“Even then,” Mina said to me, “it’s not as if Skagway doesn’t have anything for the police to do on a regular basis.”
“Thank you,” said Branson. He pushed his chair back. “Meanwhile, you ladies have at it. Investigate to your heart’s content. Just be sure you don’t taint any actual evidence you might find, and report to me if you learn anything of value.”
He started to walk away then turned back. Leaning over the table he said, “A news story might be one way to start the ball rolling—figure out how to word it so it jogs someone’s memory. Just a thought.”
We watched him leave the bar.
“I like it,” Mina said. “I can see my lead ... something about ‘Missing a Few Skeletons From Your Closet?’”
Drake laughed out loud, which only encouraged her.
“Or, ‘Brothers Bones Bring Bereavement ... something’ Oh, I can’t think of the right word for closure, but I’ll figure it out.”
We stayed long enough to polish off the platter of appetizers while Mina brainstormed her story idea aloud and Berta and I threw in occasional ideas. Drake pleaded tiredness, but I suspected that he simply lost interest. He said he would walk home and feed the dog her dinner, that I should stay as long as I wanted.
It didn’t take long, though, for the ideas to run out. Mina seemed distracted as she jotted notes, clearly wanting to get to her computer and start writing up a draft of her story. Berta’s verve had dissipated, most likely because she’d enjoyed a couple of drinks with her friends in addition to the ones she’d consumed here at our table. I offered her a ride home, which she accepted, and so it was that Gold Rush Guy’s wake broke up early in the evening.
Back at our little rental house I downed a large glass of water to dilute my more-than-usual quantity of wine, then Freckles talked Drake and me into taking her for a lengthy walk in the fading daylight. Drake found a ball game on TV and I curled into a corner of the sofa, the dog resting contentedly at my feet and the floral-papered box of old letters on my lap.
So far, it seemed that I fell asleep each evening before I’d finished reading one or two of them—not that the prose wasn’t interesting—mainly I suppose because I was still adapting to the new work and location. Plus my mind kept being distracted by current events.
I had learned that a man named Joshua Farmer came to Skagway to search for gold, but although he didn’t want to admit it to his wife back home in San Francisco, the undertone hinted that for whatever reason he’d been unable to actually start up the White Pass Trail. He had mentioned meeting some men and planning to join them for the long trek. Occasionally, he referred to something the wife, Maddie, had said in one of her letters so I turned now to those.
Written in a beautiful copperplate hand that I couldn’t even aspire to on my best days, the words seemed overly formal for communications between husband and wife but I supposed those were the times. I thought of the quick text messages Drake and I often use with each other. If they should be found a hundred years into the future, no one would have any idea of the depth of our feelings for each other. Maybe ours was not so different from the more reserved times of which I was currently reading.
July 10, 1898
Dearest Husband,
You might not have the opportunity to read this missive for months, I realize as I write it. You are now on the trail to the Klondike! It is astonishing to me, beyond contemplation, to think of you so far away and in such wild conditions. The newspapers continue to be filled with utterly fantastic tales of the region and I imagine you there, in the midst of it. It is with hope that I pray someone will be able to get this letter to you soon, if only for you to hear my voice in your head as you endure the hardships of the trail, for I have no doubt that this is not an easy path you have taken, my brave husband.
You mentioned your new friend, Harry Weaver. How fascinating that he is a detective! I would imagine it to be interesting and yet somewhat dangerous work. May I say that I am pleased that you did not say you wanted to take up that profession yourself. Much more reassuring that you intend to finish your adventure in Alaska in short order and come back home to us.
Isabelle continues to grow and change daily. I fear that you will not recognize her when you return. She walks quite steadily on her sturdy legs, toddling from room to room. And she tries to say words! Twice I would vow that I heard her say Ma-ma. I show her your photograph and coach her that this is Pa-pa. By the time you arrive I am determined that she will say it directly to you.
I must close now, in order to mail this letter before the post office closes. My apologies for the brevity of today’s news.
Anxiously awaiting your return,
Your loving wife,
Maddie
I set the wife’s letter aside and reached for the stack from her husband, the gold rush stampeder. There was only one more.
My dearest,
It is with great joy—oh, forgive me but I cannot be so formal—I have found gold! I shall be catching the next steamer for San Francisco. Buy yourself a new gown—we are going to celebrate!
J
The note was so much shorter than all preceding it that I flipped the page over and looked inside the envelope to be sure I hadn’t missed something more. But really, I supposed, what more was there to say? The man had realized his dream of finding gold in the Klondike and was on his way home. Happy ending.
I felt mildly let down, wishing I knew how the story turned out. Did Joshua treat his wife to more than a new dress? How much gold did he find? Did the family gain a better lifestyle, or like so many modern lottery winners did they squander it in a short time? There were still a few envelopes with the wife’s handwritten addresses. I picked up the next one from her.
The television clicked off before I had opened the envelope and Drake leaned across the sofa, reaching for me with a gleam in his eye. I dropped the letter back into the box and gave myself over to the more pleasurable real-time moment.
* * *
A couple of days passed in a blur: I made flights to bring departing customers in from their adventure trips (many with little vials of gold dust in their proud hands); I delivered cleaning crews to the cabins, then I took the next incoming groups out to begin their own adventures. Usually, I flew our JetRanger while Drake and Kerby alternated flying his A-Star, but sometimes it was the other way around. I felt that I was gaining some proficiency in the French-built machine, although I was still most comfortable with our familiar one. I had just landed at the heliport when I spotted Mina, rushing toward me.
“Hey, what’s up?” I asked, pulling off my headset and letting the rotor blades wind down.
Her eyes were wide, her breathing quick. “My story was picked up by the wire services—look!”
She held out a tablet computer with a news page on it. I wasn’t displeased to see that she’d skipped the alliterative Brothers’ Bones headline and used a play on the idea of Missing Skeletons.
“Wow, congratulations! So, is there a Pulitzer in this for you?” I threw the tease out there while I finished the last couple of steps to shut down the helicopter.
“I don’t know, but guess what?”
“Somebody knew who they were?”
Her expression drooped a little.
“Sorry. It really was a wild guess.”
“Actually, yes. Leads are coming in from all over, people calling Chief Branson. He called to tell me so I could run a follow-up story if any of the leads pan out.”
Kerby Allen walked up before I stepped down to the tarmac.
“Leads on what?” he asked.
“Mina’s news story.” I caught a warning glance from her. Oops. She probably wanted to keep it quiet so her next piece would actually be news. “But you probably wanted to talk business,” I said to Kerby as I climbed down and secured the door.
“Just wanted to let you know that I’ve got Drake booked for a flight in the morning but you’re free. So far. Bookings are coming in every day, though, so I’ll
keep you posted.”
“Sounds good.” I hoped my tone conveyed proper enthusiasm but not so much that he would hang around to eavesdrop. He headed back toward the FBO office.
“So, tell me about the calls ... ?” I walked beside Mina toward the parking lot.
“Branson is asking anyone who thinks they might be related to go to their local police and submit a DNA sample. The lab can compare them and if any are a match, we’re on the way to solving this. Wouldn’t it be exciting if my story was the direct connection?”
“It would,” I agreed. I tried to imagine what direction this might take. Perhaps someone who remembered ’70s-guy going away would now discover that there was an even older ancestor in the picture.
“Did your story mention that both men were murdered?”
“No. I really wanted to tell that part of it, but the Chief felt it might keep someone from coming forward. You know, a family that might feel its reputation would be tarnished or something.”
There was also the real possibility that they would get more false leads. People in today’s world have little if any shame about things that weren’t talked about a generation ago. Dirty linen is the stuff of popular television nowadays.
Mina and I parted ways at her car. She said she was heading to Branson’s office to see if there was anything new to report, while I had to fill out my logbooks and wait for Drake. I should have asked Kerby what time he was due in, but I could find that out now.
Inside, Kerby sat behind his desk talking with someone on the phone, so I went into the conference room and logged my flight time into the aircraft log and my personal one. Through the open doorway I could hear radio chatter, Drake’s voice saying he was on final approach, the dispatcher’s reply.
Within a minute I heard the A-Star, and a minute after that I saw him hover into position and set the craft down on the helipad. Chuey walked out to greet the passengers and escort them to the building. I gave him a quick smile and wondered if he and Mina were becoming less serious; she hadn’t mentioned him in several days.
Even in private aviation, it seems that everything takes longer than you wish it would. It was thirty minutes later that Drake walked into the building, after shutting down his aircraft and giving it a little once-over inspection. He carried the logbook inside and muttered something about the JetRanger being due for an oil change, so he disappeared again to give Chuey the news. My cell phone rang before he returned.
“We found her!” It was Mina’s voice.
“Her?”
“A woman whose DNA tested as a sibling match for cave-guy.”
“Wow—he had a sister.”
“Yep. I just left Branson’s office where he was on the phone with her. Her name is Katherine Ratcliff and she says her brother’s name was Michael. He was thirty years old when he came to Alaska and she says he never returned.”
A hundred questions went through my mind. Was Katherine the only relative or had Michael been married, had children? Where was he from originally, and what had brought him here? And, most importantly, who had killed him?
“Ms. Ratcliff is flying up from Seattle day after tomorrow,” she said.
“So, does this mean Chief Branson will be taking over the murder investigation again?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say that to me, but it might depend on how hard the family pushes to have answers. I do know the phones were ringing off the hook there at the station.”
I pictured Branson, not easily flustered but perhaps feeling a little overwhelmed. It occurred to me that I might be able to find some information on my own, something to bring in the way of help. I said goodbye to Mina and immediately dialed my brother.
Drake meandered in, was hailed by Kerby, and the two of them stepped outside the conference room to discuss the next day’s schedule.
I spent a few minutes reminding Ron of our previous conversation about finding background information on someone long missing, and told him I now had a name. He questioned me on a few other details, but I was sadly lacking in real information. I told him I would talk with the police chief here and could probably get back to him in a couple of days.
Kerby gave me a long look as I emerged to join them.
“Hey,” I said. “Sorry, that took longer than expected. So, do I have a flight tomorrow morning?”
I probably should have called Ron later, giving priority to the business I’d been hired to do here.
“Nope. Drake’s got the morning covered,” Kerby said. “I have a possible VIP. The assistant is supposed to get back to me within the hour. But I can take that one.”
Not surprising. Drake had once told me that at every company he’d ever worked, the boss always seemed willing to step up and take extra flights whenever a celebrity showed up. I wondered for a moment who it might be, but then decided I didn’t really care.
Kerby’s desk phone rang and he dashed for it, while I filled Drake in on the latest about cave-guy’s long-lost sister and her imminent arrival.
Chapter 17
Joshua stared at the front of Smith’s Parlor. The windows and door had been boarded up since Soapy’s funeral ten days ago, by most accounts a paltry affair with only eight people in attendance and the con man’s body relegated to a rocky, undesirable section of the cemetery. Apparently, no one else planned to take over the once-lucrative gambling hall. Harry had told him this was because twenty-six of Soapy’s men had been rounded up and arrested. Any others were undoubtedly lying low and avoiding the vigilantes.
The drone of voices from State Street had deepened as the citizens gathered. Joshua hurried the half block west and saw two horse-drawn wagons in front of Union Church. Close to a thousand people filled the street. Men, women and children crowded near the door, although only a fraction of them would ever fit inside. The town’s mood had been somber since the news yesterday that Frank Reid had succumbed to his wounds.
“The poor man,” said a female voice beside him. “Can you imagine, Mr. Farmer? Him lying there in agony these twelve days since the shooting? That’s what they’re saying. It was awful for poor Mr. Reid.”
Mrs. McIlhaney dabbed her eyes with a spotless white handkerchief. Her children stood at her side, craning their necks toward the open church door.
Joshua nodded. He’d envisioned being the hero who shot Soapy Smith; he didn’t quite picture it ending this way.
A hush rippled almost tangibly through the crowd as six men carried the flag-draped coffin out and placed it in one of the wagons. Women followed, their arms laden with flowers from the church, and placed them around the coffin. Reid’s closest friends climbed into the second wagon and in a matter of minutes many in the streets who had brought their own carriages fell in behind.
At a greeting from a woman a few yards away, Mrs. McIlhaney turned away from Joshua and he meandered closer to the two wagons.
“I’m taking my rented carriage out to the cemetery,” Harry Weaver said when he walked up. “I figure in a large gathering like this there’s a chance I’ll spot Durant. You may ride along with me, if you would like.”
Joshua nodded absently, imagining the body of Reid inside that coffin. The first wagon began to move slowly, at parade pace, along the street. From the sidewalks, people watched, men removing their hats and women waving handkerchiefs—all bidding farewell to Frank Reid.
Harry nudged Joshua’s arm and the two made their way to the blacksmith’s shop where the carriage waited with the horse already in its traces. Harry guided their ride to the north edge of town and pulled aside, allowing the two wagons and the other conveyances to pass. A string of people, probably more than a hundred, trailed along on horseback and on foot. He showed Joshua the photograph of the bank robber, Jessie Durant, once more.
“Advise me if you see him,” he said.
But Joshua’s attention was riveted by another familiar face.
Mick Thespen, the man who’d started up the White Pass Trail shortly after Joshua arrived. So, he had come back,
and better off than he’d left by the look of it. The man wore a satisfied expression and a slight smile, despite the somber nature of today’s occasion. Joshua took in the clean suit of clothes, complete with a silk necktie and gold nugget tiepin. He watched as Mick passed within a few yards, apparently not recognizing him. The small knot of resentment he’d felt toward the hero-worship of Frank Reid coalesced into a gut-sized lump when he saw the man with whom he could have made his fortune, traveling now in style—and without him.
“There, on the large gelding,” Harry whispered. “It’s Durant.” He let the man pass by, on the far side of the crowd, then he snapped the reins and guided the carriage into position to follow at a distance.
The cemetery was slightly more than a mile from town, situated near the Skagway River in a wooded area. Those on horseback and in carriages pulled aside and tied their mounts before walking toward the hole in the ground where Frank Reid would rest. Someone had chosen the best plot for Reid, on a high spot with majestic trees behind. In contrast, the freshly covered mound that marked Soapy Smith’s final repose was in a rocky section of the cemetery, where barely a foot of earth covered the grave and a plain white-painted wooden board gave the barest of details on five lines of black lettering: Jefferson/R. Smith/Age 38/Died July 8/1898.
Harry handed the reins to Joshua and leaped down from his seat, ducking into the crowd to keep his bank robber in sight. Joshua tied the reins to a slender tree trunk and scanned the crowd, spotting Mick Thespen’s neat bowler above the heads of others. He held back for a moment, considering. The recent trip to Liarsville had continued to nag at him.
Legends Can Be Murder Page 13
