Jane laughed. “So much for Victorian nostalgia. I suppose nothing can compete with modern technology.”
Late Wednesday afternoon, Alice was working on her supplies for the ANGELs’ senior prom in the dining room again when she heard the back door open. Moments later, Jane and Clothilda appeared.
“Hello,” Alice said. “Did you have a productive day? Where’s Aunt Ethel? I thought she went with you.”
“She did. But she said she needs a nap after the day we had.” Jane grinned. “I don’t blame her.”
“I, too, am very tired,” Clothilda announced. “But I am happy also.”
“So you were able to find some information about your family?”
“We make a start. We find in the hist-hist-”
“Historical Society,” Jane supplied.
“Yes. We find in the records name of Moeller families.”
“More than one family?”
“Three,” Jane told her. “But the earliest ones we could find were from about 1850, which is much later than Clothilda’s Moellers emigrated.
“We went to several cemeteries to look for the graves of others,” Jane continued. “But like the census records at the historical society, we didn’t find any really old ones.”
“Perhaps the earlier ancestors are buried somewhere else,” Alice said. “There are an awful lot of tiny family cemetery plots around the countryside, you know. A lot of them are still in the middle of fields. And perhaps they are not in this county but a neighboring one.”
“That’s possible,” Jane admitted. “We may have to broaden our search.”
Clothilda pulled several pieces of paper from her large handbag and held them out for Alice’s perusal. “We make pencil rubbings of some of these Moellers.”
Alice took one of the sheets of paper. The side of a soft pencil had been lightly rubbed repeatedly across the paper while it was lying against a smooth, hard gravestone with words carved into the surface. Alice realized she was looking at the name Klaus Moeller, with dates of birth and death years from the late 1800s. “Wow! That’s interesting. How many did you find?”
Clothilda waved her sheaf of papers. “Many. Seventeen, maybe.”
“It sounds as if you got a good start.” Alice handed the pencil rubbings back to Clothilda. “So what next?”
“We’re going to try a two-pronged approach,” Jane told her. “First, we are going to begin calling all the Moellers in the area to see if any of them have done any genealogical research. It’s possible they already may have what Clothilda is looking for.”
“That would be most easy answer,” Clothilda said, her eyes twinkling. “Less work for us.”
“I’m not counting on that,” Jane said. “If we don’t get lucky with any of the Moellers we speak to, then we’ll have to go back to the historical society and get the names of descendants of these people as far as we can go. All of them, which will be a daunting task, since a lot of folks had large families until the past half-century. Then… I don’t know. The census office? County registrar? I’m going to have to make some calls and find out.”
“And still we look for the older ones,” Clothilda put in.
Just then, someone came into the front hallway of the inn.
“I’ll go see who that is,” Jane said.
“I, too, will go—only to lie down,” Clothilda told her. “Thank you and we will talk later. Yes?”
“Yes.” Jane smiled as she rose from her chair. “Have a good rest.”
“Hello? Alice? Anyone home?” Alice recognized the voice of Ronald Simpson.
Jane called to him from the doorway of the dining room and said, “Hi, Ronald. We’re in here.”
“I’m looking for Alice,” he told her.
Alice got to her feet and walked into the hallway. “Hello, Ronald.”
“Hi, Alice.” Now that he had found her, Ronald appeared oddly hesitant.
“The thing is… remember yesterday when Florence told you about the expeditions?”
“Yes…?”
“Well, I led one this morning. You know, to find the Bigfoot.”
Alice resisted the strong impulse to roll her eyes. “And did you? Find one, I mean.”
“Not a trace,” Ronald said with disgust. “I’m starting to think I imagined that footprint.”
“Well, that hair Florence found isn’t imaginary.” Alice’s instinct was to soothe.
“No, but that hair could be human.” Ronald looked thoroughly miserable. “Florence is sure we’re going to make the discovery of the century. But I think somebody is playing a joke on us. If a person had looked at the weather forecast and knew storms were predicted for last Thursday, he or she would know the tracks would be damaged, if not completely washed away, by a hard rain.”
“Whose idea was it to go down to the pond?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure it was anybody’s. The boys were the ones who found the tracks first, remember? But anyone who knew anything about Fairy Pond would know the kids play around there all the time.”
“True.”
“Well,” he said awkwardly, “I mostly just stopped to make sure I hadn’t been seeing things.” He laughed feebly.
“You weren’t seeing things,” Alice said gently. “Although I am inclined to think the footprints we found were not from an unknown species.”
“Me too,” he said glumly. “But Florence—you know how she can be—she wants to believe it and she’s bound and determined to prove there’s a Bigfoot out there.” He sighed. “She’s not going to be happy if it turns out someone is playing a joke.”
He didn’t have to say anything else. Alice knew well how stubborn Florence could be.
“I’m sorry,” Alice said gently. “Is there anything I can do?” Her caring nature would not let her dismiss poor Ronald’s distress.
But the man shook his head. “No, I don’t think there is. This will just have to play out like it’s going to play out. Even Florence can’t create a critter out of thin air.”
He turned to leave, and Alice bid him good-bye.
Jane was making a light evening meal for herself, Louise, Alice, Maxwell and Clothilda. They rarely invited inn guests to dinner, but Jane had felt sorry for both the lonely young man and the European woman so far from home, so she had asked them both to dine with the sisters.
She was washing up some of her prep dishes when she heard the front door open and close. She dried off her hands and walked toward the front of the house.
A middle-aged woman stood at the desk, fingers nervously pleating the fabric of the denim skirt she wore.
“Welcome to Grace Chapel Inn,” Jane said. “How can I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to one of the Howard sisters,” the woman said.
“I’m Jane Howard.”
“I’m Barbara Candori. You’re the folks who advertised about the lost cat?”
Jane felt her heart leap into her throat. “Yes, we are. Do you have information about Wendell?”
“I might be able to do better than that. I’ve had a cat hanging around my house for the past few days, so this morning I caught it.”
“Have you seen one of our posters?” Jane asked eagerly. “Does the cat look like the one in the picture?”
“I haven’t seen the poster,” the woman said. “My friend Ella has, though. When I called her about the cat, she remembered seeing the poster in town. She lives a lot closer to Potterston than I do, so she drove in and wrote down the information. This is a gray cat with four white feet. I’m afraid I don’t remember the color of its tail, and I was afraid to open the box again.”
Jane tried to stay calm. “Is there a time I could come to your home and see the cat?”
“It’s right out here in my car.”
“Oh!” Jane followed the woman outside to a gray minivan. Barbara opened the back and pulled what looked like a sturdy fruit crate toward her. It had large slits in the sides, ensuring that plenty of air got in.
“Kitty
, kitty,” Jane called softly. “Come here and let me see you.” She pulled the crate into the light and peered through the slits but all she could see was shadowy movement.
Carefully, she pulled back one of the flaps on the long side of the box, keeping her hand over the opening. Pulling back the other long flap, she took a deep breath as she reached in and lifted out a cat.
The moment her hands touched it, her heart sank. The fur was long and extremely silky. And when she lifted it, she didn’t have to put any oomph behind it as she did when she lifted Wendell, who could only be described as an extremely healthy fellow. This cat was much smaller.
She lifted it out anyway. It was a gray tabby, and just like the last close call, it had four white paws. But there the resemblance ended. The hair was long and a much, much lighter gray than Wendell’s. Disappointment swamped Jane. She cuddled the cat to her and closed her eyes for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” she said to Barbara Candori. “I can’t tell you how I appreciate your efforts, but this is not my cat.” She sighed as the cat snuggled closer, obviously sensing a kind heart. “But someone must be missing this one. She’s very friendly.”
“She?”
“Just a guess,” Jane said. “I really don’t know. But it’s very petite, isn’t it?”
“It is. Would you like to have it? You don’t have to give me a reward or anything.”
Jane sadly shook her head. “No, thank you. Our cat is going to be found one of these days.”
Distress crossed Barbara’s face. “I can’t keep it either. My husband said absolutely not. But I don’t want to just take it to the shelter. You know what happens to cats at the shelter.”
“My sister and I visited there and it seems like a very nice facility,” Jane said. “But I understand your concern.” She thought for a moment. “Let me make a telephone call. We have a friend who rescues cats all the time. Perhaps she could take this one.”
“Oh, I would appreciate that so much,” Barbara said.
Jane reluctantly returned the feline to its box. It had felt so good to hold a cat again. Leading the way indoors, she pulled out the telephone book from beneath the desk and quickly looked up Viola Reed’s number. Dialing, she signaled to Barbara to wait while she listened to it ring.
“Hello?” Viola’s greeting sounded more like a demand for information, typical of her strong personality.
“Hi, Viola, it’s Jane Howard.”
“Jane. Hello. How are you?”
“Fine, thanks. I’m calling because I need your help with something. I have a lady here who found a cat. She thought it might be Wendell but it isn’t, and she doesn’t want to take it to the shelter. It’s a small, long-haired adult and seems very sweet. Is there any chance you might be able to take it?”
Viola was silent for a minute.
Jane began to think desperately of other options. She was on the verge of thanking Viola for her time when Viola said, “You know, I placed two yesterday. And I had a call from someone looking for a long-haired cat just this morning. Have your friend bring it by. Even if that placement doesn’t work out, I’m sure I can find it a home.”
“Oh, Viola, thank you!” Jane cried. “You are a gem. I’ll send her right over.”
“So you’ve had no luck finding Wendell yet?”
“No,” Jane said. “We can’t think of much else to do except pray at this point.”
“I’m sorry.” Viola’s voice was gentle. “Cats are such special spirits. It’s devastating to lose a friend like that.”
“It is,” Jane agreed.
Ending the conversation, Jane turned to Barbara, who was looking delighted. “Viola can take her if you don’t mind driving the cat to her. She owns Nine Lives bookstore in town. She thinks she may even have a home for it.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful news,” Barbara said fervently. “Thank you so much.” Her smile faded as she realized Jane couldn’t be feeling quite as happy. “I hope you find your cat. I’ll pray that he is safe and gets home soon.”
Jane swallowed, near tears. “That means a lot, Barbara. We need all the prayers we can get.”
Chapter Eleven
Dinner with their two guests was a pleasant time. Alice watched Maxwell interact with the older women. His often-stilted speech and behavior seemed to fit far more naturally among people her age than they would among young twenty-somethings like himself. She wondered what those boarding schools had been like.
She helped her sisters clear the table and wash up after the meal, and then went out onto the back porch to begin tying up newspapers. The sisters saved and recycled their newspapers and a number of other items, taking them to a local recycling center whenever they filled up their storage containers. Tomorrow she would make a run to the recycling center.
“Hello, Alice. Is there some way I may help?” Maxwell came onto the porch and stopped when he saw her.
“Oh,” Alice said. “I’m just tying up these papers for recycling.”
“Ah. A worthy endeavor.” He stepped to her side and grabbed a stack of papers, then picked up one of the lengths of sturdy twine she already had cut. “If you’ll show me what to do, I’ll be happy to help.”
“All right. Thank you.” Alice thought it a little odd that he appeared to have no idea how to tie up the papers. “I guess they didn’t teach this at your boarding schools.”
The young man laughed, and once more, Alice was struck by the ease he seemed to be developing in the company of her and her sisters. “No. My education ran more to the classics, dance and deportment lessons, several languages and the all-important maths and sciences.”
“Tell me about dance and deportment. I’m familiar with the rest, but my education didn’t include lessons in those areas.”
“Let’s see… From the time I was about ten years old, I attended something called cotillion, where we were taught ballroom dances such as the waltz, the two-step and the rumba. We learned how to ask for a dance, how to partner the lady, and we were taught manners. We practiced basic courtesy and table manners all the time, anyway, but we learned how to take tea, how to introduce people properly and how to bow, things like that.”
“Have your bowing lessons proven valuable in everyday life?” Alice asked with a smile. Good manners were important, but taking classes to learn to bow seemed to her a little extreme.
“You must understand, Alice, that I was not groomed to live an everyday life. My father socializes mainly with those with blue blood and pots of money. He expected me to do the same.”
“And you aren’t?”
He smiled, but Alice thought there was a sad resignation behind it. “No. I don’t fit into that world any better than I fit anywhere else, and choosing to pursue higher degrees in something so far from the business world as psychology has made me even more different.”
“There is nothing wrong with being different,” Alice said softly.
“No. But different can get lonely.” He kept his gaze on the twine he was tying.
“It can,” Alice agreed. “I sometimes felt that way years ago when all my friends were marrying and having children. I wasn’t unhappy in my choices, but I didn’t always feel that I fit in very well.”
He nodded. “Exactly. I enjoy my studies.”
“What will you do once you’ve finished your doctorate?”
“Teaching and research. I want to work somewhere in an academic atmosphere that allows me to pursue research in a direction I find interesting.”
Alice cocked her head. “And your father doesn’t perceive that as a successful career choice?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But it doesn’t matter anymore. I spent years trying to show him how smart I was, to make him proud of me. He rarely seemed to notice me. So now I just worry about making choices that will make me happy.”
But it couldn’t be that simple, Alice thought. Inside Maxwell was a little boy to whom it still mattered desperately that he please his father.
“I haven�
�t told anyone else this,” he went on, looking over at her earnestly “but I sent resumes to several universities that have positions open on staff. There’s one I particularly would like to get, but I am quite certain the competition will be fierce. I already have had an interview, but I have not received any further word, and I suspect I am not being considered for it.”
“Don’t give up hope yet,” Alice said. “I don’t know enough about your work to be any kind of judge, but I imagine you’re very good at it and that you interview well.”
His gaze slid away from hers. “We’ll have to wait and see.” He patted the bundle of papers. “Here you go.”
On Thursday at lunchtime, Alice stopped in at the Coffee Shop while she was running some errands. She was curious to learn if people still were talking about the Bigfoot theory.
The moment she walked through the door, she had her answer.
“… did not find any further evidence and we believe it must be nocturnal,” Florence Simpson was saying to a group around her.
The group consisted of Ronald, Fred Humbert, Maxwell and several other local people.
“Alice!” Florence sang out.
Mustering a smile, Alice turned toward the counter. She had come in to see what was going on, she reminded herself. And, boy, now was she going to find out.
“Hello, Florence,” Alice said. “Hi, everyone.”
“Hi, Alice,” said Maxwell. “We’re talking about the Bigfoot.”
“Oh?”
“We took a second hike this morning,” said Ronald, looking a bit embarrassed.
“We had a nice walk, but didn’t find anything,” added Fred Humbert. “Then again, I didn’t expect to find anything.”
“There is something out there to be found,” said Florence sharply. “We must keep seeking until we find it. Just think— we could put Acorn Hill on the map.”
Talk of the Town Page 11
