Chapter 16
Sixteen
THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY
After the call, she headed for the Sparkledove Historical Society, which was just two storefronts down from Sparkledove Realty.
This was the first day she wasn’t wearing gauze on her hand since cutting herself in the bus terminal seven days earlier, and the injury was healing nicely.
The community was now covered with a two-inch blanket of sparkling snow, and even though her entire existence in Colorado was a hugely bizarre magical mystery trip, she couldn’t help but think how pretty the mountain town looked.
She was also greeted by familiar faces as she walked.
Clara of Clara’s Gifts said hello as she was shoveling the plank sidewalk in front of her store.
Deke Miller of Miller’s General Store waved to her while standing outside with a cane and giving instructions to his son, Chad, who was inside and decorating the store’s front window. It was nice to be known, she thought.
While she walked, she thought about her kiss with Peter Banyan. She had enjoyed it and liked feeling desired again, especially after Markie’s rejection, but she really couldn’t explain or justify it beyond that. Truth be told, she didn’t want to.
What the hell? Life’s messy, she concluded.
The historical society was run by a white-haired woman who introduced herself as Harriette Noise.
She was in her eighties, wore a dress with a lace collar, moved slowly, and joked with Goldie that she, herself, was a historical artifact.
She’d taught at the area high school for thirty-five years and claimed she hadn’t traveled more than two hundred miles in any direction from Sparkledove.
She had a sweet, creaky, grandmotherly voice that was as comforting as a porch swing on a summer’s day.
“I’ve seen the town at its most crowded and most desolate,” she told her visitor.
Once upon a time, the building where the society was located had been occupied by a saddle maker.
Now, it was a mini museum with historical pictures on the wall, antiques in glass cases, and mannequins wearing period clothing.
The centerpiece of the place was a six-foot-square three-dimensional balsa wood replica of the town circa 1878, complete with painted houses, horse-drawn carriages, trees, and small figures on the wood-plank sidewalks.
Goldie was frankly impressed and pleased with the displays.
She pointed to the Maynard Mining operation, where she had just been the day before. But in the model, the woods around the buildings were much thinner.
“So, this is where Maynard Mining was?” she asked Harriette, pretending ignorance. “They were the biggest mining company in town, right?”
“That’s right,” she replied. “But you can’t go up there anymore. It’s all fenced off because it’s not safe.”
“And what’s this buildin’ right here?” she questioned, pointing to the director of operations’ house.”
“That’s where the mine director lived. He was in charge of everything Maynard did in town. It was a beautiful house, but very near the mine, so men and wagons passed in front of it all day, kicking up dust. I doubt his wife was much pleased with the location.”
Goldie grinned at the old woman confidentially. “Do you have any interestin’ stories about the Maynard grounds? I know there was a tragic explosion that killed thirty-one men in 1881, but anything else?”
The old woman thought for a moment, then remembered.
“Well, there was one strange incident that happened in 1902. A woman came into town one day. Nobody had ever seen her before. She was young. About your age. Claimed she didn’t know where she was or how she got here.
But she had money and wound up taking a room somewhere.
She wasn’t in town very long, but she went plum crazy.
Got up early one morning, walked up to the director’s house in her nightgown, which by then had been abandoned for twenty years, and hung herself in the front foyer. ”
“That’s terrible!” Goldie said, empathetically.
“It sure was,” Harriette agreed. “I was teaching at the time and raising my family. So, I didn’t pay much attention to the gory details.
But I do remember it was a big deal. The town’s population was only about four hundred people.
No police, newspaper, and certainly no tourism business like there is now. ”
“Did anyone find out who she was?” Goldie asked.
“No. Not that I recall. The Denver Post even ran a picture of her poor deceased face to see if anyone knew her. But no one came forward.”
Goldie’s goosebumps flared, and she became momentarily light-headed. The parallels between this woman, Claude Bolton, and, to some extent, herself were undeniable.
“W-what time of year did this happen?” Goldie asked.
“Summertime,” the white-haired woman answered. “Either late July or August.”
That would explain the short-sleeve nightgown, Goldie thought. She nodded, then changed subjects, looking at the model of the town. “And where’s Falcon Drive?”
“Oh, that’s over here,” her hostess replied. “North of the mine.”
Goldie looked at the miniature houses on the street, then pointed to one in particular. “So this one would be Martha Eggleston’s house?”
“Yes, that’s right. Although she just sold it.”
“So I heard. I went to visit Martha the other day and noticed the house next door was for sale, too.”
“Yes, George and Susan Ash,” Harriette answered knowingly.
“Lovely people. Lived in town for years. But after their kids were grown, they wanted something smaller and closer to Denver. They had their house up for sale, but with the war and all, it’s a very depressed market.
So, Mayor Banyan, bless his heart, took it off their hands so they could get on with their lives. ”
Goldie looked at her, surprised. “Wait. You mean to say he bought the Ash house?”
“That’s right. Now he’s the one selling it.”
“Didn’t he just buy the Eggleston house, too?”
“Yes, that’s right. But Martha sorely needed the money. From what I understand, she was almost destitute. So buying it was practically an act of charity. Plus, he’s letting her stay there through the holidays.”
The wheels in Goldie’s head were spinning furiously like the cylinders of a three-window slot machine, where one of those cylinders had just stopped at BAR.
“So, he owns two houses on Falcon Drive that are next door to each other?” she asked, needing verification.
“No. He owns four houses on Falcon Drive next door to each other,” the old woman corrected, chuckling. “I’ve told him he ought to rename the street Banyan Lane.”
Goldie paused and looked closely at the five houses on Martha Eggleston’s side of the street. She pointed to the house next to the former Ash residence. “I didn’t see a for sale sign here,” she said.
“No, but that’s the mayor’s. He’s owned it for about six months and intends to rent it out as a source of extra income. But there are some restorations he wants to do inside first.”
“How did he come to buy this house?” Goldie asked.
“It was owned by a widower named Nathan Louis. Nice man, no children, but bad arthritis. Said he always intended to move to warmer weather, and after twenty years, he did.”
Another spinning cylinder of the slot machine in Goldie’s head suddenly stopped. Now two windows read BAR-BAR. She pointed to the house next to that.
“And this one? That had a for sale sign.”
“Yes. That used to be Jason Shirk’s.”
“The previous sheriff?”
“That’s right. He had a heart attack in late October of last year. About ten days before Halloween.”
“And the mayor owns that one, too?”
Harriette nodded. “He didn’t want Jason’s daughter in Idaho Springs to have to deal with the sad business of disposing of the property. Again, with the war and the slow economy, that could take some time.”
“Where’s Idaho Springs?” Goldie asked.
“About fifteen miles down Highway 70. That’s where Sheriff Shirk was buried.”
Goldie nodded as the final cylinder in her mental slot machine stopped. The windows now read: BAR-BAR-BAR.
“Wow! That’s a lot of property to have money tied up in,” she observed. “And all on the same side of the same street.”
“Yes. I suppose it is,” the older one agreed.
“I don’t want to gossip, but I’ve heard the mayor and his son, Peter, argue about it.
Peter thinks his father has greatly overextended himself, and the mayor says the war won’t last forever and he’ll eventually make his money back plus a profit.
Meantime, he said he was happy to remove the worry of a slow real estate market from the shoulders of others.
Mayor Banyan’s quite a Christian gentleman. ”
“Yeah, a regular Jerry Farwell Jr.,” Goldie observed.
Harriette looked at her, not understanding, but Goldie smiled and continued her line of thought. “So Peter doesn’t approve of all the real estate his dad has gobbled up, eh?”
“I think it’s just one of many things they disagree about. But it’s none of my business.”
Goldie looked at the model again, then pointed to the final house on the Eggleston side of the street.
“And what about this one? Who owns that?”
“Why, that’s my house, dear.”
Goldie’s eyes widened. “Your house?”
“Yes,” Harriette verified.
“You’re not thinkin’ of movin’ anytime soon, are ya?”
“Oh, goodness no. I should say not. I raised my family there. That’s where I’ll die.”