Thing With Feathers (9781616634704)

by Sweazy-kulju, Anne

  “I know. I remember.”

  “He couldn’t figure how it could have toppled over on its own. It was dead, and it was cracked, but it still would have taken a sizable push to get it to topple. They said no other tree had fallen into it, but they did find some curious indentations in the ground several feet behind that tree. It could be he dug up them roots on the one side with a shovel and then used a fulcrum. And, Will, they never did determine whether the second fire was accidental or deliberate, but the investigators still believe it was set.”

  “Yes, by someone struggling financially and wanting to perpetuate his job as a firefighter for a while longer.” Will insisted.

  “Well, that’s the theory they finally settled on. But ain’t it awful coincidental that the second fire was started on the border opposite the fire line of the camp I was in? And Victor said that the preacher had the binocular glass punched out of his field glasses. That’s what they determined started the second fire! The fire marshal was certain it was the two lenses they found.”

  “If there’s any truth to what Victor told you, you realize I’m gonna have to go and kill that heathen preacher.”

  “No. You’re going to leave it alone. We don’t have any proof, Will, just hearsay. I just wanted you to know in case you, you know, ever doubted me.”

  That made Will hang his head ruefully. He loved Sean. His brother was the only family he had left, and he’d almost lost him too. “I never doubted you, brother. I know you were good to Blair. I lived in this house during those happier times. Her youth and beauty was what brought so much sunshine to our house. I was here that night you rescued her after…well, you know. I was here the night she gave birth to another man’s child, and I watched you accept the child for your own. I never saw that girl smile until she became Mrs. Sean Marshall, so don’t ever think I doubted you, brother. I never have.”

  “Thanks, Will. You’re the best brother a man ever had. I’m going to turn in now. I’m awful tired.”

  Will watched as his brother trudged with drooping shoulders toward his bedroom. It had been moved to the downstairs since his accident.

  That night, his brother did look tired. It made Will worry for him. That night had been a roller coaster of emotions for Sean, and it had obviously taken its toll. He made a mental note to try to keep his brother from thinking or talking about Preacher Bowman. It almost always seemed to punch the life right out of him.

  Chapter 56

  Bowman surveyed the old whore through her reflection in the dressing table’s mirror. She lay on her front, with the sheets tangled around her pale, purple-veined legs. She had her bleached head buried half under her pillow, but he could see one make-up smeared eye struggling to wake. The sun was peeking in under the tacky beige shade over the window. Her name was Myrna, and she didn’t like mornings. In spite of that, Bowman boorishly made plenty of noise getting himself dressed.

  “It’s five bucks when it’s for the whole night, big fella. Jus’ leave it on the dresser, and lock the door on your way out,” she mumbled.

  Bowman finished his primping and left the bill as instructed. “Be good,” he said to Myrna before closing the door.

  “Yeah right, honey.” Her head dropped back down to the mattress. The old whore yawned once, covered her head with her pillow, and dropped back off to sleep.

  Bowman had a hearty breakfast in the coffee shop downstairs. While lingering over his second cup of coffee, he heard several people at tables around him talking animatedly about Chester Lasley, the wealthy railroad and newspaper man. He turned to the table on his right side.

  “Pardon me. Did I hear you correctly? Chester Lasley is here in Tillamook?”

  “You have heard correctly. He arrived late last night in his private Pullman Car,” replied a tall, lanky man in a white-collared shirt.

  “Well now, that’s quite a laurel for our little Tillamook, isn’t it?”

  “Certainly is. I hear he wants to tour the devastation, as he phrased it, and partake of an authentic logging camp meal.”

  “That so?” Bowman stood and put a bill on the table.

  “It’s so,” said another smaller gentleman. “And he’s looking for someone who’ll take him to see that Marshall fellow, the photographer. Don’t know why he wants to see him. Must be a collector of postcards.”

  That surprised Bowman. He hurried from the coffee shop as though his life was at stake. He sped across Third Street and headed the three blocks to the train station. It wasn’t difficult to locate the Pullman Car of Chester Lasley. It looked like the boudoir of a French whore. Bowman had no plan for speaking to Lasley. He was simply spurred on by a frenzy of jealousy. Just as he reached the platform, he heard the door of the car open, and knew that he must come up with a reason for approaching the great man.

  “Hello there. I’m Preacher Bowman, from Cloverdale. I’ve been asked to visit on behalf of Sean Marshall. He’s a very ill man and not up to travel or company.”

  The assistant beckoned him in. Bowman had no time to rethink it. Up the metal grate steps he went. They led straight up to an ornate, wrought iron doorway through which he bounded, and there ahead of him was Lasley. A big, lanky hound sat next to Lasley in his stately wing chair. The dog growled at Bowman but held its place.

  The manservant was whispering in the mogul’s ear. He was a man of prodigious build. Bowman guessed that he was several inches taller than six feet, with broad shoulders; bulging chest and gut; and a stumpy, once-muscular neck. Lasley’s heavy face was impassive. He nodded up and down, all the while studying the preacher.

  Bowman returned the steadfast gaze.

  Lasley smiled in a pseudo-friendly manner. Finally, he spoke directly to the preacher. “How is it you’ve heard of my request to visit Mr. Marshall, er, Preacher Bowman?”

  “I take occasion to visit some of my former elderly parishioners in a home up here. I stopped to have breakfast at the coffee shop on Third Street and heard of your plans to visit Mr. Marshall. I took the liberty of coming here in case I could be of assistance to you.”

  “And how might you assist me, Preacher?”

  “Well, I could answer any questions you might have. I’ve known the family a long time. The man was married to my daughter.”

  Lasley winked at his assistant. “Would that be Cindy Marshall from Chicago?”

  “Cindy? No. My daughter’s name was Blair.”

  “Was, Mr. Bowman?”

  “Well, she disappeared almost eight years ago. We’ve assumed the worst after all this time.”

  “What a shame.” Lasley said it in a way that made it sound like anything but. He paused dramatically, then exclaimed, “Eight years! Why, that’s the same time Cindy Marshall arrived in Chicago! I believe it was in late February.” He watched for the preacher’s reaction and was rewarded. “A dark beauty she is. And a wealthy woman with prominent friends. She is heavily invested in stocks and bonds and Chicago real estate these days. I dare say she makes more in a market day than I ever did. Is it possible that she could be your long-lost daughter, Preacher?”

  Lasley caught the preacher lost in thought. He cleared his throat loudly.

  “I said, Preacher, why do you suppose she ran away? Or is that too personal a question?”

  “It is, rather,” Bowman responded.

  “Well, I suppose I could always ask Cindy, or Blair did you say? She’s always said her life is an open book,” he lied. “We could test that claim.”

  “No! I mean, I doubt she would tell you the real reason. It is a difficult thing for a father to admit of a daughter, let alone a preacher about his child. Blair was a bit…unharnessed.” He noted the skepticism on the faces across from him. “She was a bit of a runaround, filled with prowess of a sexual nature. I thought a husband might palliate the girl, but it soon became evident that he did not provide enough titi
llation. Sean Marshall is a gentleman, you understand, and Blair’s tastes brinked the unsavory. I personally believe she ran from boredom.” He put up his index finger and, with an exaggerated brain cramp, recited the Marquis, “‘The horror of wedlock, the most appalling, the most loathsome of all the bonds, humankind has devised for its own discomfort and degradation.’”

  “Ah, you are a devotee of the Marquis De Sade? ‘It is always by way of pain one arrives at pleasure,’” Lasley recited from memory. “You are alarmingly well-read of the Marquis, Preacher Bowman.”

  Lasley was intrigued. Assuming everything the man said was true, how would a preacher know such a thing about his daughter? He whispered something to his assistant. Stuart left and then returned shortly with a silver tray laden with good claret; fresh Jewish bagel breads; creamed cheese; fresh, thinly sliced salmon; and rings of Washington Walla Walla sweet onions. The preacher’s jowls juiced like a hungry wolf’s, and his eyes seemed to gobble up the tray. The fine food looked a sight better than his usual fare of greasy fried potatoes and eggs. Though he’d consumed a large breakfast only an hour before, the preacher could not wait to be invited to partake. Lasley noted the hungry gaze and graciously encouraged Bowman to fill himself while he poured three glasses of the claret. Bowman never took notice that his was the only glass being refilled time and again.

  It was not long before he was sloppily throwing his bulk around the dainty settee, howling at amusing stories that Lasley seemed to have hundreds of, and drinking still more. When the preacher’s eyes were altogether glazed over and his speech perfectly slurred, Lasley leaned forward conspiratorially and said, “you know, I feel I must confess to you, Preacher. I’ve been with Miss Cindy Marshall myself. She’s a tigress.”

  The preacher’s response nearly caused Lasley to choke on his claret.

  “I know. She pretends not to like it rough, but it’s the only way she wants it. Take my word.” He laughed obscenely. “Don’t spare her the rod, if you know what I mean.”

  Chester Lasley was no gentleman. He had done dark deeds in his time and would do still more. But what the preacher had just admitted to was beyond even Lasley’s warped capacity. If he understood this preacher correctly, the man had polluted his own daughter, apparently more than one time. Now that was a secret Lasley was sure that Cindy, a.k.a. Blair Marshall, would never want told. Lasley could not believe his good fortune. He now had the power to make Cindy Marshall do anything, anything at all that he wanted. And apparently, he was in for some exceptionally spirited foreplay in the process.

  He could not wait to return to Chicago. He instructed Stuart to cancel plans they’d made for the remainder of their scheduled stay and set about arranging their return to Chicago. Lasley did get his log camp meal later that day, but he was quite obviously disappointed with the chicken and dumplings. He expressed scant interest in the details of the burn, which the state forester had rushed to the Pullman to give him, and he refused to leave his car long enough to view the devastation. Loggers, officials, and Tillamook citizenry alike were baffled by Lasley’s visit. Clearly, Chester Lasley was a bon vivant and not the outdoor type. But many wondered how he intended to write about the Tillamook Burns in his East Coast papers, having viewed exactly nothing.

  Chapter 57

  September 12, 1939

  Chicago, Illinois

  Cindy loved the fall colors. September in Chicago was windy and red, skin-tingling and orange, fresh and yellow. She took her daily stroll along the storefronts, hotels, and cafes to Navy Pier and back, admiring tissue-thin maple leaves as they skittered along the sidewalks. She absorbed the delicious smells from the delis and fine restaurants. Their fragrances, carried to her by the chill winds, were impossibly rich. She smiled at the clanging of the trolleys. She was bundled in an expensive fur with a woolen scarf wrapped comfortably around her head to protect her ears and throat. Cindy felt fine. She had come a long way from Cloverdale, and not merely in terms of mileage. Her good friend Wendell had accompanied her for the first half of her walk and had glowing reports for her regarding her wealth.

  She was a woman of her own means now, a survivor. She had the money to do as she pleased. She’d gobbled up real estate that was undervalued due to The Great Crash, or as some called it, The Depression. Folks in Chicago liked the term, “Dirty-Thirties”, but whatever you called it, when Chicago began to emerge from it, her holdings were worth ten-fold. She lived in her converted printing house, where she occupied the top floor, loft-style apartment. She adored her new place; especially the three enormous windows in her living room that all took in stunning water-and-city-light views.

  The apartment had three spacious front rooms, which she had tastefully decorated in soft buttery cream and the palest of purples. She dated successful men; dined and danced in the swankiest locales; and no longer had to do anything she did not wish to do, except perhaps for her date that night. She had already agreed, days earlier, to take in a Friday night dinner show with Chester Lasley, though she wasn’t certain why she’d accepted. She did not like Lasley and no longer needed his money. It seemed that no matter how affluent she became, she could never have enough security. Wendell and his friends had invested her earnings well, and her stocks had easily tripled her wealth. Still, what if the stock market were to take a drastic fall? She could stand to lose quite a lot. But she would not lose everything. She had her properties and, because Cindy’s faith in the stock market went only so far, she also kept ample cash savings hidden in a small community bank across town. She even kept a last will and testament in a safety deposit box there, with Victor as her beneficiary and Wendell as her executor. Each week, she collected her earnings from her after-dark pursuits and escort services, which she kept in a sock in her top drawer, and then she caught a cross-town trolley to Streeterville, and made her deposit. She finished with a leisurely stroll to Navy Pier and back, which was precisely what she did on that grand autumn day. She had come to love that particular routine of hers. Cindy had come to terms with the life she’d inherited from Blair, and she determined that, although Blair had been born unlucky, it didn’t necessarily have to stay that way for her. They’d had their share of blessings bestowed upon them, few but wonderful blessings of a loving family and friends, for which both Cindy and Blair were grateful. All in all, Cindy was content with life.

  She pulled out the long chain she wore around her neck and checked her diamond Lady Racine watch. It was almost three o’clock. She should probably go back to the flat and take a nap. It promised to be a late night with Chester.

  Chapter 58

  By three o’clock that afternoon, every man belonging to the board of trade was desperate. Their short office coats no longer flapped open but were discarded over chairs. Their soft hats, usually pulled forward over one eye in a “don’t care” fashion, were removed to afford nervous fingers opportunity to streak through their greased hair in a rare and undignified manner. By the time the trade market closed that day, Jackson Street was frantic. The market had not had so severe a drop since ‘29.

  Wendell decided to square his shoulders and tough it out. He had his own money tied up as well as the funds of more than a dozen clients, including Cindy Marshall. Wendell understood that the war in Europe was making the market fluctuate drastically. Giving in to the panic and dumping stock now would only cause a greater drop and would result in severe losses of wealth. So, when the market closed, Wendell was still holding all of his stock. He postulated that he would only lose money for his clients if he sold their stock at that day’s loss. But a patient, careful broker waited, knowing the decline of that day would reverse and rise back up, sometimes in less than a week, sometimes it would take years. The Crash of ‘39 would not set itself right again until well into it’s third year due to world turmoil, but Wendell’s clients invested in the long term. Some thought his was a risky stake. If it was, so be it. The market was no place for the faint of heart. Anyway, W
endell believed that the real risk was in chasing stocks when they were acting like runaway trains.

  Wendell did not feel it cardinal to report to Cindy. She understood that the market rose and fell daily. That day’s decline was not so severe, after all, as to cause investors to jump from high-rise windows. Besides, she would be getting ready for her date with Chester Lasley that night. On their walk earlier, Wendell had asked Cindy to dinner too, but she explained that Lasley already had tickets for the new show and it would be terribly rude to cancel at such a late hour. Wendell, of course, had disagreed.

  “Your portfolio is doing very nicely, Cindy. You don’t need to be with men like Lasley,” he had argued. He saw that Cindy shivered slightly and pulled her fur coat tighter.

  She smiled at Wendell, her best friend. “This will be the very last time, I promise you. I cannot put a finger on it. There is just something about the man that makes me nervous. Perhaps he reminds me of someone from my past. But, no worries, Wendell. Chester has always conducted himself as a gentleman.”

  Chapter 59

  Life with Father was drole, the cordon bleu was dry and salty, and Chester was positively insufferable. He would leer at her bosom, say inappropriate things, and every once in a while, he would admonish her as if he were her parent, for nothing more than chatting with acquaintances she ran into.

  Cindy found his behavior boorish, and as the driver turned onto her street, she could not help but be relieved. Her solitude would be much preferred over the company of Chester Lasley. Silently, she vowed that that would be the very last time she accepted any dates with the man.

  “Ouch! Chester, what has gotten into you?”