With that, a second woman joined her from inside the house. She, too, was dressed in what was probably the style of Dolly’s era, a tight black dress with lots of spangles, gaudy jewelry, and black spike heels.
“This is Pearl,” the first woman said. “I’m Princess.”
“Hello, Princess and Pearl,” I said. “I take it the museum is open.”
Princess batted long, dark eyelashes at Bill, placed a hand on his arm, and cooed, “It’s always open for a handsome fella like you.”
“We’d like to see the museum,” I said.
“Be my guest,” Pearl said. “Only five dollars.”
I started to reach into my purse, but Bill waved me off. He handed her a twenty-dollar bill and said, “Keep the change.”
“Thank you, kind sir. Enter.”
We stepped through the door and immediately were faced with a narrow set of wooden stairs. Princess was our guide; Pearl remained outside to try and drum up business from passersby. We went up to the second floor.
“This is where Dolly lived until she died in 1975,” Princess said. “She was eighty-seven and lived alone. Dolly was a very proud woman, wouldn’t accept hand-outs or help from anyone. Toward the end, she had to climb up and down the stairs on her hands and knees.”
“She left quite a legacy,” I said.
Princess laughed. “She was a real character in Ketchikan—bigger than life, that’s for sure.”
We continued our guided tour of Dolly Arthur’s house. I kept glancing at Kathy to see her reaction. This was, after all, where her aunt Dolly had spent most of her life, dispensing sexual favors to the miners and fishermen of the area and acting as madam for the women who worked for her.
The second-floor bedroom was surprisingly large for homes of that era. I mentioned it, and Princess explained that after the brothel closed and the house became Dolly’s home, she had a wall removed, turning the upstairs into a larger bedroom where she spent most of her time until her death.
Princess opened a closet door and pointed to a nail protruding from the wall. “Behind that nail is a secret compartment where Dolly hid her supply of whiskey,” she said. “The girls who worked for Dolly made more money from serving drinks than they did from serving up sexual favors.”
“Mind if I look?” I asked.
“Sure. Go ahead,” Princess replied.
I pulled on the nail, and a portion of the wall came with it. Inside was a large space with shelves. Did I believe that the secret to Wilimena’s disappearance would be found in that cubbyhole where bottles of liquor were once stashed? No such clue emerged, of course, and I replaced the panel.
“How many visitors do you get every day?” Bill asked as he ran his hand over a pink chenille bedspread that covered a sizable bed. A lamp draped in red velvet was attached to the headboard.
“Depends on the day,” Princess said. “Rainy days are good. People come in to get out of the rain. We get lots of rain here.” She laughed. “Other places measure rain in inches. We measure it in hundreds of inches. But we don’t get much snow. That’s good.”
“Could we see the downstairs?” I asked.
“Sure,” Princess said, leading us from the bedroom and down the staircase.
Like the upstairs floor, the downstairs one was covered in linoleum.
“This was Dolly’s bedroom when she was still in business,” said Princess. “The girls used the upstairs rooms to entertain their male guests. Dolly did a lot of needlework. That’s some of it on the table.”
I examined what Princess had pointed to. Along with other attributes, Dolly had a deft hand with needle and yarn.
The kitchen contained a large stove and not much else. A small room off the kitchen was, Princess explained, another “parlor” where male guests were entertained. “Lots of married men came down to the house over the ‘Married Men’s Trail,’ ” she added, giggling. “Sort of a private way so nobody would see them, especially their wives. You can take a walk on it when you leave here.”
As we prepared to leave, we stood in the entry hall and thanked Princess for the tour. I looked over at a rusted metal tank whose side had been cut away.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“A urinal. Dolly always filled it with ice before the men arrived.”
“Oh. And that?” I said, referring to a heavy piece of furniture whose single drawer was secured with a formidable padlock.
“That’s where Dolly kept her money,” Princess explained, “locked up safe and sound.”
“What’s in it now?” Kathy asked.
“Nothing,” Princess said. “Just some things Dolly’s niece left.”
It was as though a bomb had gone off in the small, confined space of the Dolly Arthur Museum.
“Her niece?” I said.
“Uh-huh,” Princess confirmed. “She stopped by here a few weeks ago.”
I didn’t have to suggest to Kathy that she show Willie’s photograph to our guide.
“That’s her,” Princess said.
“She was here?” Kathy said.
“Right. A nice gal. Kind of funny. Her name is Wilimena, only she calls herself Willie.”
“What did she leave with you?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Princess responded. “Pearl spent more time with her. Ask her.”
Kathy and Bill stayed inside as I went out to the boardwalk, where Pearl was wooing tourists.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Princess told us that Dolly Arthur’s niece was here a few weeks ago.”
Pearl, who’d been smoking a cigarette through an elegant holder, removed the butt and ground it out beneath her shoe. “That’s right,” she said. “Wilimena Copeland. That was Dolly’s real name, you know. Copeland. Thelma Copeland.”
“Yes, I know. I understand Wilimena left something with you.”
Pearl nodded and made a pitch to a family that included two small daughters. “Come,” the mother said, grabbing her children’s hands and propelling them away from us. “It’s a brothel,” she hissed at her husband, who seemed interested in hearing more from Pearl.
“We’re trying to find her,” I said.
“Who?”
“Dolly Arthur’s niece, Wilimena Copeland. She disappeared from Ketchikan.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No, I’m not. I’m with her sister, Kathy. We’re from Maine, and we’ve come to Alaska in the hope that we can find out what happened to Wilimena.”
“Wow! I’m really sorry to hear that.”
“What did she leave with you?” I asked.
She lit another cigarette, placed it in the holder, and took a deep drag. “I don’t think that it would be appropriate for me to tell you. I mean, she left it here for safekeeping, and we promised we’d look after it.”
“I understand,” I said. “It’s just that—”
“You know,” she said, “confidentiality and all, like lawyers and clients, or doctors and patients.”
“I admire your loyalty,” I said, “but there’s more at stake here than that. We’re working with the Alaska State Troopers. In fact, we just left two of them a little while ago. I’d hate to have to call them to bring along a warrant.”
“No, don’t do that.”
“Well?”
“It’s her sister, you say?”
“Right.”
“I suppose that would make it all right. Maybe she could show me some identification.”
“I’m sure she’d be happy to.”
The second cigarette was extinguished, and we went inside, where Kathy obliged Pearl’s need for identification. Pearl and Princess left us alone for a minute as they conferred in the kitchen. When they returned, Pearl said, “Okay, we’ll let you see what she left with us.”
We stood there like characters in a motion picture who after a lengthy and dangerous journey have finally come upon the object of their search, a long-lost ark containing a king’s ransom. In this case, of course, the treasure would hopefully be a hin
t as to Wilimena’s whereabouts.
Pearl had fetched a key while in the kitchen. She ceremoniously used it to open the padlock, removed it from its hasp, and slowly, deliberately slid the drawer open. Kathy, Bill, and I strained to look over her shoulder as the drawer’s contents were revealed—a small, tan leather bag approximately eight inches long and four inches wide. A zipper ran the length of it. Pearl picked it up, held it in both hands for a moment, and handed it to Kathy.
“It’s Willie’s!” Kathy exclaimed. “She’s had it for years. She never travels without it.”
“Open it,” Bill said.
Kathy looked at Pearl and Princess, who discreetly walked away. Kathy undid the zipper and removed the first item from the bag, placing it on the top of the piece of furniture.
“Look,” she said. “It’s the digital recorder Willie bought in Seattle.”
It certainly looked like the Sony recorder the man in the electronics shop had shown us. I picked it up and examined it more closely. I was again surprised at its small size, only slightly larger than a cigarette lighter.
“What else is in there?” Bill asked.
“Just this,” said Kathy, holding up an envelope.
“Open it,” I said.
She did. Inside were the names and addresses of the Glacial Queen’s staff to whom Wilimena had promised gifts once she’d found the gold. Kathy shoved it into her jacket pocket.
“I suggest we listen to what’s on that recorder,” I said. I handed it to Bill. “Do you know how to work this thing?” I asked. “It has all these tiny buttons.”
“Sure,” he said. “It only looks complicated.”
He pushed one of the buttons, but I stopped him. “Not here,” I said. “Let’s take it outside.”
“Good suggestion,” Kathy said.
As we started to leave the museum, Pearl called, “Hey, where are you going with that?”
“Outside,” Bill said. “We want to listen to what’s on the recorder.”
“I don’t know,” Pearl said.
“Why don’t you call police headquarters?” I suggested. “Ask for Trooper McQuesten. He’ll vouch for us.”
That seemed to satisfy her, at least for the moment. We left the building and walked to where a small section of the boardwalk jutted out, providing space for a bench. “Ready?” Bill asked once Kathy and I had taken seats on either side of him.
“Go ahead,” I said.
He pushed a button or two. We waited.
“Hi, Kathy,” the female voice said.
Kathy gasped. “It’s Willie,” she said.
Wilimena Copeland continued: “I bet you think it’s funny, hearing me on this little recorder. You always kid me about never writing when I take a trip, not even a postcard, and I know that I should stay in touch when traveling. But I always did hate to write. Remember when we were in school, and I used to ask you to write my term papers? Maybe it’s because I have such terrible handwriting. I should’ve been a doctor.
“So I decided the best thing was to get myself a little tape recorder and talk into it whenever I’m on a trip. I thought I’d get a recorder that had one of those little tiny tapes that I could send you, but the nice man in the store where I bought this recorder said tapes were old-fashioned, and you know that the last thing I ever want to be considered is old-fashioned.” She giggled at this point, then went on.
“The salesman said I could hook this up to my computer, and that what I said into it would come up on the screen, just as though I’d written it. I know I’d never be able to figure something like that out, so maybe I’ll just send this whole recorder to you and you can listen for yourself.
“Actually, Kathy, if this were just any other trip, I probably wouldn’t have bothered buying a recorder. But this isn’t an ordinary trip. Far from it. When I sent you that note about us becoming rich, I meant it. Rememberwhen I lost those papers about Aunt Thelma? Well, your disorganized sister finally found them. Tada! It took me a while to figure out what was in the papers, but when I did, I almost had a heart attack. There were always those rumors about Aunt Thelma having been given a whole bunch of gold by that guy she used to go with, Lefty something or other. I never paid much attention, but lots of times I had little daydreams about finding that gold and becoming a rich woman. Not just me. You and me, Kathy. We would both be rich and travel the world like queens, with private jets and the best suites in the fanciest hotels, a couple of jet-setting sisters with all sorts of dashing, handsome men pursuing us. I know, I know, that’s not the kind of life you’ve ever wanted. But I bet you could get used to it once you experienced it.
“Anyway, sis, I did figure out what was in those papers, and once I did, I made up my mind to see whether Aunt Thelma’s gold really did exist. And you know what? I think it does exist, and I’m here in Ketchikan to go after it.
“It’s been an interesting trip so far. Originally, I intended to come directly to Ketchikan, but I decided I might as well enjoy a cruise as part of the experience. If the gold didn’t pan out—pardon the pun—I’d at least have had some fun. I must say that I did meet a lot of fascinating people on the ship, including a cute little Frenchman named Maurice. He was teaching passengers on the cruise how to speak French. He was kind of funny with his pencil-thin mustache and Continental ways. The problem was that I finally figured out that his interest in me had to do with the gold. I
know, I know, I shouldn’t have told anyone why I was on the trip. But you know me, Kathy. Keeping things to myself has never been part of my gene pool. I’m still worried about Maurice, and expect him to show up here in Ketchikan at any time. Just so you know, I’m sitting at this moment on a secluded little pier talking into this silly machine. God, I have never seen so many tourists in one place in my life, or so many jewelry stores.” Another giggle. “I bought a cup of coffee and brought it with me to this quiet spot where I could dictate this note to you. I hope the recorder is working. I’d hate to do all this talking and have nothing come out.
“So where was I? Oh, right. Another person I met on the cruise was the ship’s security officer. His name is Kale. When I told him someone had broken into my cabin—twice!—he just shrugged and said he couldn’t find any evidence of it. Jerk! I know somebody was rummaging around the cabin, no matter what he says. I didn’t like him one bit!”
Kathy slapped me on the arm. “Same as you, Jess,” she said.
Willie continued: “I just looked at my watch and realized I’d better get on my horse. Here’s why. I went to Aunt Thelma’s house—I guess I should call her Aunt Dolly—and introduced myself to the women who work there. Can you imagine that our aunt used to run a brothel and that they’ve turned it into a museum? She’s really famous in Alaska. I visited her grave. It’s in a pretty little place called Bayview Cemetery. Her plot is number forty-nine forty-nine. People say that when she died, every newspaper up and down the West Coast carried a big obituary about her. Imagine that, Kathy, a famous prostitute and madam in our family. Momma would turn over in her grave.
“Anyway, I went to the museum that used to be Aunt Dolly’s house of ill repute and got friendly with the women who work there as guides. You should see what they wear. I guess that’s the way prostitutes dressed in those days. They were really nice and let me hang around for a long time. I mean, once they knew who I was, I didn’t even have to pay the entrance fee. They left me alone to just sort of soak up the atmosphere. That was what I wanted, to be left alone, so that I could find what I was looking for. According to the papers I lost and then found again, Dolly had a map that showed where the gold was hidden, and I figured that after all these years, anyone could’ve taken the map and grabbed the gold for themselves. Maybe if there had been only one map, that would’ve happened. At one point, when the guides were out front trying to drum up business, I found a key that opened a padlock that secured a drawer in a piece of furniture in the hallway. Dolly must’ve been pretty smart, besides being a good businesswoman. There were at least te
n maps in the drawer, so if anyone did know that Dolly had a map leading to the gold, they wouldn’t know which one it was. But I figured it out from the papers I went through. Sure enough, one of the maps had a little symbol on it that you really had to squint to see. It was the same symbol I picked up from the papers. Voilà! I was sure I had the right one.
Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote) Page 20
