn’t quite feel.

  She understood completely why the idea of closure was extremely upsetting to a devoted Pendarvis interpreter. She just wished that Gerald didn’t seem to hold her personally responsible.

  Seven

  Adam headed back to Eagle at first light the next morning. “I’m glad you’re here,” he told Chloe quietly when, yawning, she said goodbye. “It’s good for Grandma to have company this week.”

  Chloe walked to Pendarvis early. She’d had a restless night in Tamsin’s guest bedroom, her mind bouncing from producing images of an open-m
outhed skull to replaying Dr. Yvonne Miller’s caustic comments. It had rained in the night, but the clouds had moved on. A fortifying walk in the woods on Dark Hill, across the road from Pendarvis, seemed like a good plan.

  She crossed Shake Rag Street and found a path leading up the hill. Walking where the miners walked, she thought. It was sobering. Those Cornish men had tunneled into the bowels of the earth—lonely and scary work, to her mind. Was it truly in their genes, or did each young man have to make peace with years spent laboring inside the dark earth? Chloe had done some caving in West Virginia. Long, wet belly crawls had provided bragging rights after the fact, but also pushed her to the edge of her comfort zone. She only went with experienced cavers. No way would she ever venture underground—under crushing eons of rock—alone.

  But this was not a morning for melancholy, she decided. Goldenrod and purple asters grew in clumps among the bur oaks. A blue jay scolded, and a warbler’s more melodic song filled the morning. Then a faint, unfamiliar birdcall drifted down the slope. She froze, straining to hear it again. She was pretty good at identifying birds by sound alone, but this call was new. It almost sounded like a crying child.

  The fine hairs on the back of her neck quivered. Minutes ticked by as she waited for the sound to repeat itself, but she heard only the breeze stirring the leaves overhead.

  Finally she began climbing again. The name “Dark Hill” was messing with her. She didn’t know every Wisconsin bird’s call, and the sound had been barely audible. Sometimes she really was way too suggestible. If she was going to imagine hearing anything on this slope, it would most likely be echoes of the men who’d labored so hard—