by Mary Daheim
It required three trips to bring the groceries into the house. We were putting them away when Jackie finally responded to my latest remarks.
“It’s terrible.” she declared, unceremoniously dumping vegetables every which way into the refrigerator. “If Jimmy Malone murdered his first wife, he also murdered his unborn child. What a brute he must have been!” She shuddered as I reopened the fridge and pulled out the crisper drawer.
“Vegetables in here, Jackie,” I said firmly. “Any meat you’re not going to freeze goes in the other drawer, underneath. Yes, it makes a difference.”
“It sure does,” Jackie agreed with fervor. “It’s one thing to kill your wife, it’s something else to kill a helpless baby.”
“No, I meant the drawers in the—”
“How did Claudia Cameron talk about her father? Did she mention abuse? I’ll bet he beat them. Minnie, too.”
Jackie’s haphazard approach to food storage had momentarily distracted me. Carefully placing com, onions, and carrots in the crisper, I tried to address her assessment of Jimmy Malone. But it wasn’t Jackie’s heated statement that had tugged at some vague thread in my brain. It was someone else, speaking of the past …
I shook myself. “Damn, I just caught a snatch of an odd remark, but I don’t remember who said it. Or what it was.”
Jackie was on her hands and knees, putting canned goods in a cupboard. “About Jimmy the Jerk?” Her voice was a trifle muffled.
“Yes. Well, maybe.” I placed a loaf of whole wheat in the wooden breadbox. “As I said, I don’t remember. But Claudia didn’t mention that her father was violent. He drank, though.”
Jackie stood up. “You see? That’s the usual scenario. The husband drinks, then beats up his wife. The kids, too. But in those days nobody talked about it. Claudia Cameron is an old lady, she wouldn’t dream of bringing her abused childhood out into the open.”
Jackie had a valid point. “You might be right,” I allowed, dividing a five-pound hamburger chub into portions for two. “Yet Claudia spoke of her father only with fondness. On the other hand, there were serious problems with Walter. He grew up to become the Root Cellar Rapist.” The allusion to sex—if one could term it so, as opposed to violence—made me think of Olive Rowley. I recounted my discovery with Tessie Roo. Jackie burst out laughing.
“Olive was a slut! Wow! Wait until Paul hears this one!”
“It’s pretty tragic,” I said mildly, wrapping hunks of hamburger in plastic. “It killed her. You know,” I continued, putting the parcels into the freezer section of the refrigerator, “Olive must have had a history of promiscuity. She wasn’t in Port Angeles long enough to have contracted syphilis and die of it. I’d guess that she was misbehaving back in Michigan, probably while Cornelius was out here establishing his claim to fame.”
Jackie was still laughing. “Olive had one of her own, if you ask me. Oh, my!” Jackie wiped at her eyes.
My sense of humor is usually fairly acute. Yet I was having a problem matching my reaction to Jackie’s. Nymphomania knows no time or place. How wretched it must have been for a nineteenth-century Victorian married woman to find herself deprived of her husband and yet trapped by her own rampant sexual desires. Clinically, I knew next to nothing about the social problem. I considered my own desires relatively normal, though I had lived a celibate life for stretches as long as five years at a time. My brother, Ben, claimed that celibacy was never as difficult a problem for him as obedience. As a priest he found it far easier to resist the temptations of seductive female parishioners than to knuckle under to a lamebrained superior. “Asshole priests,” Ben had once told me, “are a hell of a lot harder to cope with than unhappily married women who want to be counseled by going to bed.” Thus, I found myself inadequate when it came to judging Olive Rowley.
At last Jackie had her mirth under control. “I don’t see where Olive’s case of the clap helps us solve the mystery, though. I’m still voting for Jimmy killing Carrie, baby and all.”
My nod was unenthusiastic. “You’re probably right. It’s all there: motive, opportunity, the whole bit. The reason I was curious about Olive was because I thought her character might provide a clue to her children’s personalities. Now we discover that Olive suffered from some sort of aberration. I don’t know how, but maybe it explains her grandson, Walter.” I heard the doubtful note in my voice.
As ever, Jackie’s mood swing was swift. She dashed across the kitchen and embraced me. “Oh, Emma, I hate to see you leave! This has been such fun! I can’t wait to tell Mom about it!”
I hugged Jackie in return. “I’ll write her a long letter as soon as I get home.” Or, I thought to myself, as soon as I get my personal and professional lives straightened out.
Jackie squeezed me tight, then jumped back. “A souvenir! You’ve got to have something to remind you of your stay here!” She raced out of the kitchen and headed for the stairs.
I glanced at my watch; it was almost eleven. Dutifully, I followed her to the second floor. But she didn’t stop there. She was headed for the finished attic.
I was huffing a bit when we reached the storage area. By now I knew it well. Jackie delved into the big trunk where we’d already found some of our treasures. She brought out a small velvet-covered jewel case I hadn’t seen before.
“This was Lena’s, I think,” she said, prying the case open. “No flashy stuff, though I found a nice little gold circle pin I wear sometimes. Paul said it was made out of nuggets somebody brought back from the Yukon.”
Jackie sorted through some modest brooches, a few gold and silver chains, and several pairs of men’s cuff links. “Drat!” she exclaimed, wrinkling her nose. “There isn’t much here that you’d really like. I guess the pin was it. You don’t have pierced ears, do you?”
“No, I don’t. I never saw the need to put any extra holes in my head.”
Jackie held up a pair of small pearl earrings with gold posts. “You could convert them, I suppose,” she said dubiously.
I pointed to what looked like a silver watch on a slim chain. “That’s kind of nice even if it probably doesn’t work.”
Jackie picked up the round silver object and clicked it open. It wasn’t a watch; it was a locket. The black hair lay soft and limp inside. We both stared.
“It’s engraved,” Jackie said, her voice rising with excitement.
She was right. The beautifully etched script read: SANFORD MELCHER, ON THE OCCASION OF HIS TWENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY, JUNE 17, 1904.
Jackie raced to the stairs. I followed, knowing that her brain was running on the same current as mine. In the den she scrambled among the debris of our previous research. The other locket was found in the plastic basin Paul and Mike had used for their most recent finds in the basement dirt.
Carefully, we studied the two locks of hair. The color and texture were identical even under the magnifying glass. There was little doubt that they had come from the same head. My gaze locked with Jackie’s.
“Sanford?” she said in a breathless voice. “Sanford?”
I sat down on the small sofa. This latest discovery required some revised thinking. “It must be. The one we just found probably belonged to his mother. Didn’t you say that most of the items in that jewel case belonged to Lena?”
Jackie had sunk onto the big hassock. “To Lena and Eddie. The cuff links were his. There was a watch, too. Paul is putting it on a chain so I can wear it as a a pendant. It’s for my birthday, but he doesn’t know I know it.” She smiled like a pixie.
Absently, I smiled back. “If his mother had one of the lockets, you’d think his wife would have the other. But we know Rose isn’t the body.” A sudden, jarring thought struck my mind. I hated to give it voice. After all, Rose was Paul’s grandmother.
Jackie, however, was still working on my wavelength. “Rose! Oh, Emma, what if the locket in the basement belonged not to the victim but to the killer? It could have fallen off in a tussle or something!”
The theory was
credible. In 1908 Rose Felder was engaged to Sanford Melcher. The formal announcement had come late in the year, but according to the letter from Lena to Cornelius, there had been an understanding between the couple for some time. My knowledge of early twentieth-century courtship etiquette was sketchy, but I assumed that a lock of hair would not be a risqué gift for two people who were planning on marriage.
“But why?” I murmured, having been silent for at least a full minute. “What motive would Rose have for killing Carrie?”
“Money?” Jackie offered.
“We’ve been through that one,” I replied, still fingering the silver locket. “The only person who benefited from Carrie’s death in terms of money was Jimmy Malone and the children.”
“Sex,” Jackie said promptly. “We talked about the men being gay but not the women. What if Rose and Carrie were lesbians? Or if one of them was but the other wasn’t?”
Again I was forced to contemplate an era of repression. How had homosexual women expressed themselves in a society that wouldn’t admit any deviation from the so-called norm? A new scenario began to unfold in my brain.
“Rose wasn’t happy in her marriage,” I mused aloud. “Before that Sanford was carrying on with Minnie Burke. The match may have been proposed by Rose’s parents in collusion with Cornelius and Lena. Rose really didn’t want to marry Sanford, but she had no choice. Let’s suppose that the object of her affections was Carrie. Carrie doesn’t reciprocate and plans to leave town with her husband and children. That decision drives Rose over the edge—”
“And she does just that to Carrie!” Jackie exclaimed, rocking back and forth on the footstool. “By pushing her down into the unfinished basement! Emma, I think we’ve finally found the solution!”
Since this was approximately the fourth time Jackie had made such a pronouncement, I couldn’t help but look askance. “Let’s call it a hypothesis.” Seeing Jackie’s face fall, I hurried to add a note of reassurance. “It’s a good one, though. The real problem is that we don’t have any proof. We probably never will. All we can do is come up with every conceivable possibility and try to make one of them fit the crime.”
Jackie was pouting a bit. “I like this one the best so far. How else do you explain the lock of Sanford’s hair?”
I shrugged. “Rose might have lost it much later. Don’t forget the other items that Paul and Mike found in the dirt. Some of them were left there fifty years after the murder.”
Now it was Jackie who grew silent. “Lena,” she said in a whisper. “Why couldn’t Lena have two lockets with her son’s hair?”
“Lena? What’s her motive for killing her sister-in-law? We couldn’t come up with one earlier when we speculated about the cross.”
Jackie bounded up from the footstool. “The same as for Rose. Let’s face it, Emma, Lena looks more like a lesbian. She was into all that women’s stuff.”
My expression was wry. “I don’t think you can judge by looks alone. Or politics.”
But Jackie wasn’t giving in. “Don’t be so broad-minded. Lena wore very masculine clothes. She didn’t do anything to make herself attractive. She smashed up saloons and emptied beer kegs into the harbor. She only married Eddie to have a home for herself and Sanford.” Swooping down on the pile of Tessie Roo’s photocopies, Jackie riffled through the pages until she found the one with Lena’s speech. “Look! She says as much herself. Here, she’s talking about meeting Eddie in Seattle. ‘His need of me was far greater than mine for him, which is as it should be when it comes to the married state.’ Lena used Eddie. No wonder he invented a chair-lift that spun him off into oblivion! He was probably trying to commit suicide in a really tricky way!”
Rising from the sofa, I had to laugh. “It was tricky, all right. Frankly, I’m still wondering about that cross. Why didn’t Lena wear it in her later years? Why wasn’t it on a chain? There are a couple of gold chains in that jewel case with nothing on them. That and the missing wedding ring—both bedevil me.”
Neither seemed to perturb Jackie. “The cross fell off, the wedding ring is there somewhere. We just haven’t found it. Think of all the stuff we didn’t come across, like Lena’s Bible.”
Over the years the majority of family belongings had no doubt been thrown or given away. That was the way of a transient world. Most of what I had left from my parents were Christmas decorations and a few pieces of furniture. The rest was scattered, from cousins in Kansas to the St. Vincent de Paul.
“We’re banging our heads against a brick wall,” I said suddenly. “Jackie, it’s almost eleven-thirty. I’ll put my bag in your car, and we’ll head for Dusty’s.”
The crestfallen expression on Jackie’s face was alleviated by the ringing of the front doorbell. We both went out into the entry hall. While Jackie greeted her visitor, I paused by the fireplace. The recessed seats on both sides were covered with worn leather. I lifted the one on the right and discovered that this was where the firewood had been hauled up to the main floor. The crank turned with great difficulty. It was obviously rusty from disuse. I didn’t have the strength or the inclination to bring the wood basket up from the basement. Still, Eddie Rowley’s contraption gave me the seed of an idea.
Mike Randall was in the entry hall looking dejected. He hurried toward me with an outstretched hand.
“You’re really leaving? I was sure you’d stay for the weekend.”
Firmly, I shook his hand. “Duty calls,” I said solemnly. “Jackie and I were just about to head for Dusty’s.”
“I’ll take you,” Mike volunteered. He hadn’t yet let go of my hand. “My last class on Friday is at ten. Why don’t we grab a quick lunch? The ferries shuttle back and forth during the summer. If you miss one, you won’t have to wait long for the next.”
I could hardly tell Mike—or Jackie—that I was picking up Leo Walsh. “Thanks, Mike, but I promised my staff I’d be in before the workday is over.” I gave him my kindest smile and hoped he’d release me.
He didn’t. He stood there, clinging to my fingers and staring into my face. “I can’t believe you’re going off without an answer to our little mystery. I thought you were considering a story about it.” His blue eyes were dark with disappointment.
I felt a twinge of guilt, though I had no idea why. “Maybe the story is that there is no answer,” I said. “Sometimes people like to read about things they can speculate on and create their own solutions. Provocative journalism, you might call it.”
The phone was calling Jackie, who dashed off to answer it in the kitchen. Mike was nodding, his sad expression replaced by one of understanding.
“I admire your dedication,” Mike said. “You have to forgive me—and Jackie and Paul—if we haven’t been entirely supportive of your involvement with the newspaper. I’d be awfully pleased if you’d send me a copy of your paper. I’ve been over Stevens Pass dozens of times, but I’ve never stopped in Alpine.”
“It’s off the road a bit.” I realized that my smile was becoming fixed. “You have to go out of your way.” Frozen was more like it. “Most people are going somewhere else. They whiz right by.” Stuck in place. Plastered on. I felt like a cartoon character.
Mike finally let go so that he could write down his address for me. I was slipping it into my handbag when Jackie brought me the phone.
“It’s another man,” she hissed, her hand over the receiver. “This one sounds like he’s on something.”
Startled, I took the cordless phone from Jackie. The voice that assaulted my ear was at once strange and yet familiar. It was Ed Bronsky and he was bubbling with excitement. Overwhelmed, I sat down on the padded seat next to the fireplace.
Ed wasn’t merely humming; Ed was singing. I could hardly believe my ears. It was no wonder that the seedlings I’d been nurturing in my brain suddenly suffered from blight. I knew it would take a conjurer to resurrect them.
I should have realized that the conjurer was already preparing to wave the magic wand.
Chapter Sixteen
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“ ‘CALIFORNIA, HERE WE come, right back where we …’ ”
I didn’t interrupt. Ed’s off-key serenade ran its course, climaxing with a hearty chuckle. “I got your phone number in Port Angeles from Vida, who got it from Sheriff Dodge,” he explained. “I know you’re coming back today, but Shirley and the kids and I are heading for the airport in an hour. I thought I should at least say something before we took off.”
“For where?” I asked, a trifle dully.
“Disneyland, Acapulco, wherever our fancy leads us. We’ve got over a month before we have to get the kids back in school. We decided to make the most of it.”
The exuberance in Ed’s voice was so unusual that I had to rub my forehead to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. “That’s great, Ed. Congratulations on your inheritance.”
“Hey, you could have knocked me over with a feather! I had no idea Aunt Hilda had so much money. We haven’t seen her in ten years, since the family reunion in Fargo, North Dakota!” Ed’s voice was bubbling over into the phone. I rubbed my head some more. “She never married, fought with all of her brothers and sisters except my dad, couldn’t stand any of his kids except me! Do you know why?”
“Why—what?” I tried to come out of my daze.
“Why she liked me.” Though still jovial, Ed’s tone held a note of reproach. “It was because of my attitude. I was always the family optimist. Aunt Hilda called me her Sunshine Boy!”
I’d never met any of Ed’s relatives, but I could only imagine what the rest of them must be like. No, I actually couldn’t. For one thing, it would be impossible to see them through the heavy pall of gloom. I suspected that they had chosen Fargo as their reunion site because tornadoes had been predicted. Or maybe a cloud of locusts.