Chapter 9
Nine
MARTHA EGGLESTON
“Oh, hey, honey!” Clara called. She was leaning casually on one of her counters and looking at the Denver Post. Her mostly white hair was hanging loose today, and she wore an attractive blouse and pants outfit.
Except for herself, Goldie noticed that Clara was the only other woman in Sparkledove she’d seen wear pants.
“Morning, Clara,” Goldie smiled.
“That’s sure a pretty tree you, Peter, and the McCaw boys got yesterday. It’s maybe going to be our best one ever.”
“Thanks. I enjoyed goin’ with them. It was fun.”
The older woman gestured to the paper on the counter before her. “Speaking of brothers, I was just reading about those Sullivan boys who died a couple of weeks back. Terrible tragedy.”
“Sullivan boys?” Goldie asked.
“The five brothers who went down on the Juneau during the Battle of Guadalcanal.” She shook her head. “Their poor mother… all her babies gone at once.”
“Yeah,” Goldie nodded, remembering the Steven Spielberg film Saving Private Ryan and wondering if the Sullivan brothers were the inspiration for the script. “Very sad.”
“And the others, too,” Clara added.
“Others?”
“Yes. Several other sets of brothers died when the Juneau sank.”
“Rrright,” Goldie said, not knowing this. “Terrible.”
Clara looked at her visitor for a moment, realizing she was unfamiliar with these events. She noted it, then let it pass, remembering she must’ve come in for a reason.
“What can I do for you, honey?”
“Do you know Martha Eggleston?”
“Sure. There’s another sad tragedy.”
“I saw her yesterday, and she was pretty upset. I wanted to drop by her house today and see how she’s doin’, and I thought I’d take her a little holiday remembrance of some sort.”
“Angels,” Clara said knowingly. “Martha loves angels. Got a nice display of ‘em right over here.”
Clara led the way to a shelf where a wide selection of decorative angels sat. As Goldie was looking them over, Father Fitzsimmons came into the store.
“Mornin’, ladies,” he greeted, and the floor squeaked when he entered.
“Morning, Father,” Clara smiled.
“Ay, Padre,” Goldie greeted.
“I need some wreaths for the church to hang on the outside door and inside over the stained glass windows. I’ll need eight.”
“Coming right up, Father!” Clara smiled. “I have to get them from the back. Just give me a minute.”
As Clara disappeared into the rear room of the store, Father Fitz came over to where Goldie was and looked at the angels.
“Getting yourself a souvenir?”
“No. A gift for Martha Eggleston. I saw her talking to the mayor yesterday, and she seemed distraught.”
“Yes,” he nodded. “I’ve heard about her troubles. You getting her something to lift her spirits is very nice, Goldie.”
She picked up a white ceramic angel holding a small hand harp and singing.
“What do ya think of this one?” she asked.
“Quite lovely,” the priest agreed.
She looked at the figure for a moment. “Do you think they’re real, Father? Angels?”
“Of course. They’re written about in the Bible from beginning to end,” he noted. “From the Book of Genesis right through to the Book of Revelation. We’re told angels were present at the birth of Christ.”
“So—if angels exist—then demons must, too, huh?”
“Sure, I’d agree with that,” he said.
“What about ghosts, Father?” she wondered, thinking about the man on the covered bridge. “Souls that are neither angel nor demon? Do you think God lets ghosts wander around the planet?”
“I think there are a lot of things in the universe we don’t know about or understand,” he replied.
“First Corinthians tells us that God’s wisdom is not man’s.
Now, you can either conclude that’s a very convenient piece of scripture priests pull out of their pockets to explain away things, or, if you’re a person of faith, you can accept it. ”
“I don’t know what I am,” she admitted.
“Well, either way, I still think the angel is pretty and that Martha will like it.”
Just then, another customer came into the store. He was about Clara’s age and wore slightly dirty work clothing as if he worked in construction.
“Morning, Father,” he greeted, coming in.
“Hello, Herb,” Father Fitz reciprocated. “How was work?”
“Oh, fine. I want to get a certain type of Christmas music box for Sharon before they sell out again. She saw them here last year and went crazy for them. But by the time I got to my shopping, they were gone.”
The clergyman nodded, then gestured to Goldie. “You probably haven’t met our esteemed writer from Adventure Escape Magazine. This is Goldie Maraschino. Goldie, Herb Pontz.”
“Also known as Karen Maraschino, like the cherry,” Herb proclaimed, extending a hand. “I’ve read your work, young lady. I love Adventure Escape. Never miss an issue.”
“Really? Great,” she said, shaking hands with him and hoping he wouldn’t ask her anything about a past story.
“Oh, hi, Herb,” Clara called, reappearing from the back room with her arms encircled by green wreaths. “You just getting home?”
“Yeah. And I wanted to get one of them music boxes for Sharon this year. You said you’d be ordering more, remember?”
“Yep, and I already put one aside for her. So, don’t you worry. You can get it now or whenever you want.”
“Oh, thanks. If I picked it up in a day or so, could you have it gift wrapped for me?”
“You bet,” Clara smiled.
“Great. I’m off tomorrow, but going out of town. So, I’ll come by first thing Monday morning.”
“Herb does the night shift at the brass works in Denver,” Father explained to Goldie. “They’re running twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”
“Brass works, eh? That many people need candlesticks?” she quipped. “Or is Colorado more spittoon country?”
“Munitions, dear,” Clara clarified. “Brass casings for our boys to fight our enemies.”
Goldie’s face turned red with embarrassment. “The war… of course…” She looked at Herb.
“I didn’t mean any disrespect. I’m sure your efforts are helpin’ to save hundreds of lives.”
“Or end hundreds of lives, depending on how you look at it,” he replied. He turned back to Clara. “Anyway, thanks for doing the gift wrapping. I’m not very good with that kinda stuff.”
“Especially after working all night,” Father said empathetically.
“True enough,” Herb agreed. “It’s been a hard day’s night, and I’ve been working like a dog.”
“What?” Goldie asked, surprised.
“Hey, isn’t that Sharon across the street?” Clara asked, looking toward the front window.
Herb, Father Fitz, and Goldie all turned, looked out the window, and saw a woman walk into a store called Summit Grocers.
“Geez, it is!” Herb said. “She’s probably getting groceries for breakfast. I gotta scoot. If she sees me in here, she’ll figure out what I’m doing. She really made a thing out of wanting one of them music boxes last year.”
Herb started to hurry toward the door. “Gift wrapped by Monday morning, right?” he called over his shoulder.
“Promise,” Clara assured.
“Hey, Herb,” Goldie said, “where’d you come up with that—”
But it was too late; the munitions worker was already out the door.
“That’s the second time that’s happened,” she muttered, more to herself than Clara or Father Fitz.
“What’s that?” the priest asked.
Goldie paused, thinking about how to respond.
She couldn’t exactly say she’d heard a young man named Dexter use a line from a Jackson 5 song in the lobby of her hotel, nor could she say that Herb just recited lyrics from a Beatles song.
After all, nobody knew about the Jackson 5 or the Beatles in 1942.
“Nothin’,” she said, figuring it must’ve been another odd coincidence.
“How about gift wrapping for you, honey?” Clara inquired, gesturing to the angel.
Fifteen minutes later, Goldie was walking up the sidewalk of the Eggleston residence on Falcon Drive with the boxed and gift-wrapped angel in hand.
She’d gotten the address from Clara, although Peter had mentioned she lived on Falcon Drive the day before.
Like so many houses in town, it was a lovely two-story Victorian.
It was built in 1879, and although the house was wood, it had a distinctive fieldstone chimney that ran up the right-hand side of the house.
It also had a nice rectangular stained glass window over the front door and a red Sparkledove Realty sign in the front yard.
Martha Eggleston was trim, in her mid-to-late thirties, and had black hair that she wore in tight curls on the sides of her head that got longer and looser toward the back; Victory Curls, people called them.
She wore a plain blue dress with a white cardigan sweater.
Goldie asked for a few minutes of her time to give her a little gift.
Martha recognized her from the potluck dinner at St. Mark’s and invited her in for coffee.
The house had very few lights on, but Goldie could see that it was nicely decorated, although not for Christmas.
While water was heating up in a tea kettle on the stove, the women sat at the kitchen table, and Goldie presented her gift. Martha was both pleased with and saddened by the ceramic angel.
“It’s beautiful!” she exclaimed. “But my heart’s just not into decorating this year. In fact, I’ve asked to withdraw from the Tour of Homes.”
“What’s that?” Goldie queried.
“Homes are opened up to visitors on the second Friday and Saturday evenings in December,” she replied. “Just the first floors. Everybody on the tour decorates their home in the style of the 1860s to 1890s. Except, no candles on the Christmas trees. That’s too much of a fire hazard.”
“Right,” Goldie recalled, “the mayor mentioned something to me about that.”
“Yes,” she said, disgusted. “Just another one of his many ways to drive us homeowners into the poor house.”
Martha caught herself and stepped back on her attitude. “Sorry, Goldie. You’re here to write a tourism story. Not hear the gripes of an angry widow.”