Traces of the Past

by Steve Laracy

  “Where is everyone?” I asked.

  Felicity turned around and grabbed a dish towel to dry her hands. “Silas left about a half hour ago to drum up some business. Mr. Costello still hasn’t returned.”

  “Maybe he skipped town to avoid paying his bill.”

  “I doubt it. His bill isn’t that much. And besides, most of his belongings are still here. And Fred didn’t come home last night,” Felicity continued.

  “I saw him leave the tavern with Lucky O’Leary last night. I’m a little bit worried about him.”

  “If he left with Lucky, I’m sure he’s okay,” Felicity said. “He often goes up in the hills with Lucky to help him mine for gold. He says he prefers working for Lucky more than some of his other jobs. Lucky doesn’t talk much, but Fred says it’s easier on the ears than working for Mrs. C and Rogers and easier on the feet than working for Indian Charlie. Fred will be back in a day or two. It looks like it’s just the two of us for breakfast.”

  “Sorry,” I said, grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter. “You’re on your own. Bert’s picking me up to go get my car, and he should be here just about now. I’ll be back in a little while.” I peeled the banana, dropped the peel in the garbage, and exited the kitchen, eating as I went.

  “Don’t let any of those big-time Bell City girls steal your heart away,” Felicity hollered after me.

  “I’ll do my best,” I hollered back.

  Bert was just pulling up as I walked onto the porch. I went down the steps and climbed in the passenger seat.

  “I appreciate the lift,” I said to Bert. “Do you mind picking up Doc on the way? He also has business in Bell City.”

  “No problem,” he said. He made a slight detour. Doc was waiting by the curb in front of his house.

  It looked like the bad weather was about to return. The sky was filled with dark clouds, and a few raindrops were peppering the windshield.

  As we headed out of town, we saw Silas Collins headed down Fourth Street, toting his burlap bag of lightning rods.

  “I’m no expert,” Bert observed, “but if I were Silas, I don’t think I’d want to be walking down the street in the middle of a thunderstorm carrying a bag full of ungrounded metal.”

  “That does seem risky,” I said, “but Silas appears to know his business. He always seems to be able to stay a step or two in front of the lightning.”

  “Maybe so, but I’d also hate to be two steps away from lightning when it struck.”

  “You’ve got a point there, Bert.”

  Bert explained that he taught second-grade students at the Bell City Elementary School. Although he had a degree in English literature, he preferred teaching younger students.

  “Once they reach high school, most kids are set in their ways,” Bert said. “You can reach a few of them, but some are already turned off and tuned out. Kids of six and seven are still eager to learn, and it’s easier to point them in the right direction.”

  “Why are you teaching now, in the middle of summer recess?” I asked.

  “I teach summer classes and remedial classes and do tutoring at the school for the older students who still care. It’s a full-time job these days.”

  “Does Millie work?” I asked.

  “She also teaches second grade in Bell City. Her degree is in ancient history.”

  “Another class in the same school?”

  “No, it’s the same class. We split the job; some days I go in and she stays home with the kids. Other days she goes in. We go week by week. We both know the curriculum, so there’s no problem with the switch.”

  “Sort of like Hilda and Frank sharing the diner,” I remarked.

  “Sort of,” Bert laughed, “except there are two of us.”

  Bert pulled into Harry’s garage to drop me off.

  “Thanks, Bert,” I said, then turning to Doc as I got out, “I’ll pick you up when I get done here. Here, you take this.” I pulled the bag with the syringe out of my pocket and handed it to Doc. “Maybe Doctor Cooper can do something with it.”

  Doc nodded. “Charlie’s office is at the hospital. I’ll wait for you there.”

  Bert took off for the hospital and I headed in to settle up with Harry. Harry, cigarette still dangling from his mouth, took an arm but thankfully left my leg and gave me the keys to the Buick. I drove her over to the hospital with no problems, pulled into the lot, and waited for Doc.

  About fifteen minutes later Doc emerged from the hospital and got in the car.

  “Sorry to make you wait. Charlie can get longwinded.”

  “That’s okay. Did you find out anything?”

  “Charlie will send the syringe off to the lab to have it tested—without Doctor Baker’s knowledge—but he’s pretty sure what we’re dealing with. Morphine. Billy was taking doses for his pain from the cancer and the treatments.”

  “How can he be sure?” I asked as I pulled out of the lot.

  “He’s not sure but Billy was in to see him last week, and Charlie gave him some medication to hold him over and help him get through.”

  “Wouldn’t there be a danger of becoming addicted? And why did he need pain medication?”

  “Billy’s cancer had returned. Charlie told Billy last week. It had spread throughout his bones. This time there wasn’t much chance of a recovery. He didn’t tell Billy how much time he had left but he decided there wasn’t much danger in giving Billy the morphine. Didn’t Annie tell you?” Doc asked, with a confused look on his face.

  “She told me the cancer was still in remission. Said Billy was upbeat when he returned from the doctor’s office last week.”

  “I guess Billy didn’t tell her,” Doc said.

  “Or Billy told her, and she didn’t want me to know.”

  I thought maybe it was time to add Annie back to my suspect list.

  > CHAPTER 26

  ANOTHER VISIT WITH MRS. C

  The car drove smoothly on the way back to Cordoba. I dropped Doc off and drove to the boardinghouse.

  Felicity was sitting at the dining room table, talking to Sam. The photocopies Sam had taken at the library were laid out on the dining room table in front of Felicity.

  “Milo, I was just showing Aunt Felicity our evidence,” Sam said.

  “I’m afraid it’s still not much to go on,” I said.

  “Well, I’ve got a plan to see if Mrs. C has the magazines. In one Sherlock Holmes story I read, a woman had blackmail papers hidden in her house. Sherlock disguised himself and visited the woman. While he was in the house, Watson started a fire outside the window. The woman ran to where she had hidden the papers to save them just as Sherlock knew she would do.”

  “I don’t think we should start any fires outside Mrs. C’s house. Besides, that Rogers is always keeping an eye on everyone. And it’s hard to get in to see Mrs. C. Plus, I left my private detective disguise kit back in San Diego.”

  “I have a better idea,” Felicity jumped in. “Sam, you and Milo go over to Mrs. C’s house and tell her you are doing a story about a person you admire for a homework project your father gave you. Tell her you would like to interview her since you have always admired her manners and grace. Mrs. C is a sucker for flattery.

  “After you get in, you can keep her occupied while Milo does some snooping.”

  “We call it investigating, not snooping,” I said. “I doubt if that will work, but it’s better than starting a fire. What do you say, Sam, want to give it a try?”

  “Sure,” said Sam.

  “You know,” said Felicity as she stared at the photo in Look, “the features on the woman on the right do resemble a younger Mrs. Cavendish.”

  I took the page and examined it. “You’re right,” I said, “which gives me an idea. When I was in her parlor yesterday, I noticed a large painting above the fireplace. The painting appeared to be a picture of her and her husband when they were younger, she was sitting straight-backed in a chair and he was standing beside her with his hand on her sh
oulder. If you distract her, Sam, I can compare this roller derby picture with the painting of the younger Mrs. C to see if there is any resemblance.”

  “Right,” said Sam, eager to get started, “let’s go now.”

  She headed toward the door and I followed, folding the Look page and sticking it in my shirt pocket.

  As we got to the door, Felicity called from the dining room, “Take the umbrella. The sky is getting darker.”

  Sam and I hurried over to Mrs. C’s house, sharing the umbrella as the rain was falling harder. We hurried up onto the porch and rang the bell. After several moments, Rogers answered the door, wearing his normal somber expression.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “We’d like to talk to Mrs. C, if possible,” said Sam.

  “What is your business?” said Rogers. Before Sam could answer, Mrs. Cavendish, hollered from the parlor, “For heaven’s sake, show them in, Rogers. The weather is nasty outside.”

  Rogers opened the front door and stood aside so we could walk into the hall. As Rogers shut the door behind us, and before he could ask any more questions, Sam ran into the parlor and explained to Mrs. Cavendish about her fictional homework assignment.

  “I’ll try to help you if I can, but I’m a private person and don’t like people snooping into my past,” Mrs. C said.

  “It’s not called snooping, it’s investigating,” Sam replied.

  I thought I saw a slight smile take over the corners of Mrs. C’s mouth as she said, “Sit down and we can begin.” She motioned to a chair opposite hers. Luckily, Mrs. C’s chair was facing away from the fireplace, which was ablaze again, and the painting. I hoped this wouldn’t take long, as I was already sweating profusely.

  “Of course, you didn’t have to bring a bodyguard along, my dear, I assure you I’m harmless,” Mrs. C said, motioning toward me.

  “Sam just asked me to come along for the company,” I said, “and I have to admit that when I was here yesterday, I noticed some of the fine furnishings and antiques in your parlor. Mind if I look around while you talk to Sam?” I could lay on the flattery too.

  “All right,” Mrs. C said, “but don’t go touching everything. Rogers just dusted.”

  I walked around the room, trying to take in everything while staying as far away from the fire as possible. I pretended to admire several Chinese vases and some reproductions of paintings by the old masters while Sam grilled Mrs. C about her life. As I passed the entrance to the hall on my travels, I noticed a small stand in the parlor just to the right of the door to the hall. The mahogany stand was about three feet tall and measured about two feet on all sides. A vase of flowers was sitting on the top. Beneath was a drawer and underneath the drawer was a compartment with a brass knob and an old-fashioned keyhole with the key in it. I guessed this was where Mrs. C kept her valuables and tried to get a closer look while pretending to smell the flowers. Mrs. C had a clear view of me from her chair, so I decided I couldn’t risk looking in the compartment and continued my circuit of the room.

  Mrs. C was deep into recollections of her debutante days and the socialite scene in San Francisco when I completed my trip and ended up in front of the fireplace. I nearly tripped over a stack of old newspapers on the floor next to a fireplace stand. The stand held a poker and a long, thin shovel for scooping ashes. I guessed that the newspapers were used by Rogers to start the fire.

  I was now standing directly in front of the fire, although I felt like I was entering the gates of Hell. Mrs. Cavendish was seated with her back to me and was engrossed in stories of her pampered upbringing, so I had no problem in getting a closer look at the painting above the fireplace. Sam and I exchanged a quick glance as I pulled the Look page out of my pocket and unfolded it.

  I glanced down at the photo, then looked up at the painting of the young Mrs. C, ignoring the gentleman standing next to her. I then looked down at the photo, concentrating on the woman on the right. I again looked up at the painting and my eyes widened. Forgetting the situation, I exclaimed, “Well, I’ll be…”

  At that moment, three things—no, four things happened.

  First, Mrs. C and Sam both turned to look at me in reaction to my exclamation.

  Then, there was a loud crash, like a small explosion on the roof above, followed by a crack of thunder.

  Thirdly, the whole house shook from the crash, and an ember jumped from the fireplace near where I was standing and landed on the pile of newspapers, setting them ablaze.

  Lastly, Rogers ran in from outside and screamed, “Lightning!”

  By now the parlor was filled with smoke, so I acted.

  “Rogers, get her out of here,” I yelled. “Sam, run for help.” I grabbed the poker from the stand and poked at the pile of flaming newspapers.

  Sam ran out, but I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Mrs. C took a small detour to the stand near the door. She ignored the compartment with the lock and key but pulled open the drawer above and pulled something out. By this time Rogers was by her side and he said, “Ethel, we have to leave.”

  Rogers pulled Mrs. C from the house as I continued to fight the fire.

  > CHAPTER 27

  CONFESSIONS

  Mrs. Cavendish was now sitting at the dining room table in the boardinghouse, wrapped in a blanket to keep her warm, staring at the copies of Look and TV Guide in front of her on the dining room table. Also present were Sam, Felicity, Millie, Doc, Leo, and me. Most of the men, other than me and Doc, were over at Mrs. C’s house surveying the damage. Doc and Leo had hurried over to check on the condition of Mrs. C. and Rogers, neither of whom seemed worse for the wear. Skipper was out on the lawn in front of the house throwing a ball to Pard, as the weather had cleared up.

  “As you can see, and Mr. Forbes already knows, the pictures in these magazines are of me,” she said to the group. Then turning to me, “Thank you, Mr. Forbes, for saving my house.”

  “It was nothing,” I said, neglecting to tell her that the fire in the newspapers had dwindled and died of its own accord after she left.

  Mrs. Cavendish continued. “I am not who I seem. I grew up poor in Kansas City, near the stockyards on the wrong side of town. As I grew older, I looked for a way out and ended up trying out for the roller derby, which was popular at the time. I could skate some and, if I might say, I was not bad-looking and looked good in the skimpy uniform the girls wore.

  “The Kansas City Stars, a professional roller derby team, hired me and gave me the nickname Penny Dreadful—growing up in a tough neighborhood, I was pretty good at throwing an elbow. I began traveling the roller derby circuit. In San Francisco, I met Mr. Cavendish, who was a part owner of the Bay Area Bombers team. He used to come to the matches and sit in the front row, and he was quite taken with me.

  “A romance soon blossomed, and I retired from the derby and we were married and lived in San Francisco. He had inherited a small fortune and lived in San Francisco society, but his wealthy Nob Hill neighbors never accepted a former roller derby queen as part of the group.

  “When he died, I got as far away from San Francisco as possible, and Cordoba is as far away from San Francisco as possible. I kept my past a secret to avoid being ostracized again.”

  “That wouldn’t have happened here,” said Millie.

  “I now know that, my dear,” said Mrs. C. “I’m embarrassed for the way I have been acting all these years. And Doc, please forgive me for taking your magazines. I saw my pictures when I was sitting in your waiting room and put them in my pocketbook on an impulse.”

  “No need to apologize,” said Doc.

  “I guess you were afraid someone would recognize you and blow your cover,” I said.

  “Oh, it wasn’t that,” Rogers jumped in. “There were many valuables in the cabinet by the door she could have taken when the fire started. Jewelry, stocks, cash. But she went right for the magazines.

  “When she saw them in Doc’s office, she became nostalgic for the old days and wanted to keep them for a moment.
Some nights she sits and stares at the photos for a long time, thinking about her past glories,” he said tenderly.

  “You care a lot about her, don’t you,” asked Felicity.

  “He even forgot himself and called her Ethel when he was getting her out of the house,” I chimed in.

  Rogers looked at Mrs. C with a confused look on his face, and Mrs. C took his hand and said, “It’s all right, dear. The cat’s out of the bag now.”

  She turned to the group and said, “He’s my husband, not my butler. Roy was our butler in San Francisco. When I moved here, I brought him with me to keep up pretenses. Over the years our relationship changed, going to first affection and then love. We snuck off to Las Vegas and got married five years ago.”

  “I guess that means you won’t have to keep up the fancy English accent anymore, will you, Roy,” I said. “Wait a minute. Your name is Roy?”

  “That’s right, Milo,” he said. “Roy Rogers. My dad was a big fan of the American westerns and named me after the singing cowboy. And the accent is real since I came from the other side.”

  Mrs. C smiled and said, “So you see, I’ve gone from being Penny Dreadful to becoming Dale Evans.” Then the smile left her face as she took a last glance at the magazines and passed them across the table to Doc. “These belong to you.”

  Doc opened the copy of Look to the last page and stared at the photograph. “You really were quite a looker, weren’t you?” He closed the magazine and pushed both the magazines back to Mrs. C. “You keep them. They mean more to you than they do to me.”

  “But I couldn’t,” replied Mrs. C. “Your collection…”

  “The collection doesn’t mean that much. I can do without them.”

  Leo jumped in. “Will you two stop it before we all start blubbering? You know the magazines mean a great deal to both of you.” She gave a nod to Felicity, who got out of her chair and went to the small table under the phone in the hall. She came back with a couple of magazines and laid them on the table.