Mother Lode (5 page)

He stopped going anywhere except to work,
and would leave the house no more than necessary. He made a small
pine cupboard for Helena’s dishes. He fashioned a wooden puppet for
Eliza Carving each piece carefully, it gave him some sense of
purpose and kept him busy when he wasn’t at work. She squealed with
delight, and asked him to make another so they could play ‘pretend’
together.

Jorie could put off returning to the house
no longer. He could not risk someone else finding the loathsome
object first.

This time the house was quiet. Not aired
since the day of the storm, a musty smell pervaded it. The sound of
scurrying mice reached his ears as he entered his room.

From the back of the closet he pulled out a
box of school composition books. Rifling through the pile, he found
at last the one he was looking for—the journal of his
transgressions and punishment. Presented to him when he was seven,
he’d been required to record his misdemeanors in it for years.

Jorie took the book downstairs and put
newspaper in the kitchen stove. His hands shook as he lit the
match, making it difficult to light the paper. As the flame finally
rose, he tore the pages from the book, and one by one fed them to
the blaze. A mixture of anger, sadness and remorse coursed through
him as he sat transfixed, watching the flames curl and consume the
record of his childhood shame.

Chapter 4

Walking to the poker game that night, Earl
carried his memories about the girl he’d known in school. He’d been
crazy for her then, when they’d both lived up in Red Jacket. What a
country bumpkin she must have thought him! He, who’d never been
outside Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, and she, a young lady from
Edinburgh, Scotland!

She was fine looking, but it was her mane of
red hair and her fiery green eyes that made everybody take notice.
Well, that was a long time ago. Earl was always dreaming of making
a touchdown, just to impress Catherine. It was the first year
they’d had football at his school, and everybody was keen on it.
And then yes, on that one day, the forty yard run all the way down
the field with no one even close behind. The whole school was
cheering him on. Nothing could stop him from reaching the goal
post. Nothing did.

But it hadn’t made a bit of difference.
Catherine McGaurin had been too good for anybody. With a daddy that
took her everywhere—to concerts, even to Paris—what did he have to
offer?

He thought about how her life had turned
out. And his. Considering her fate, he guessed he’d fared better
than she. He pulled his muffler tight around his mouth, as winds
whipped up the snow drifts, blowing the cold, dry stuff into his
face, smarting his eyes.

He’d wanted to go out west, latch on to some
of that land the government was giving away. Maybe he’d become an
officer of the law, and bring order to some lawless town in the
west. But then Cora Baker, the girl he was seeing, told him she was
pregnant. Well, he did what all honorable men did under such
circumstances—he married her. But she lost the baby. Or said she
did. He didn’t know much about these things, and he believed
her.

Cora didn’t want to go out west.

There would be other children, he figured.
But they hadn’t come. That was his biggest regret. He would like to
have had children. Still, they’had a pretty good marriage, good as
most, he reckoned.

Judge McKinney’s home loomed in front of
him. George, the bachelor, accountable to no one, had an enormous
antebellum house large enough to hold a family of eight. The games,
previously held at Thomas Radcliff’s, had shifted to George’s after
Thomas died last year.

Iva opened the door, and led him inside. Rumors had
circulated about who this mulatto was. Some said she was his
daughter, by a woman he'd saved from the slave catchers back in
1855; another version was that Iva was no relation at all; she was
his mistress.

The woman led him into the room George
McKinney had fashioned into the game room, though you could tell it
wasn’t designed to be, as Thomas’ had been. Rather, it was more of
a sun room, with curved bay windows all around the back,
overlooking the garden. Still, it served well enough. Except, Earl
thought ruefully, it was never warm enough in the winter.

The others were already seated: Doctor
Arthur Johnson, with his shock of white wavy hair, Buck Boyce, the
prosecuting attorney and youngest member of their little band. Earl
was glad to be here. He looked forward to these familiar and
friendly, weekly games with his poker buddies. Maybe this diversion
would clear his head.

The pot of money was
brought out and set on the floor. Named
Matilda
, the kitty represented the
sum total of everyone’s winnings over the last ten years. Long ago
they’d agreed to pool their spoils for some future project or joint
flight of fancy. At first a gag, the longer it remained untouched,
the harder it was to disturb. Perhaps they were afraid the spell
would be broken if they did, he mused, and the games would end.
Matilda had grown from a small pickle jar to a flower pot to a
heavy iron kettle. The last once held enough stew to feed a crew of
hungry miners at a boarding house. It was a ritual, bringing it out
every time they had a game.

Earl was the first to deal. “Five card draw.
Ante up.” He placed the deck in front of the prosecuting attorney.
“Cut ‘em up, Buck.”

When the cards were dealt Buck bet one.

“Arthur?”

“Match.”

It wasn’t long before the talk turned to the
death of Catherine Radcliff. The wife of their friend Thomas, she
had for years served refreshments on poker nights.

The judge raised the doctor. “Didn’t see you
at the funeral, Arthur.”

“I was delivering the Freeman baby. Terrible
– about Catherine.”

“I’ll raise you one, George.” Earl pushed
his chips to the center.

“Most unfortunate accident,” the judge
said.

“If it
was
an accident,” the prosecuting
attorney interjected.

“You’re not suggesting, Buck—” The doctor
was visibly upset.

“I don’t know. Do you?”

Arthur studied the prosecutor’s face. “It’s
the way your mind works, Buck. Guess it goes with the territory —
always suspicioning the worst of everyone.”

Buck Boyce smiled. “That’s my job.”

“Are you in, Buck?” Earl inquired.

“I’m in.” He pushed chips to the center.

The others matched.

“How many cards, Buck?”

“Two.”

“Arthur?”

The doctor seemed to have trouble focusing.
“One,” he finally said.

“How’s it look so far, Earl? Any chance of
foul play?” the judge asked.

Lord, he didn’t want to answer that.

“How many, George?”

“Two.” The judge’s ashes fell to the floor.
“You didn’t answer my question, Earl.”

“And three for me,” Earl said. “Too soon to
speculate.”

“Figured you’d say that. Always play it
close to your chest, don’t you, Earl?”

“You doubt the lad’s story, George?” the
doctor inquired. “That gentle lad who refused to make a butterfly
collection because he couldn’t kill them?”

Earl scratched his elbow, but Arthur’s
question to the judge took the limelight off him.

“How do you know that — about the
butterflies?” McKinney turned back to Arthur.

“He was sick a lot. And his mother kept him
out of school one whole term, when scarlet fever was going around.
I got to know him pretty well.”

“Buck?”

“Fold.”

“And I.” The doctor laid down his cards. “I
used to stop by on my rounds. He liked to talk about science.
Seemed like a lonely kid.”

George said, “Three.”

Earl knew the judge liked to bluff. “Let’s
see what you got.” He pushed his chips forward.

George had a pair of Jacks, but Earl had
three tens, and took the hand.

Boyce shuffled. "Cards are getting gummy.
Got any others, George?”

“Nope.”

More likely George didn’t want to leave the
table just now to get them, Earl mused.

“Earl’s known Catherine since school days,”
George informed the prosecutor. “Up in Red Jacket.”

Oh, here we go!

“Sweet on her too, weren’t you, boy?” George
teased, lighting his cigar.

Earl hated to be called ‘boy.’ It rankled
him that the judge, whether because of his superior position in
society, or the difference in their ages, often treated him like he
wasn’t grown up yet. He’d always known he hadn’t been included in
this poker party because of his standing in the community; he was
in because he was a damn good player and George McKinney liked a
challenge.

Finally, talk about the Radcliffs was
dropped as the players turned their attention seriously to
poker.

When quitting time came at ten o’clock, Earl
fed Matilda more than he had in a year.

“She’s getting very fat,” he said.

But when he left, the judge quipped,
“Good-night, Sherlock. Have fun playing detective.”

Earl decided to make a
trip to the
News,
hoping to catch two birds. First he wanted to see Jorie,
whose night shift would be finished in about half an hour. Then
he’d find the man who did the weather reports there.

He discovered Jorie working in the corner of
a large room. On the table before him were wooden boxes divided
into tiny compartments, each holding different letters.

Jorie was bent over two boxes picking up the
bits of lead. For a moment Earl stood back, mesmerized by the
dexterity and speed in which Jorie’s hands flew from the boxes to
the composing stick on which they were placed. Finally, Jorie
looked up. A slight frown crossed his face.

“Good morning, Mr. Foster.”

“’Morning, Jorie. “I’d like to get some
papers from the house that we’ll need in order to settle your
mother’s estate.”

He caught the boy’s hesitation. “Can you
give me the key?”

Jorie dug it from his pocket and handed it
to the sheriff. Earl studied his face, looking for signs of
something, anything. Except for a kind of melancholy countenance
he’d worn since he was about thirteen, Earl could decipher
nothing.

“Anything over there I can get for you?”

Jorie paused. “I’d like my mother’s rosary,
if you can find it.”

“Where did she keep it?”

“In her room, I think.”

What was Catherine doing with a rosary? The
only church he’d known her to attend was the Congregational, and
the funeral service was conducted by their new minister.

He left Jorie and asked a man in the hall,
“Who does the weather report around here?”

“Jack Bickerson.”

Earl found the man at his desk, squeezed
between two others. It was impossible to have a private
conversation here. He leaned over the desk.

“Did you write a forecast of the blizzard
last week?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Would that have been the day before the
blizzard?”

“No, sir. Didn’t hear of it until the day it
came. Those storms come up so fast over Lake Superior, there’s not
always warning.”

“You get your information from the ships out
there?”

“Yes, sir. Morse Code.”

Earl lowered his voice. “Did Jordan Radcliff
talk to you that day?”

“Who?”

“Jordan Radcliff.”

Earl could feel all neighboring eyes upon
him.

“Can’t remember.”

“I mean did he ask you for a weather
report?”

Jack tried to think. “Might have. He did
sometimes.”

Earl repeated, “He did sometimes.”

“Everybody did sometimes.”

Toby Wilson’s office was two blocks away.
Earl decided to ask the Radcliff’s lawyer about the wills. There
was a sign on the door: “Closed for family emergency.” He was
informed by the stationer next door that the lawyer had been called
away to settle his father’s affairs downstate.

The Radcliff place had always seemed a
little eerie to Earl, even when he’d gone there regularly to play
poker. With its steep gables, lying mostly in the shadow of the
pine grove, today it appeared downright spooky.

Inside, the silence was an ominous presence.
Maybe it was his imagination, but he felt Catherine’s spirit was
all about, and he wasn’t a man to believe in such things. Probably
just some stale perfume playing with his mind. Funny, how quickly a
deserted house could take on something of its dead owner, he
mused.

He expected to locate Thomas’ will easily
enough, and perhaps Catherine’s, in the oak roll-top desk. He’d
seen Thomas go to it a number of times, knew it was where he kept
his important documents. But the papers weren’t there. Probably
Wilson had them. Their content could be significant.

Now for the rosary. He’d only been to the
top of the stairs once the day of the funeral, and he hadn’t taken
much notice then. Ascending the steps now, he felt he was pushing
through an invisible wall of privacy. The stairs creaked as he
climbed them, each with its own note.

He saw the little girl’s room first. Strange
way to decorate a bedroom, he thought— hand-painted peaches and
bananas bordering the ceiling. No clothes, not a single toy.
Jorie’d probably taken everything over to O’Laerty’s.

The only sign of life anywhere were the
droppings of mice sprinkled liberally throughout. The visible traps
had all been sprung.

He found Catherine’s room a picture of
femininity. Everything was white, from the window coverings of lace
to the quilt on her bed.

He had the distasteful experience of going
through the dead woman’s dresser drawers. Always feeling he was
intruding when his job called for this sort of intimate search,
when it was someone he’d known it was almost embarrassing.

He found no rosary, only a lot of jewelry.
Perhaps Jorie might like something else of his mother’s. It might
loosen his tongue, even bring on a confession. He put a string of
amber beads in his pocket.