by T. R. Kelly
“Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”
**
The rescue turned into a meal, and I found myself gazing at Jessie McQuade over a light dinner at the Big Lake. I’d discovered that one of her compelling qualities was the ability to focus on her conversational partner, despite possible chaos or boredom. Harvey could be having a heart attack three steps from her desk, but her eyes rarely left the speaker in front of her. When they did, it was to provide the needed interlude that separated interested eye contact from mindless staring. More importantly, she never peeked over your shoulder to see if a better option had just entered the room.
As the flame of red-glass candle on our corner table danced a thin shadow across her face to the wall, the size and energy of her eyes captivated me. Even after she settled down from retelling the harrowing car sighting and subsequent plunge into the roadside culvert.
“So, you’re probably thinking this stupid accident at least got you out of seeing a film with a bunch of stuffy intellectuals.” She smiled.
“No, no. I’m a movie guy. It’s just that I haven’t gotten out much lately.”
She set her elbows on the table, made a triangle with her arms, and rested her chin in her folded fingers. “What’s your master plan, Ernie Creekmore? Where are you going from here?”
I shifted my weight in the uncomfortable captain’s chair and glanced around the Big Lake’s dining room. The pieces to my big puzzle still seemed scattered and distant. Oddly, I felt no qualms about discussing them with the person opposite me, even though I knew little about her.
“Good question,” I replied. “It’s probably time to put more effort into figuring things out. I enjoy the liveliness of young people yet I’m not terribly eager to get back into the classroom. But coaching… Well, I’d say a re-entry is likely and probably not far down the road.”
Her eyes glowed brighter. She reached across the table and briefly touched my hand. “Coach Creekmore back on the court. How exciting! Wait until I tell ...”
“Now hold your horses, lady. I’m not quite ready to see it in the paper this weekend.”
“Well, I know, but it will be big news around here. Have you informed the high school that you want to come back?
“It’s not that easy. And I wouldn’t want to disrupt what Coach Morais is doing with the Crabs. He lost a ton of seniors, and he’s in a new league. Despite what some boosters say, he’s got a lot out of those kids.”
She sipped her chardonnay and dabbed a red napkin to her lips. “Speaking of kids,” she said in a near-whisper, “what’s your honest take on Linn Oliver?”
Honest take? Did others harbor the notion that I’ve been fooling myself? I wrapped both hands around my Rainier bottle and leaned in closer. “His competitive passion is my main concern. The young man lives for playing at an elite level. How far would he go once he gets a taste of what could still be possible? And, would those measures—whatever they might be—make him crazy?”
She nodded slowly and then said nothing for several minutes. I felt comfortable in her silence; she apparently had the gift of quiet. But when she decided to break the silence, she shattered it. Big-time.
“You mentioned re-entry into coaching. What about re-entry into a relationship?”
I could feel my eyebrows move higher on my forehead. “Truthfully, I haven’t taken the time to even consider what might fit. Cathy and I were really partners, and so many couples I see today are not. I guess I’ve been using that as an excuse not to try.”
She smiled and touched my hand again, this time for a moment longer. “Well, this is the third time I’ve spoken to you in the same day. I was hoping there just might be some merit to what they say about the third time being the charm.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
6:40 a.m., Tuesday, February 8, 1982
By the time Jim Dolan, Jr., found me in a booth against the back wall of Weller’s Restaurant, I’d scribbled my to-do list for the day, including giving Harvey a rundown on what Jessie had said about Ross’s Chevy. I’d also inhaled a cherry strudel square about the size of Seattle. My fork rested on a dessert plate sprinkled with sugar flakes and a trail of gooey pink jam.
“Just couldn’t wait, eh?” Dolan said.
“No discipline when it comes to baked goods,” I said. “So, couldn’t convince the old man to join us?”
“You know, I went over there, and the old Pontiac was gone. My guess is that he’s made a road trip to visit one of the sibs. Anyway, at least he wasn’t catatonic on the couch, glued to those damn early-morning reruns of Bonanza.”
I showed him the purchase-and-sale agreement and pointed to the critical lines.
“Look, Ernie, I’m not going to counter this thing,” Junior said. “Maybe these people”—he fingered the first paragraph—”would go for a higher price, but a few more thousand dollars would not be worth another property-tax payment or the anxiety of gambling until after Memorial Day for a potential stream of new lookers.”
Junior pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and began initialing and signing at every yellow-highlighted place. “Take this to the other agent and see if you guys can get the final signatures. Should be easy because I don’t think we have changed a thing. I know I am going to miss this place in August, but it doesn’t even enter my mind on a stormy night in February.”
He sat up and pulled his feet closer to the chair. “Tell me something. I understand these people know what they are doing and really want to be at the lake. But if they sign, can they walk away from the deal simply because they get cold feet about Linn being missing? Or, can they nitpick the structural inspection to disguise their concern and get out of buying the place?”
My buyers did not walk away from deals. I knew most of them, coached and taught with many of them, and guided them through escrow. These buyers were not my customers, but I saw nothing bogus about them.
“If a buyer really wants to get out of a deal, he is going to find a way to do it,” I said. “Just like anything else. If a burglar wants to break into your home bad enough, they are going to find a way to get in. Given all the publicity in Linn’s case, you would think the buyers are already aware that he is missing.”
I didn’t know if I wanted to believe what I just said.
“Is there any information I need to update or clarify since I signed the listing back in September?” Dolan said.
“Nothing comes to mind, but I’ll be sure to corner Cookie today, get her take on it, and go through the file. You are certainly not selling because Linn went missing. The house has been on the market nearly six months, and he was living there most of that time.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
7:45 a.m., Tuesday, February 8, 1982
I headed straight to the office and arrived much earlier than usual. An old flycaster friend of my dad’s had left a message on the answering machine about listing a cabin I had never seen, off the Jim Creek Road near Trafton. Not only did I have to get up to speed on the place, I also needed to make an appointment with Dr. Crehan about the on-and-off sensation in my fingers, follow up with the buyers’ agent regarding the Dolan deal, and get on Harvey’s schedule about Ross Sylanski’s Chevy.
I dialed my dad in Yakima, hoping to catch him before his morning tour of the orchards and quiz him about a property owned by one of his longtime fishing buddies on the west side of the Cascade Mountains. When he answered, I forgot how much I loved hearing his early-morning snarl. “Are you going to have some decent Tiltons this year, or am I going to have to go elsewhere for good apricots?”
“They’d be better if you came over here and picked ’em this summer. Son, it’s good to hear your voice.”
“Same here, Dad. Say, I’m heading up to see the McCord place off the Jim Creek Road. Have you ever been in it?”
“Yeah, tight as hell, and Bob keeps all his stuff in tip-top shape. If he’s sellin’, somebody’s going to get a great getaway. You might put some of your A-list guys on notice because there are f
ishermen who would snap that place up.”
“Great. That’s what I needed to know. Any dates this weekend?”
“Nope. Still can’t find anybody to match your late mother. Sorry, son, but I don’t want you be as lazy in that regard as me.”
“Right, right. Got that. Now, switching gears ...”
“OK, shoot.”
“Did I ever run off and play hoop without telling you or Mom?”
“Well, you did all the time. But do you mean, overnight or something?”
“Yeah. When I didn’t check in.”
“Twice. No, wait, once. Your mother forgot that one time when her memory was starting to fade. But you went to Bellevue at the last minute with some AAU team, and we didn’t know until the next day or so. I’m glad you reminded me ’cause I’m still pissed.”
I laughed. “Can’t believe I didn’t call and at least leave a message.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t like you, but I remember you got caught up in some last-minute shuffle. Your mother and I thought you were at the Yakima Y all night. Say, I got the truck runnin’ outside. Call again, soon, OK?”
“Right, Dad. Thanks.”
I put the phone down and picked up the newspaper. As soon as I reached the local roundup, my heart sunk and I laid the paper out on the table in front of me.
Search for Skagit County Man Called Off
The U.S. Coast Guard and Kitsap County Sheriff’s Office have called off the search for a Skagit County man who has been missing since his abandoned car was found last week on a Washington State ferry.
“There was no reasonable expectation that he was going to be found alive, unfortunately,” said Judith Slattery, Coast Guard spokesperson. “As you can understand, the Puget Sound—we all know what it’s like—can be quite cold and unforgiving especially this time of year.”
Slattery said a ground search will scour the shorelines in the next few days in the hopes of recovering the body of Linnbert (Cheese) Oliver, 23, who was last seen participating in a recreational-league basketball game near the University of Washington campus.
Oliver, a highly touted high school athlete from North Fork, accepted a scholarship to Washington after a vigorous national recruiting competition.
Slattery said that while the incident is still under investigation, the case is now being treated as a suicide.
The paper slid from my hands and floated to the floor. My arms flopped to my sides. I coasted backward on the chair’s tiny wheels and stared at the ceiling. This was it? The first step to closure for the best kid I’d ever been around? I was now two-for-two because I had not gotten over the loss of the best woman I’d ever known.
The office phone buzzed. I rarely answered the office lines, but I picked it up immediately, hoping the caller would address an entirely different topic. No such luck. Austin Ragsdale was on the line.
“Say, I saw couple of the players from our rec league at the Husky game Sunday afternoon at Hec Ed,” Austin said. “Anyway, I got to talking with these guys at halftime, and it turns out an old buddy of mine moved to the West Sound a little over a year ago. Took a job at the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard. Interesting guy. Had gone all over the world just fixing props. You know those big cruise ships that run aground on a reef in the middle of some exotic island, well, Bobby ...”
“Sounds like quite the life, Rags, but I--”
“Well, it turns out that I introduced Bobby to Linn at a three-on-three tournament in Spokane three or four years ago. He ended up playing for us on the last day when our third guy got hurt. Bobby and Linn stayed in touch and Linn even invited him up to the lake last fall when Bobby was heading to Vancouver--”
“All good, Rags, but tell me how--”
“So, once Bobby gets squared away on the new job, he recruits some players at the shipyard to play buckets one night a week at Bremerton High. They decide to enter a team in the Silverdale Community College winter league, but they always need players. Some of their guys are in sales and have to travel out of town for work.”
“So you think Linn was headed over there to play for them last Tuesday night?”
“From what I heard at the UW game, they were counting on Cheese, but he never showed. Had to start the game with only four guys. Funny thing, they actually ended up doing OK. Ran this four-man box defense until a fifth player floated in the door midway through the second quarter. I guess Holly was more concerned than pissed about Cheese and the lack of bodies for the game but ...”
“Austin, slow down,” I said. “You lost me at Holly.”
“Bobby Hollingsworth,” he said. “Holly’s my buddy who moved over there and organized the team. I should have thought of that the other night when you asked me, but you were asking me about a girl.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
10 a.m., Tuesday, February 8, 1982
The title company informed me that a preliminary report on the Dolan property was already in the works, thanks to an earlier request from the buyer’s agent. I reluctantly dialed Mitch Moore to get on his schedule to pump the septic, per county requirement when a home is sold, but his message machine was full. There were better servicers but Mitch recently had paid Cookie a pretty penny for the “first right to pump” on all of our deals east of I-5. By making the call, I had done my duty.
I debated when to drive over and track down Mitch and couple that trip with a visit to Harvey Johnston about the call from Austin Ragsdale. Peggy Metzger tapped me on the shoulder as I hunkered down in my cluttered cubicle. “There’s someone holding for you on line three.”
I shrugged and punched the line.
“Yes, Mr. Creekmore, I am the agent representing the buyers in the Dolan transaction.” She sounded like an efficient executive who made lists and then checked off the completed items with a sharp pencil. She got to business. First, we agreed on a title company.
“Now,” she continued, “according to the contract, the sellers are to physically show where the property lines are located to my buyers. I know they have found two of the corners—there are steel stakes in the ground where the lawn meets the beach—but he has yet to locate them on the road side of the property. When would Mr. Dolan be available to accommodate us, or might you prefer to handle this task in his stead?”
I remember finding all the corner stakes last year when I listed the property but feared the county might have covered the roadside markers when it repaved the lake road in October. Besides, if a guy as thorough as Schwager, a fastidious accountant, couldn’t find them, they probably weren’t there.
“Tell you what,” I said. “Let me know when you want to meet up there. I’ve seen them and know where they should be, but I don’t know if we can easily find them. If we can’t, the width of property is also marked by the power poles at the road. I’ll also fax you the most recent survey for your files. Shows the poles, too.”
The agent spoke as if she approved of my plan and promised to call me back with a time her buyers could meet us at the lake. We covered other business, which was routine until we hit upon Mitch Moore’s unavailability for the septic pumping. She wanted to move the deal along and suggested another septic person who often worked with her office. I couldn’t really say no.
“Thank you, Ernie, for helping me expedite this process. I can tell it’s going to be smooth sailing working with you. If we can pull all of this together by the end of the week, I don’t see any reason why we couldn’t push the closing date ahead. My people would really like to gain access by spring break so that they can begin adding their personal touches. They’re very creative people.”
Creative people. Creative financing. Pushy agent?
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Noon, Tuesday, February 8, 1982
Harvey told me to meet him for lunch at the Streamliner Diner, a popular lunch-only joint a block from the courthouse. As I yanked open the side door to look for him, I nearly pulled Jesse McQuade to the ground as she left the restaurant. I lunged and caught her before she lost her balan
ce, gently steadying her from behind. Her leather jacket felt soft and cozy.
“Whew, that was close,” Jessie said, removing a shoe and checking its heel. Her cheeks grew rosy as she rolled her head to the side, straightening her hair.
“I am so sorry, Jessie,” I said. “I was in such a hurry to catch Harvey.”
“Oh, no worries, whatsoever. A coach such as yourself might say that was a nice save, or something along those lines. And again, thanks for the save last night.”
She hand-brushed, then inspected her pleated pants and smiled the way a woman does when she’s not concerned about using the correct athletic phrase. She looked over the shoulder to see Harvey hobbling down the sidewalk toward us and leaned closer, pulling my arm to her side.
“You know, I did enjoy being with you last night, and I appreciated you following me home. I also need to find a way to make up for that missed film. Perhaps we can catch another movie, maybe dinner, in the next few weeks?” She released my arm and swayed away, swiping quickly at her bottom for unseen dust. She was not the type of woman who would look back to measure the effect.
“What was that all that about?” Harvey said, sliding an arm into his brown topcoat. “And don’t tell me she was asking you who would win the Pac-10 title.”
“Probably those kitty-cats from Arizona,” I replied. “But, no, it was more about last night. She mentioned you had an especially fat wallet today and would be more than happy to buy me lunch.”
Harvey fastened the belt of his coat and turned up the collar. “Wrong on both counts, but let’s grab a bite anyway.”
We sat at a window booth, and I started to review the previous evening with Jessie and what led to my towing her out of a ditch. He cocked a questioning eyebrow. “What kind of odds you giving it was Ross’s?”
“It’s hard to say. But I don’t see Jessie as somebody with a flighty imagination.” We ordered our food. After the waitress left, Harvey went back to his window stare.
