I turned my back on the lighthouse. From what I remembered of Ray Smith’s description, Marcia Hunt’s former house should have been within a few feet of where I was standing now. But there was nothing. Not even old foundations or scattered bricks. Nothing except nodding wild flowers and coarse grasses. Smudges of smoke on the far horizon drew my eyes to a couple of freighters. No trace of the old military fort remained.
Half a mile away was the village of old Point Matlock — a weathered Texaco station, some wood-frame houses, a café that had survived since the military occupation. I drove to the Texaco station and pulled up at the pumps. A kid fixing tires in the service bay glanced up and shouted, “Be right there!” in a cheery voice. It cost me $30 to top up my tank. I sauntered into the service bay and said, “I owe you 30 bucks.”
“Be right with you, mister.”
“I also need information. I’m trying to get a lead on a woman who lived here once.”
“How long ago?” Compressed air hissed as the kid inflated the tire from a hose.
“More than 20 years.”
“Hey, man. You’re talking, like, Stone Age.” He checked the tire pressure with a gauge, nodded, and then was ready to give me his full attention. He pointed across the road to the Matlock Café and said, “Grab a cup of coffee and ask Mrs. Teller. She’s been here longer’n God.”
≈ ≈ ≈
The Matlock Café might have been designed by the man who did Mom’s Café. It had the same furniture — a counter, booths, a Wurlitzer. The customers looked interchangeable. Only the waitress was different. She was an elderly woman, skinny as a rail, wearing rhinestone-covered eyeglasses. She had snow-white dentures a size larger than needed. Every time she spoke, or grinned, her teeth went roaming until she sucked in her cheeks to reposition them.
I sat at the counter. Without being asked, she slapped a mug of coffee in front of me and said, “Stranger, we got world-famous pies here: apple, cherry, raisin and banana cream. Which one you gonna have?”
I said, “Make it apple.” Anticipating her next question, I added, “Better make that à la mode.”
“That’s what I like,” she said, sucking in her cheeks. “Man who knows what he wants.”
The pie was good, but I didn’t see why it was world famous. The waitress sat on a stool and watched me eat. Smoke curled up from a cigarette in an ashtray on the counter next to her elbow. She picked up the cigarette, tapped the ash off and stuck it into the exact centre of her mouth.
I said, “Weren’t there some old military houses near the lighthouse at one time?”
“Yep. Houses and barracks. Them that hadn’t fallen down was torn down. This whole area is a state park now. ’Cept for my café.” The cigar-ette jigged up and down as she spoke.
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
“You a family tracer?”
The question startled me. I said, “I’m making inquiries about a family that lived here once.”
“That’s what I figured. Most strangers what come visiting Point Matlock is historians. You’d be one of them generalists.”
She meant a genealogist and probably thought I was tracing my family tree.
I said, “I’m looking for a woman called Marcia Hunt who lived close to the lighthouse.”
“I don’t remember no Marcia Hunt.”
“She might have used the name Harkness.”
She refilled my coffee mug, stubbed out her butt, lit another and folded her arms. Her brow furrowed with concentration. “Marcia Hunt, eh? She wasn’t living here lately or I’d remember.”
“Marcia was a Canadian. Played piano in a band sometimes. I’m told that she gave birth to a baby girl while she lived here.”
Hearing the word “baby” made the woman’s eyes light up. “There was a woman with a baby squatting in one of them old military houses. Near the lighthouse it was, but I don’t know if she was Canadian. She could have been anything. But that house, if it was her house, it burned down long ago.” She shook her head, remembering. “Landsakes. There were lots of girls squatting and carrying on in them days. Maybe some of ’em played in bands and maybe some of ’em played at something else. The ones that I remember all wore long dresses and played guitars. Carried their babies slung on their backs in sheets like I seen your squaws do in John Wayne movies.” She sighed heavily and added, “Well, I can’t help you, Jack.”
Old-timers drinking coffee at the scattered tables had been listening to our conversation. Without encouragement they contributed their reminiscences. Nobody remembered Marcia.
I thanked everybody and had my hand on the doorknob, ready to leave, when the waitress said, “Pity you ain’t a military buff, Jack. If you was, I could steer you somewhere interesting.”
I moved a step closer. She said, “We get lots of folks poking around the site. People looking for army souvenirs — badges and belt buckles. They come out here with electric gold-finder outfits, checking the ground for buried treasure. You should see what they dig up. Bullets, handguns, even some old cannons that the military dug under and forgot. If you was interested, you could go talk to Colonel Porter, used to live here. He runs the Porter Museum at Snake River. Knows everything. Got books with dates in ’em and suchlike.”
≈ ≈ ≈
Snake River was another 25 miles down Interstate 5. The Porter Museum was a retired gas station painted to simulate a frontier fort. Doors and windows had been bricked in, dummy gun towers guarded each corner. Two muzzle-loading cannons stood on either side of the entrance. Somebody had gone to a lot of trouble to make the exterior resemble log construction, but the illusion only lasted until you were within 100 yards. Closer than that, the building looked like a painted gas station.
Colonel Porter was a tall, easygoing man of about 75, who looked ready to go square dancing. He had on a string necktie with a mini-ature longhorn clasp, a blue-checkered shirt, jeans and cowboy boots. The inside of his museum was filled with military hardware, war books, old battle pictures and a collection of American flags. There were no customers.
I said, “I’m from Victoria, B.C., looking for a woman who went missing a long time ago.” I told him my name and explained my visit to the Matlock Café.
“That would be Mrs. Teller you were speaking to. I see her regularly.” He grinned. “I hope this isn’t a wasted journey for you.”
“The woman I’m looking for is called Marcia Hunt, but she might also have used the name Harkness.”
The colonel tucked both hands under his arms and looked at his feet, frowning as he tried to conjure names. “Sorry, Mr. Seaweed. Don’t recall any such name.”
“Think nothing of it. Coming here to see you was a long shot at best.”
“At least I can give you a cup of decent coffee,” the colonel said and went behind his counter where an aluminum percolator bubbled. “As you can see, I’m not exactly bursting at the seams with customers.” He took the coffee pot off the hotplate and poured two cups.
He said, “When I got out of the service after the war I married Milly and we moved to Point Matlock. I’ve always been interested in military history and I ended up with this collection of antiquated junk. My wife had been an army nurse and she shared my interest. When Milly died a few years back, Point Matlock contained too many disturbing memories. I kept seeing things that reminded me of Milly so I moved here.”
We settled into rocking chairs on either side of an old campaign chest. He said, “Tell me about this woman.”
I told him as much about Marcia as he needed to know and said, “If my information is correct, Marcia was at Point Matlock about 1981, living in an abandoned military house close to the lighthouse.”
“That’s very possible. The fort at Point Matlock was decommissioned in 1950. For a while there was a caretaker, but the place was pretty much rundown when the installation was abandoned. As an economy the caretaker was paid off and the government just washed its hands of the place. The inevitable happened. Vandals set fires and
broke glass. Some small houses were occupied by squatters and stayed more or less habitable as late as the early ’90s. In 1997 the land became a state park.”
“Mrs. Teller said that you have records of the old fort.”
“That’s right. I’ve got rosters and copies of orderly sheets from the fort’s earliest days, but my information only concerns the military occupation.”
I sipped coffee and said, “It’s strange how quickly tracks get covered up. We’re talking about a woman who, if she’s still alive, is only in her 40s. When she was in Point Matlock she had friends, neighbours. There might have been other little girls there too, who played with the woman’s baby daughter. But she left no mark on the place, might never have existed.”
“You say the woman had a baby?”
“That’s right. It was born right there. Born in a house near the lighthouse, in fact.”
“Why, that might make all the difference,” said the colonel. “My wife was a registered nurse. For years she was the only nurse in the area. And Milly delivered lots of babies. We had no full-time doctor in Point Matlock, and people used to call on her in emergencies.”
The colonel went into private quarters behind a dangling bead curtain and returned with a cardboard file box. He riffled through it until he came out with a bundle of well-fingered notebooks tied together with red ribbon. “These are Milly’s diaries. She started keeping them in high school and kept at it all her life,” the colonel said as he untied the ribbon. “When was this baby born?”
“Marcia was two or three months pregnant when she sent a postcard to a friend in Victoria. The baby was probably born in late 1982 or early 1983.”
Colonel Porter picked out the proper journal, thumbed through it and found the page he was looking for. He ran his finger down the page, moving his lips as he encountered interesting passages.
He handed me the book, his finger marking the place he’d been looking for. And there it was:
December 28, 1982. Snow nearly all washed away by today’s rain. Wrote a letter to Edith, thanked her for recipes.
Called at noon to see Marcia in the white house. Poor girl suffering badly with pains. Her first child. Another woman living in the old Todd House helping. Marcia’s live-in (a black-haired Russian who seemed drunk or stoned) interfering and getting in my way. I scolded Marcia for smoking cigarettes then felt bad because she started to cry, poor thing.
Marcia’s friend, or husband, I don’t know which, fetched me at eight tonight, panicked, of course, as they always are, but not necessary. Marcia delivered a baby girl, mother and child well. Wanted to name the child after me — another! But I demurred. Instead, they’ll call the infant Alison Harkness Hunt.
After another search in the diaries, the colonel found one more significant entry, for June 12, 1983:
Saw Marcia and Alison today at the Texaco station. They were leaving for Reno. Marcia looking tired and peaky, but the baby seemed healthy enough. Maybe the desert air will help. I asked about her husband-companion, but Marcia evasive. I think he is in legal trouble.
The way some people live!
The colonel looked at me expectantly.
I said, “Frank Harkness married Marcia Hunt in 1982. He had a bad reputation. When Marcia’s parents found out about the wedding they went nuts. They thought she was marrying beneath them and figured that Harkness was only interested in their money — the Hunts were well-off. Marcia was a minor and had married without permission. Her parents tried to have it annulled. The whole affair was mishandled. After a big argument, Marcia ran away. Apart from a single postcard, nothing has been heard of her since.”
The colonel had stiffened. He said stonily, “What kind of folks are these? Have an argument and never speak to each other again?! Too proud to apologize and make up? They must be insane.”
“It’s a sad story. Lives wasted, and for what? It beats me.”
“Folks like that hardly seem worth helping. But what’s your next step, Mr. Seaweed?”
I thought it over and said, “I might as well call on the local authorities. Your wife’s journal suggests that Harkness was in trouble with the law. I didn’t mention it earlier, but Harkness was a U.S. citizen. He skipped north to evade justice.”
“Tell you what,” said the colonel. “There isn’t much going on in the museum today. If you like, I’ll close up early. I’ve got a bit of influence with the local law. The sheriff is an ex-military man, a friend of mine.”
≈ ≈ ≈
Sheriff Omar Firkins was dozing with his feet on the desk when the colonel and I walked in on him. At the sound of his office door opening, the lawman poked a lazy finger under the brim of his hat and eased it back until he could see who his visitors were.
“Damn, Colonel,” said the sheriff, yawning and recrossing his legs. “Don’t matter how much I try, I can’t get a wink of sleep on this job.”
The colonel grinned at him. “What’s the matter, Omar, you been checking the all-night taverns again?”
“Nope.” The sheriff gave another giant yawn. “Been over to the high school lecturing kids on traffic safety, but all they want to talk about is crystal meth and crack cocaine. They call it jib now. Jib! Don’t ask me why.”
Sheriff Firkins grinned amiably, got to his feet and shook hands with both of us. The sheriff’s movements were slow, but his blue eyes were bright and observant.
The colonel made introductions. I said, “I’m looking for leads on a case involving Frank Harkness. That name is an alias. Frank Harkness’s birth name was Frank Turko.”
Firkins’ light grey eyes clouded noticeably. He sat down at his desk again and punched a button on his office intercom. Leaning back he said, “Mind showing me some ID, Mr. Seaweed?”
I showed him my police badge and my B.C. driver’s licence. The sheriff examined them closely and said, “Frank Turko? I remember him, all right. Frank made quite a wave around here. The way I understood it, the Mounties up in Canada made life too hot so he came back stateside.” A secretary appeared at the sheriff’s door and leaned through the opening. The sheriff said, “Myrtle, dig out the file on Frank Turko, a.k.a. Frank Harkness.”
The secretary went out.
Firkins said, “We busted Frank Turko in the ’80s. The reason I re-member it, we don’t handle many extraditions in this office. Our typical crime is fishing without a licence or stealing firewood. We get a big case, it sticks in our minds.”
The secretary came back with a file and put it on the desk. Sheriff Firkins studied it in silence, raising his eyes to study me once or twice, then said, “I arrested Frank Turko in the Snohomish Hotel on June 11, 1983. Somebody tipped us off, an anonymous phone call. We figured it was one of Turko’s connections, somebody who wanted to horn in on his drug business. Anyway, Turko was in the Snohomish, enjoying breakfast with a tourist. Some guy on a fishing holiday. The two of them were in the dining room having a nice conversation about steelhead trout, and I had to interrupt. Turko made no fuss at all. He came quiet as a lamb. The State of California had an outstanding warrant on him. He’d been charged with manslaughter after a killing in Oakland years earlier. He made bail and took off. Later, the charge against Turko was raised to homicide, but by then Turko had skipped.”
The sheriff absently drummed the table with his fingertips. “We arrested Turko and held him here until formalities were completed between the sovereign states of Washington and California. Later, somebody told us that Turko was tried, convicted and sentenced to life.”
“There you go,” Colonel Porter said, interrupting my musings. “Chances are, Turko has kept in touch with Marcia.”
“Do you know where Turko’s incarcerated, Sheriff?”
“I might know, Mr. Seaweed, but I ain’t telling. That’d be an infringement of the prisoner’s rights,” Firkins said, grinning and keeping me in suspense. “But hell, Frank Turko ain’t going no place. Why don’t you speak to your people in Victoria? Have them wire an official request to California Correctio
ns. I expect they’d co-operate.”
The colonel and Sheriff Firkins wanted to continue socializing. I thanked them for their help and took my leave.
As an afterthought, standing by the office door, I said, “Just one more thing, Sheriff. That tourist, the fisherman having breakfast with Turko when he was arrested. Do you happen to recall his name?”
The sheriff rustled through his papers again. “Yep, it’s right here. That fisherman’s name was Tommy Alfred.”
≈ ≈ ≈
I got back into my Chev. After writing a few notes I headed back to Interstate 5.
Finding Harkness had been just too easy. I didn’t like it. It was difficult for me to believe that Patrick Coulton hadn’t been able to dig out this information long, long ago. But Coulton was dead. I wondered if Coulton’s widow was still alive, and I decided to check it out as soon as I got back to Victoria.
But first I had to pass through Seattle.
I was seriously in lust with Barb and really didn’t know what to do about it. I asked myself what Barb wanted. A long-distance relationship with a serial womanizer? Possibly not. I drove to the Banjo Club and after sitting in my car for five minutes decided to go in. The place was nearly empty. I recognized the waitress behind the bar and said, “Hi, Jean. I was hoping to run into Barb.”
Jean smiled at me and said, “You’re Silas, right?”
“Right.”
“Yeah. Barb told me about you.” Jean’s smile faded. “The reason I’m here is because Barb’s down in California.” She lowered her voice. “Her old man is sick.”
The implication struck me like a blow. For a second I had doubts about Barb. I said slowly, “Her old man?”
Jean grinned and said, “Don’t worry, I’m talking about Barb’s father. He’s got a bad heart. It sounds serious.”
I tried to analyze my complicated feelings, but I hadn’t progressed very far before Jean said, “You want a drink, Silas? Cuba Libre, isn’t it?”
“No, thanks. Tell Barb I dropped by, will you?”
A customer came in, sat at a table and raised one finger. Jean went over to him. I went out.
Seaweed on the Street Page 13
