by Mary Daheim
Swiftly, I glanced at Jackie. She was looking startled but game. “Is there somewhere we can sit down?” I inquired of Clara Haines.
The visitors’ lounge was just around the comer at the end of a short hall. At this time of day it was empty. We sat on turquoise Naugahyde chairs and noted the view of the strait. Clara reached into the pocket of her housecoat and pulled out her dentures.
“My lower plate,” she announced, then inserted it in her mouth. “It rubs my gum. I’ve got a sore spot right here.” She pointed to her wrinkled cheek.
It was well after five and I was growing anxious to leave the nursing home. The arrival of the food cart hadn’t improved the smell that clung to the atmosphere like a noxious fog. In theory my heart went out to these old folks; in practice I was antsy to get back to a world that included dinner in a restaurant with a view.
But Clara Haines wasn’t one to dwell on herself. Neither did she seem interested in who we were. Or maybe she had been lurking at the door long enough to know.
“I knew Minnie,” she said. “I’m not going to tell you how old I am, but when I was a girl, I lived down the street from the Rowleys and the Bullards. The house is gone, but we had berry vines all over the backyard and my brother and I used to sell them to the neighbors. Five cents a box. Blackberries, mostly, but some raspberries and boysenberries, too. Mrs. Rowley—the French wife—loved raspberries. It was Minnie, though, who bought them for her. That was because Minnie was the one out in the yard watching the children.” Clara Haines paused, adjusting her dentures.
“Minnie was a livewire, quick to laugh. She was a hard worker, too, especially for a little thing. You can imagine that with two Mrs. Rowleys and one Mrs. Malone, it wasn’t easy to satisfy the women of the house. Minnie had that Irish brogue, and sometimes my brother and I didn’t always understand her jokes. Teasing was more like it. We were sorry to see her go.”
A couple in their middle fifties escorted a large woman with sparse white hair into the lounge. They nodded, then sat in the farthest corner from us. I suspected that they had stopped by after work to call on Mother.
“Where did Minnie go?” Jackie asked, sounding a bit breathless.
“I don’t know,” Clara replied, frowning. “Flint Bullard was right about that part. After Mr. Rowley died, it seemed as if most of the family—including Minnie—went away. We hadn’t called on the neighbors after the berry season in August, but that fall my folks were hard up and my mother decided to sell some of her jam to make ends meet. We took a wagon filled with jars around town, but Mrs. Rowley’s maid slammed the door in our faces. That was Mrs. Edmund Rowley I’m speaking of. The other Mrs. Rowley was gone, so was Mrs. Malone, and Minnie, too. My brother and I didn’t bother to go back the next summer.”
The time frame was shrinking. Cornelius Rowley had died in May; Clara had peddled her berries in August; the Bullard house burned in September; the departing family members were gone by December when the Bullards returned.
“Do you remember exactly when you were selling the jam?” I asked.
“Not exactly.” Clara wiggled her jaw. “It must have been in late October because the leaves were on the ground. My brother was younger and I recall having to speak to him about rolling around in the piles that had been raked up. We didn’t have many spare clothes if he ruined what he was wearing.”
I tried to guess Clara Haines’s age. She was remarkably unlined, especially for such a thin woman. I doubted that she was five feet tall. Her shoulders were faintly stooped, and she had walked to the lounge with a pronounced limp. Still, her mind seemed as clear as her hazel eyes. If she had known Flint Bullard forever, she must be at least as old as he was. Even older since she’d implied as much. Clara had to be a hundred. I marveled at her well-being.
While I was marveling, Jackie was interrogating. “Was the second Mrs. Rowley a good wife? Were Carrie and Jimmy Malone a happy couple? What about Minnie? Did she have a boyfriend?”
“My, my!” Clara fanned herself with her hand. “One thing at a time, dear. I couldn’t tell you about Mrs. Cornelius Rowley. I don’t think my mother approved of her, though. But of course she was young, beautiful, and foreign. That made a difference in how she was accepted in those days. As for Carrie Rowley, I know she doted on that Irishman. Oh, yes, some people thought she married him out of desperation—afraid of being an old maid—but my impression is that she loved him quite madly.” Clara Haines stopped abruptly. Her hazel eyes were keen as she eyed us both in turn. “You must find me a loquacious old woman. I hope this is the sort of thing you’re interested in.”
“It’s perfect,” enthused Jackie. “It’s wonderful of you to remember so much! I suppose that happens when you’ve lived forever in a small town.”
“Oh, but I haven’t.” Clara came close to a smile but didn’t quite make it. Maybe she didn’t trust her teeth. “I spent forty years teaching astronomy at USC. I didn’t move back here until long after I retired. I won’t say when. Los Angeles became so difficult. Port Angeles is a better place for the elderly. They’re coming here in droves.”
There was no need to steer Clara back to the subject at hand. “Now Jimmy Malone was another matter. I think he was looking for the main chance. Or so my parents felt. An opportunist. To be fair, he seemed to treat Carrie well. He had to, I suppose, since she was the one with the money. And Jimmy was living under the scrutiny—not to mention thumb—of his in-laws.”
“I don’t get it,” Jackie said, wearing a very serious look on her face. “Why didn’t they move into a place of their own, especially after they started having children? I’d hate that, living with my relatives.”
Clara nodded with understanding. “How very true. There was talk that they were building a house, first on Pine Hill, then on the bluff overlooking the strait, and finally way out by Morse Creek. Nothing ever came of the plans and they left town. Perhaps it was just as well. I don’t think Carrie got along with her sister-in-law, Lena.”
“And Minnie?” Jackie urged. “Did she create any problems for Carrie and Jimmy?”
“Minnie?” Clara’s hazel eyes widened. “Are you suggesting that Minnie and Jimmy were romantically linked?” Clara paused briefly. Jackie gave a nod; I remained silent. “I understand why you might think so. They were both from Ireland, but so were a great many others at the time. Indeed, I have a vague sense that they may have courted early on. But once Carrie took a fancy to Jimmy, he wouldn’t have given Minnie the time of day. Besides, she had her sights set on someone else. Perhaps she was an opportunist, too. You can’t blame those emigrants. They came to this country to better themselves. Marriage was one way to do it.”
“Do you know who Minnie was after?” Jackie was so eager that she ran the words together.
“Oh, certainly,” Clara Haines replied blithely. “Sanford Melcher. My mother always wondered why it didn’t work out.”
Chapter Twelve
MY TRAVEL WARDROBE was limited. I hadn’t expected to eat anywhere fancier than a pancake house. For Downriggers I would have to make do with a cotton denim shirt and a pair of khaki cotton slacks. The only outerwear I’d brought along was a black gabardine battle jacket. Fortunately, I wasn’t out to make a fashion statement.
Dressing quickly, I had time to make a phone call. An idea had been brewing at the back of my mind ever since I’d left Oak Bay. I went downstairs very quietly, not wanting to alert Jackie and Paul. They were still in the master bedroom getting dressed. I was particularly concerned that Paul not know what I was about to do.
I took the cordless phone into the music parlor, where I’d have greater privacy should my hosts come down before I finished my call. It was after six, and I knew that Sheriff Milo Dodge was on night duty this week. I also knew that he was usually bored stiff. Criminal activity in Alpine comes to a virtual halt during the dinner hour. Even the speeders slow down as dusk descends over the mountains.
I had not confided in Milo about why I was taking my little trip. I couldn
’t, since he was part of the reason for it. Maybe I expected him to be thrilled to hear my voice. He wasn’t.
“Where the hell are you?” he asked in that laconic drawl I knew so well. “I was just going over to the Venison Inn to grab a steak.”
“I’m in Port Angeles researching a story,” I half lied. “I need a favor. You aren’t in the middle of a big drug bust or hauling in local Mafia dons, are you?”
“I’m in the middle of a crossword puzzle. What’s a four-letter word for sluggish?”
“M-i-l-o,” I responded. “Or it will be, if you don’t shut up and listen. I don’t have much time.”
I heard the sound of a newspaper being folded. “Okay, what is it?”
“I want you to check on criminal records for the following people.” I gave him the list of names I’d put together in my head. “All of these will be from a long time ago, maybe back seventy years or more. Can you do that from your database hookup?”
Milo groaned. “Sure, and then I can go find Crazy Eights Neffel’s invisible bear and serve him with a warrant. Damn it, Emma, you’re as crazy as he is. This’ll take all night.”
“So what else are you doing, Sheriff?” I actually lowered myself to uttering a throaty laugh.
It was lost on Milo. “Who knows? Maintaining law and order, I hope.” He sounded truculent. “I’m not sure I can pull records on a statewide basis that go back this far.”
“Try. Please?” I turned meek.
“I’ll see,” he grumbled. “Don’t count on it. If I do, you owe me two steaks and a fifth of Scotch.”
“Done. I promise. You want candlelight, too?”
“Is that how you plan to cook the steaks?”
“Never mind. I’ll barbecue. Afterward, I’ll help you with your crossword puzzle. ’Bye, Milo.” I disconnected the sheriff. Milo should have asked me for a five-letter word for evasion. It would have been d-o-d-g-e, in more ways than one.
* * *
Downriggers was located in a mall by the city pier and the Chamber of Commerce. The view was predictably spectacular and the menu was pleasantly varied. The specialties included steaks and seafood. I chose salmon, which I hoped was fresh—and not left over from the run before the killer whales arrived.
Mike Randall was wearing a tie, which surprised me. I wondered if he thought we were on a double date. He apologized again for missing our session at the nursing home. Jackie and I spent the cocktail round relating our interviews with Flint Bullard and Clara Haines.
Paul was taken by his grandfather’s alleged romance with Minnie Burke. “Just think, if he’d married her instead of Grandma Rose, I wouldn’t be here. That’s amazing when you think about the quirks of fate.”
“Well, you are here,” Jackie said, fondling her glass of mineral water, “and that’s not the point. Why didn’t Sanford marry Minnie? I think she left Port Angeles with a broken heart.”
“She mended it if she married Jimmy Malone,” I pointed out. “Remember, we’re getting all of this via hearsay. Clara Haines is a very sharp old lady, but she’s relying mostly on what her parents told her. And that was mainly neighborhood gossip.”
Jackie was perusing the menu for the third time. “I still think we’ve solved the mystery. Jimmy Malone loved Minnie, but he wanted Carrie’s money. Maybe Minnie flirted with Sanford to throw everybody off-guard. You know, a blind. I’m thinking about the halibut now.”
I was thinking about the view, or, rather, enjoying it. The Coho was making its last run of the day, just pulling into the nearby slip. One of the freighters I’d seen yesterday was still moored in the harbor. The other was anchored at the marine terminal to our left. In the opposite direction a group of bicyclists were getting ready to pedal off down the waterfront trail. The Hook jutted out across from us, sheltering a handful of pleasurecraft heading for the marina.
Upon our arrival, The Victoria Express had been making its six-thirty sailing. I’d thought about Leo Walsh and wondered if he was sitting in a bar somewhere, drowning his sorrows. Or maybe he’d gone off to a high bluff to jump and was just plain drowning. It was an unsettling idea. It occurred to me that I hadn’t mentioned Leo to Jackie. But why should I? We’d had plenty of other things to discuss.
“You’re drifting, Emma.” Jackie reached across the table and tugged at my denim sleeve. “What do you think about Lena and Minnie?”
I gave myself a good shake. “Lena and Minnie? As a couple? What?”
Jackie giggled. “No, as in Lena disapproving of Minnie. For Sanford. Hatchet Face wouldn’t have liked her son marrying a servant, would she?”
Mike came to my rescue. “Lena may have been a believer in equality and women’s rights, but given her era she would have been very class conscious in spite of herself. I have to agree with Jackie. Lena would have frowned on a relationship between Sanford and Minnie.”
Paul stroked the stem of his wineglass. “Let’s not gloss over anything. This Clara Haines said Jimmy and Minnie actually dated, right?”
“Courted,” Jackie quoted. “That’s what they called dating in the olden days, Lamb-love.”
“I know that, Sweets,” Paul replied patiently. “What I’m saying is that Minnie had a history with Jimmy. That’s why it’ll be interesting to find out what turns up in the King County marriage licenses.”
“A New York steak,” Jackie said. “That sounds good, with mushrooms and a green salad and a baked potato with butter and sour cream and bacon bits and chives.” She gave all three of us a defiant look but spoke again before we could object. “I’m thinking Jimmy wasn’t a bigamist. That golden wedding anniversary story was a fraud. I mean, Minnie and Jimmy got married after they left Port Angeles. But because they passed the first three kids—by Carrie—off as their own, they had to pretend they were married in 1903. So they just added five or six years on to the time they were really married to cover those kids’ birth dates. Besides, they got their presents sooner that way. In fact, they wouldn’t have gotten them at all if they’d waited for the real anniversary because they were both dead by then.” Jackie glanced back at the menu. “I could get the green salad that comes with shrimp. That sounds good, too.”
The waitress came to take our order. Jackie asked to go last; she still hadn’t made up her mind. Mike joined me in ordering salmon, and Paul requested the petit filet medium well. To my surprise, Jackie asked for the sautéed prawns. They hadn’t even been in the running up until then.
Mike traded his vodka martini in for a glass of Riesling; Paul went with a red instead of the white wine he’d been drinking; I decided to get wild and have another CC, water back; Jackie asked for Sprite.
“We’ve narrowed this down quite a bit,” I pointed out after the waitress had gone off with our requests. “The big change in the family status must have taken place between early September and late October of 1908. That’s about a five- or six-week period. I think it’s amazing that we’ve been able to zero in like that.”
“Absolutely.” Mike Randall smiled at me as if I’d won the Nobel Prize. “I realize there’s a certain amount of luck involved, but basically it’s a question of research and following leads. I’m astounded at how you can ask the right questions and get the necessary answers.”
“It’s what I get paid for,” I retorted, then felt a twinge of remorse. I smiled weakly at Mike. “You’re right about the luck. Finding all those old folks has been a real help. Of course people are living much longer these days.”
Now it was Paul who seemed to be off in his own little corner of the world. There were chickenlike marks on his cocktail napkin. Replacing his ballpoint pen in his pocket, he acknowledged the arrival of his red wine with an absent nod. “The timing is interesting, I guess, but I don’t see that it adds much to figuring things out. We still don’t know what happened to Simone.”
Mike sipped thoughtfully at his wine. “We don’t have any data on those bones yet.”
I’d forgotten about the spare parts. “Where are they?” I asked
.
“I gave them to the zoology teacher,” Mike said. “I assumed they were from a small animal. She’ll get back to me tonight or in the morning.”
Jackie was stuffing sourdough bread in her mouth. She swallowed hard and clapped her hands. “We need to go to the library again tomorrow. If we take that six weeks in 1908 and concentrate on the local newspapers, we might find more clues.” She looked at me. “Well? What time do they open?”
“Jackie,” I began, shaking my head, “if my Jag’s ready, I’ll be gone. I’ve got a big crisis facing me at work.”
Next to me, Mike leaned closer. “Really? That’s terrible news, Emma. Tell us about it. Maybe you can sort through your feelings by verbalizing them.”
I glommed on to my fresh Canadian Club. “I can tell you my feelings without any problem. I’m up a stump. My ad manager quit and half the town is ticked off because we screwed up. There’s a special edition due out next Wednesday and not enough to fill it, editorial or advertising. If anybody here has fourteen hundred column inches of ads or eight hundred inches of copy, I’ll walk out with a big grin.”
Mike gave me a confidential smile. “You see? Don’t you feel better? You’ve laid it all out.”
“No,” I responded, trying not to sound tart. “I didn’t. Carla did, and that’s part of the problem.” Noting Mike’s puzzlement, I took pity on him. “Look, it’s nothing I can talk out. I have to do it, and that’s impossible unless I’m on the scene. That’s why I have to head back to Alpine tomorrow.”
The hurt expression on Mike’s face made me feel like a world-class worm. He meant well, I knew that. But his buzzword comfort was driving me nuts. I had a terrible urge to rush to a pay phone and call my brother, Ben. Or Vida. I missed Vida, even when she was huffing and harrumphing at me. Vida at her worst was an improvement over most people at their best. But I’d never dare tell her so. She’d fix me with her gimlet eye and mutter something that would feature the word fool.