Mining for Justice Page 29

  Midge

  Chloe removed the lid. The box contained a collection of thin leather ledgers, faded and worn. She opened the one on top and peered at lines of faded, crabbed script. She caught her breath. “Oh my,” she whispered.

  “Yes!” Officer Skeet Deardorff was practically bouncing off the Eagle Police Station walls. He was jazzed.

  Roel­ke had been jazzed too, for the raid on Hackberry had been a thing of beauty. Now, his buzz was fading. He was staring at a mountain of work yet. And something else.

  But Roel­ke didn’t want to think about that. “Thanks, Skeet. I really appreciate your work at the house this afternoon.”

  “Want me to stay and help wrap everything up?” The other officers and the chief had all gone home.

  Part of Roel­ke did want that, wanted Skeet’s company every minute until he locked the door behind him.

  But he shook his head. “Naw. I got it.”

  “I’ll do the inventory while you do the other paperwork,” Skeet suggested. “Otherwise you’ll be here for hours.”

  Skeet was right. Roel­ke had to write a detailed report that started with the original complaint and went through the raid itself. He needed to inventory the drugs. He needed to record the cash seized, noting every bill’s serial number, cross-referencing the numbers on the cash he’d given Michelle Zietz to make her buys.

  But he waved a hand. “You’ve got a wife and kids waiting at home. All I’ve got waiting is a cat who’s aggrieved because Chloe’s away.”

  “Okay.” Skeet shrugged and opened his locker door. “It’s your funeral.”

  Probably, Roel­ke thought, and got to work.

  When Chloe got back to Tamsin’s apartment, Adam answered her knock. She inhaled the heady sugar-cinnamon scent of baking cookies. “Smells good in here.”

  “Yes, but I advise you to stand clear. Grandma’s moving at extremely high speed.”

  “I heard that, Adam,” Tamsin called from the kitchen. “I told the ladies I’d be at church by four thirty with cookies in hand, and I will not be late. We’ve got hundreds of pasties to make for the supper.”

  “I’ll drive you, Grandma.” Adam snitched a snickerdoodle from one of the tins on the table and winked at Chloe. “And you can even put me to work in the kitchen.”

  Tamsin emerged, wiping her hands on a rickrack-trimmed apron. “We’ll have to stop at the old people’s home to deliver supper for Lowena. There’s been so much going on this week I’ve slighted her, I’m afraid.”

  “How about if I visit Lowena?” Chloe asked. “I’d be glad to take her supper.”

  Tamsin’s face brightened. “Well, that would solve a problem, if you’re sure you don’t mind. Her food’s all packaged up.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Chloe assured her truthfully. The idea of a quiet hour with Tamsin’s half-sister was more appealing than working with a dozen supervisors in a chaotic church kitchen. Besides, she’d wanted to ask Lowena about her memories of childhood in Mineral Point.

  “We can drop you off,” Adam offered.

  “That’s okay.” Chloe tucked the plastic food containers into her totebag. “I’ll walk.”

  Her route led through the historic district, and she tried not to get too distracted by the stone, Victorian, Federal, and Italianate buildings. I love this town, she thought. Yes, some truly horrid things had happened here this week. But Mineral Point had a fascinating past, and residents clearly cherished their historical and cultural heritage. This evening she felt optimistic that common sense would prevail, and that Pendarvis would remain open to help tell the stories of early Cornish mining families, and the two men who’d saved old buildings and launched the local preservation ethic.

  When Chloe arrived at the nursing home she found Lowena’s room and knocked on the open door. “Hello?”

  Lowena was sitting by the window, knitting a cheerful red shawl. For someone a hundred and one years old, she looked surprisingly vivacious in a teal sweatsuit, with a flowered headband tied over thin white hair. She lifted one hand.

  Chloe interpreted the gesture as Come in. “Do you remember me? I’m Chloe, Tamsin and Adam’s friend.”

  That I’m still here spark was back in Lowena’s eyes, and the portrait of her first husband was back on the nightstand. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said—just as she had when they’d met.

  A tingle buzzed down Chloe’s spine. She had no idea how to respond. “Um … Tamsin’s busy with a church function tonight, so I brought you supper. A pasty and saffron bun and cookies.”

  “I’ll have it later. I’d rather have your company.”

  Chloe pulled a vacant chair close to the elderly woman. “I was hoping we’d have a chance to talk. I love history, you see.”

  “Well, child, I’ve lived it.”

  “Do you have any favorite memories from your childhood?”

  “My early years were not filled with ‘favorites,’” Lowena said. “My father abandoned my mother and me when I was eight years old.”

  “Oh.” Chloe sucked in her lower lip. With her first question she’d inadvertently evoked something painful. Lovely. “I’m sorry. Perhaps we should talk of other things.”

  “It was all a long time ago.” Lowena met Chloe’s gaze. Behind her glasses, the old woman’s blue eyes were still bright. “I don’t think I need to keep secrets from you.”

  Chloe felt the undercurrent in the conversation, but couldn’t define it. “Um … no, there’s no need to keep secrets.”

  “I’m tired of the secrets.” Lowena flicked a hand as if sweeping them away. “My mother kept my father’s behavior a secret. It was a scandal, you see.”

  Almost a century ago, Chloe thought, I imagine it was. “She must have been terribly hurt.”

  “And ashamed. To get by she took in laundry, mostly from bachelor miners.” Lowena stared out the window. “That’s how I remember my mother—bending over a copper wash boiler, perspiration running down her face, with a huge pile of filthy work clothes waiting on the floor.”

  “That’s a hard way to make ends meet,” Chloe agreed.

  “She couldn’t manage. After less than a year she gave me away.”

  “Oh, Lowena. I’m sorry. Your mother must have been at wits’ end.”

  “I’ve always wondered if she truly believed I’d be better off, or if I had become a painful reminder of my father,” Lowena mused. “She even made me change my name. My father named me Ann, you see. Lowena is my middle name.”

  “Lowena is a beautiful name,” Chloe said honestly. “Did you keep in touch with your mother?”

  “Not really. And when she remarried a few years later, she didn’t take me back.” Her fingers plucked absently at the red yarn. “I don’t know if her second husband, Tamsin’s father, even knew she had an older child.”

  Something came clear in Chloe’s brain. “Tamsin told me that she never knew your first husband. Is that why?”

  “Tamsin didn’t know I existed until a cousin told her. The Depression had started, so Tamsin was … thirty-six? Thirty-seven?” Her voice was thin and she spoke slowly, as if needing extra time to dig memories from the past. “Somewhere in there. I was almost fifty.”

  “I’m sorry you two lost so much time together.” Chloe tried to imagine what it would feel like to walk the planet for so many years and then discover she had an unknown sister. Lowena must possess an indomitable inner strength. Abandoned by her father and her mother, widowed twice … and here she was, over a century old and still knitting shawls and eating pasties.

  Chloe leaned forward and put a gentle hand on Lowena’s arm. “You’ve had a hard path through life.”

  “No more so than many.” Lowena shifted in the chair, as if trying to sit straighter. “I was fortunate. A very kind woman took me in as a child and raised me like I was her own granddaughter. Mary
Pascoe.”

  Chloe went very still. “Mary Pascoe? You were raised by Mary Pascoe?” She tried to assimilate that factoid into what she knew of the Pascoe and Bolitho families. “Were you … did you grow up at Chy Looan?”

  “I lived there from the time I was eight until I was fourteen, when I became a nanny. I was the last child Miss Mary took in, and I visited her often after I left. Shortly before she died, she told me she was leaving me the cottage. And that there was something I needed to know.”

  Chloe leaned back in her chair, totally flummoxed. “But Adam didn’t … Tamsin never said … ”

  “Tamsin and Adam don’t know.” Lowena’s voice was thin as paper; it also held a note of iron. “I didn’t move back, you see. I rented it out. Eventually I had a lawyer sell the cottage. That was before Tamsin and I even met.”

  “You sold … ” Chloe pressed fingertips to her temples. This made no sense.

  Then—Ann. The name rang in her memory like a church bell. She’d been so focused on the Pascoe family that she’d barely considered the other name on the list of Chy Looan property owners. “Lowena, before you got married, what was your last name?”

  “Trezona. I was christened Ann Lowena Trezona.”

  Chloe stared helplessly at the old woman.

  Lowena smiled. “Mary Pascoe was the kindest, most generous person I ever met. She was involved in many projects, but most of all she helped many children over the years. It was because of her sisters, you see.”

  “Her sisters?” Chloe asked weakly. “I didn’t know she had sisters.”

  “She had two, both younger. They died before she left Cornwall, and she blamed herself. One died when she got too close to the hearth and her dress caught fire. The other died in a mining accident. A boiler exploded.”

  Dear God, Chloe thought. It was unbearable to imagine.

  Then she noticed that Lowena’s eyes had closed. “Would you like a glass of water? Or … should I go?”

  Lowena opened her eyes. “I’m growing tired. But I don’t have much time left, and I want someone to know.”

  Know what? Chloe wanted to shriek, but forced herself to be patient.

  “Before Adam found that skeleton in Chy Looan,” Lowena said, “I was the only person left who knew there was a body buried in the root cellar.”

  This time Chloe couldn’t help herself. “You knew? Who was it?”

  “An evil man.” Lowena paused again, as if gathering her strength. “Perhaps I will nibble that saffron bun, and catch my breath. Then I’ll tell you the story.”

  Thirty-Four

  may 1838

  A hot ache bloomed in Mary’s chest as she arranged saffron buns for her visitor on a china plate. Oh, Jory, she thought. It happened this way often—some stray memory or scent caused grief to strike like a miner’s pick. Jory had loved saffron buns.

  She was managing. Will was at the mine, trying to fill Jory’s boots. “I’ll take care of you now, Miss Mary,” he’d promised hoarsely the day Jory had died, as tears tracked down his dirty cheeks. Still, Mary expected Jory to walk grubby and tired through the door any moment.

  But he will not, Mary reminded herself. Ever again. All they had left of Jory were memories and his shovel, leaning in one corner. His other tools had gone to Will and Ezekiel, but no one could bear to touch his shovel.

  Jory had died on a bitter March day when several inches of ice-crusted snow still coated the landscape. The sky was the color of lead, and a bitter wind shrieked around the cottage. Mary had just set some dough to rise near the hearth, and was savoring the yeasty smell mingling with the smoke, when a fist hammered the door.

  Mary had felt a sudden, bone-deep chill. Ida shot her a frightened glance: Is it Mr. Peavey?

  It hadn’t been Peavey. The man pounding at the door was a friend of her brothers. “What is it?” Mary had cried, because she couldn’t bear to voice the real question: Who is it?

  “Cave-in,” he’d gasped. “It’s Jory.”

  The memory was harsh, and she was glad when a much calmer voice behind her interrupted it. “You have a snug home, Mary.”

  Mary tried to swallow the lump in her throat, turned, and set the platter on the table in front of her guest.

  “Saffron buns?” Kerenza Benallack’s eyes went wide. “I didn’t expect to taste saffron buns ever again.”

  Mary found a smile. “I wanted to give you a proper welcome to Mineral Point. Living among so many different kinds of people, Cornish food helps us remember where we came from.” She reached for her precious china teapot. “May I pour?”

  Mary and Ida had met the young woman while making their rounds on Mena Dhu with loaded bread baskets. Kerenza and her husband were newly-arrived and camping in a badger hole. Mary had given her some bread, shared tips about outdoor cooking, and invited her to come for tea the next day.

  Now Ida emerged from the root cellar, carrying a china bowl of plum preserves with clotted cream. She approached the table slowly, anxious not to spill. When the bowl was safely deposited, she beamed.

  “Would you like to join us for tea, Ida?” Mary asked. She glanced toward the stairs, but caught herself. Ezekiel was upstairs, but it wouldn’t be wise to call him down.

  Ida, however, was happy to be included. As Mary poured tea she thought, as she often did, of Mrs. Bunney’s decree: You have no hope of becoming a decent woman unless you give up mining. She thought of her mother, who had wanted more for her daughters than she’d had.

  Kerenza’s eyes glistened. “And clotted cream! Just as my mother used to serve.”

  “One day I hope to have a proper tea shop,” Mary confided. She couldn’t expect Andrew to support her forever, and despite Will’s promise, she didn’t want him to shoulder such responsibility so young.

  “I thought we were moving to a wilderness,” Kerenza admitted. “I underestimated the lead region.”

  The Pascoes did their part, Mary thought. They and their Cornish neighbors had replaced surface diggings and badger holes with stone cottages and deep mines and, most of all, a sense of community.

  Kerenza ate the last morsel of her bun, dabbed her mouth with a napkin, and smiled. “You have lifted my spirits, Mary. Thank you. I must get back up the hill, but I hope I might visit again.”

  After Kerenza left, Chloe called Ezekiel down. “Have some tea,” she told him.

  “Yes, Miss Mary.” Ezekiel sat down and accepted a steaming china cup. He’d filled out some over the winter. There were no longer hollows in his cheeks, or between his wrist bones. But the … Mary searched for the right word … the haunted look in his eyes had not faded. He was jumpy as a rabbit, even in the evening with the door barred and curtains closed and only family at home. He never mentioned Peavey, but twitched and whimpered in his sleep.

  When the dishes were washed, Mary met Ida’s gaze. “Now the sewing.” Ida, generally a willing worker, had resisted Mary’s efforts to teach her proper stitching. “See if you can finish hemming your new apron today before it’s time to go next door.” A family with three daughters lived in the next cottage, and they’d invited Ida for supper and evening games in honor of the youngest girl’s birthday.

  “I’ll try,” Ida said with a heavy sigh.

  Once Ida was settled, Mary stepped to the window. Most of the suckers had already appeared, trudging north on slushy trails to spend another season digging. So far, there’d been no sign of Parnell Peavey.

  If Ezekiel resented his confinement, he never said so. He helped Mary, played with Ida, and sometimes simply sat like a tired old man. Mary suspected that her neighbors here in the Shake Rag district knew everything. But they were friends, and mostly Cornish. The kind of people who helped tend each others’ sick children, and chopped firewood for the elderly. After Jory’s death they had come with baskets of pasties, crocks of potato soup, even a starry-gazy pie with bass peeking from t
he crust instead of pilchards. She trusted them to hold their tongues.

  Still, worry hung over her like a thundercloud. Every time she passed the log jail in town, or saw a man resembling Peavey, a sliver of ice ran down her backbone. She felt as if they were all holding their breaths, waiting for something to happen.

  She turned away from the window. Life kept digging the hole of grief inside Mary deeper and deeper: her parents, Elizabeth and Loveday, and now Jory. And, she thought, Ruan too.

  He’d stayed away until the night Jory died. As friends crowded into Chy Looan Mary had searched his face, still so familiar to her that even in the gloom she could have traced each tiny line with her finger.

  “I’m sorry about Jory,” Ruan had said hoarsely. That was all.

  Ida spoke, breaking her melancholy reverie. “Miss Mary? I’m finished.”

  Mary started. Enough mourning, for now. She had three children to tend, and Andrew’s family nearby, and good friends. It would be enough.

  She sat down to check Ida’s sewing. “The stitches are still a little too big, but they are quite even. Well done, Ida.”

  “May I go next door now?” she pleaded.

  “Of course.” Mary kissed her forehead.

  After Ida left, Mary added a log to the fire. Ezekiel padded over and slipped into one chair by the hearth, stretching his toes toward the flames. Mary picked up her wool and needles, knitted a few rows, and felt herself drowsing. It’s been a good day, she thought.

  Someone banged on the front door.

  Ezekiel was on his feet and gone, up the stairs, even as Mary jumped to hers. She started forward, but it opened before she could grab the wooden bar. With a stab of horror she realized she’d forgotten to bolt the door after Ida left.

  Parnell Peavey stepped inside and closed it behind him. He’d cropped his long hair, and traded his suit and red vest for rougher traveling clothes. But his eyes were the same. They bore into Mary like augers.

  Mary’s pulse raced. “Get out of here.”