Mother Lode

  Earl reached his office, built up the fire in the old, dusty potbelly, and reached for his leftover coffee. He wondered if Jorie had recorded his feelings toward his mother in these diaries. With luck, he might find out if the lad had specific intentions toward her.

  He’d located no keys. Opening the diaries would be no problem, but somehow that seemed a greater breach than using a key. He started snapping the rubber band on his wrist, and took a sip of coffee. “Fly’s piss.” He tossed it in the spittoon.

  His wrist was beginning to sting. Well, no point procrastinating any longer. Scratching in his desk, he found an old compass. With its point he picked the clasp which gave easily enough. Now if he could unlock the contents. He leaned back in his old oak chair, its rusty spring echoing the one in his own spine.

  The first surprise was the diaries weren’t Jorie’s at all.

  They were Catherine’s. Found in the back of Jorie’s closet.

  Chapter 5

  Earl sat before the locked volumes with sweaty hands. What a violation, to read what was meant for no one except the one who’d penned them.

  He let his eyes pass over the yellowed pages, not ready to give meaning to the words. Where had she learned her penmanship? Ah, yes, in Scotland. Well, they had a different hand, all right. The flowery script would make deciphering the words slow going.

  Finally, he focused on the date of the first entry. She was still in high school then, back in Red Jacket. As was he.

  Stale cookies kept him going all night, and still he got only part-way through the first diary. He was up to the page where Jorie was about six.

  August 1, 1888

  Jorie, thank the Lord, is recovering from that dreadful assault on his life three weeks ago. The doctor says his ribs may have been cracked but there’s naught to do for it. He is up and playing, although still complaining that his bones hurt.

  Thomas still refuses to talk to me. He speaks only of those matters of necessity that involve the household. I have tried on several occasions to converse with him, but he will not have it. Once he looked up from his paper and said, ‘My God, woman, Calumet and Hecula have had three fires this year in their shafts, and lost thousands in copper production. The same could happen to us! Do you think I’ve nothing to think about but you and the boy?’

  In bed he turns his back to me. Sunday last I fixed him Christmas pudding even though it is nowhere near that time; I was trying to show some kindness, but he ate only one helping and would take none at the next meal.

  He ignores Jorie as well, who can’t understand why his papa shows no interest in him. Oh, Thomas will correct him — that he’ll do. But kind words are few and far between now.

  He is after visiting his other sons much of late. If it weren’t for my beloved Jorie, surely I would die.

  I don’t want to be ‘a greetin and roarin’ as my mother would say, but it is a lonely life I have. At only twenty-three I feel like an old widow.

  Assault on Jorie! What in the world was she talking about? What had precipitated Thomas’s anger?

  He didn’t know women put down all their feelings, like that. Just laid bare — things you wouldn’t even want yourself to know. He wondered if his wife wrote such things in her diary. “Gott in himmel,” he muttered. Catherine even laid out how she couldn’t get her husband to give her a poke. Holy Mackerel, Thomas, were you out of your mind?

  In his case, it was the other way around!

  Light from the pale white sun was beginning to work its way into the window, as Earl closed the book and locked both diaries in his desk. The fire had gone out hours ago, leaving him chilled. He pulled up his collar and headed for Mik Dougherty’s café.

  The leaves were swirling around his feet as fast as the thoughts in his head. Catherine’s entries had been sporadic and often lacking in context. Well, he couldn’t really fault her for that—she was only writing for herself. But it certainly made for confusion, raising more questions than it answered about that family.

  He ordered his usual breakfast, but had little appetite for it. Finishing off with his third cup of coffee and still with no sleep, he headed back to the office.

  A Mr. Olsen was waiting for him. Quite elderly, the gout in his legs forced him to take his seat with care. “I’m mostly retired now, but I still see a few clients.”

  “Clients?”

  “Law practice over in Dollar Bay.”

  Slowly the man unfolded a page from the newspaper. “I guess this is two weeks old now, but papers have a way of piling up on me. Just noticed last night this piece about the woman who died in the snowstorm. Name of Radcliff. Survivors include her son Jordan Radcliff.”

  “That’s right.”

  “This young man came to see me about a week before her death.”

  That got Earl’s attention.

  “He wanted to know the procedure for committing someone.”

  Earl reached for his rubber band.

  “Did he say who he wanted committed?”

  “His mother. He seemed very nervous at the time.”

  “What reason did he give for this action?”

  “He wouldn’t say.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I told him that before anything of the sort could happen there’d have to be a lunacy hearing. He’d need witnesses — a sworn statement from the woman’s doctor, and so on.”

  “Yes?”

  “He seemed discouraged. Paid me on the spot and left in a hurry.”

  Earl’s rubbed his wrist. He took Olsen’s statement and got his address.

  “We may need you later. Thank you very much for coming in.”

  The lawyer rose to his feet with visible pain and left. As Earl’s pondered the significance of this new information, his irate wife sailed in. Cuffing him lightly on the jaw, she cried out, “I should clobber you, I was that worried. Where were you last night?”

  “Cora.” He stared at her.

  Was he so consumed with the demise of Catherine he’d forgotten he had a wife at home?

  Earl couldn’t sleep that night wondering why Jorie would want to have his mother committed. Was he mentally unbalanced, as his mother had confided, or was he trying to get her out of the way for some dark reason of his own?

  Driven by the need to discover the truth, he was simultaneously repelled to think his greatest fears could possibly be true.

  The next morning he stopped by the News again. “I couldn’t find the rosary. Thought you might like to have this.” He handed Jorie the small amber orbs.

  “Thanks,” was all Jorie said, as he dropped the necklace in his pocket.

  It was going to take more than a string of beads to crack this boy.

  “I want to see you in my office when you finish here,” he told Jorie.

  Toby Wilson came by in the afternoon.

  “The stationer said you wanted to see me.”

  “Yes. You know Catherine Radcliff died.”

  “I do. Under suspicious circumstances, I understand.”

  “I need to know if young Radcliff got any inheritance, Toby. I know it’s privileged, but the boy is under suspicion for murder.”

  Wilson pursed his lips and rocked back and forth on his new fancy shoes.

  “No. To date he hasn’t gotten anything as far as I know. Mind you, he could have. But his mother didn’t see fit to open her purse strings.”

  Jorie sat opposite Earl with the desk between them.

  “You know a lawyer name of Olsen?”

  Jorie frowned. “I’m not sure. . . the name sounds familiar.”

  “He says you went to see him. Over in Dollar Bay.”

  Jorie shook his head slowly.

  Earl consulted his notes. “October third.”

  Jorie was silent, his face contorted in pain.

  They sat in silence for some time, the sheriff hoping Jorie would open up. Earl studied his face, studied the stacks of papers on his desk that needed to be filed or disposed of. Some of them had been there so lon
g they were gathering dust.

  Finally, he said, “I’ll be honest with you, lad. It looks like you took your mother out there to die.”

  “You think I—” Jorie clutched the edge of the desk. Tiny beads of perspiration burst onto his face.

  “I don’t know, Jorie. But it doesn’t look good, doesn’t look good at all.”

  Jorie leaned back and closed his eyes.

  “There’s too much about this situation that doesn’t set right, Jorie. I’m going to take you into custody ‘til you’re ready to do some explaining.”

  The lad went without struggle. Maybe a couple of days in the hoosegow would unlock his jaw, Earl mused. And he sure couldn’t afford to have his prime suspect up and leave town.

  The prosecuting attorney would have to submit the petition to the judge for a hearing. He hoped Boyce wouldn’t drill him on the particulars. He wasn’t at all sure the kid was guilty and he didn’t want this thing blown out of proportion to serve Buck Boyce’s political ambitions. Buck would be itching to bring this case to trial for the publicity it would bring him.

  The prosecutor was just leaving his office. “Can this wait ‘til tomorrow, Earl?”

  “I’ve already got him behind bars.”

  “All right. Give it here.”

  The next morning Earl got to work early to tackle the diaries. He read the part about the dispute between Thomas and Catherine over Jorie’s discipline. Thomas had been so hard on the boy that Catherine had threatened to take Jorie and leave. And all the time he’d thought their family life was harmonious.

  About ten o’clock he’d had enough. He locked the office and headed to Mik’s for breakfast.

  He caught the headlines at the newspaper stand. The paper Jorie worked for made no mention of the arrest, but their competitor, The Mining Gazette reported, “Copper Country Evening News Reporter Held For Matricide!”

  Earl strode down Shelden Street with a faster step than usual. He reached Dougherty’s just as three of the locals were leaving.

  “Whatcha got on that murder case, Sheriff?”

  “Got him bagged, I hope. Told the wife not to leave the house, just in case,” Flem Crocker declared.

  “When I know something, the paper will know. And then somebody can read it to you.”

  “What’s gotten into you, Foster? Ain’t your missus given you any?”

  “Shut your foul mouth, Flem, or I’ll throw you in the poky with him."

  “Don’t get all wrathy, sheriff. We didn’t mean nothin’.”

  The men shuffled off, but not before Flem spat his wad within an inch of Earl’s boot.

  He found his customary seat occupied, and chose another as far away from anyone as he could.

  When Mik brought him his usual porridge and coffee, Earl countered his “Good morning, Sheriff,” with, “I didn’t ask for that. I want three eggs, a rasher of bacon and a scone.”

  Mik looked at him like he was listening to one of the Finns speaking his native tongue, but finally managed, “Yes, sir, we’ll get that right up.”

  That afternoon the judge summoned Earl. He was holding the petition Buck Boyce had passed on to him.

  “You think Jorie Radcliff murdered his mother?”

  “It’s not for me to say, George. But I think there’s sufficient reason to have a hearing. You see, he—”

  “Don’t have time to hear it now, Earl.” George McKinney clipped the end of his cigar. “That’s what hearings are for.”

  Earl took that for agreement, but bristled that George had once again found reason to school him in his own line of work.

  He was never sure when his audience with the judge was over. “If that’s settled, then, I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  “Bring money.” George McKinney grinned as he held the light to his cigar.

  Earl left, scratching his elbow. His psoriasis was back, ever since this whole debacle started. He didn’t look forward to reading more of the diaries, and he didn’t relish his next task either—going down to the jailhouse.

  Jorie awoke, sat up abruptly on the edge of his cot. There was that dream again, of walking through the blizzard with his mother, drowning in the snow. Why were they out in that storm? He knew at least part of the dream was true. He had taken his mother for a ride, and they had walked through the snow in the woods. Yes, he’d reported all that to Mr. Foster.

  People were saying he’d murdered his mother! Why would he do that? He loved her! They’d had arguments—mostly about where he was going to college. She wanted him to stay at home and go to the mining college in Houghton; he wanted to go the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. And he would, too, as soon as he got the money his father had promised.

  Mr. Foster said he’d gone to see a lawyer named Olsen. Yes, he remembered that now. But why? There was more, there had to be. What recesses of his mind were holding this information? What happened that day in the woods? He willed himself to remember. Yes, some of the fog was clearing. He’d found a man on the road, and together they went back into the woods with the lantern, looking for her. Yes, he had tried to find her, he knew he had!

  Mostly housing disorderly drunks from both sides of the lake, the jail hadn’t been designed with murderers in mind. Probably it wouldn’t be too hard to escape, Earl mused.

  It was dusk when he descended into the bowels of the courthouse. Fetid odors came to him as he took the keys off the peg on the wall— a combination of urine and cleaning solution. The formula varied from one day to the next. Sometimes it was the smell of feces that dominated. Or vomit.

  He found Jorie’s cell door open, the boy lying on his cot.

  “O’Brien, where the hell are you?” he yelled down the hall.

  The jail keeper, wounded forty years ago in the civil war, loomed out of the darkness and limped toward the cell.

  “Just dumpin’ the prisoner’s chamber pot, sir.”

  “The door of his cell is open!”

  “I was only gone a minute. He was sleepin’.”

  “Never leave an occupied cell unlocked.”

  “No, sir.”

  Jorie sat up when Earl entered.

  “You weren’t asleep?”

  “No, Mr. Foster.”

  “Did you know you could have run right out of here?”

  “How far would I get?”

  Earl straddled the only chair, resting his arms on its back. “Were you thinking of leaving here?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What were you thinking about?”

  Jorie’s blue eyes pierced Earl’s. “Just now? I was watching that spider in the corner there.”

  The sheriff looked around at the dirty cell. “I could have O’Brien clean this place up for you.”

  Earl watched a cockroach scuttle across the dark edge of the cell, and disappear into a crack in the wall. The interior partitions of the cells had been plastered and painted light green a long time ago. But years of abuse from enraged and drunken prisoners had left the surface marred and broken, exposing the skeleton of narrow wooden slats of lath. Battles had been lost, nightmares had triumphed here. The ghosts of former inmates marched across Earl’s mind.

  “You’ve had some time to think things over, lad. I hope your mind’s cleared up.”

  Earl picked at a sore, waiting for the young man to respond.

  Jorie frowned. “How’s my little sister?”

  “Mrs. O’Laerty is taking fine care of her. Look, I don’t like this situation any better than you do. I’ll be honest with you. Now if this is true, Jorie, and you cooperate with us, I’ll try to get the sentence reduced.” He waited.

  Jorie looked at the sheriff, then gazed out the window at the lightly falling snow. Finally, he shifted on the cot. “You said I went to see a lawyer.”

  “Mr. Olsen over at Dollar Bay.”

  “Did he say why?”

  Earl searched the boy’s face. Didn’t he know? “He said you wanted to commit your mother.”

  “Commit her?”


  “That’s right.”

  Earl watched the color creep up the side of the boy’s neck. He leaned forward. “The hearing’s coming up soon. Are you ready to tell me what happened?”

  PART II