“Talking will help.” He turns his walker and starts trudging back the way we came. I fall in beside him.
“It all happened on an Oregon Trail expedition led by my great-great-grandfather, Eugène de Bouton, in 1866.”
“The one who built the Old Mortuary.”
“The very same.” His lips compress with an impatience I’m not used to seeing from Uncle Rémy. But it quickly passes. “At St. Joseph, the expedition was joined by an ill-tempered fellow named Silas Maguire and his young wife. The marriage, Eugène would learn, had been offered by the girl’s father for the forgiveness of a debt. While the union had produced a pregnancy, the couple shared no affection. The child wasn’t due till fall, but the poor girl fell into labor in July, not long after the expedition turned south short of The Dalles. They were taking an unusual route to allow a group to break off toward Canyon City, or else they never would have been near Lost Brother Butte. As a period of unexpected rain set in, Eugène ordered they make camp near where the crossroad now lies. That night, Molly Claire Maguire delivered a stillborn boy.”
A trill runs through me. Both the rape crew and those assholes at the Whistle Pig had mentioned “Molly Claire’s Girls.” From Landry’s mouth, the phrase had been almost a threat.
Uncle Rémy doesn’t seem to notice my reaction. “Silas blamed his grief-stricken wife for the death of his son and left the expedition in a fit of rage. Eugène had never cared for how Silas treated Molly Claire. Now, with her husband gone, he took it upon himself to comfort her, and she responded favorably to his attentions. Once she was able to get around on her own, she would even join him on walks through the wet grass—something they had time for since the party remained encamped to rest and wait out the rain before making the final push to the Santiam Wagon Road and the Willamette Valley. Soon the sky cleared and the wagon trail dried out. As the expedition made ready to set out, Silas Maguire returned. He’d lost his horse while crossing the Deschutes away to the south and intended to reclaim both his wife and his place in the expedition.”
Uncle Rémy grimaces, and I reach out. But he just shakes his head, and I realize he’s reacting to his story, not to the pain in his hip.
“Silas arrived after dark on the night of a full moon. In those days, the hill was called Ragged Top, owing to the way the grass grew between the fingers of basalt on the north rim. Molly Claire and Eugène had climbed up to walk on the moon-silvered tableland. According to family lore, Silas came upon them at the very moment Eugène professed his love for her. Some claim he saw them share their first kiss—arguably an apocryphal embellishment. What is certain is Silas shot Eugène in ambush. He then attempted to shoot his wife, but either the cartridge failed to fire or the cocking mechanism of his Colt seized up—accounts differ—and Molly Claire fled with Silas fast in pursuit.”
We’ve reached the other end of the hall. He reaches out to tap the glass, but hesitates.
“Are you okay, Uncle?”
“Old as I am, this was still long before my time. And yet …” His voice trails off, and his eyes water.
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go back to your room. You can finish the story some other time.”
“I’m fine.” He raps the window. “You’re it.”
Head down, he begins to retrace his path. I walk alongside, matching his short, labored strides. After a few steps, he takes a deep breath and lifts his chin.
“Down in camp, the others heard the gunshot and Silas shouting up above. Then they heard Molly Claire’s scream. In the confused mingling of moonlight and shadow, she lost her footing among the basalt pillars and fell into the draw where the road now runs. At the sight of her shattered body, Silas fled back south, never to be seen again. Some say he suffered the same fate as his horse, though no one knows for sure.”
Uncle Rémy stops. I listen to his heavy breathing and look up the hall, glad we’re almost back to his room. I’m just about to suggest he take a rest on the seat of his walker, when he starts moving again.
“Uncle, are you sure—?”
He ignores me. “Eugène was hurt but alive. Unable to continue without its guide, the expedition made its way to The Dalles. Eugène recovered—though he would lose his leg at the knee to gangrene. For several years, Eugène searched for Silas, but in time he returned to Barlow County, where he became its first undertaker. Before migrating West, he’d been a carpenter and had made coffins for those who died during the journey. At first, he meant to establish his business at the spot where Molly Claire fell, but lack of water forced him to the current location further south, where a spring rose. Early on, hard rock mining camps south and east of Shatter Hill provided much of his business.”
I’m surprised I haven’t heard this story before. It explains why the Old Mortuary is so far from Samuelton, and suggests why the family never sold the place off after they opened the New Mortuary. Lucky for me. I like my room full of old furniture in the old house.
Back in his room, Rémy eases into one of the wing chairs and lets out a long, slow breath.
“How do you feel?”
“Like a hot turd on cold toast.”
I take the other chair, worried he’s overexerted himself. His head tilts to one side, and his rheumy gaze settles on me.
“A sad story, yes?”
I nod.
“Eugène would go on to have a family, of course. I wouldn’t be here otherwise. But his devotion to Molly Claire’s memory never faded. It’s said he was the first to see her spirit at the crossroad, weeping for her dead child and her lost chance at love. Many reported seeing him after dark, walking the ridge line on his finely crafted wooden leg in the company of Molly Claire’s spirit, though in a letter late in life he insisted the apparition was a myth. In any event, Ragged Top came to be known first as Molly Claire’s Shattering, then simply Shatter Hill.” Uncle Rémy’s liver-spotted hands clench the hem of his sweater. “Some say she claims young girls, the spurned or the forlorn, to share in her grief. Others say if such girls stand in the crossroad and call for retribution against those who’ve wronged them, Molly Claire’s specter will appear.”
He falls silent. A haunted look darkens his face, and I wonder if he believes the old legend. “Have you … seen her, Uncle?” The instant I say the words, I feel stupid.
“Long ago … I used to … you know …” He seems to search for the memory. “Have I told you about my cabin?”
I smile. “You still owe me an overnight there.” Because the cabin was accessible only via a steep trail, we’d put off plans to visit more than once. The closest we’d ever gotten was in April, around the first anniversary of my arrival in Barlow County. He’d pointed to a tree-covered ridge overlooking the hanging valley where we’d come to see wildflowers. “The old place is up there. You can see the whole Palmer River valley from the doorway.” He wanted to climb up, but we’d already come as far as his hip would allow that day. The trek back to the car was almost too much for him.
“But I thought … we used to go when you were young.”
My smile falters. Until fifteen months ago, I barely knew this man existed. When I was young, the only places I visited were my parents’ shadows.
“Of course I took you to the cabin. You’re misremembering.”
My eyes grow damp. “I’m sure that’s it, Uncle.” I take his cold hand in my own. “Why don’t you rest?”
He pulls away. “I’m fine.” It takes him several struggling breaths to collect himself. “You were such an active girl.”
From outside, I hear a grinding like a failing engine. I try to think of something to say, a way to laugh it off. I’m afraid anything I say will be wrong. He looks out at Shatter Hill for a long while, then his chin drops. “Why ask me?” he snaps. “Talk to your father.”
Uncle Rémy has never met my father. He thinks I’m Helene. A hollow forms behind my heart. He’s returned to wherever he goes when the shadows close in around his thoughts. I reach for his hand again, but he doesn�
��t want to be touched. I know how he feels.
NINETEEN
Near Miss
Aunt Elodie arrives about noon. When they bring Uncle Rémy’s lunch tray, I offer to run and pick something up for her and me.
“I ate at home.” Her tone is flat, and her hands tremble as she fusses over Uncle Rémy.
I’m not sure if she hears me say goodbye.
Outside, the noon sun hits me like a hammer. The Stiff’s door handle is almost too hot to touch, and the interior feels like a crematory. Leaving the door wide to release the heat, I take out my phone. The call goes straight to voicemail.
“Helene, hi. It’s me, Melisende. Jesus, why do I always say that?” Saliva catches in my throat. “Listen, I get why you don’t return my calls, and I won’t ask you to now. But please call Aunt Elodie. I think she needs you.” I hesitate, then add, “I hope you’re okay.”
Moments later as I nose onto Wayette Highway—destination unknown—a yellow pickup blasts around the tree-lined curve from the direction of Shatter Hill. I slam my brakes as the truck swerves, horn blaring, missing the Stiff’s nose by the thickness of its waxed finish. Landry MacElroy glares from behind the wheel, Paulette Soucie beside him. In the space of a gasp, the vehicle is gone.
Nerves abuzz, I back off the road and throw the Stiff into park. The air conditioner whispers into the electric stillness inside the van, carrying with it the faint scent of decay. An afterimage of Paulette’s face lingers like a reflection in the windshield. I couldn’t tell if she was a passenger or a hostage. “Please. You’ve done enough,” she’d said. A chill shudders through me. I reach for the center console, but the familiar climate controls only confuse me. Instead, I hit the button to lower my window. The hot, dry air clears my head until a sudden lethargy floods through me. I sag onto the steering wheel.
“Hey, you all right?”
With a start, I realize there’s a man beside the Stiff, car keys in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He’s wearing gray scrubs with a Crestview Assisted Living badge clipped to the collar that gives his name as Erlen. His hair is black and slicked back, his face tanned. A hint of dark stubble peppers his chin. Aviator sunglasses hide his eyes.
Erlen nods in the direction Landry went. “I don’t think that guy even saw you.”
“I almost didn’t see him, so we’re even.” I attempt a chuckle but sound like I’m choking. Erlen takes off his sunglasses and looks me over. His unexpectedly pale eyes stop at my chest. I doubt he’s reading my T-shirt.
“You okay, sweets?”
“I just need to catch my breath.”
He gestures toward a shiny black 4Runner pulled up behind the Stiff. “I’ll give you a ride if you’re not up to driving.”
“Seriously, I’m fine.” I put the Stiff into gear, and Erlen gives up. More easily than most. In the rearview mirror, I watch him amble back to his car. I’m not quite ready to drive, but I don’t have many options. Across the road is the full extent of Crestview’s business district: the Downhill Motor Lodge, a seedy bar, a heli-ski operation—shuttered till winter—and the East Slope Mercantile.
Two thoughts hit me at once—the East Slope’s surprisingly good wine selection and the fact that Barb lives only a few miles away in a cottage at Dryer Lake. Like me, she’s an outsider, but she’s been in Barlow longer and actually communes with the living. Maybe she knows something about Molly Claire and her girls, and why Landry thinks I’d make a good one.
“If anyone’s spurned and forlorn, it’s you.”
“Fitz, just stop.”
Depending on how her Friday went, Barb may still be asleep, but a bottle of wine should lure her out of bed. We can sit on her deck and talk about ghosts—and Duniway and the search warrant. Even if Barb doesn’t know what to do, she’ll have brash opinions.
I think I could use a little brash right now.
Behind me, Erlen honks. I shoot across the road and dart into the cool Mercantile before the sun fuses my shoes to the pavement. The wine section is like a sanctuary. As my nerves settle, I get lost in the handwritten descriptions on the shelf tags. Aromas of red berry fruits with a leather base note. Or plum, cherry, and cassis. Delicate florals.
“Who writes this stuff, Mellie?”
“People who’ve sampled way too much of the product.”
Juicy, silky, lively—Old World spirit or New World energy from places with names out of a fairy tale: Calchaqui Valley, Roquefort la Bedoule, Lodi. I’m no more familiar with Argentina or Provence or even the California wine country than I am with the far side of the moon, but the words have a mysterious allure—imagined refuges for when Aunt Elodie decides the Melisende Experiment has run its course. Surely Argentina could use an apprentice undertaker.
“Having a hard time making a choice?”
There’s a presence at my back, someone substantial, tall, and smelling of Irish Spring. I spin and find Kendrick Pride behind me.
“What luck, Mellie! You can give him his locket.”
TWENTY
Downhill
“I apologize if I startled you, Ms. Dulac.”
Today, Kendrick Pride is wearing khakis, a short-sleeved shirt with epaulets, and Rockport walking shoes. In lieu of plastic bags, he’s carrying a legal-sized portfolio pad with a leatherette cover—the adult’s Trapper Keeper.
“What are you doing here?”
“I saw you come in.” He nods in the direction of the motel next door. “I’m staying nearby.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
The Downhill Motor Lodge’s only plus is its proximity to the ski area. Last updated before I was born, the rooms feature carpet the color of vomit and walls held together by water stains. I had a removal there last November, a septuagenarian who stroked out on a sprung bed with a nineteen-year-old blonde on his lap.
Unbidden, I picture Pride in the same room—the only one with a clear sight line all the way to Lost Brother. The view rates an extra five dollars per night. Lost Brother Butte lacks the spectacle of Mount Hood or the Three Sisters, but in Barlow County it’s what we’ve got.
“Can I buy you a coffee, Ms. Dulac?”
“The cops are looking for you.”
His expression doesn’t change. “I wasn’t aware.”
“Maybe if you answered your phone.”
“Cell service is spotty out here.” He raises one eyebrow. “Did you call?”
“Not me. Chief Deputy Duniway.”
“I’m sure he’ll find me if it’s important.” His eyebrow drops. “What do you say about that coffee? They have tables with a view of the mountain over there.”
“What do you want, Mr. Pride?” He may be avoiding the county cops, but I’m starting to understand what Duniway meant when he said Pride could be a nuisance.
“Just to discuss a couple of things. I promise I won’t keep you long.”
He’s not the type to give up, and sometimes saying yes is easier than saying no. Between the Mercantile’s iffy coffee and my own one-word responses to his questions, maybe he’ll lose interest. Go back to Portland. Leave me in peace.
Helene would have a few choice words about the chances of that happening.
He asks what I’d like, then suggests I find a table. Feeling contrary, I pick a spot looking out on the parking lot.
“You gonna give him his locket, little sister?”
I consider the search warrant and Duniway’s hinted suspicions about Pride. “I haven’t decided.” If I give him the locket, he’ll want to know where I found it. Describing the bubbling soup of suspicion and possible hallucination that drew me into the desert isn’t an option. But even if I lie—even if he believes me—
I shake my head. He won’t believe me.
“Don’t you want to know how it got there?”
The answer would probably be boring. Hole in his pocket. Slipped clasp. Flung away in a rage. I could just have Wanda mail it back to him.
Still, I slip the locket out of my jeans and let it slide through
my fingers onto the seat between my legs. Keeping my options open, I guess.
Pride appears with an iced latte for me and a coffee regular in a chipped mug for himself. My latte is grainy and weak—typical for the East Slope. I don’t even bother feeling disappointed. He drops a couple of napkins on the table between us and sits, sliding the portfolio off to the side. He doesn’t mention the view.
“How long were you behind me?” I say before he can speak.
“I’d just walked up.” A wisp of a smile steals across his face. “I do it too,” he adds, “talk to myself. I’m just thinking out loud, but it helps if I imagine I’m conversing with someone else.”
I wonder who else is aware of these little chats I have with Fitz. Sheriff Turnbull did my background check, but I don’t think he learned the specifics of my psych hold. If anyone at the mortuary has heard me prattling away, they haven’t mentioned it. Carrie sings country ballads as she embalms.
Pride lifts his cup but doesn’t drink. “For me, it’s John Lennon.”
The name reminds me of my grandmother. During my too-rare visits to her little apartment in a continuing care community in Framingham, not so different from Crestview Assisted Living, she liked to play her vinyl records. “He was a Beatle.”
“The Beatle, one might say.” He manages to laugh without changing expression. “I still remember when he died. That was before you were born.”
Along with most of human history.
“I was just a little kid, but I’ll never forget the first time I heard ‘A Day in the Life’ on the radio. Do you know it?”
“I saw the news, something, something,” I say tunelessly. A napkin finds its way into my hand. I start mopping condensation off the sides of my glass.
“Close enough.” His lips curl. “Anyway, when the song ended, the DJ said he would be playing the Beatles all day in memory of John Lennon, who’d been shot the night before.”
I’m not sure what to say.
“Talking to John Lennon has become my way of organizing my thoughts.”
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