by T. R. Kelly
Alberto folded his arms across his chest. “Now you truly have me wondering about what Ronnie has been doing with his time.”
I knew I had to get to the possible romance link, but I didn’t want to sound like a cop in getting there. “Alberto, I know that Ronnie has been seeing Barbara Sylanski. Do you think there was any jealousy or anger involved with either of the young men regarding her?”
Alberto rolled a fist under his chin and stared right at me. “It’s possible, but I never sensed anything negative from either one of the boys. Barbara and Linn seemed to be off and on so many times. I’m sure Ronnie would not have gotten into the middle of that if he had known Linn was still involved with her.”
We sat silent for an awkward moment. Over the years, I felt Ronnie and Linn had some edgy competitive moments on the floor but nothing that was terribly concerning. There was Linn’s career-altering injury in the forest, but that awful incident appeared to be behind them. After all, the two were teammates again.
“I will speak with Paola about Ronnie and Linn to see what she can remember,” Alberto said. “To be honest, Barbara showed a special interest in Ronnie from time to time. Are you suggesting that some sort of resentment could be a part of all this, and that Ronnie was possibly involved?”
“I’m just wondering out loud. I’ve been around kids for years and know that girl-guy relationships can push different buttons in everyone. I am simply accumulating as much information as possible that might help point to Linn’s whereabouts.”
Alberto appeared semi-satisfied and eased forward in his chair. “We are scheduled to have dinner with Ronnie this week,” Alberto said. “I don’t know if he’s bringing a crowd or not. I will try to have a private conversation with him about Barbara. I will also ask him when he last saw Linn and if there was anything peculiar he remembers.”
“We would appreciate that, Alberto,” I said. “You never know, but something that seems very insignificant could turn out to make a difference.”
“With all due respect, Coach, I’m a bit confused why these questions are coming from you and not the proper authorities.”
I stood opposite him, arms folded. “I thought because I had a history with some of the people involved, that I would save the detectives a few steps.”
Alberto squirmed in his seat. “I don’t know what Ronnie knows or where he was that night. But I’m not liking what I have heard today, and there are a couple of policemen in this town that have been known to jump the gun when darker-skinned kids are involved.”
I nodded, stood, and extended my hand. He shook it firmly and looked me in the eye. “Coach, if you come back about this, make sure somebody official is with you.”
As I drove home, I kept wondering why the cops had yet to question Ronnie Garcia at least once. And as I did, I realized that I was already jumping to too many conclusions about where he was the night Linn Oliver went missing.
Chapter Twenty-Six
5 p.m., Sunday, February 6, 1982
The softball diamond that served as the parking lot for the North Fork Grange Hall was crammed with minivans and pickups. Some drivers chose creative spots, unaware they’d blocked several vehicles. A young father in a Hawaiian shirt worked to corral his son and wrestle with the zipper on the youngster’s jacket at the same time. His wife darted toward the entry, a glass-covered casserole dish wrapped in a yellow hand towel, while attempting to keep her ankle-length muumuu out of the mud. I turned off the VW’s engine and looked down at my usual potluck contribution: store-bought oatmeal cookies from the Red Apple Market. Kids don’t care when it comes to cookies.
The much-anticipated Winter Luau Cinder brought together the entire Lake Wilhelmina community and various residents of North Fork. The reason: to celebrate the biggest treasure ever found that was believed to be left behind by the early railroaders, loggers and gold-seekers who visited the region.
Last summer, while fishing for crawdads with nylon drop lines wrapped around thin alder sticks, Cindy Wagner, Poppy Kurri, and Jessica Schroers pulled in an old leather satchel first thought to be a young lady’s shoulder bag. The girls dunked the bag back in the water several times to remove the muck before lifting it into their rubber raft. They rubbed away the remaining slime with their hands and discovered the name Tyler branded into the flap just above where it attached to the main pouch. Inside, they found several gold nuggets of various sizes. And a larger stone later determined to be a Burmese ruby.
The marshy outlet of Lake Wilhelmina and birthplace of Minnie Creek is well-known as a haven for young children in small boats. The kids use the shallow area to land their rafts, play hide-and-seek, and build forts on the bank with fallen branches and strips of cedar bark pushed like tiny log booms through the cloudy three-foot-deep water.
Even when dams reduced the stream to a mere summer trickle, parents considered it a safe zone because the outlet was away from the roaring powerboats and jet skis that often churned the middle of the lake into a chaotic chop. If the kids wore life jackets and were headed for the outlet, entire afternoons could lazily pass before they would emerge from the overgrown reeds and paddle home.
I learned these stories and more from my former players at our preseason team retreats. These private, revealing tales of adventures away from the basketball floor paid huge personal dividends worth more than my measly coaching stipend. Flashlight tag was played on slender ribbons of land that separated the narrow outlet from adjoining private property. Groups sat cross-legged, sneaked cigarettes, and shared scary stories. Boys stole kisses from giggling girls and asked them to go steady, often offering a St. Christopher medal on a silver chain as a sign of the sacred union. The summer romances that were fervently initiated while floating in rowboats often dissolved on the same stagnant water six weeks later. Once-precious trinkets were hurled back in anger or tenderly returned into sweaty palms.
I surfaced from memory lane just as Poppy Kurri, the youngest girl, pranced toward the stage. Pink ribbons gathered two shiny brown pigtails. She grinned and waved; no stage fright was in sight. She was joined by Skagit County Sheriff Griff McCreedy.
“I’m going to be brief because I know you all are ready to taste to that pig we’ve got roastin’ out back,” Sheriff Mac said. “As many of you know, our county attorneys informed me that such a treasure trove as the one these girls found belongs to the owner. Since the owner in this case presumably would be Tyler, as shown by the markings on the bag and other confidential information submitted to us, we attempted to find any and all of the possible descendants. We published a notice as required by law and conducted what we felt was a thorough and complete investigation for related persons.
“Since we did not discover any indisputable family members—and I will point out there were several attempts to prove legitimacy—the finder gets the rights to the property. Finders keepers.”
The crowd mulled the statement and chatted quietly, like the scene in a courtroom following the testimony of an expert witness. The state of Washington owned the land on the south side of the outlet, while the Knight family held a sizable section that bordered the north.
Months ago, the attorney assured Bart Knight that they could make a case that the treasure was found on Knight land, and that the kids trespassed on his property to obtain it. And, since Knight was the property owner, he would have had a right to the treasure before the finder. The county, however, ruled against Knight on both counts. It maintained the treasure was actually found on state land and that the finder held priority.
“So, you get an idea of the complexity of the case,” McCreedy said. “The county did not have an easy time arriving at a conclusion, which was the main reason we took months before we made any announcement. And now, let’s eat!”
As the crowd turned toward the serving tables, I noticed an abrupt shoving match just inside the back door.
“The only thing complex about this case,” yelled Bart Knight, strutting down the center aisle with his cantankerous attor
ney in tow, “is how our elected officials cheated a taxpaying citizen out of his rightful property! Those damn stones are mine, and I’m here to tell all of you people that this ain’t over.”
McCreedy sidestepped a young family with a crying child and met Knight in the middle of the hall. “Bart, you know the decision is final. Both you and your attorney were informed in writing and in person.”
“Mr. Knight intends to seek damages from the state and personally from every person who voted on this decision,” said the attorney, the only person in sight with a white button-down shirt.
“Look, Counselor, this isn’t the place or the time,” McCreedy said.
“I’ll choose my own place and time, mister,” Knight said. “Figured everybody would be here so I could put them all on notice that I’m not done. And God help anybody I find on my lake property.”
The pair turned and stormed out the back door just as Stan O’Leary ducked in, his apron slathered with a rust-colored sauce. Stan collided with Knight’s attorney, who elbowed him away, but not before leaving an imprint on his white shirt that resembled Whidbey Island. Stan wiped his sweaty brow on an open palm and looked around the room.
“Geez, Coach, what’s wrong with those guys?” O’Leary said. “Anyway, we should have enough pork to feed ’em all, but it’ll be close. Mind grabbing those metal buffet pans and takin’ em to the fire pit? Wide Load will fill ’em up and get them into the kitchen.”
I stacked the stainless-steel trays under my arm and headed out the door to a covered area behind the building, to where Mitch Moore had already begun carving a whole pig he’d removed from a steel spit. The smells were usually reserved for summer. From five feet away, I could feel heat from the massive grill fashioned from a fifty-gallon metal drum.
“Hey, Coach,” Mitch said with a surprising amount of energy. “What’s shakin?”
I took a deep breath, avoided eye contact, and swung an arm toward the heavily laden tables. “Time to feed the masses.”
He turned toward the fire pit and adjusted his sweat-stained skull cap crafted from a yellow and red bandana. A ragged Washington High School sweatshirt flopped over the beltline of his baggy jeans.
“Haven’t seen Cheese here,” Mitch said and tipped me a curious wink. “I’m sure he’s probably tied up. With work or something else.”
“Yeah, I hoped he’d show,” I said. “Seems like the whole lake was inside that hall, though.”
He held his knife and fork down at his sides for a moment, dipped to brush the perspiration from his nose with his shoulder and stared off in the distance.
“Did you see that sorry-ass Crab team the last couple of weeks of the season? Looked like some of those boys just gave up. Mailed it in.”
I placed the trays at the end of the table and began to unstack them. “No, I didn’t. Heard they had a tough time putting the ball in the hole. Didn’t two of the kids get hurt?”
Moore returned to his cutting chores and plopped chunks of juicy pork into the pan closest to him. “Yeah, but that’s no excuse for how they finished. I think some kids were afraid to step up.”
O’Leary turned the corner of the building with a bottle of Bud in each hand. “Stop talking and keep cuttin’, Mitch. Kids are already getting plates, and the parents will be right behind ’em.”
“Well, maybe you could get the Coach to call a timeout,” Mitch said. “Lord knows he’s got at least one left over from the state title game.”
I shot Moore a what’s-up-with-that stare and took a step toward him before O’Leary moved in between us. He faced me, his free hand on his hip.
“You know, Ernie. I was hopin’ Cheese would make it to this thing, too. I was thinking about his dad just the other day. I had the post-hole digger out, punching some holes for a new split-rail fence behind our lake place near the road. Doggone if I didn’t dig up a cigar box some old logger or railroad man probably had left behind. Had a silver pocket watch, rosary beads, and one of those things docs wear around their necks? You know. A stethoscope? Anywho, made me think of Dr. Oliver and the care he gave my dad and granddad.”
I smiled at the mention then peered into the cooling embers of the big black drum “I heard your grandfather was one of the reasons this town succeeded. He helped a lot of folks get started.” I started for the chow line inside. Three steps later, I caught myself and pivoted back toward the fire. “By the way, did either of you guys see Ronnie Garcia today?”
O’Leary placed a hand under his chin. “Don’t believe I did, but I wasn’t looking for him, either. Mitch?”
“Naw,” Moore mumbled without looking up.
**
Barbara Sylanski gathered the remaining utensils scattered on the picnic tables that stretched across the length of the Grange Hall, then began peeling the white butcher paper from each table top.
“Coach, did you see those little kids dive into those desserts?” Barbara said. “It looks as if they spilled more than they ate.”
I helped her roll up the ice-cream-sopped paper. We both moved quietly past Sheriff McCreedy, who was talking to a reporter from the Bellingham News. After trashing the paper, I returned to the main hall with a push broom, collecting a pile of sauce-soaked napkins, plastic straws, foam cups, and garlic-bread crust.
When the man with the shiny star was finished with the reporter, he turned to find Barbara standing behind me with a dustpan, appearing more apprehensive than the setting dictated. Barbara glanced quickly around the room, looked blankly at the floor, then tried her best to maintain some semblance of eye contact with the sheriff.
“I dropped by my mom’s house this morning after church,” Barbara said as we both moved closer to listen. “Thought maybe I’d surprise her with some flowers and her favorite Danish. She’s been a real help, especially this past week. I mean, everybody looking for Linn—and me. Well, I went out to the garage to get the pruning shears, and, it was gone. My dad’s ’57 Chevy. It’s gone. I called the North Fork police and gave a statement.”
“What? I’m so sorry,” I said. “When do you think the break-in occurred?”
“It was really more like a walk-in. We always keep the side door to the garage unlocked. It’s so hard to say because we never go back there. My mom parks her car under the carport in the driveway. A couple of weeks ago, she took four days to visit my aunt in Olympia but returned for the school week. I can’t imagine anybody thinking they could drive that car in North Fork in broad daylight.”
“Right,” McCreedy said. “Quite a few local residents would know that car. Maybe it was one of those nights when your mother was gone. Is anything else missing? Cookie-jar cash? Maybe jewelry or your mom’s good silverware?”
“Whoever it was didn’t even go in the house. Besides, Mom’s entry doors are fairly thick and the locks have deadbolts. At first, I thought only the car was missing, but when I went to the back of the garage, I noticed our little safe was wide open. All of our other papers were still there—passports, baptismal certificates, deed to the house. The only thing not there was the title to dad’s car and an old diary we found several years ago.”
“I’ll go over to police headquarters and read the full report,” the sheriff said. “I’ll get Harvey to get a detective on it right away.”
McCreedy pulled a notebook from the top pocket of his brown county shirt and began scribbling some notes. “You figure the car was hotwired?”
“Oh, no,” Barbara said. “Dad always kept the key under the floor mat. It has been there for ages. Everybody in town knew it. We never really locked the safe, either. Just closed the metal handle.”
McCreedy frowned. “OK, what else comes to mind?”
Barbara looked down, then lightly touched a finger to her lips. “It’s that old diary that’s puzzling. I can’t think of anyone besides Linn who would even care about it.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
8:30 p.m., Sunday, February 6, 1982
The lines at the Gas ’N Go’s three pumps were
longer than usual, mainly because some of the folks driving home from the Grange event realized that the minimart now had the cheapest fuel in town, four pennies less a gallon than stations near the I-5 on-ramps. The familiar dark blue GMC Jimmy in front of me glistened in the moonlight so I leaned on the horn to see if I could get a rise out of its driver. I did. He bounced in his seat, nearly conking his floral scrub cap on the headliner.
“Why did I know it was you?” said Dr. Timoteo Mesa as he sauntered toward my bus, still in his blue hospital-issues after another weekend shift in the emergency room.
“Maybe I’m the only person in North Fork who recognizes genuine celebrities.”
He laughed and eased a bare forearm on my door just below the rolled-down window. “You know, your bus’s beep is pretty wimpy. Guy like you could use a more macho horn. And I like the new ding on the back panel. Really stands out.”
What ding? I leapt from the bus to look. Great. Must’ve been the cozy Grange parking lot.
Timoteo laughed at my discovery as I surveyed the damage. He’s been at my side often. The man attended more games and examined more Washington High athletes than any other physician in the county. You could fill a football stadium with just the kids that “Tim Table” had stitched and taped. I’ve seen him wrap a cast in the back of a school bus at two a.m., traipse to the far end of a hilly cross-county course in the snow to piggyback home a runner with a fractured ankle, and make countless ambulance rides from high school venues seem not so daunting for the fallen and frightened. He related with the kids because he’d been there, done that. His bedside—and benchside—manner put youngsters at ease.
We discussed the Grange dinner and Bart Knight’s theatrics.
“I guess he felt like we had to hear again how he was cheated out of his ‘due reward’,” I said.
Timoteo chuckled and glanced around the lot. “Some people are not very accepting. Bart came into the ER one night, blood streaming down his neck from a gash at the back of his head. It appeared somebody had conked him with a bottle, but he told the in-take nurse it was a work accident in his shop. When I came in the room, he got up and left. He told the nurse on the way out that the clinic needed to hire doctors with lighter skin.”