The Bear Mountain Secret

by Gayle Siebert

  Frieda takes the little bundle, slides the ribbon off, and sorts through them. “Looks like they’re all from the same person, although who? There’s no return address.” She passes the bundle back to Christine. “They’re addressed to Louise Klein. She lived in the big house kitty corner. Remember?”

  “Yeah, who could forget! She died a few years ago, right?”

  “Yes, just before the place blew up. That was some explosion! Remember I had to get new windows? Good thing the insurance paid for it. There were bits and pieces of that old house strewn all over town.”

  “That must be how this tin got here! I wonder why Dad didn’t find it back then.”

  “The forsythia was alive then. He must not have seen it.”

  “That Klein woman! The kids all thought she was a witch and were afraid of her. One Halloween I caught Trev and his friends with a carton of eggs, on their way out to egg her house.” She puts the letters back in the tin, closes it up, and they start back to the house.

  “Trevor? Really? Not Trevor!”

  “Even kids like Trevor get up to nonsense once in a while, Mom. And as pranks go, that one’s pretty harmless. I doubt she’d notice, and it sure wouldn’t’ve made that place look any worse.”

  “No. And I can see why they’d do it. Pretty exciting, sneaking up to that scary-looking old place in the dark on Halloween! I think she almost deserved it. I don’t imagine she gave out treats.”

  “Never did when I was a kid.”

  “I know you’ll think it’s silly,” Frieda says, “But her eyes! They were sort of penetrating, so dark you couldn’t see any pupils, and she seemed to look right through you. All the years she lived so near, I don’t think she ever spoke more than a few dozen words to me, and one dozen was when I went over to see if she needed anything after her husband disappeared. That’s got to be forty years ago, but I still remember those eyes! All that time living so close, and I never got to know her. She was really involved with that church group, the Children of Noah, you know?”

  “Yeah. It’s still around, but you can’t join without going through some sort of interview.”

  “How do you know that? Did you try to join?”

  “You’re kidding, right? It’s just what I heard. To get in, you gotta know the secret handshake or something. Seems ridiculous because most churches are happy to have new members.”

  “Well Louise Klein was right in tight with them, the big wigs always coming and going, all hours of the day and night.”

  They reach the comparative cool of the shaded patio. Frieda pushes the walker aside and sinks into the cushioned chair next to the table.

  Christine puts the tin box on the table and takes a chair across from her mother. She says, “Just as well you weren’t friends, Mom, being as she ‘disappeared’ her husband and kept his body!”

  “Well, no one knew about that, of course, might never have been found out if her daughter hadn’t been kidnapped and they were searching everywhere for her. That was after Louise died, though. I saw that girl working out in the yard when she came back for the funeral. She remembered me and said hello. We had a nice little chat. I always felt sorry for her. Sure don’t blame her for running away. Just lucky she wasn’t in the house when it exploded.”

  “That’s right, she had a daughter. Kathy?”

  “Yes.”

  “She was ahead of me in school so I never really knew her. Still don’t, other than I think she works at the insurance office.”

  “She does, and she married Rick Schoenfeld. Hermina’s son.”

  “Poor girl!”

  “Why poor girl?”

  “You must know what he’s like! Wonder how he got so good looking. He must take after his father.”

  “You don’t remember his father?”

  “Hmmm. Not really.”

  “Well, in his youth, he was really handsome. Knew it, too. Fooled around, ‘playing the field’ they called it, until finally one of them got pregnant. And didn’t she put him through! He was always having to buy her things. She had a mink coat, full length, not just a muskrat jacket like the rest of us. And jewelry! So she would let him back in the house, is what everyone said. His house, the Schoenfeld family farm! And her in her expensive coat, flashing all that jewelry, dressed up like that for the ladies aid meetings. But maybe she had good reason to be mad. The talk was that he never quit his tomcatting. Don’t look at me like that! And if you ever tell anyone I said that—”

  “I won’t. I guess Rick takes after his father in more ways than just his looks, then,” Christine says, “and if you ever tell anyone I said that!”

  “At least his wife is good looking. Was a hairdresser. Now she works at that investment office. First wife, that is. Kathy is pretty, too.”

  “Yeah. I hope for her sake he’s smartened up. She deserves better, growing up with a mother like that. And it looks like her mother had more secrets than just a body stashed in the house. Wonder why she kept these. Definitely not a woman’s handwriting. A boyfriend? Wonder if it was before or after she killed her husband. Maybe it’s the reason she killed him! This is too juicy! Let’s have a glass of wine, and read them!”

  “Well, it’s kind of early but I guess I’m ready for a glass of wine,” Frieda says.

  “I know I am.”

  “You always are.”

  “Says the woman who buys her wine in boxes.”

  Christine goes into the house and comes out with the gala keg and two glasses. She sets them on the table next to the biscuit tin, fills the glasses, then gets the letters out of the tin. She brings the bundle up to her nose and sniffs. “Musty! Hope they’re not ruined.” She shuffles through, sorting them by the dates on the postmarks. “Which one should we read first? I think I’ll start with the oldest and read them in order. Postmarks aren’t the greatest—ever heard of Dark River, B.C.? Looks like they’re decades old.”

  “You know, Chrissy,” Frieda says after a sip of wine, “I don’t feel right about this. I don’t think we should read them. They’re personal. They rightfully belong to her daughter.”

  Christine sits back and with a sigh, returns the letters to the tin. “I guess you’re right. I’ll take them to work with me and give them to Rick the next time he comes in.”

  The garbage truck comes rumbling down the lane. Christine trots out to ask the driver to take the can and its flattened lid, too.

  Four

  The Letters

  LETTERS. STILL IN envelopes, addressed to her mother, ripped open along the flap. Actual letters such as people wrote before there was e-mail, almost as old as she is. The handwriting is messy; more printing than writing, definitely masculine.

  “I’m afraid to read these,” Kathy says; she tucks them back inside the rusting Lebkuchen Schmidt box, closes the lid, and looks up at Rick.

  “Oh?” he says, eyebrows lifting. “Why? I thought you’d be glad to get them. There must be a reason your mother kept them all these years.”

  “She kept everything, remember?”

  “Yeah, but jumbled up in cardboard boxes, not in a tidy bundle like this. And tied in a ribbon? These must be special. I bet they’ll tell you a lot about her.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” She sets the box down on the kitchen table between them, takes a sip of her coffee, shrugs her shoulders and sighs. “I think I know enough about her. Looks like these are from before she murdered my father.”

  “Maybe it’ll explain why she did it. Or maybe, they’re from your father and will tell you more about him.”

  “I don’t care why she did it, if you’re thinking she might’ve had a good reason and I’ll forgive her!”

  “No, Runty, I don’t think—”

  “And I doubt these are from my father. I don’t remember ever seeing anything he wrote and although I don’t know much about him, I do know he was educated. His handwriting would be more, well, tidy and ordered, actual writing, not printing like he never got past grade four.”

  �
�Maybe he, and we’re just assuming it’s a he, only printed the address and the letters are in writing.”

  “Well, my father wouldn’t have spelled Pillerton with only one L, either. And no return address on the envelopes? Besides, he was living here, with my mother. Why would he write to her?”

  Rick shrugs. “You’re right, I guess. Who else—” His phone sounds a text alert. He picks it up off the table, reads the message, sends a quick response, and slides it into his shirt pocket as he gets to his feet. “Thought I’d putz around here for the rest of the day but now I have to go out again.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Ryan’s at the lentil field. Same old problem with the cutter bar on the swather. I’m gonna hafta run into Regina and pick up that part after all. Hope we don’t have to bring the damn thing back to the shop to switch it out.” He bends to kiss her, then rubs her shoulder. “See you tonight, Runty.”

  “Never a Saturday off.”

  “Not at this time of year. A farmer’s life.”

  “Don’t forget, we’re going to Sarah’s for supper.”

  “Her first family supper in her own home, how could I forget?”

  “You want to drop in on your mother when you come back, and see if she wants to come here for a bit before we leave? You could give her a lift.”

  “Why can’t she just walk over? And why would you want her to come here? Is there something you haven’t cleaned well enough she could take care of for you?”

  “I just thought it might be nice for her. She hasn’t been spending much time in the yard. And you know she hasn’t walked over here since she broke her hip. Maybe I can think of something for her to do. You know, so she feels useful.”

  “I didn’t know you liked her that much. She hasn’t exactly welcomed you into the family with open arms.”

  “She’s mellowing. I feel sorry for her.”

  “Don’t let her poor old woman act suck you in. She’s as healthy as a horse.”

  “I think she’s lonely, over there all by herself.”

  “If she hadn’t made such a stink about Ryan and Sarah sleeping together they’d probably still be living there, so she’s only got herself to blame.”

  “Doesn’t make it any easier for her.”

  “You’re sweet, Runty.” He plants a kiss on her head, checks to be sure his wallet is in his hip pocket, and gets a drink of water from the fridge. When he turns back, he asks, “what did you say you were going to town for, anyway? I could pick something up while I’m out.”

  “I need to shop. I told Sarah I’d bring a salad.”

  “Seriously? With a garden the size of ours you have to buy lettuce?”

  “No, not lettuce silly! I need avocadoes. She asked me for a Southwestern salad.”

  “Oh my gawd, don’t tell me we’re out of avocadoes!” He barks a laugh.

  “I have to swing by the office to sign some cheques, anyway.”

  “Talk about farmers never having Saturdays off! Why can’t Godzilla do it, she lives right in town. And when is she going to start paying you for all the extra hours?”

  “Management doesn’t get paid overtime, you know that. I imagine it’ll be even worse when we own the agency! Doesn’t matter. We need a few other things, too. I might as well shop for the week.”

  “Okay then, pick up a six pack while you’re at it.” He grimaces and continues with a groan, “I sure hope there’s going to be something besides rabbit food.”

  “Maybe I should get a dozen beer and some chips so you can fill up on that. And rabbit food? You know it’s not like that!” She clicks her tongue and frowns at him. He wiggles his eyebrows and grins.

  “I don’t know what Jeanie’s bringing,” Kathy continues, “likely dessert, since that’s her speciality. Your mother can usually be counted on for potato salad. I could get her to make it while she’s here. Sarah’s making vegan molé chimichangas, not too spicy, she said. You can eat those, it won’t kill you.”

  “Never would’ve believed a daughter of mine would come back from university a brainwashed vegan, and us raising cattle!”

  “You mean enlightened, an enlightened vegan. And I wouldn’t call those two old cows in the pasture with the horses, raising cattle.”

  “I should’ve shipped them with the rest before you got so attached. You see the looks Mutti gives me every time she brings the subject up?”

  “She doesn’t like the horses, either, even after Jeanie and I started riding, and you’d never ship them. Better not tell Mutti we’re looking for younger replacements! Anyway, I’m sure Sarah will make a few chicken molé chimichangas since Ryan is a carnivore too, but if not, she’s making hot dogs for the kids. You can have a couple of those, while the grownups eat the good food.”

  “Only if I can sit at the kids’ table.”

  “I’m sure that would be fine. You’d fit right in.” Despite herself, Kathy chuckles at the mental picture of this broad-shouldered six-foot-three man on a tiny chair with his knees up around his ears, hulking over a low table surrounded by Jeanie’s kids. “But don’t worry. I’ll put some chicken on your salad. Even though it means I have to handle your meat.”

  “I love it when you talk dirty! And people wonder what I see in such a bossy little runt.” He heads toward the door, picks his ballcap off the row of hooks and settles it on his head.

  “More likely they wonder why a sensible woman like me ever hooked up with the likes of you.”

  “They just credit your good taste,” he says as he turns to face her, favouring her with the wide grin that crinkles his eyes and still gives her a pleasant rush. “See you later, Runty.” The door closes behind him.

  Kathy gets to her feet and goes to the window in the living room with her coffee and the tin box. As she watches Rick’s truck disappear through the gap in the grove, she feels the familiar tug of hollowness at his leaving even for a short time, and marvels again at how she was lucky enough to have a second chance at happiness with her high school sweetheart. And how “Runty” has become an endearment, as pleasant as a kiss.

  She sinks into her favourite chair. With the box beside her on the lamp table, she finishes her coffee. I should water the garden before it gets any hotter, she thinks. I’ll do that before I go to town. Then she picks up the box and examines it as gingerly as if it might be booby-trapped. Before the fire and the years of rain, snow and mud, it must have been pretty; despite the rust, the embossed figures still show red and blue and metallic gold paint.

  How could a simple tin box survive the fire and explosion that destroyed her family home and wind up in the Flaman’s yard, intact? Is it a blessing or a curse that Mrs. Flaman found it half a decade later and realized where it came from? Then gave it to her daughter who works at the Gas-N-Go, who gave it to Rick when he was there this morning?

  She goes to the kitchen and makes another cup of coffee, then comes back to her chair and polishes the top of the tin with her shirt tail. It’s something she would have been drawn to as a little girl. Odd she can’t remember ever seeing it, not when she was little, and not even when she moved back after her mother’s death.

  Remember, she thinks, you didn’t make much progress sorting through all the stuff accumulated by three generations of your predecessors in that house before it all went BOOM! It could’ve been anywhere, and you might never have found it. Rick or her friend Penny might have found the box, saw it contained only letters, and passed it over like so many of the other boxes full of old papers. They were looking for a will, not letters, after all.

  She heaves a sigh and wonders again what their lives might be like if the fire and explosion hadn’t happened. If she’d left the beautiful but faulty 1920’s Art Deco lamp in the attic instead of letting Penny move it into the spare bedroom where she was staying. Hundreds of gold American Double Eagles, all gone. All but one. She strokes the coin on the chain around her neck, her only connection to her family, a reminder a decision that seems insignificant at the time can change th
e course of a person’s life. Like opening the door to let in the man who nearly killed her.

  She touches the scar where her earlobe used to be, not realizing she’s doing so. She is always conscious, though, of her mutilated index finger. The sight of it still gives her a jolt of rage and she feels no guilt at being glad the monster who did it was murdered.

  At last, she mutters, “Might as well get it over with.” She finishes her coffee, takes a deep breath, opens the lid and pulls out the letters. Arranging them in chronological order according to the postmarks, she selects the oldest one and begins reading.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Hunny bun,

  Yore pregnant? I thought you were on the pill. Why do you think its mine? I aint saying it aint just dont know how you can be sure. You no are plans we aint ready for this and so I think the best thing would be to get rid of it. I no this is a tough time for you. Its awful for me to being so far away from you. I want you to come live with me you no that but camp is no place for kids. You say you will leave are little girl with him. Thats a good plan. She thinks he’s her Daddy and he’s got a good job, steady job and so on. Married you even tho you was preggers and he’s got a House too but not for much longer ha ha!. You wait til you have the house then you sell the it leave the kid with him and come live with me. Thats are plan remember? Get rid of this one to and be more careful until its a good time for us to start are own family. I gotta go you no I love you and I am always yore Teddy Bear xoxox

  Hunny Bun

  Why did you wait so long now its to late to get rid of it? dont worry I will do right by you I told you that but You should stay there until the babies born. Its safer for you to have it there so yore close to a Hospital. Dont tell him you want a divorce until after when you and the baby are safe. Its good in a way as its more ammuni amunishin better for getting the house you have 2 kids who need it get the car too.Any way think about it its just a few months. Mean time Im getting a place for us like I told you and I will get one with a room for the baby to if you want to bring this one with you and when Im done this job and I have a place I will come get you. Its only a few more months until we are together forever. You know I always loved you remember all those days out in the hills? are speshul place? You were only thirteen but the hottest little p some hot number I think about it all the time of coarse now I got lots more resent memories. Ha ha!