Chapter 10
Ten
CLAUDE BOLTON
It was a short walk from Martha Eggleston’s house back to River Street.
Spotting the storefront office of Sparkledove Realty, Goldie decided to see if Charles Banyan was there, and without insulting him or putting his patronage at risk, see if she could learn anything more about what Martha Eggleston had claimed.
The realty office was small. It consisted of an outer office for a secretary and a larger and more richly appointed rear office, which was Banyan’s.
There was also a beautiful five-foot-high Christmas tree in the front picture window of the office that Banyan, himself, was decorating with tinsel and wooden ornaments.
Seeing Goldie approach from outside, he smiled warmly and gestured for her to come inside.
“Good morning, Goldie,” he greeted as she entered. “How are you?”
“Fine, Charles. How’re you?”
“Good. Say, that was a beautiful tree you and the McCaw brothers brought to town. Just beautiful. It’s nearly decorated, and we’ll have the official lighting ceremony tomorrow night. I hope the McCaw boys behaved themselves with you up in the mountains.”
“They were fine,” she replied. “And gettin’ the tree was fun.”
“Well, I’m glad you had an adventure,” he said, hanging a small wooden sled on the tree and reaching for another ornament. “I meant to tell you about it at Thanksgiving dinner. But the conversation got a little sidetracked. Peter and I push each other’s buttons sometimes.”
“It’s all good,” she assured.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have coffee or a soda to offer you,” he said, hanging another ornament.
“My girl called in sick this morning, and I wanted to get this tree decorated. I know most people don’t do their tree trimming until closer to Christmas, but the holidays mean big revenue for the town.
So, everyone hops right into Christmas after Thanksgiving. ”
“No problem. I actually just had coffee with a new acquaintance, Martha Eggleston.”
The mayor paused, seeming concerned, but then recovered, smiled, and picked up another ornament from a box.
“Oh? How is Martha today? She’s had a pretty rough time of it as you’ve probably heard.”
“Her emotions are fragile,” Goldie agreed.
“How do you know Martha?” he asked, hanging the next ornament.
“Actually, we met at St. Mark’s. When Peter walked me home after dinner at your place, I saw some people goin’ into the church, thought there might be an evenin’ service, and went back there to check it out.”
“I see,” Banyan said. “It’s very sad what happened to her husband.”
“And likewise sad she’s so financially strapped.”
“She told you about that, huh?”
“All about it,” Goldie confirmed.
“Well,” Banyan shrugged, “she’s not as strapped as she used to be.
This company just bought her house yesterday.
So, come Monday, she can go to the bank and have access to funds.
I’m also allowing her to stay in the house rent-free through the holidays.
So, she’ll have plenty of time to make new plans. ”
“Yes,” Goldie agreed. “But I’m sure you did well on the deal, too.”
“Not right now,” Banyan chuckled, reaching for a little wooden fire truck. “The housing market is very slow, and now I’m in charge of its upkeep. But we can’t have Martha out on the streets. And that’s where she was headed had I not stepped in and offered to buy her place.”
“She tells a little different story about you coming to her rescue,” Goldie replied, realizing she was taking a bit of a chance and upsetting her host.
“I’m sure she does,” Banyan replied, hanging the truck ornament and apparently unfazed.
He looked out the window and saw a couple walking across the street.
The man of the couple was the one in the red bathrobe that Goldie had run into a couple of times outside of her hotel room door. “C’mere. I want to show you something.”
Goldie stepped over to the window as he pointed to the pair.
“See that couple? They’re from Fort Collins.
They come here every year for a week or so.
They have a nice Thanksgiving dinner at the Sparkledove Arms, shop, take a scenic train ride, and maybe take a couple of evening walks to the covered bridge.
Kicking off their holiday season in Sparkledove has become their tradition.
Over the next four weeks, hundreds of other families will do the same.
Christmas is our biggest money-making time of the year, Goldie.
Eli Johnson’s family brought him here when he was a boy, and Bucky and Martha Eggleston likewise fell in love with the town during our Christmas season.
And it’s not just the mountains or the quaint stores on River Street that keep bringing people back.
It’s also the Victorian homes and how wonderfully they’re preserved. It’s tradition. Continuity.
“But those homes require a lot of maintenance. This is harsh country. The elements are tough on structures. Everyone who buys a historic house in Sparkledove consents to live under conditions set by the historical society. Homeowners have a responsibility to their properties as well as monthly dues. Dues, incidentally, that are paying for your room and meals. As both president of the historical society and mayor, I suppose I’m the enforcer of those responsibilities and dues.
Over time, some people may become a little resentful of my role.
I understand that. But let’s also keep things in perspective.
Martha and Bucky agreed to the terms of the historical society.
Nobody prevented Martha from working and bringing in a second income except her husband, and Bucky chose not to protect his wife with life insurance.
So, once again, my buying the house from Martha really actually saved her skin. ”
Goldie had to admit, Banyan made a persuasive argument.
But some things still didn’t sit well with her.
Martha Eggleston’s resentment of him was pretty strong, suggesting maybe he’d badgered her and her husband.
Lupe’s comment of, “You don’t know Senor Banyan,” also stuck out in her mind.
Then there was the way he and Peter had fought over almost everything at Thanksgiving dinner.
Her years with Markie had taught her to smell hidden intentions from a mile away, and although she wasn’t sure why, Charles Banyan was beginning to stink to her.
As she was leaving the realty office, Eli Johnson drove down the street and pulled up next to her in his Ford sedan. He beeped his horn, which caused her to stop and turn. He smiled and rolled down his window.
“Howdy,” he said.
She waited for him to say something more, but then realized he expected her to greet him. “Howdy,” she replied, a little impatiently and tiring of his Roy Rogers routine.
“Got a second?”
“Sure.”
“Hop in.”
She rounded the cruiser and climbed in on the passenger side.
“What’s up, Dick Tracy?” she began.
“I did what you asked. Looked back at the incident reports, and there was someone who jumped off the covered bridge and committed suicide. Happened about five years ago.”
“Really?”
“Yep. Man’s name was Claude Bolton, and it was kind of a strange circumstance.”
“What do ya mean?”
“He came into town one afternoon in September. According to witnesses, he was very disoriented and confused. Claimed he didn’t know where he was or how he got here.” Eli paused and raised an eyebrow. “Sound like anybody we know?”
“What? Are you tryin’ to make a connection between a man who wandered into town five years ago and a journalist who was invited?”
“Not necessarily. But it is curious you both seemed to have been confused when you first arrived.”
“It’s only curious if he wound up staying in room 9 of the Sparkledove Arms,” she replied. “Eh—he didn’t, did he?”
“No. He had identification and money in his pocket, and he stayed at the Pine River Inn for three nights. On the fourth, he jumped off the covered bridge.”
“What did he do during those three days?” she asked.
“The report’s not that detailed,” he replied.
“What time of day did he jump?”
“Coroner put it between 8:00 and 8:30 p.m. But his body wasn’t found until the next morning.”
Eli looked out the front windshield and down River Street, shook his head a little, then continued.
“The funny thing is that the water isn’t that deep.
The report said about six or seven feet.
But one of Bolton’s hands was jammed in between two boulders on the riverbed.
Meaning, he didn’t want to come up. Matter of fact, Jason Shirk, the sheriff I replaced, speculated that—based upon the bruising on his wrist and arm—Mr. Bolton might’ve had to dive to the river bottom repeatedly to find just the right place to get his hand stuck. ”
“Jesus,” Goldie murmured. Partly because it was a terrible way to die and partly because she was right. What she had seen on the bridge was indeed an apparition that apparently appeared every night at the time Bolton originally jumped.
She looked at Eli. “Can you meet me on the bridge at 8:10 tonight?”
“How did you know a man committed suicide from that bridge?” he asked seriously.
“I didn’t. It was a guess because of the glassless viewin’ windows. But people like jumpin’ off bridges. In New York City, where I was raised, you could practically set your watch to the bodies fallin’ off the Brooklyn and George Washington bridges.”
He gave her a suspicious look. “Are you somehow connected to this guy?”
“No. Why would you ask?”
“Because he listed a home address in Taos at the Pine River Inn that was a dead end. Same thing on his identification papers. Meaning, we had no way to contact the next of kin. Bolton’s buried right here in town.”
“Strange,” she said, under her breath.
“He could’ve been on the run from something,” Eli speculated. “Is there something you know about this guy that I don’t?”
“Can you meet me tonight, or not?”
“Yyyeah,” he drawled, “I figure I can.”