Time Is a River

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “What’s this about bones?” Mia asked.

  Nada and Phyllis leaned over the table, their eyes bright with excitement.

  “They found bones on Route Nine while they were clearing the mud,” Nada reported. “That’s why the police are involved.”

  “Do they know whose they are?” Stuart asked.

  “No, it’s too early for an ID,” she replied. “They’re still searching. They’ll bring them to the coroner’s office once they’ve finished. Right now they’re picking through the mud to make sure they get them all and to see if they can find anything that will help identify who it is. You know, like a driver’s license, bits of clothing, that sort of thing.”

  “Do they have any suspicions?” asked Stuart.

  “No, not yet.”

  “How old are they?” Mia asked as the ghost of an idea began to take shape in her mind.

  “Can’t tell. Pretty old. There’s only bones there, if you know what I mean.”

  Mia mulled this over as she sat back in the chair. She stared down at her coffee while her mind went over the letter she’d read from Kate to Theodora. She must have read the letter a dozen times and with each read she heard Kate’s voice as though she were speaking to her in the same room. There was such love and compassion in her words, especially for the granddaughter she’d never met. How could Belle not have been overcome by reading it?

  There were also specific descriptions in her letter of the night DeLancey disappeared. Or, rather, died, as Kate believed. Mia had read the letter so many times she could recite it verbatim. I drove only partway to town when I saw that the road had been destroyed by a mudslide.

  What if Kate were wrong about DeLancey? she wondered with mounting excitement. What if for all those years she’d thought he’d died by his own hand, when, in truth, it had been an act of God?

  “Mia?” Stuart asked, drawing her attention.

  Mia startled, brought back to the conversation. “Oh, sorry, I was just…” She sat forward. If she needed a support team right now, the two women at the table were her best bets. “Girls,” she said, feeling adrenaline pumping in her veins. “This is really important. Can anyone get their hands on a geological survey that goes back to nineteen twenty-nine?”

  Nada narrowed her eyes. “That’s easy enough. What’s going on in that brain of yours?”

  Phyllis tapped her chin with speculation. “I know where she’s headed. You think those bones could be DeLancey’s?”

  “Yes,” Mia declared.

  “Mia,” Phyllis said with slight exasperation. “This time I think you’re stretching too far.”

  Mia leaned closer and kept her voice low. “Huddle up.”

  The two women raised their brows but brought their heads closer. Stuart brought his ear close as well.

  “Cone of silence, OK?” she asked. The women’s eyes gleamed as they nodded. Stuart smirked. “Last night I read a letter that Kate Watkins wrote to Theodora.”

  “Where’d you get that?” Phyllis exclaimed.

  “Oh hush, Phyllis,” Nada whispered heatedly. “Ask your questions later. Go on,” she said to Mia, as alert as a hunting dog pointing at the brush.

  “It’s no secret,” Mia answered. “Don’t you remember the letter that Lucy Roosevelt gave me for Belle?” She saw Phyllis frown in stern disapproval. Mia quickly shook her head to dispel her suspicions. “No, I didn’t open it. I gave it to Belle. Yesterday Belle gave it back to me to read.”

  “What did it say?” Nada asked.

  “I’ll let Belle decide how much to share, but what’s to the point today is that Kate wrote about the night DeLancey disappeared.” She heard the intake of breath at the table. “She wrote that there was a terrible storm that night. I remembered that your daddy, Mr. Pace, remarked on the same thing,” she added to Phyllis. “How it rained like the Lord’s flood that whole week.” She leaned closer, her whisper hoarse with excitement as she spoke each word with deliberation. “In the letter, Kate wrote that the road was washed away and that she was stuck in the cabin for three days before she could get to town.”

  Nada drew back. “And you’re wondering if a mudslide took away Route Nine that night.”

  “Right,” she replied. “The only road from town to Watkins Cove is Route Nine. All we know is DeLancey disappeared the night of November ninth, nineteen twenty-nine.”

  “But they found bones,” Stuart argued. “Not a car.”

  “But he didn’t have a car,” Nada remarked. “He took the train in.” “He wouldn’t walk to Watkins Cove,” he said.

  “The fact is, he was drunk and upset when he disappeared,” added Mia. “Let’s just say his judgment was impaired. What if he was desperate and didn’t have a car so he just started walking back to Kate?”

  “And the poor guy was caught in a mudslide.” Nada shook her head. “I can believe it.”

  “Yes, but will the sheriff?” asked Phyllis.

  Nada rose from the table like a shot.

  “Where are you going?” Mia asked, surprised.

  “We’re going to see the sheriff. He’ll need to know all this. But we need to lay it all down for him nice and clear. First we’ll go to the Gazette and gather up all those articles we dug up. And Phyllis, you get that geological survey. You can do it if anyone can.”

  Phyllis jotted down the date, her brow knit with concentration. “I’ll get right on it and call you the minute I find anything out.” She looked up and her usually skeptical eyes were wide with hope. “Oh, Nada, do you think this might be it? An answer, after all these years…”

  Mia reached Belle by phone and gave her a brief account of their conclusions and told her of their plan to go to the sheriff. After a stunned silence Belle replied, “I’ll meet you there. I’m on my way.”

  Sheriff Rusty Rhodes was an affable man. He was average height and build with an all-American face and red hair that gave him his nickname. He had an easy manner and good looks that inspired confidence. Mia figured he was likely the dreamboat of the local high school in his time. His belly was a little paunchy now, and his cheeks fleshy in his middle years, but he still charmed when he smiled, as he did now.

  “Well, that’s an interesting story,” he told the assembled group after they’d told him of their suspicions that the bones found might be those of Mr. Theodore DeLancey. Mia stood by Nada in front of the sheriff’s broad wood desk. Behind her, Stuart, Phyllis, and Becky formed a wall of support.

  “It’s no story,” Nada snapped back, all six feet of her straightening in offense. She prided herself on being a top-notch reporter, and the last thing she tolerated was anyone doubting her facts. “Theodore DeLancey of New York was declared missing by this very office in November of nineteen twenty-nine. His body was never found. We’ve got here a copy of a geological survey that shows Route Nine had a mudslide the very night DeLancey disappeared.”

  “Here it is,” Phyllis said as she stepped forward with the papers in hand. She set them on the sheriff’s desk with a flourish.

  “Thank you, Miss Pace,” Sheriff Rhodes said, taking them in his hands. He put on his glasses and studied them, then raised his eyes over his lenses speculatively. “So, you think this here DeLancey fella was taking a stroll along Route Nine that night? In the pouring rain?”

  “We have reason to believe he was on his way to Watkins Cove,” Mia added.

  He squinted, as if trying to place her, then removed his glasses. “Are you referring to that story about ol’ Kate Watkins and the killing at the cabin?” He shook his head ruefully. “That’s an old chestnut.”

  Mia snapped her mouth shut in frustration. Sheriff Rhodes was a parody of Sheriff Andy of Mayberry trying to talk sense to the poor, confused townsfolk.

  “You listen to me,” Phyllis Pace said sharply, pointing a finger at the sheriff. “I remember you running naked in your mother’s yard, so don’t you dare talk to me in that patronizing tone of voice.”

  Mia turned her head to see Stuart’s eyes twinkli
ng.

  Phyllis puffed up and Mia could well imagine high school boys cowering under that steely gaze. “You see before you representatives of some of this town’s oldest and proudest families. Nada Turner is the editor and publisher of our newspaper. We speak for the town when we say that we demand an answer to this scandal that has clouded our city, spawned malicious gossip, and smeared the reputation of the Watkins family for two generations. I call on you to do your duty, as the town failed to do in nineteen twenty-nine. If this is the body of Theodore DeLancey, then this town has the right to know. The Watkins family has the right to know. And frankly, Sheriff, I want to know. This story, as you put it, must be put to rest at last.”

  Mia felt a stirring of pride for Phyllis. Sheriff Rhodes appeared chastened, though Mia knew as a politician, he was wise enough to see which way the wind would turn if he ignored this request.

  “Well, now, Miss Pace,” he began in a conciliatory tone. He looked up to include the group. “Ladies. Sir. This isn’t the kind of thing we can get an answer for right away. See, here’s how it goes. We’ve got searchers out there this very minute working in difficult terrain. Some of them guys are in mud knee-high to chest-high in spots. We’re picking through to find not just bones, but shoes, a jacket, and any other clothing or jewelry that could have been stripped off with the mud as it tumbled down the canyon. Now that alone takes time.”

  Mia heard a door open and close, felt the stir of air rustle through the room.

  “Next the bones are cleaned and assigned an identification number,” the sheriff continued. “Then the victim’s teeth are X-rayed, any clothing and jewelry carefully packed away, and a sample of his DNA taken.

  “But you get into another problem now. What do you compare this DNA to? In a crime scene you’ve got DNA at the scene and a suspect you’re trying to link the crime to. The best way to make an ID with DNA is to have living blood relatives, a parent or a child, to come forward and offer to have their DNA tested and compared. It’s basically like doing a paternity test.”

  He leaned forward in his squeaky chair and pointed his index finger on the desk. “Now, see, here’s the stickler as I see it. Supposing we get the DNA. Where are we going to get the DNA sample to match it with?” He spread open his palms. “Where’s his family today?”

  “Here.”

  All heads turned to the rear of the room, where Belle stood by the door. She was dressed in khakis and a coral-colored fishing shirt that complemented her red hair. She walked forward to the sheriff’s desk and stuck out her hand.

  “My name is Belle Carson. Belle Watkins Carson. If that body is Theodore DeLancey, then he’s my grandfather.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The Gazette

  September 13, 2007

  OLD SCANDAL LAID TO REST

  Today the remains of Theodore DeLancey were laid to rest, ending nearly eighty years of speculation and scandal.

  DeLancey was first reported missing in 1929 by his wife, Camilla DeLancey, now deceased. After a brief and some say flawed investigation, the sheriff officially declared Theodore DeLancey a missing person. Later, the state of New York, where his family resided, declared him legally dead. Unfounded and wild rumors and accusations concerning the nature of Mr. DeLancey’s death plagued noted fly fisherwoman Miss Katherine Watkins (Kate) for the remainder of her life. Miss Watkins had frequently served as Mr. DeLancey’s fly-fishing guide.

  The discovery of bones at a mudslide on Route 9 this week was a huge break in this unsolved mystery. Following confirmation of DNA tests with his granddaughter, Belle Watkins Carson, the coroner declared DeLancey’s death accidental.

  With the burial of Theodore DeLancey the town of Watkins Mill will, at long last, lay an old scandal to rest.

  The Gazette

  September 15, 2007

  TOWN TIDBITS

  The first meeting of the Reel Women Fly-Fishing Club will be held at the Public Library on Thursday, Sept. 15, at 7 p.m. Ms. Belle Carson will give an overview of the sport and provide a casting demonstration. The meeting is open to all interested in joining.

  The Gazette October 1, 2007

  Nada Turner, Editor in Chief

  EDITORIAL

  This will be the last editorial I write for the Gazette. With the recent developments concerning one of our town’s most famous citizens, Kate Watkins, I can now retire a happy editor.

  I’ve been a reporter for this paper for 20 years and an editor for another 25. One of my first assignments was to cover the death of Kate Watkins in 1952. I had the honor of writing her obituary and as a young woman I was struck with her long list of accomplishments in the sport of fly-fishing, not the least of which was helping to break down the barriers against women in the sport.

  Up until that point I’d only known of Kate Watkins from the rumors and gossip that had flown about town for years like the dirt that blows off a mountain on a windy day. You know what the rumors were. I’ll not credit them by printing them in this newspaper again.

  At long last that unfair and unfounded scandal that plagued Kate Watkins and her family has once and for all been silenced. Truly, the truth set her free.

  As the editor of the paper that helped fuel the scandal by its reporting of the investigation into the disappearance of Theodore DeLancey in 1929, I would like to offer an apology to Miss Kate Watkins and her family. In an effort to help restore her proud name in our community, my last act as editor will be to run a series of articles on the life and accomplishments of our town’s favorite daughter beginning Monday, October 8.

  Further, as the chairperson of the Watkins Mill Historical Society, I shall propose the town erect a statue in her honor as a testament to the legacy of Kate Watkins—and women—in the sport she loved so well—fly-fishing.

  See you on the river—I’m going fishing!

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The Gazette

  October 1928

  Kate Watkins, “On the Fly”

  In autumn the heat of summer is past and the faithful angler is rewarded with a cornucopia of color in the mountains. Bits of reddish orange and bright yellow dot the rivers that run low but steady. It is the spawning season and the trout get showy as they seek a mate. Brown trout are hefty and their vibrant red spots gleam on their shiny, olive brown courting suits.

  As another fly-fishing season draws to an end, I sometimes abandon my rod and walk my beloved hills to search out waterfalls and color instead of trout. I roam the valleys with the ghosts of loved ones, harvesting memories for the long winter ahead. It restores my soul.

  It was a beautiful autumn. Everyone in Watkins Mill thought it might be the prettiest fall in years. Fall was always Mia’s favorite season. It was an introspective time of year when her thoughts turned inward. She took long walks, her chest expanding at the wonder of color and treasuring each warm moment before winter descended with its cold winds to chase her back indoors.

  Autumn had come early and quick this year. Seemingly overnight the trees in the cove exploded in color, replacing the dense green with a tapestry of ochre, rust, tawny orange, and vivid yellow. Birds migrated overhead but the Carolina wren outside her window, that boisterous, perky, warm-colored neighbor, would stay for the winter and be there to welcome her whenever she could return.

  Mia sighed and closed the window, turning the lock and drawing the curtains. Fall was also a season of endings, she thought. She’d come to this sanctuary in the woods in the spring when her tears flowed like the rain. It was a time for renewal, and she dug deep and carefully planted seeds that had taken root in the long days and nights of summer to flourish and mature.

  Mia walked from window to window, shutting and locking each as she prepared to close up the cabin for her return to Charleston. With each thump and click the silence closed her in. Silence had a sound, she realized. It was the sound of emptiness.

  She knew this day would come but she didn’t know how hard it would be to leave. Her fingertips lingered on the wind
ow latch, remembering how she’d unlocked the windows and flung open her arms in welcome to the night. She was closing the windows again not in fear but to secure the cabin, tucking it in till another pair of hands—Belle’s—raised them up again.

  In the upstairs garret she’d left the furniture she’d purchased. Belle had told her it would be her room, waiting for her anytime she wanted to return. Downstairs all was tidy. The western sun cast slanted light into the kitchen, illuminating the polished enamel of the cast-iron stove. She walked slowly into the main room, her careful eye catching every detail to tuck neatly away in her mind like a photograph to pull out at a time in the future when she needed it.

  Mia had selected two of the many watercolors she’d painted of the river to frame and hang over the fireplace. One when the sun was setting and turning the still water of the pool the colors of stained glass; the other of the shallow riffles when the morning sun shattered the water into sparkling crystal. She smiled to think that a part of her would stay behind in this cabin that had sheltered her through so many storms.

  She felt emotion welling from a deep source. She stood in the center of the room, inhaling the scents of pine oil and soap, breathing deep as if she could somehow absorb the soul of the cabin to carry with her. When she exhaled she opened her eyes and looked once more around the shadowed room.

  The soul of the cabin was gone, Mia realized. It was bittersweet not to feel the presence of Kate Watkins in the cabin. Not even the return of the diaries to the bookshelf had brought her spirit back. Whatever force had held her to this piece of earth had released her. She was free.

  From outside she heard the rumble of tire against gravel, and going to the window she saw Belle’s truck roll to a stop. She rushed to the door both surprised and delighted by Belle’s arrival. She’d thought they’d all said their farewells at the party the night before. Nada, Becky, and Phyllis had joined forces and thrown a combination Welcome Belle! Farewell Mia! shindig at Nada’s house on Main Street. Nada had given her a tour of the house, explaining room by room how in her retirement she was going to turn the big, old Victorian into a bed and breakfast at long last. “You,” she’d told Mia, “will be my first guest when you return.”