The Claim (3 page)

“Oh, Jane, I do hope my Mr. Frink doesn’t hurt his back carrying up all those trunks,” Mrs. Frink exclaimed. Her voice lowered to a confiding whisper. “The young lady of the family had ten trunks alone. I daresay Miss Biddle bought out all of Philadelphia before coming here!”

I wasn’t the least bit surprised that Sally had brought so many clothes. Fine clothes were a necessity for a wealthy young woman hoping to make a good match. Not that anyone had ever doubted for a moment Sally’s ability to make a good match.

Mr. Frink came trudging down the stairs, looking weary.

He was a mild-mannered man who rarely had a word to say.
But he looked up the stairs and whispered, “You reckon they packed a cookstove in one of those trunks?”

“They seem like very nice people,” Mrs. Frink said.

Mr. Frink was scratching his head. “Do you know they brought silver for twenty? Twenty! Now, who do you reckon they’re gonna serve dinner to with that?”

“Jane, Miss Biddle was just telling me what great friends you were in Philadelphia,” Mrs. Frink said, a trace of curiosity in her voice.

“We weren’t exactly friends,” I hedged. “More like acquaintances. We attended the same school. Did she happen to mention what brought them to Shoalwater Bay?”

“Not a word, my dear. But it must be a comfort to you to see a familiar face. Sometimes when I think of all the friends I left in Ohio …” Mrs. Frink’s expression grew wistful, then changed again as if she’d had a flash of inspiration. “Why don’t you make one of your famous pies this evening? You know, as a special touch to welcome them to the hotel?”

“Of course,” I said.

“That would be lovely!” Mrs. Frink clapped her hands. “Now, Jane, if you would be so kind as to look in on supper, I shall make sure our new guests are settled!” She bustled off.

The Frink Hotel was one of the establishments that had opened this spring to the delight of residents and arriving settlers. It was by far the grandest building in Shoalwater Bay. Which is to say it was the only structure that was more than one story.

Guests of the Frink Hotel were generally not as refined as the Biddles. While we had the occasional family who boarded
with us while their own cabin was being built, the hotel catered mostly to oystermen. In fact, so many of our guests were oystermen that we accepted oysters in lieu of payment. A dry place to sleep was now in such demand that rooms originally meant for one man had been reconfigured with sleeping bunks so that up to four men shared a single room. Oystermen who could not obtain a bed at the Frink Hotel had been known to sleep in all manner of places: hollowed-out trees, empty barrels, and even—as Mr. Frink discovered one morning—the privy!

The hotel was a great success, and its mere existence lent prestige to our young community. The Frinks’ generosity was legendary. If a man was down on his luck and unable to pay his bill, he would not be ushered out of the hotel at gunpoint, as was the case in many establishments. Rather, he would find a small bag of coins under his pillow in the morning. If a man became ill, he was not turned out onto the street, but was allowed to remain at the hotel, and was often nursed by Mrs. Frink herself. Because of this, Mrs. Frink and her husband were much admired by all the residents of Shoalwater Bay, and never was an unkind word uttered about either of them.

As concierge it was my responsibility to order supplies and organize the daily menus, as well as manage the day-to-day business of the hotel. In addition to offering accommodations, the hotel served breakfast and supper. The men, most of them bachelors, were more than happy to have a cooked meal, and so the hotel also was a very popular—in fact, the
only
—establishment for supper. Due to this great demand, I would also lend a hand in the kitchen on occasion.

We employed several people to help run the hotel. There was
my friend Spaark, who worked in the kitchen; a woman named Millie, who cleaned the rooms and cooked; and a boy named Willard Woodley, who was supposed to help in the kitchen but who more often than not was missing. Mr. Frink was responsible for repairs, and Jehu helped with the luggage and anything else requiring heavy lifting. Mrs. Dodd, a local pioneer woman, took in the laundry. And there was also Brandywine, a dog, whose chief contribution was eating scraps of food dropped on the kitchen floor.

When I went in to see about the pie, the kitchen was a hot, steamy hive of activity. Spaark and Millie were already hard at work.

“It looks as if we shall have a full room for supper,” I said. “As usual.”

“Pretty dress, Boston Jane,” Keer-ukso, one of my Chinook friends, said flirtatiously. He was lounging in a corner of the kitchen. “Maybe I marry you if you wear that dress!”

Keer-ukso was incredibly handsome, with thick black hair and a finely muscled body. His old name, before he changed it to Keer-ukso, had suited him perfectly: Handsome Jim. Young women had a tendency to trail after him, although he paid them little attention, for the only young lady who mattered to him these days was the one across the kitchen stirring a kettle of oyster stew: Spaark.

“Boston Jane is too smart to marry you,” Spaark said, rolling her eyes at me.

She was a young lady from the neighboring Chehalis tribe, and we had grown to be close friends in the past months as we
worked together at the hotel. I had met her at a meeting of the local tribes the previous winter, and she and Keer-ukso had taken a liking to each other. The two of them were now courting, and she lived at Chief Toke’s lodge. She had a marvelous sense of humor and kept Keer-ukso on his toes.

“Boston Jane, you not marry me?” Keer-ukso gave a mock-wounded look, but I saw the sparkle in his eyes.

“Shouldn’t you be off helping Jehu instead of getting in the way?” I said, batting him toward the door.

“Jehu is fine by himself,” Keer-ukso said.

“Well, then you can stay and help with supper,” I suggested. “I see that Willard is missing as usual, and I’m sure that Spaark and Millie would welcome the help, wouldn’t you, ladies?”

Keer-ukso didn’t look the least bit affronted. “I am better cook than Spaark or you!” Among the Chinook, it was quite common for the men to cook as well as the women.

“Wonderful!” I said, pointing to a bucket. “Another batch of oysters needs to be shucked.”

Millie grinned and held up an enormous sack of potatoes. “And the potatoes peeled.”

Spaark followed suit. “And the dishes washed!”

Keer-ukso looked aghast, waving his hands in front of him defensively. He beat a hasty retreat out the back door.

Spaark shook her head at him affectionately, and we all laughed.

“Splendid. Now if I can only find Willard,” I said, casting a glance out the back door of the kitchen, “I can set him to work peeling potatoes.”

Ten-year-old Willard Woodley was the only son of a recently arrived family, and he was a true rascal. His mother had asked me if I would hire him, as he had rather abruptly quit his job assisting the laundress, Mrs. Dodd. There was always a surfeit of work around the hotel, so I was happy to oblige her. Unfortunately, Willard had the uncanny ability to disappear when there was any real work to be done.

I poked my head out the kitchen door. “Willard?”

Silence was my answer.

“Willard,” I called. “I just finished baking a pie and thought you might enjoy a slice.”

Spaark grinned mischievously at me.

“It’s still warm from the oven,” I continued in a loud voice. “And it looks just delicious, doesn’t it, Spaark?”

“Oh yes,” Spaark said, playing along with my little game. “I will have pie, too.”

Just then, a pair of eyes topped off by a mop of blond hair peered in the doorway.

“Willard, how lovely to see you!” I exclaimed in delight.

Willard came creeping into the kitchen, eyes scanning the worktables for pie. Hot on the boy’s heels was a black, potbellied dog. It was Brandywine, longtime resident of Shoalwater Bay. Brandywine and Willard were inseparable nowadays, probably because they could always count on each other to find something tasty.

“Where’s the pie?” Willard asked suspiciously.

I crossed my arms in front of me. “Actually, Willard, I am just about to make the pie, but I promise to put aside a nice slice for you.”

The boy’s face fell.

“In the meantime, I would very much appreciate it if you’d take this bowl of potatoes and peel them out back,” I said firmly.

“I s’pose so,” he said reluctantly, shoulders slumped. He took the bowl and slunk from the kitchen, Brandywine trailing behind him, equally disappointed.

“That’s the last time that little trick works,” I murmured, tying on an apron.

Across the room Millie was stacking dishes, counting them out carefully. Like me, she lived at the hotel. Originally from New Hampshire, she and her husband had traveled to Oregon, intending to homestead some land. They had no sooner arrived when her husband got it into his head that he wanted to try his hand at the gold mines in California. By all accounts he left her with little more than a tent to protect her from the elements, promising to return a rich man. That was nearly three years ago.

Mr. Russell had met her when he was on a buying trip in Astoria, across the Columbia River in Oregon, and told her that Mrs. Frink was looking for help. A week later Millie had appeared at the front door of the hotel—a thin woman with sad eyes.

“I’m a good worker,” she had said simply.

She never spoke of her husband. I knew all too well what she had suffered, for I had experienced something like it myself. I had traveled from Philadelphia to Shoalwater Bay to marry Dr. William Baldt, a former apprentice of my father’s. When I had arrived after a sea journey of several months, he was not to be found in the territory and had left no word for me. I had been forced to make my way on my wits, without a man to support or help me.

Millie seemed to think her husband would one day return. I could see it in her eyes, the way she looked up when a door opened, how she scanned the faces of the men who filed in for supper. She was endlessly kind to the rough-and-tumble men, even mending their filthy socks. It was clear that she missed having a man of her own to look after, and I’ll confess to a little matchmaking.

“Millie,” I said. “Have you met the gentleman who arrived yesterday? The one staying in the back room upstairs?”

A jovial-looking oysterman had taken a room in the hotel, and something about the kindness in his eyes made me think he might be good for Millie. “He seems very agreeable,” I continued.

Millie shook her head, which was what she always did when confronted with these attempts on my part. Spaark met my eyes and gave a slight shrug.

“I’m a married woman,” Millie said.

“What if he never comes back?” I asked softly.

Millie stared down at her plates, and when she glanced back up, there was a hollow look in her eyes.

“Then I’m still a married woman,” she whispered.

  Hotel guests were called to meals by a bell. A hearty breakfast was served promptly at seven, and supper at six. There was always hot coffee available for a weary man who had come in from his oyster beds, and Millie was occasionally known to set out a late-night snack for hungry men. Mealtime was a boisterous affair, and the men ate whatever was put in front of them
with incredible speed. A meal that took Spaark, Millie, and me the better part of the day to prepare was often dispatched within less than fifteen minutes! Still, we had learned to take this as a compliment.

The dining room was arranged with the largest table at one end, and the other, smaller tables positioned around the room. The largest table was known as the head table, and this was where the Frinks took their supper, as did I. Mrs. Frink was a marvelous conversationalist, and dining at the head table was considered a treat. It was also, unfortunately, where I found myself seated that evening along with Sally and her parents, and another couple, the Hosmers.

“So, Mr. Biddle,” Mrs. Frink said, and then asked the very question I was wondering myself. “What brings you to our fair Shoalwater Bay?”

Mr. Biddle was plump and short, and the suit he wore strained at the seams. Clearly the sea voyage had not disagreed with him. If anything, he looked heavier than I recalled. His face had a rather squashed appearance, and his eyes seemed fixed in a perpetual look of dismay, or was it a frown? It was hard to say exactly, but altogether he resembled a small, irritable dog with a tuft of hair poking out of the top of his head.

“I understand there are a number of investment opportunities in this part of the frontier,” Mr. Biddle said.

“Are you interested in getting into oysters?” I asked, my curiosity near to bursting.

“Actually,” he said, “my interests lie more in land speculation.”

“How fascinating,” Mrs. Frink said. “You must speak with
our Jane. She has been here longer than any of us and knows the bay the best!”

Mrs. Hosmer turned to Sally and said, her admiration plain, “That’s a very fetching dress, Miss Biddle.”

Mrs. Hosmer, who was just a few years my senior, had arrived with her equally youthful husband from New York after the new year. Even though they lived in a cabin down the muddy road, they took all their meals at the hotel. Apparently Mrs. Hosmer didn’t know how to cook. How they had survived the wagon-train journey was anyone’s guess, but her new husband seemed quite infatuated with his beautiful young wife.

“Why, thank you. I just had it copied from
Godey’s Lady’s Book
,” Sally said with a modest smile. With a daring neckline that left her slim shoulders bare, I had no doubt that the dress Sally was wearing had been a highlight of the premier fashion magazine for ladies. More than one filthy oysterman had ceased shoveling food into his mouth and stared at her when she entered the dining room.

“How I miss
Godey’s
!” Mrs. Hosmer said with a trace of longing in her voice.

“But you must borrow my copies then,” Sally said. “And please call me Sally.”

I watched this byplay with a trace of irritation. Sally clearly had not left her social skills behind in Philadelphia!