Live Free or Die

by Jessie Crockett

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’d like to contract you to shovel the post office parking lot as long as it doesn’t interfere with your school work. Do you want it?”

  “What will you pay?”

  “You tell me what your time is worth. I’ll tell you if I agree.” Diego glanced up and down at my flannel clad figure like a car salesman who sees you pulling into his lot with smoke billowing from under your car’s hood. “Fifty dollars. Cash.”

  “Done. But you have to present me with a written bill like any other contractor. I work for Uncle Sam, and he doesn’t like me to spend his money without accounting for it in writing.”

  “Does your Uncle Sam own the post office?”

  “Yes. He does. Your spoken English is very good. How’s the written English coming? Can you make out a bill?”

  “I think so. Is spelling important?”

  “Yes. You must look professional. Think up a name for your company, and then ask Miss Gloretta if you can use one of the computers at the library to make up an invoice to give to me. If you don’t know what that means, use one of the dictionaries at the library to look up the word invoice. Do we have a deal?” He looked startled. Maybe the library wasn’t one of his usual hangouts. Gloretta might not be too happy with me before the winter was through.

  “Yes. It is a deal.”

  “Can you start today?”

  “I can do it.”

  “Good. I’ll be by later to check on it.”

  “I will go.” Diego pushed back his chair and headed for the door.

  “Wait a minute. You ought to wear something on your hands if you’re going to be out in the cold.” I rooted around in a basket I keep in the mudroom for a pair of wool mittens that didn’t look too girly. Near the bottom, I found a heathered charcoal gray pair. They looked like the right size.

  He slid them on and checked the fit. “Thanks. These are warm.”

  “They’ll stay warm even when they get wet,” I said. “That’s the beauty of wool.” I watched as he hurried down the street balancing his shovel across his shoulders like a milkmaid with her buckets and yoke. I wondered what I’d gotten myself into.

  Nine

  Tramping along Clement Street through salty puddles, I squinted at the sun sparkling off the snow as it draped the bare branches of the trees. Passing the Thimbleberry Inn on the corner, I admired the wreaths and sleigh bells festooning the wraparound porch and the tall windows. All around, neighbors were digging out from the storm. The sound of snow blowers and the smell of exhaust filled the air.

  Stopping in front of the Museum I searched for the plaque. At first glance it wasn’t visible. Beside the steps was a yew that wasn’t in the 1904 photograph. It covered the windowsill and blocked light to the building’s interior. Wedging my body between the shrub and the building, I pressed the branches away from the building and saw a plaque screwed onto the wall. It was brass and caked with decomposing yew needles. Using my mitten as a scrub brush, I cleared it off enough to read it.

  Millard Fillmore Slept Here read the inscription. Not what I was expecting. I thought the Mill I’d seen in the photo referred to one of the many mills in Winslow Falls’ history. I didn’t remember hearing about a presidential visit. In New Hampshire we’re used to attention from would-be presidents. With our first-in-the-nation primary, we’re a tourist information booth on the road to the White House. They never seem to look back, though, once we’ve given them a boost or buried their dreams. With just under two million residents, we’re a presidential leap year, existing only once every four years.

  I stepped back and took a longer view of the Museum. The roof of the clock tower had been burned completely at the peak. An average-size adult standing in the tower room would find her head sticking up into the outside with an unobstructed view of at least half the village as well as the river. The side of the tower opposite the street was burned down more than the rest of the tiny room. It had mostly crumbled under the pressure of the fire hoses while we were trying to save the rest of the building.

  I stopped by the post office on my way home to check Diego’s work. The lot was as clean as a carving board after the dog’s licked it. Diego was worth every penny.

  I had to pass Dinah’s on my way home from the post office, so I thought I’d stop and see if she’d fried any blueberry doughnuts that morning. Dinah’s blueberry doughnuts make you forget it’s winter.

  “I was about to head to your house to interrogate you about the accident,” Ray called out, churning blueberries and doughnut around like his mouth was a cement mixer. Videos of Ray chewing could be sold as appetite suppressants. Clive perched on his favorite stool with the paper spread in front of him.

  “You should talk to Hugh. He was the one driving,” I said, picking up some sugar-free gum instead of a doughnut. Ray wiped his mouth on the back of his hairy hand and pulled out a notebook that looked exactly like Hugh’s.

  “I don’t put much stock in what he has to say. I heard from Bill he couldn’t even hang onto a skinny fugitive.” Ray scratched one of his teeth with a grubby forefinger.

  “Is that right?” Clive joined in. “Couldn’t hold him, huh? I thought he was some kind of police officer along with being a fireman.”

  “He’s supposed to be,” Ray said. “Says he’s a state trooper, if you can believe that. The cream of the crop.”

  “I’ve never heard tell of a Statie letting someone flee on two feet before, have you?” Clive rattled his paper for effect.

  “Can’t say that I have. I guess every group’s got its bad eggs.” Ray consulted the notebook again. “So, Gwen, tell the truth, was Hugh drunk or just speeding?”

  “I’m not even going to answer that,” I said.

  “So both.” Ray stuck out his tongue and slowly wrote something in his notebook.

  “You should be more careful with your accusations. Besides, I think you should be more worried about the other driver. Hugh and I were unharmed, but I’m not sure about him. He could have died of exposure by now.”

  “Good enough. It would save me the trouble of arresting him for trespassing.” Ray grinned, a bit of blueberry skin sticking to the front tooth he hadn’t scratched.

  “Trespassing? How do you figure that?” Clive swiveled away from his paper and gave Ray his full attention.

  “If you’re illegally in a country, anywhere you go is trespassing. The entire state is off limits. Keep out!” Ray waved his arms in front of his body.

  “That’s not the intention of trespassing laws, and who says he was illegal?” I said.

  “Fleeing an accident scene is illegal. That’s good enough for me,” Ray said.

  “Probably stole the truck too,” Clive added. “Did you recognize it?”

  “It was dark, and my eyelashes were freezing together. I was up to my waist in a snow bank, recovering the museum’s hand. So no, I didn’t notice whose truck it was.”

  “Some investigator you are.” Ray snorted and bit into another doughnut.

  “There wasn’t a registration in it,” I said. “The back plate was missing. The front end was wedged in a snow bank.”

  “You didn’t recognize it?” Clive gawked at me. In a town of about six hundred and fifty people, everyone’s vehicle is recognizable. Not only do you know who’s in it, you can usually guess where they’re going based on the day of the week or the time.

  “No, I didn’t,” I said. The door bells jangled, and Trina rushed in, shivering. She and Chris moved here from California, and even after a couple of years she isn’t used to the cold. I glanced at my watch and realized it was time for her lunch break. She nodded to us and sat next to Clive.

  “Bill was in the post office this morning telling about your accident and how miserable you looked when he picked you up,” Trina said. He said you’d been dragging the hand from the museum at least a mile by the time he rescued you.”

  “Bill embroiders the truth. Hugh carried the hand most of the way, and I’m sure I
didn’t look that bad.”

  “Probably no worse than you usually do,” Clive said staring at my puffy parka and muddy boots. Trina and Ray both nodded.

  “Why was the hand in the truck in the first place?” I asked. “Why didn’t it burn up with the rest of the tower?”

  “I know why it didn’t burn,” Trina said. “Chris said he had one of the crew take it down before they started the roof job. He didn’t want it getting knocked off while they were stripping shingles. I guess he was worried about it dropping on someone’s head.”

  “That explains it,” Ray said.

  “It doesn’t explain how it got into an unidentified truck,” I said. “Trina, did Chris say where he stored it?”

  “No. He just said it was no picnic getting it off the roof.” Trina pulled a pink nail file out of her purse and started sawing away.

  “I wonder how they got it up there in the first place,” Clive said.

  “Why was it put up there?” I asked. “Why a giant hand? It seems weird when you think about it.”

  “God,” Clive said. “They built the museum before airplanes and such. Back then there was just God.”

  “Have any of you heard it was valuable?” They all shook their heads.

  Augusta had gotten up and dressed by the time I reached home. She consented to go shopping for a Christmas gift for our mother. We decided to try our luck locally since Mum loved antiques of all sorts.

  “How about this?” Augusta held up a teapot shaped like an old man smoking a pipe.

  “It doesn’t say Merry Christmas to me somehow.” Everything in The Hodge Podge was packed in tightly enough to make me nervous just standing still. Crystal knife rests, silver hairbrushes, baby carriages full of doilies and framed artwork, and documents filled the large store. The building was constructed as a hotel when the mills were still bustling and the railroad stopped at least once a day in town. Now the building attracted a different sort of visitor. People on the way to the White Mountains would often stop in to buy a souvenir of their trip to New Hampshire.

  Gene, the owner, smiled at Augusta as he wrapped up a Depression glass lemonade set for another woman. He escorted her to the door and then made his way to my sister’s side.

  “Anything special you’re looking for today?” he asked.

  “A Christmas gift for our mother. Any suggestions?”

  “I suggest you have dinner with me this evening.” Gene reached for her hand and cradled it between his own. Augusta fiddled with the top button on her red silk blouse. This needed cooling off. I didn’t want Augusta to get any ideas about extending her visit because of a new romantic interest.

  “Gene, why would the museum have a plaque on the front saying Millard Fillmore Slept Here?” Gene dropped Augusta’s hand and gave me his full attention. As a teenager I’d always imagined how it would be to distract a man from Augusta. Millard Fillmore had never factored into the fantasy.

  “When did you see that?”

  “This morning. I saw a photo of the plaque in an old newspaper clipping Ethel gave me for the fundraiser research. It’s right behind that big yew to the right of the stairs.”

  “I suppose,” Gene tapped a long finger against his thin lips, “it could have been because Daniel Webster served as the Secretary of State under Fillmore.” Daniel Webster is arguably New Hampshire’s most famous son.

  “That might explain him being in New Hampshire, but it still doesn’t explain why he’d be in Winslow Falls.”

  “Maybe he had friends here.” Augusta worked her way back into the conversation. “Maybe he was visiting the White Mountains on holiday and stopped at Dinah’s for a doughnut.”

  “Speaking of food, make my day and consent to dine with me,” Gene said. I spotted the stairs to the second floor and escaped. Gene always struck me as a man that oozed. I’d no desire to watch him grease his way across Augusta.

  One of the rooms upstairs had been set up like a nursery. A second was an adult bedroom furnished with a matching bedroom set complete with a vanity table and a freestanding wardrobe. The doors to the wardrobe were open, and long dresses and men’s coats hung from the rod. I pushed open a closed door at the end of the hall and peered down a narrow hallway. There wasn’t a sign saying the space was closed to the public, so I went on through.

  Leaning up along the walls were dark oil paintings and framed letters written on yellowed paper. One of them, a letter signed by Franklin Pierce, had a price tag of nine hundred dollars. It didn’t seem like the paper was in good shape, but it looked impressive enough mounted in a dark wooden frame. A roll-top desk with cubbyholes pressed against one wall. An inkwell and quill pen rested on top. A silver letter rack and letter opener set caught my eye. My mother loved to write newsy letters to family members about the latest scandals at her active seniors community in Florida. With a box of stationery and some stamps, it would be a perfect gift. I picked up the set and returned to the counter to check out.

  “Where do you manage to find so many beautiful things?” Augusta was in full in flirt mode, her hand resting on Gene’s forearm.

  “Sometimes they just walk right in my door,” Gene winked and leered.

  “I hate to break up whatever’s going on here, but I think I found the perfect thing,” I said. I placed the rack on the counter.

  “This item is not for sale,” Gene tugged at his collar.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “It hasn’t been priced yet. You helped yourself to it out of the storage room.”

  “Sorry. Besides, time is money right? By turning this over quickly you’ll make a better profit. Augusta, isn’t this perfect for Mum?”

  “She’ll love it. Please, Gene.”

  “I suppose I can make an exception,” Gene said, “but only if you’ll agree to have dinner with me tonight.”

  “We don’t have any plans, do we, Gwen?” Augusta didn’t even look in my direction. “I’ll be ready at seven.”

  Ten

  “What a pack rat.” Augusta held up a ratty dishrag.

  “Granny Binks was just as bad,” I said. “I think Mum moved to Florida just to avoid clearing out Granny’s house when she died.” We were in Beulah’s attic, rummaging through her boxes and looking for anything useful for the fundraiser. So far, it was looking grim. Boxes, bags, trunks and crates were crammed into every nook. From the way Beulah had kept house downstairs, no one would suspect she was living under this mess. At least once a year Beulah mentioned she needed to clear out up here, but I hadn’t realized it was this bad.

  “Have you checked behind those boxes shoved up against the chimney?” I asked.

  “Not yet. I’ll give them a go now.” She tugged at the cardboard flaps on one of them.

  “Papers.” Augusta dragged the carton to a tiny cleared space in the center of the attic. We settled in front of the box and began to lift out envelopes and pamphlets. Yellowed newspaper clippings made up the top layer. “Look at these.” Augusta held up three pamphlet-type books entitled Maria Monk’s Awful Disclosures. “Who needs multiple copies of this?”

  “Sounds racy,” I said. “Set it aside, and we’ll read it later.” I began spreading out the newspaper clippings in an arc around me on the floor. They were from newspapers from different states. The only thing they seemed to have in common was election results and advertisements selling miracle cures for consumption. The local obituary page was included for several of them. Others had listings of local meetings.

  “Look at that dressmaker’s dummy. Can you believe anyone ever had a waist that small?” Augusta asked. The slender dress form wore a red and white vest beaded with white stars.

  “Depressing, isn’t it?” I pulled out two wooden spoons and a porcelain hatpin holder from the box. “Do you think Beulah even knew what was up here?”

  “Probably not. I’m guessing most of it wasn’t even hers to start with.”

  “Considering she was born in this house, a lot of this must have belonged to her parents and
even grandparents.”

  “This is interesting.” Augusta moved aside a crispy bundle of letters and held up a scrapbook. One of its brass hinges hung limply, and the blue velvet cover was tattered.

  “I remember that. You liked to make fun of all the big mustaches,” I said. Augusta scooted closer and gingerly opened the cover.

  “Eighteen fifty-five,” Augusta read. “Property of Eustace Freemont Hartwell.” She turned the page and there, drawn in carefully, was a family tree. A tightly controlled hand had written in the names and birth dates of generations of family members. Vreeland Price Hartwell was there and so was the Judge, Ambrose Hartwell Purington. All the pages were decorated with colored stars.

  “Was this guy a patriot, or what?” Augusta said. “There’s more red, white, and blue here than a car dealership having a Fourth of July sale.”

  “Maybe he was born on the Fourth,” I said, “or married that day.”

  “Not according to this,” Augusta said, flipping back to the first page. “I’d guess he was kind of a nut.”

  “Maybe he was a veteran,” I said. “Was he old enough for the War of 1812?”

  “Nope. He was born in 1830.”

  “Anything in here that could help with the fundraiser?”

  “Maybe. Here’s another picture of the Museum. It doesn’t have the hand on the clock tower, though.”

  “That’s weird,” I said. “I thought the building was designed with it.”

  “I bet Ethel knows something about it.” Augusta kept turning pages. Newspaper clippings and programs from local events were pasted onto the pages. A postcard of the dam and the former woolen mill still clung to the final page.

  “One of us should ask her, and I’ve got to work tomorrow.” I squinted at my sister in the fading light, searching her face for signs of weakness.

  “Perfect. You can ask her when she comes in for the mail.” Augusta and I always fought about chores when we were kids. She usually won then, too. “If she says none of this stuff is valuable, I think we should just call a junker.”