The Alpine Escape

by Mary Daheim

  Jackie was absorbed in the Simone Rowley article. A two-column photo showed Mrs. Rowley in a box-pleated bolero jacket and long skirt, tailored shirtwaist, and a straw hat with flowers. She balanced gracefully on a parasol. A second smaller picture was primarily a headshot. A wave of dark hair fell seductively over her forehead. Simone wore a thick, pearl dog collar at her throat and showed off what I assumed to be a milky-white bosom and shoulders. All I could see of her dress were black ribbons and the top of a lace big-bertha collar.

  “She got all her clothes in Paris!” Jackie exclaimed in awe. “Dishes and upholstery fabric and lace, too! Wasn’t she a lucky woman?”

  Jackie handed me the bound volume, and I scanned the story. It was not about Simone Rowley but about the things that belonged to her. Simone’s sulky mouth seemed to mock me and the rest of the world; the faintly hooded eyes held sensual secrets. I didn’t think I’d want to do lunch with her, either.

  “Mrs. Rowley isn’t given to philosophizing,” the writer concluded. “Of her Paris origins, her move to this country, and the journey to its most distant comer, Mrs. Rowley says little, except to shrug and murmur, ‘C’est la vie.’ ”

  “Mme. Cliché,” I remarked, hoping that Simone had been beautiful but dumb. “We haven’t raked up any scandal so far.”

  Jackie slumped in the chair, her toes pointing at one another. She looked very young and quite ungainly. “It’s hopeless, isn’t it? How can we find answers to questions that are ninety years old? I feel like giving up.”

  “Courage,” I said, ready to try for clippings on Edmund Rowley. “This is like an in-depth reporting job. We have to keep digging. What we’ve found at this point is all surface material. Background, as it were.”

  Jackie looked dubious, then brightened. “Hey, it’s lunchtime. Let’s go to Drake’s for pizza. It’s a U-bake place. We can fix our own toppings.”

  I didn’t think I could bear the sight of another pizza. I was trying to figure out a tactful way to say so when a wiry little woman with tight blue curls hurried over to our table. Behind outsized spectacles her lively eyes almost matched her hair.

  “You were in the museum,” she said in a husky voice that didn’t go along with her sprightly style. “Researching the Rowleys, I heard. I’m Tessie Roo, genealogist.”

  We shook hands. Tessie’s collection of dangling chains jingled on her flat breast. “I was afraid I’d lost track of you,” she continued, her chipper smile in place. “The library turned out to be a good guess, eh?”

  My own guess was that Tessie originally hailed from Canada. Her pronunciation of out as oot gave her away. I couldn’t help but ask.

  Tessie’s blue eyes widened in surprise. “How clever of you! Such an ear! I was born in Nanaimo, but I married one of your Yanks. A very long time ago, I must say, and he’s been dead for ten years now, but I’ve stayed here. It’s home. And genealogy can be done anywhere. You must come back to the museum.”

  Jackie demurred, but I saw an opportunity to escape another pizza binge. Urging Jackie to follow her whim, I sent her along to Drake’s while I accompanied Tessie Roo back to the old courthouse. Along the way I explained Paul Melcher’s connection to the Rowleys but refrained from mentioning the skeleton. I might as well have saved my breath.

  “Yes, I heard about that this morning,” Tessie replied, no longer smiling but nodding gravely. “Such a shock for everyone! My son-in-law installs hot-water heaters. One of the electricians who found the skeleton told him about it.”

  I should have known. Port Angeles wasn’t as small as Alpine, but the grapevine seemed to be just as effective. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anyone speculate about the person’s identity?”

  Tessie shook her blue curls. “Not yet. There will be plenty of ideas, of course. Especially among the old folks. They do love to dwell on the macabre, eh?”

  Announcing to the woman behind the front desk that her search was a success, Tessie whisked me upstairs to the cubbyhole that served as her office next to the genealogy room. Tessie worked among chaos, it seemed, and the clutter reached from floor to ceiling. She cleared off a spare chair and we both sat down.

  “Newspaper clippings,” she mused, pulling out the drawer of a steel file cabinet. “They’re all well and good, but not as comprehensive as we are.” A stiff brown folder tied with string thudded onto the desk. Tessie opened a second drawer, produced a similar folder, and then a third and a fourth. Folding her hands in front of her, she gave me her infectious smile. “Computers are fine, too, but I prefer material I can feel. Old-fashioned files bring me closer to my subjects. Now. Where shall we begin?”

  I told her that we seemed to have covered Cornelius Rowley and his daughter-in-law Lena from birth to death. We hadn’t gotten to Edmund yet, who was the next logical choice.

  “Melcher, Edmund.” Tessie untied one of the folders. “Yes. Edmund, called Eddie, born 1870, died 1930. Partly crippled in the Spanish-American War. Tried to fun the Rowley Mill, but ran it into the ground.” The blue eyes twinkled. “Naughty of me, but it’s true. Eddie had no head for business. The mill went bankrupt in 1913. Eddie opened a haberdashery, but that lasted only three years. He invented things, most of which didn’t work very well. His attempt to put in a staircase lift came a cropper when the chair fell off and he flew out. Eddie broke his neck and died. Poor man, not a success, at least not when it came to commerce.”

  “Alas, poor Eddie,” I murmured. “Did he get involved in Lena’s politics?”

  Tessie talked as she flipped through the file. It was clear that she knew most of Eddie’s history by heart but was refreshing her memory. “He gave lip service to her. Or so I’ve gathered. Lena tended to rely more on her son, Sanford, who fancied himself a writer, particularly of poems. He did some speeches for his mother, though.”

  I reflected on Sanford Melcher’s limb of the family tree. Who was his father, the man who had been Paul Melcher’s great-grandfather? Where had Lena come from, other than a Revolutionary War family in Massachusetts? I posed these questions to Tessie Roo.

  “Excellent.” Tessie beamed as if she were a veteran teacher encouraging an inquiring young mind. Paging through sheets of foolscap, she pounced on the desired dates. “Lena Stillman, born 1860 to Ebenezer and Clara Stillman of Quincy, Massachusetts, which makes Lena ten years older than her second husband, Eddie Rowley. Ebenezer Stillman was a Congregational minister, as was his father before him. Great-grandfather Stillman fought in the Revolutionary War. On the wrong side, from my point of view.” Tessie winked. “Are you interested in going back any further?”

  I shook my head. Lena’s parents were as far as I needed to go. Besides, I didn’t know if I could take in two generations of nineteenth-century Congregational ministers on an empty stomach. “Was it her father who was the ardent abolitionist?”

  “That’s right.” Tessie’s eyes scanned the page, then she continued in a brisk voice: “A great friend and ally of Henry Ward Beecher. Much pounding of pulpits and beating of breasts. Lena married Ferris Melcher in 1878. He came from solid New England stock but had a yen to see the world. Their son, Sanford, was born in Philadelphia in 1879. The family kept moving, apparently seeking some elusive star that only Ferris glimpsed. He was tubercular and died on the way to Arizona in 1901.” Tessie moved on to another piece of paper while I tried to envision Paul’s great-grandfather coughing up his lungs somewhere in the Midwest. Tessie, however, wasted no sympathy on dead men who had never reached Port Angeles: “Ferris Melcher’s widow and their twenty-two-year-old son had to make a major choice. Here, read it for yourself. It’s an excerpt from one of Lena’s speeches.”

  I accepted the sheet of foolscap from Tessie. Yellowed newspaper articles were pasted on it, all relating to the suffragette movement. With a blunt fingernail, Tessie tapped the second paragraph of the upper-left-hand clipping. The quote read:

  As a helpless widow, I was faced with a grave decision. I could return to Massachusetts, where I could rely on the
grudging generosity of relatives and friends. Or, I could boldly strike out on my own and make a new life for myself. I chose the latter. Guided by Destiny, I came to Seattle, where I met my second husband. His need of me was far greater than mine for him, which is as it should be when it comes to the married state. But I do not regret for one moment moving to Port Angeles, for this is where my work lies. Never harbor regrets. Such useless emotions detract from an avowed purpose. Spare neither tears nor sentiment, which sap strength and energy. Rather, shake the dust of encumbering people and places from your feet and march bravely into the future. We are the women of the world, and we will not be denied.

  “Wow.” I smiled wryly. “Not exactly a soft touch. But you have to admire her spirit.”

  Tessie nodded, though without great enthusiasm. “Yes, and you have to put that speech into historical context. It was 1917, you’ll note. At that point Lena had been remarried for some fifteen years and deeply involved in her social causes. Most widows with a twenty-two-year-old son would have sat at home and let the young man support them. Lena doesn’t even mention his name.”

  I considered my own almost twenty-two-year-old son. Adam was about as likely to support me as a chicken was to sing “The Star-Spangled Banner” at an upcoming Mariners’ game. After almost four years of attending two different colleges, Adam was still drifting. Currently, his hazy focus was on archaeology, but only because he was spending part of the summer with my brother on an Anasazi dig in Arizona. Silently, I marveled at how independent we women had become in the last eighty years. We were now able to stand alone so that everybody else could lean on us until we collapsed.

  “What became of Sanford Melcher?” I asked, thrusting aside my mingled self-adulation and self-pity.

  Tessie dug into another file. “He married a local girl, Rose Felder, in 1909, and had five children, one of whom was your friend Paul’s father. Sanford and Rose lived with Lena and Edmund Rowley. Sanford never was much of a provider. A poet, as I mentioned.”

  It occurred to me that Sanford had inherited the pursuit of the elusive star from his father, Ferris Melcher. Neither of them had been ambitious. As for Sanford’s offspring, I recalled Paul’s account. Two of them, including Paul’s dad, were still around, but I’d forgotten who the other one was. “Is it the daughter who survived along with … Mr. Melcher?” I’d forgotten the name of Paul’s father.

  “Samuel Melcher, the youngest, born, 1927. He lives in Tacoma, but you know that.” Tessie consulted the family tree, which she had spread out on a big crate next to her chair. “The other surviving child is Sara Melcher Beales, born 1922. She’s seventy-one and lives in Seattle, with her husband, Verne. You want the address? It’s on Lake Washington Boulevard.”

  I knew the name and I recognized the street. Vernon Beales was a retired Boeing executive. Lake Washington Boulevard was home to many of Seattle’s well-to-do families. Dutifully I jotted the house address down in my notebook. It might not hurt for Paul to contract his aunt Sara.

  It was time to turn my attention to Carrie Rowley. Expecting another detailed account, I tried to settle back into my uncomfortable chair. But Tessie held up a sheet of paper and frowned.

  “Caroline Rowley Malone and her husband, James, moved away shortly after Cornelius Rowley died in 1908. The articles here are on her wedding and the birth announcements of her children. There’s nothing else.”

  I studied the glowing account of Carrie’s wedding in June 1903. The dress, the flowers, the music, and the attendants were all recorded in faithful, fulsome detail. The maid of honor and the bridesmaids wore crepe de chine trimmed with silk. The bride’s damask gown was edged with tiers of Belgian lace. She carried white roses, lilies of the valley, and baby’s breath. Her ten-foot veil and train swept down the newly laid carpet in the Methodist church. The groom, James Malone, seemed to be a footnote.

  “He was a logger, originally from Armagh,” Tessie explained. “You have to wonder, eh?”

  I gave her a quizzical look. “About … social standing?”

  Tessie nodded solemnly. “Oh, yes. Cornelius Rowley started out as a timber cruiser, but he was a self-made man. His success story was the sort that was much admired in the early part of the century. Carrie was twenty-six when she married. I daresay she was afraid of being a spinster. Perhaps she took potluck. James Malone was known as Jimmy, but he was also called Smooth-Bore.” A mischievous smile spread across Tessie’s face. “Note the birth announcements and you’ll see why.”

  There they were, the three little Malones, Julia, Walter, and Claudia, all born in less than four years. “My, my,” I responded. “I guess he kissed more than the Blamey Stone.”

  Tessie laughed richly. “So he did, eh? I’m sorry we have nothing else on that branch of the family.” Her merriment faded, replaced by professional chagrin.

  “That’s okay,” I assured her, though I couldn’t help but wonder if the reason for the dead end lay in the Melchers’ basement. “How about Simone, the second Mrs. Rowley?”

  Tessie’s chagrin deepened into outright annoyance. “That’s another void. As soon as Cornelius was in his grave, his young widow left town. All we have is an un-authenticated birth year of 1874 or maybe 1878, take your choice. She was supposedly born in Paris but went to New York in 1901. How she got out west isn’t explained. She married Cornelius Rowley in 1902 here in Port Angeles. Six years later she was gone.” With an irritated gesture, Tessie closed one of the files. “I detest vagueness in record keeping. It’s a genealogist’s curse.”

  I had to agree. It was a problem for journalists, too. Thanking Tessie profusely, I went off to find my hostess. It didn’t take long. Jackie was leaning against her car, clutching a parking ticket with one hand and her stomach with the other.

  “Oh, poopy! Those stupid cops! I was only twenty minutes over! I feel awful. We’d better go home.” Clumsily, Jackie got into the driver’s side of the Honda.

  Not having wolfed down a couple of pounds of pizza, I was suffering from hunger rather than excess. I was about to suggest stopping at a takeout place so I could grab a burger when Jackie doubled over the wheel. Unfortunately, she had braked in the middle of Laurel Street just before it turned onto Eighth, the main east-west artery through town. A van with Montana plates almost rear-ended us. The driver, who looked as if he’d just emerged from a bar in Butte, began to honk.

  “You drive,” Jackie said in a breathless voice. She all but fell over in the direction of the passenger’s seat.

  Frantically, I got out of the car and ran around to the other side, making apologetic hand motions at the furious Montanan. There were now a half-dozen other vehicles lined up behind the van.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked with alarm as I turned onto Eighth Street. Mercifully, the van kept going up Laurel.

  Jackie merely shook her head, the taffy-colored hair swinging listlessly. Getting my bearings, I crossed the bridge over the gully and turned on A Street. Two minutes later we were in the Melcher driveway. Helping Jackie out of the car, I half carried, half dragged her to the back door. She fumbled with the keys, then staggered through the kitchen and on into the den, where she collapsed on the small sofa.

  “It’s pains,” she finally said, still breathless. “Here.” She rested a trembling hand on her upper abdomen.

  “Like cramps?” I asked anxiously. My pregnancy with Adam had been relatively routine, but I knew the signs of a threatened miscarriage when I heard them.

  Jackie’s forehead furrowed. “Like … sort of, yes. I guess.” She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the back of the sofa.

  I volunteered to call Dr. Carlisle. It was noon straight up, and I wondered if the staff might be out to lunch. Luckily they weren’t. Even more luckily Dr. Carlisle was heading home to eat. The reassuringly calm voice of his nurse informed me that he would swing by the Melcher house on his way.

  By the time I got off the phone, Jackie had opened her eyes and was sitting up straight. Her first reaction was
to call Dr. Carlisle back and tell him not to bother. She was being a nuisance. My response was firm: Either she let the doctor come by or else I was taking her to Olympic Memorial Hospital. I also asked if I should phone Paul.

  “No!” Jackie exclaimed. “He’d worry. And make a big fuss and be a bigger nuisance than I am. Men are such goofs about babies. He’s too big a wienie to go to the childbirth classes.” She winced with pain and closed her eyes again.

  Dr. Norman Carlisle arrived five minutes later. His solid, homely presence instilled immediate confidence. Tactfully, I withdrew from the den and foraged in the refrigerator. The pickings were slim, but there was enough bacon left for a BLT. Or just a plain B, I decided, discovering there was neither lettuce nor tomato. The crisper drawer contained only half an onion, a couple of garlic cloves, and a wilted celery stalk.

  I was munching on the last of my meager sandwich when Dr. Carlisle came into the kitchen. To my relief, he was smiling. “Jackie tells me you’re an old family friend,” he said, eyeing the empty coffeemaker a bit wistfully. “Have you got any clout with the little mother?”

  Briefly, I explained my tenuous relationship to Jackie. “I can call Mavis and ask her to do the meddling. What’s the problem?”

  Leaning against the kitchen counter, Dr. Carlisle sighed. “We caution pregnant women about alcohol, smoking, drugs, even over-the-counter remedies, but we can’t seem to get nutrition into their heads. It’s the cravings and the morning sickness and all the hormonal changes, of course, but that’s where most of them go off the deep end. In Jackie’s case it’s all that blasted pizza. The tomato sauce, of course. It’s highly acidic. She’s got heartburn.”

  I slumped a bit on the kitchen stool. “I should have known. In fact, I wondered. But she seemed to be in such agony.”

  Dr. Carlisle shrugged. “She’s healthy as a horse. I don’t imagine she’s ever had heartburn before. It scared her. Try to steer her away from that pizza. I’ll talk to Paul about it, too.”