“I don’t see why he should, if he’s done nothing wrong. As a matter of fact, I don’t understand why he lost his job with the Forest Service.”
“Neither do I. Albert took the key to his ’dozer without his permission. But the district ranger didn’t believe my son. It all goes back to what happened in Juvenile Court three years before. Once a boy gets into trouble, he’s lost his good name for all future time.”
chapter 22
Mrs. Snow got up and moved toward the door, as if she was expecting to let me out. Though the atmosphere of her home depressed me, I wasn’t ready to leave yet. I stayed in my chair, and after a silent struggle she came back to the platform rocker and sat down again.
“Is there something else?” she said.
“You may be able to help me. This has nothing directly to do with you or Frederick. But I gather you were working for Mr. and Mrs. Broadhurst when Mr. Broadhurst took off.”
“Yes I was.”
“Did you happen to know the woman?”
“Ellen Kilpatrick? I certainly did. She taught art at the high school and was married to Kilpatrick the real estate man. That was before he struck it rich with Canyon Estates. He was still living from hand to mouth like the rest of us.
“Mrs. Kilpatrick saw a chance to better herself, I guess, and she set her net for Captain Broadhurst. I saw the whole thing happen. When Mrs. Broadhurst was away, the two of them used to leave Stanley with me and go up to the Mountain House. Mrs. Kilpatrick was supposed to be teaching the captain to paint pictures. But she was teaching him other things as well. They thought they were fooling everyone, but they weren’t. I used to catch the looks between them sometimes, like they were off in a secret world by themselves and nobody else existed.”
“Did Mrs. Broadhurst know about the affair?”
“She must have. I could see that she was suffering. But she never said a word, at least not within my hearing. I think she wanted to avoid a break. Her family stands for something in this town – at least they used to. And then there was poor little Stanley to consider. Sometimes when I think back, I think an open break would have been better for Stanley in the long run. He used to ask me what his father and the woman were doing up there in the Mountain House. And I had to make up a story for him, but he was never entirely taken in. Children never are.”
“This went on for some time, I gather.”
“At least a year. It was a strange year, even for me. I was keeping house for Mrs. Broadhurst, and I was in it but not of it. After a while the two of them got careless in front of me. You’d think I was part of the furniture or something. Toward the end they didn’t always bother to go to the Mountain House. One reason for that, Frederick was working on a Forest Service trail at the head of the canyon. So the two of them stayed around the house when Mrs. Broadhurst was out. They’d lock themselves in the den and come out fiery red in the face, and I’d have to make up stories for Stanley about why the couch was squeaking.” Her face blushed faintly mauve under the powder. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I intended to go to my grave without telling anyone.”
“Do you know what made them leave?”
“I guess the strain got to be too much for them. It was almost too much for me. I was just about ready to quit my job when they finally did take off.”
“Where did they go?”
“They went to San Francisco, so I’ve heard, and neither one of them ever did come back here. I don’t know what they lived on. He had no profession, and no money of his own. Knowing both of them, my guess would be that she got a job in the Bay area, and she’s probably supporting him to this day. He isn’t what you call a practical man.”
“What kind of a woman is she?”
“The arty type, but a lot more practical than she ever let on. She pretended to have her head in the clouds, but her feet were made of clay. Sometimes I really felt sorry for her. She used to follow him with her eyes as if she was a dog and he was her master. I’ve often thought about it since – how a woman with a husband of her own and a little boy could feel like that for another woman’s husband.”
“I gather from his picture that he was a good-looking man.”
“That’s true. Where did you see his picture?”
I got out Stanley’s advertisement and showed it to her. She gave it a look of recognition:
“This is the clipping Albert Sweetner had the other day. He wanted to make sure that the man was Captain Broadhurst. I told him it was.”
“Did he ask about the woman?”
“He didn’t have to. Albert knew Mrs. Kilpatrick from away back. She was his home-room teacher at the high school when Albert was living in our home.” She wiped her glasses and bent over the clipping again. “Who put this ad in the paper?”
“Stanley Broadhurst.”
“Where would he get the cash for a thousand-dollar reward? He doesn’t have one nickel to rub against another.”
“From his mother. At least that was the idea.”
“I see.” Her eyes came up from the clipping, full of the past. “Poor little Stanley. He was still trying to find out what went on in the Mountain House.”
The woman’s insight continued to surprise me. Her mind had been sharpened by trouble, and exercised by years of defensive tactics on behalf of Fritz. I realized she’d been talking to me for a purpose, fending me off with stories like an aging Scheherazade, laying down a barrage of words between me and her son.
I looked at my watch. It was a quarter to one.
“Do you have to go?” Mrs. Snow said eagerly.
“If I could have a few minutes with Frederick first–”
“You can’t. I won’t permit it. He’s always blaming himself for things he didn’t do.”
“I can make allowances for that.”
She shook her head. “It’s unfair of you to ask. I’ve told you a lot more than Frederick ever could.” She added with a kind of angry bravado: “If there’s anything more you want to know, ask me.”
“There is one thing. You mentioned a Christmas card that Marty Nickerson sent Frederick.”
“It wasn’t a Christmas card, exactly – just a greeting on a postcard.” She got up. “I think I can find it if you want to see it.”
She went through the doorway into the kitchen. I heard a second door open and close, and then a mumble of talk through the thin walls. I could hear Frederick’s voice rising hysterically, his mother’s voice quieting him down.
She came out with a postcard which she handed me. The colored picture on the face of the card showed the front of a two-story motel whose sign said: “Yucca Tree Motor Inn.” It had been postmarked in Petroleum City on December 22, 1952. The message was handwritten in faded green ink:
Dear Fritz,
Long time no see. How are things in good old Santa Teresa? I have a little girl, born December 15, just in time to be my Christmas baby. She weighs seven lbs., six oz., and she’s a dolly. We decided to call her Susan. I am very happy. Hoping you are the same. Christmas greetings to you and your mother.
Martha (Nickerson) Crandall
The phone rang in the kitchen. Mrs. Snow jumped as if an alarm had sounded. But she pulled the kitchen door shut behind her before she answered it.
A moment later she opened the door again. “It’s Mr. Kelsey,” she said, holding her mouth as if the name tasted bitter. “He wants to talk to you.”
She stepped to one side to let me pass and stayed in the doorway to listen.
Kelsey’s voice was urgent: “The Ariadne’s been sighted by one of the volunteer pilots in the sheriff’s aero-squadron. She’s grounded in Dunes Bay.”