Time Is a River (13 page)

She turned her head and looked downstream, but like the brook trout, the man was already gone.

The following morning Mia gathered her notebook and pen and headed to town. Becky waved her over when she entered the bakery and handed her a large mug of steaming black coffee.

“I heard you met Phyllis Pace and her daddy.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she replied, sipping the rich brew. “Nice lady.”

“Nice? That’s the first time that word’s been used to describe Phyllis. Don’t get me wrong, she’d give you the shirt off her back. But she’d expect it washed, ironed, and folded without a wrinkle when you returned it, if you get my meaning.”

Mia chuckled in her coffee.

“The Pace family is one of the oldest families in town, too. Used to be they owned the department store, but it closed a long time ago. They still own the building, though. Their name’s carved right into the stone.”

“She was a great help. But her father was a gold mine. What a storyteller. I could listen to him for hours.”

“And he could tell you stories for hours. He’s one of our oldest living citizens. Him and Mrs. Minor.”

“I heard about her from Clarence. She knew Kate Watkins, right? Is there any way I could meet her?”

“Maybe, but she’s ancient like Mr. Pace. She lives up on the hill on Sunset Street, right behind the train depot. Used to be she lived out in the backwoods near Watkins Cove. She was well known for fly-tying. Time was people came from all over to buy them. But her eyesight’s gone. She tries, but can’t make the flies like she used to. Her granddaughter took her in a while back. Mrs. Minor put up a fuss, but in the end she couldn’t make it way out there all alone anymore. She’s a tough old bird. It’s kind of sad to see her cooped up.”

“She might enjoy a visit.”

“She might. I don’t know if you’ll have much luck. Sometimes she’s clear as a bell, and other times she just sits there and stares out at nothing. You could try but I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

Mia wrote the information down in her notebook. She tapped her pencil on the paper. “Becky, Mr. Pace got very upset when I asked who Kate Watkins murdered. He told me Kate didn’t murder anybody. That it was all a lie.”

“Really?” She shrugged. “Well, he was her friend, don’t forget.” “I know, but he seemed so sure. It threw me. Up till him, I never heard anyone dispute it.”

“Go figure. I grew up hearing that Kate Watkins killed her lover. It happened such a long time ago. When you find out something will you share the wealth?”

“Sure. When I get some to share. Mr. Pace also mentioned something about Kate Watkins having written articles for the newspaper. Do you know anything about that?”

“Nope, sorry. Did you try the
Gazette
? It’s just down the block.”

Mia nodded. “The girl I talked to didn’t have a clue. She was just some receptionist, probably a summer temp, who had never heard of Kate Watkins and couldn’t care less. I’m going back there later today. I have an appointment with the woman who keeps the archives.”

“That’ll be Nada Turner. She would know if anyone did. She also runs the historical society. She’s a widow and lives in that pretty yellow house at the end of Main Street. She talks about turning it into a bed and breakfast, which would be nice, but I doubt she ever will. She spends too much time with the historical society and fighting to preserve our town. She’s the one to go to with questions about the past. Nothing has ever happened in this town that she doesn’t know about.”

“Really?” Mia skipped a beat and sipped her coffee. Then a small smile curved her lips. “I thought that was your specialty.”

Becky had the grace to laugh. “Tell you what. I’ll call Lucy Roosevelt. That’s Mrs. Minor’s granddaughter. See if she can arrange a time for you to meet her grandmother.”

“Thanks, Becky. I feel like I’m unraveling some mystery.”

“You’re Sherlock Holmes and I’m that Watson fella.”

“Well, Watson, I’ve another mystery I need to solve. I met someone today. Out on the river.”

“Who’s that?”

“That’s what I want to ask you. His first name is Stuart. I didn’t get his last name. He’s around forty, I’d guess. Tall, dark hair.”

“Oh yeah, him. He came in here a few times. Not often. I guess he doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth. I know the local guides are none too happy with him.”

“Why not?”

“He’s bringing a big outfit like Orvis in. He keeps a pretty low profile. Kinda like you did when you first came. But we warmed you up.” She took a long sip of coffee, her eyes dancing over the rim of her mug. “He’s a good-looking fella.”

She tried not to smile. “Is he? I didn’t notice.”

Becky laughed short. “Sure you didn’t. You know, I hear he’s single.”

Mia was inordinately glad to hear that. “Don’t get the tongues wagging, Becky. I’m not. At least not yet.”

Becky seized on this, leaning forward across the table. “I didn’t want to pry but I don’t see a ring. So, what’s your story? Are you getting a divorce?”

Mia looked into Becky’s sympathetic eyes. She was the kind of woman people told their life stories to, and often did. Mia nodded her head. “As soon as I can.”

“And that’s why you’re here?”

“It’s what brought me here, but not why I’m here, if that makes sense. I’m getting strong and healthy, doing a little soul-searching. You see, I’m a…” Mia hesitated, feeling the words on her tongue. “I’m a breast cancer survivor.”

Becky stared at Mia, taking that information in. Then she looked down at her coffee. “I’m glad to hear you pulled through. You know my leg?” She looked up again and searched Mia’s face. When she nodded Becky said, “I have ALS.”

Mia’s confusion must have shown on her face because Becky went on to explain, “That’s Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

Mia’s heart sank. She knew it was a degenerative disease. That it involved the neurons of the brain and spinal cord. She also knew there was no cure. She opened her mouth to speak but she couldn’t find the right words. She had a sudden sympathy for her friends who’d slunk off when they heard about her cancer.

Becky saw her struggle and added quickly, “I just got the diagnosis. Me and Skipper, we’ve got hope.”

Mia saw that hope shining in her eyes and was only ashamed at her own self-pity after her recovery. She reached out to put her hand over Becky’s. “Then I do, too. Listen, I have loads of time. If you want to talk to someone, or you just want to watch TV or drink a glass of wine with a pal, anything at all, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”

“Oh, sure,” Becky said in her breezy manner, cutting off all sympathy. “Don’t worry about me, though. I have Skipper. He comes to have lunch with me every day. And he brings me flowers like he did when we were first married. Can you believe what a sweetheart he is? You let me know if you need me for anything, too.”

The
Gazette
was housed in another redbrick building on Main Street. The white-trimmed windows held posters of historical issues of the small-town newspaper dating back to the early 1900s when the railroad brought celebrities to town.

The young receptionist with the vacant smile was on the phone when she walked in, and it was obvious the call was personal. She hung up, took a sip of coffee, then rose to announce her arrival to Mrs. Turner. A minute later, a tall woman in a pale gray suit with a high-collared, white cotton blouse came into the reception area. Her graying hair was cut short with full bangs that fringed her thick tortoiseshell glasses. She was a formidable woman. Mia thought she had to be six feet tall in her stocking feet.

“I’m Nada Turner,” the woman announced, putting forth her hand. “How can I help you?”

Despite her imposing appearance, the woman’s manner was open and straightforward.

“Hi, I’m Mia Landan.”

“Yes,” Nada acknowledged, and Mia knew she’d heard all the recent gossip. “Missy tells me you’re interested in Kate Watkins.”

Mia looked over to see the receptionist listening intently and thought
Missy
was a perfect name for the flighty girl. “That’s right.”

“May I ask why you’re interested in her? Are you writing an article about her?”

“No, nothing like that.” Mia realized she had to get past another of Kate’s gatekeepers. “Do I need a reason?”

Nada Turner’s expression turned speculative. “No,” she replied at length. “The articles are a matter of public record. But to be perfectly frank, I’m not inclined to assist anyone in digging up the old scandals about one of our past citizens. The Watkins family holds an important role in our town’s history, and I believe that scandal has overshadowed the family’s significant contributions to our community.”

“Let me assure you nothing could be further from my mind. This is strictly personal. You know I’m staying at the cabin, I assume.” When Nada nodded she continued. “I’m learning to fly-fish and I find her inspiring.”

Nada’s eyes sparked with interest. “You fly-fish?”

“I try. I’m not very good but I have to admit, I’m hooked. No pun intended.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so? That’s a different story altogether. Come on back,” she said, leading the way through the reception room door.

Apparently fly-fishing was a tight club, she thought. It certainly opened the doors to Nada Turner’s heart. She followed Nada down a narrow hall lined with more posters of the
Gazette
front pages. At the end of the hall she opened a door to a stairwell.

“The basement is dedicated to the archives. It’s my private bastion,” she said with a light laugh. “I don’t even allow Missy down here. I’m afraid she’ll spill something.”

The basement was wall-to-wall shelves chock-full of books and boxes with typed labels indicating dates and content. The hum of dehumidifiers was omnipresent but they did their job well, for the space was clean and dry. Fluorescent overhead lights provided ample light.

“There’s a method to my madness,” Nada said as she led Mia through the maze. “Our methods are old-fashioned by today’s standards but we’re a small paper with limited funds. The only way I can afford to keep all these historical records is through a grant from the historical society.” She paused and her gaze swept the room. “It’s my passion, you know. The town hall might keep the birth and death records, and the library has a few collections of significant families. They were donated to them,” she said in a huff that Mia guessed was sour grapes. “But I collect the daily records of the lives of our everyday citizens. Each old photograph, each personal letter, each diary is an important link in the history of our town. Young people today don’t know what to do with all the boxes of stuff they find in their parents’ attics. They’re only too happy to dump them off with me. Each load is like Christmas for me, I can tell you. I’ve found some real treasures.”

Mia thought of Kate Watkins’s diary and the two fishing diaries and how Nada Turner would go wild over them. But they were not hers to donate. Besides, Mia knew that if she so much as mentioned them the pressure to give them up would be too much.

“Here we are,” Nada said as they came to a small room. She opened the door and flicked on the light. Inside was a vintage microfilm machine. Nada ran her hand along the large monitor. “This is my baby. I don’t know what I’d do without it. Not everything has gone digital. The Internet is a great tool, but there’s still a wealth of information hidden in places like this. Anyway, let’s get you started.”

“I didn’t expect you to help me,” Mia said. “I’m sure you have your own work to get done.”

“I do. But I’m curious about those articles myself, now that you brought it up. I haven’t looked at those in many years. Did I tell you I fly-fish?”

Mia shook her head though she’d guessed as much.

“It used to be a passion of mine but I don’t have the time I used to. We have some of the best trout fishing in America right under our noses. We sometimes get groups of women renting a house for a week of fly-fishing. Does my heart good to see it. You can bet Kate Watkins would have been right there with them, giving them pointers. She was a guide, you know. One of the best. She knew every inch of the backcountry. If there was a stream or a creek with fish in it, she’d been there and could tell you all about it and what fly to use. She did just that in her articles. What were they called?” She scratched her head. “She had a title for them…”

Mia quickly scanned her notebook. “Here it is. Mr. Pace said it was called ‘On the Fly.’”

“That’s it! Has a ring to it, don’t you think? I know about when the articles were printed but she wrote for about four or five years, so that’s a lot of film to search through. It’s going to be a hunt. I hope you’re not in too much of a hurry.”

“I’m here for the duration.”

Nada smiled broadly. “Good girl. OK, then. Why don’t you pull in a couple of chairs from the other room? Then go up and ask Missy for a couple bottles of cold water while I begin searching for the microfilm.” She turned to leave, then stopped and said with a burst of passion, “You know, when I was young, I was inspired by Kate Watkins, too. This is going to be fun.”

Mia had two chairs set up by the microfilm machine and two bottles of water waiting by the time Nada came back bearing a box of small rolls of film. With quick, efficient movements she loaded the first roll onto the machine and began to scroll through.