by Sue Henry
“Well, we’ve only decided one thing so far. You know that Sharon’s parents are both dead and she was an only child. So, we’d like to get married up there, if that would be okay with you. We’ll keep it small and informal, so it won’t require too much planning and preparation.”
It would indeed be more than okay with me! And I told him so with delight.
“There’ll be lots of time to plan and get things ready after you get moved. Sharon and I will put our heads together when you come for Christmas. You are still coming, aren’t you? When are you leaving for Oregon?”
“Yes, of course we’re coming. And we’re moving to Portland in a couple of weeks. Now—what’s going on with you and Homer?”
For a moment I couldn’t think of what to say.
“Hey, Mom. You okay?” Joe asked, sounding anxious.
“Yes, I’m fine. But the day has been—well, not the best I ever had.”
“What do you mean? What’s going on?”
So I told him all about John Walker’s suicide, my meeting with Trooper Nelson at the Driftwood Inn, identifying John, and finding the names on the bottles of whiskey.
“He’ll probably call you. I gave him the names and phone numbers of everyone who was here for dinner that night.”
“I haven’t anything much to tell him,” Joe said. “Walker was pretty reticent about his background, if you remember my telling you.”
We talked for a little longer and he promised to have Sharon call me when she had time.
I had no more than hung up the phone when there was a knock at the door.
I was surprised to find Trooper Nelson on the doorstep, his shoulders and hat covered with white fla kes that were falling through the evening dark.
It was snowing, as I had expected it might.
“Come in,” I invited, opening the door wide for him to step through.
“You left a message for me,” he said as he brushed at his coat and hat. “Thought I’d stop and find out why before heading back to Anchor Point. You think of something else I should know?”
“Two things,” I told him. “More odd ideas, maybe. Though it’s more than a little speculation on my part. Take off your coat and I’ll get you some coffee before I show you.”
He shed and hung it with his hat on one of the hooks by the door for that purpose.
“Coffee would be welcome, thanks. Black, please.”
I filled a mug and took it to the table next to the kitchen, where he came and sat across from me, laying down the clipboard he was once again carrying to reach down and give a pat to Stretch, who had come to check out this interesting stranger before giving his approval. The pat and a rub behind his ears were enough to allow that.
“What’s his name?” he asked.
“Stretch.”
He grinned, as people usually do.
“Great name. Now, what ideas have you had?”
First I handed him the list of names I had collected and told him about finding them on the whiskey bottles at the liquor store.
“It’s just an idea. But if, not wanting to use his real name, he took John Walker from the Johnnie Walker label, might he not have used others as well—especially these that are all distilled in Tennessee and Kentucky—the South, where he told my son he was born?”
Trooper Nelson scanned the list with a frown, shook his head thoughtfully, laid it down, and gave me a long look. Then he smiled ruefully.
“Interesting idea. Ever consider going into law enforcement, Mrs. . . . ah . . . Maxie?”
“No, I never have. This was just serendipity. If I hadn’t stopped to refill my liquor supply . . .”
“You had the sense to put two and two together. Whether or not it makes four, we have no way of knowing right now, but it’s a possibility. I’ll put it in the file and consider. Other names would be hard to check, not knowing where he’s been before he came here and which ones he might have used. But nevertheless . . .”
“Another string for the bow,” I suggested.
“Yes, and we haven’t much to go on, have we?”
I liked the sound of that we. It meant he was taking me seriously.
He hesitated thoughtfully for a few moments, reading the list again, then turned it over and wrote on the back before handing it back across the table. “Here’s another thing I think will interest you. When he registered at the Driftwood Inn, he wrote his name in their book like this.”
John E. Walker, he had written. I stared at it, astonished.
Trooper Nelson nodded.
“Interesting, isn’t it? Now, you said you had two things?”
I handed him the belt buckle we had found under the table on the spit.
“You can thank Stretch for this one,” I told him, and related our under-the-table experience.
“I have no idea if it belonged to John, but it was there, between two planks of the deck, under the table where he was sitting when I met him.”
“Another interesting possible clue,” he said, turning the buckle over in his fin gers to examine it. “A lot of this kind of thing was sold after that tragedy, and in lots of places, even on the West Coast. Even if it did belong to him, he could have picked it up almost anywhere, but I’ll put it with the information on why and where it came from. Anything else?”
I shook my head.
He nodded, smiled again, and got up, ready to leave.
“The names are particularly worthy of note. Julia didn’t catch it and neither did I until you made it clear. So, you see, I mean it when I say that if you think of anything else that might be helpful, call me. Even little things can make a difference. And you probably saw as much of him as anyone here—and paid more attention. There may be something else you’ll remember,” he said, putting on his coat and hat at the door.
I promised to do that and he was soon gone, having copied the names on my list into the report on his clipboard and given Stretch a last pat at the door.
From the window over the kitchen sink I watched him back his car out of the drive, noticing that there was at least an inch of snow on the ground and more was falling to blanket it, silently now that the wind had died.
Winter had, indeed, come to Homer, putting an end to most of my walks on the spit and reminding me to call the neighbor who plows the snow from my driveway with his Bobcat when necessary. Perhaps I wouldn’t with this first snowfall, but I surely would soon. Still, for some reason, this year as I watched the snow fall for a moment or two, I felt that winter was closing in on me, limiting my options. Perhaps I should have gone south, but it was too late now, as I had no inclination to drive the Alaska Highway in winter weather.
In compensation, I put more wood on the dying fire and turned on the television to watch the evening news.
EIGHT
THE NEXT MORNING THE TEMPERATURE HAD RISEN as the sun came out and was melting the inch or so of snow into slush and water that ran in small creeks or formed puddles in the low spots in my drive. Even those soon disappeared.
By the time I was up and dressed for the day most of the white stuff was gone, but I knew it would soon be back and winter was definitely on the way.
Before going up to finally start sorting out the upstairs closet, I was sitting at the table with a second cup of coffee, making a list of things that my house and car would need in preparation for the approaching winter—summer tires swapped for studded winter ones, for instance—when there was a knock at my door. I opened it to find Lew Joiner on the step with a couple of books in hand.
While he hung up his coat on a hook by the door I poured him a cup of coffee and took it to the table, where he had laid down the books and found himself a chair across from where I had been sitting.
“Brought you another book on the revolution,” he told me, handing one across the table. “David McCullough’s new one—1776. It’s terrific!”
“Oh, good. I’ve been wanting to read it. Thanks, Lew,” I told him. “What’s the other?”
He slid a larger
book across the table as he gave me the title, “Great American Documents. This one’s got everything from the Mayflower Compact and the Declaration of Independence to . . . well, how long has it been since you read the Constitution and the Bill of Rights?”
I shook my head.
“A very long time, I’m afraid,” I told him.
“Well, I’ve got copies of both the Constitution and the Bill of Rights if you want to read them. You can take your time. There’s no rush, but I gotta have these two back when you finish ’em. Both are bound for my permanent collection.”
Lew’s small house could be a bookstore. It’s so full of books it reminds me of one. When I’m looking for something Andy doesn’t have on hand, Lew is my go-to guy.
“Of course,” I told him, and, seeing that he had half finished his coffee, fetched him a refill.
“Now,” he said, changing the subject as I sat back down at the table. “What’s all this about that Walker fellow doing away with himself at the Driftwood Inn? It is the same guy who was here Saturday night at your party, right?”
I should have known that the details of John’s death would spread through our small town like wildfire. There is always gossip circulating, especially in the winter, when the tourists disappear, things slow down, and there’s not much that’s exciting going on.
“Yes,” I told him with a sigh. “I’m sorry to say it is. But I don’t know why. Where did you hear about it?”
“From my cousin, Caroline Harrison, who got it from her daughter, Julia Bennet. You know, she was a Harrison before she married Jess Bennet’s oldest boy, Bob.”
Sometimes it seems that the permanent population of Homer is all related one way or another, although in the last few years there has been an influ x of new, retired people buying or building homes and summer cottages on the bluff above town. Still, many of the names are well known and can be traced back to our earliest settlers in the area, like the Harrisons and the Bennets.
I told Lew why he would probably soon have a visit from Trooper Nelson and about finding John’s name on the whiskey bottle, figuring I might as well. He would hear it somewhere soon anyway.
“John Walker. Johnnie Walker,” he tried them both out, then frowned and shook his head. “It must have been a pseudonym. Who in their right mind would name a child after a bottle of booze?”
Who indeed? I wondered after Lew had departed, but was convinced that John had selected his own name—or pseudonym.
After that my phone just about rang itself off the line with people calling to ask questions. News, good or bad, spreads like lightning in a town as small as Homer. After a while I considered leaving it for the machine to answer, but was afraid people would simply come rapping on my door with their curiosity if I did. And I had passed the point of tolerance in relating the story another time. It simply made me sad.
So I didn’t respond to the knock on the door that I heard from upstairs, where I had retreated to attack the closet.
I only lock my door at night, or if I leave the house, so I wasn’t surprised when I heard the door open and close behind the person who had knocked. Then Harriet Christianson—who knows she’s always welcome—called my name from the bottom of the stairs.
“Maxie? Are you up there?”
“Certainly am,” I replied, stepping down from the stool on which I was standing to reach the top shelf. “Don’t bother to come up, I’ll be right down.”
When I arrived at the bottom of the stairs I found that she had removed her coat and was standing at the kitchen counter to open a bottle of Merlot. She turned and smiled.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at the library?” I asked.
“So—I took an afternoon off. Things were slow at the moment, so I skipped out.
“I figured you’ve probably been run ragged with a hundred questions about that Walker guy,” she went on. “Don’t worry. I don’t intend to ask you any more, having already heard several versions of the thing from people who have nothing but rumors to go on.
“If you’ll get some glasses, we’ll smooth your ragged edges with a bit of good wine.”
“Oh, you are an angel,” I told her, getting two of my best wine-glasses from the upper cupboard. “You have no idea how welcome you are, with or without the libation—but right now I’m gladdest to see you with it. Even Stretch knows you’re welcome—never barks when he knows it’s you.”
We took our glasses and the bottle across the room to sit comfortably on opposite ends of the sofa, Stretch padding along after us to lie down again on the hearth rug.
“Here’s to better days,” Harriet said, reaching to clink glasses with me.
“I certainly agree with that,” I told her.
“I figured you were fed up with calls when I got a busy signal twice, then your answering machine,” she told me. “But I decided you were most likely hiding out instead.”
“You know me too well,” I said, and laughed. “That’s exactly what I’ve been doing, and what you’d do as well, I suspect.”
“Right you are. Did you notice that the snow on the mountains across the bay isn’t termination dust anymore? It’s all the way down now, thanks to yesterday’s storm.”
“I did notice. But I’m glad it’s warm enough to melt most of it here in town. We’ll have more soon anyway.”
She nodded. “I saw your list on the table, including a tire change. I was going to take my car in to have its winter ones put on, but the place was mobbed. So I went to the liquor store for the wine instead. The roads won’t be slick for a while yet, so my old Galloping Gertie can wait a few days for studded shoes.”
“You’re right, but . . . ,” I told her, then hesitated a moment before going on. “While cleaning out my upstairs closet I was thinking that I might run away from home for a day or two, go to Anchorage—do some Christmas shopping.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” she agreed. “I’d love to go with you if I didn’t have to work. Are Joe and Sharon still planning to come for Christmas?”
“Oh, yes. And you’ll be glad to hear that they’ve solved the problem of living in two cities in different states by both moving to Portland, at least temporarily. Joe’s already lined up a forensics job there. They’re going to wait to get married until next spring. And they want to do it up here.”
“Terrific. I figured Joe would get his act together and work it all out somehow. I’m really happy for them.”
“So am I. They’re not churchgoing sorts, so they’ll want something small and informal, and this house isn’t big enough. Got any ideas?”
“Well—you might ask Becky about Niqa Island. You know my niece was married out there and it was great. People came across the bay in their boats or by water taxi. The ceremony and reception could be on that big deck at her sister Gretchen’s lodge above the east cove, or inside if it rained. She’s set up for numerous guests, if they wanted to stay over, but most of Joe’s friends here probably have their own boats and would go back to town instead.”
“That would be perfect,” I told her. “I’ll ask Becky about it. Joe said Sharon would call me soon, so I’ll suggest it to her, but I know they’ll agree that would be grand.”
“The two of them could stay in Mark’s tree house. I’m sure he’d be happy to loan it.”
A number of years earlier, Mark, an Anchorage-based architect and family friend, had built a spectacular tree house high above the west beach of the island between three huge spruce trees and periodically loaned it out to friends when he wasn’t using it himself. It added to the limited amount of space available in the original houses that had been built on both south-facing coves through the years after the family homesteaded on the island across Kachemak Bay from Homer. The rest of the island was BLM land, so no one else could build or live there.
“I’ll ask, but I know they’d love it,” I responded to both Harriet’s suggestions.
We ignored the phone and let the answering machine take care of calls while we chatted for the
rest of the afternoon, making plans I could offer Joe and Sharon when they had moved successfully and things slowed down for them. I knew Sharon would call and it was nice to have options to offer for the following spring.
I made sandwiches and heated soup for a casual dinner. We finished the wine and it was close to seven o’clock when Harriet left, with the admonition not to let the telephone make me crazy.
“Thanks for coming,” I told her as I hugged her good-bye. “I feel much better now. I’m sorry I won’t be able to come to the quilting circle, but I’ll make it next time.”
“So you’re still thinking of escaping to Anchorage?” she asked, shrugging on her coat and fishing the car keys out of a pocket.
“Yes, as a matter of fact I think I will do just that—first flight out in the morning. I’ll call Grant Aviation, fly up, rent a car at the airport, and spend a few days shopping. That’s always good therapy, yes? Maybe I’ll drive out and see Alex Jensen and Jessie Arnold. Joe will want to invite them to the wedding, so I’ll give them a heads-up to expect it in the spring.”
“All good ideas,” Harriet agreed. “Call me when you get back.”
“I’ll do that.”
NINE
AT NINE O’CLOCK WEDNESDAY MORNING I was aboard the plane in which Grant Aviation would fly me to Anchorage, feeling like the runaway that I, of course, was. There was, however, little guilt involved in my escape, but rather a distinct sense of relief.
Stretch went along, snug in his carrier behind the rear seat I had taken to keep an eye on him. Used to the carrier, he would be content to take a nap for most of the just-under-an-hour flight.
As we taxied down the runway for takeoff I glanced around at my fellow passengers.
There were six, half filling the plane.
Three were obviously businessmen, dressed in suits and ties and carrying briefcases.
A young couple sat together holding hands in seats just behind the pilot. I recognized the girl, as I knew her mother from quilting club and remembered that I had seen her wedding picture in a local newspaper several months earlier.
