Where Two Rivers Meet Anthology
BOOK 3: A MATTER OF THE MOTHER LODE
By H.A. Silliman
Part 1: What the Judge Asked Marnie to Do
It’s late in May here in Two Rivers, and the spring rains have returned—threatening again to overrun the banks of the Empire and the Rancheria. Back in the pioneer days, our town grew and prospered because of all the water. Water for drinking! Water for gold mining! Then came the deluge—many of them. Old photos in the museum show our ancestors preparing for floods, wading through floods, rebuilding from floods.
I’m not sure I could have endured that kind of tribulation. Imagine the inside of your home time and again everything coated in mud and slime. What could you do, except clean out the muck and get back at it. Fortunately, my place, The Golden Gables, is located above the river canyon. I have a pretty view of the Two Rivers bridge, the Church of Peter and Paul and tidy homes that peek from banks of pine trees. We’re safe. We’re dry. We’re above the fray.
This Saturday morning, from the main house kitchen window, I watched my children, Jazmine and Jake, outside, enjoying a few ragged bits of morning sunshine. In their galoshes and rain slicks, they stomped in puddles, joyfully splashing each other, happy to be in fresh air. The kids scampered in the courtyard that separates the carriage house—our living quarters—from the main house, a clapboard contraption painted railroad station yellow and trimmed in sienna.
Over the years, I have grown accustomed to this color scheme chosen by my late boss’s wife. She had died 20 years ago, and that’s when I came to keep house for Renwick Gold Selleck. He had owned the local telephone service. I was just 18 and not yet married. When Rennie died recently, he kindly left me the house, plus cash and stocks. The housekeeper had inherited! People in town sure tittered over that—if they only knew! Folks here like to savor a good bit of gossip. It builds community spirit.
So, just another Saturday morning. My job that day was to unravel the strands of ongoing remodeling projects. I had decided to convert the main house into a bed-and-breakfast. All started well. Then the contractor—a friend of a friend from Sacramento—bailed. No reason, he just could no longer work do the work. He gave me the bad news yesterday when he’d retrieved his travel trailer, parked behind the house.
I wandered around, surveying the jumble of tiles, pots of adhesive and grout, a stack of sheet rock in the middle of the living room—the detritus of construction. Local builder, Rex Jenner, had promised to stop by soon for a look-see. I had my fingers crossed that he could take over and was optimistically compiling a to-do list when Judge Fergulia called.
“Got a minute, Marnie?” he asked. “Well, longer than that. Better pour yourself a cup of coffee.”
I always had a minute for the judge—so I obliged. Before Harry was elected to the bench, he had been my attorney and sorted through the legal issues when my husband, Mark Lopez, had died in the infamous Belloumini Bridge collapse. The state and contractor had been at fault. Thanks to Harry, their large payout is still in the bank. Our lives until the accident five years ago had been placid, fruitful and fun. My job housekeeping for Rennie permitted us to stay rent-free in the two-story carriage house. Living right next to my work with a makeshift nursery in the big house pantry, meant I could look after Jazz and Jake and run Rennie’s house. We had enough money to buy 40 acres out of town and begin clearing the land. Mark had always wanted a farmhouse with a big wrap-around porch. Then, the bridge caved in, killing Mark, who ran heavy equipment. Jazz was seven at the time and Jake, five.
Cup of coffee in hand and seated at the counter so I could watch the kids, I listened to the judge: He had a huge request and a compelling case that I should agree. What surprised me, though, was the definite catch in his voice—he was pleading. A surprise, really, because one doesn’t think of judges signaling any whit of emotion. They issue orders: Order in the court! Raise your right hand. Overruled! But Harry Fergulia had been almost begging: The man was on a mission—could I take in Richie Wyder?
Up in his chambers at the century-old courthouse building—yes even on a Saturday he’d be there—I pictured Judge Fergulia. I heard papers shuffle and a few puffs as he smoked his pipe, and considered how to help a boy whose father recently died when a mine tunnel caved in.
“This all is complicated by the fact that we haven’t heard from the wife,” Harry told me. “She apparently traveled back east to visit family. But the family said she left back in January.”
“Don’t the grandparents want the boy?” It seemed the obvious choice to me.
There was an extended silence, and the judge hesitated. “Well, it’s actually…The father’s parents died years ago. On the wife’s side, she was an only child. No aunts or uncles. When I talk to Richie’s grandmother, I can hear she’s very old—shaky voice, forgetful—and hard of hearing. I take it, the grandfather is worse off. He’s in a wheelchair.”
“Can’t you just call Barbara Wyder?”
“We don’t know her cell phone number. It’s apparently new. The boy said his father never gave it to him.”
The judge hinted at more issues, but when I pressed, he demurred. “It would be productive to keep Richie in the county. Also, the boy got his arm broken again in the accident. And other matters need to be resolved. Having him here will help.”
The judge was being guarded and cryptic. That final statement made stop and wonder: Which matters?
Part 2: Questions for the Cafe Regulars
When Renwick Gold Selleck died last month, I hunkered down, stayed in and sorted possessions and paperwork. Another confinement, as it were, at The Golden Gables. I had practice. Attorney Paul Bartley, another trusted friend, had called the day after Rennie died with the surprising news that my boss had provided for me and the kids in a trust, so I didn’t have to move out—and more importantly—would have possession quickly. He also advised to have the electrical system upgraded ASAP because the insurance on the home was sky-high! That cemented my decision to remodel. All of this kept me out of circulation. It had been weeks since I had visited anyone or anywhere.
Calling in Jazz and Jake from outside, I made them wash their hands. Then we headed down to the River Eats Café, taking the back way along the soggy riverfront. The café regulars would be a treasure trove of information about the Wyders. I hadn’t paid much attention to the tunnel accident several weeks before that had killed the father, Don. I knew from the Two Rivers Ledger that last fall he had apparently found a lot of gold in the Mountbank Creek.
I needed Wyder family backstory—and local opinion as to whether I should take in the boy. Judge Fergulia wanted a decision by Sunday evening—the next day. Richie had been staying with neighbors, the Bartons, who had two toddler boys, essentially a full plate, like myself. But I also had a lot more room and loads of sympathy for a fatherless child—the reason Harry had presumably called me. I needed to make the right decision—and quickly!
Jazmine and Jake, still wearing their boots, splashed in puddles all the way to the café. They gleefully stomped and watched water cascade up, the drops spreading all around in pretty, silver arcs. I love their innocence.
When you enter Jeremy’s café, you immediately get the sense of family. It’s Two Rivers way: Folks say “Hi, come sit here.” Jeremy usually hurries over with a cup and coffee—and then sends hot chocolate for the kids. I like him. As a single mom—I can’t quite bring myself to yet claim the word “widow”—I find him attractive: He’ single, successful, friend-to-all. What’s not to like?
I slid into the large booth up front where sat the Gang of Four: Nursery owner Carole Chukar, Rev. Steve Gagnon and the plumbers—the brothers Norbert. The kids squeezed in beside Carole, whom I know they secretly prize as their adult best friend: She gives them rip-roaring rides around town in her yellow World War II jeep.
“Welcome back, Marnie!” Jeremy said, setting down a thick mug and pouring from a freshly-made pot. “We’ve missed you!” He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “Doughnuts?”
At that, the kids perked up and said in unison “Sure!” He turned to go, and Noel Norbert asked, “What about us? We’d like more!”
Jeremy waved his hand in acknowledgement. Nick Norbert, looking at me, said with a wink, “He likes you!”
“As a paying customer, maybe.”
Carole said, “Nah, he’s been asking where you’ve been—of course he could have called you, but that would be obvious.”
The reverend kept quiet, smiled, raised his eyebrows.
I changed the subject quickly. I was five years older than Jeremy and had two kids to boot: Not an attractive package. I got to the point: “So, has anyone received an odd phone call from Judge Fergulia?”
The reverend didn’t have a good poker face. His eyes immediately did a half-roll. “He called me,” Rev. Steve confessed, smiling. “I named names. Yours was near the top.”
Nick Norbert added, “He called Rex, but Rex wisely put him off. Not a good mix there. A teenage girl and a teenage boy who are not relatives under the same roof. That’s another ‘accident’ waiting to happen.” That generated some chuckles.
“Who was first on the list?” I asked.
“Babe!” Rev. Steve said. “The kid has been delivering the newspapers on that motor-scooter to homes in town, so I figured it would be a good match. That, and Babe has a big house. Of course, now that Richie’s arm is broken again, he’s off for a bit.”
“I bet Babe turned the judge down,” I offered. The former Two Rivers Ledger publisher was in his late ‘80s—still spry, as they say, but it would be a huge imposition.
“Babe’s busy,” Carole said. “Having to step in and run the newspaper again since Mack Boyd got sick—what an idiot!”
That brought a consensus of agreement. People tolerated Mack—he had been Coach Boyd’s kid after all—but he’d gone ‘round the bend recently. Those articles he published in the Ledger trying to convince readers that Rennie was 150 years old! Such nonsense. A stunt to sell more newspapers, maybe, no wonder folks around town felt he’d gone over the edge—and then he actually had!
“If Mack hadn’t poisoned himself with that elixir, he’d probably be in jail,” Noel suggested. “Digging in graveyard, can you imagine? That’s what I’d expect from lowlanders—folks from the Bay Area trying out a new metal detector. But a local! That’s just poor taste. It’s lucky Deputy Jack called on him the next morning, or he’d be dead. Collapsed practically right into Jack’s arms.” He leaned closer, and whispered. “They know he found a lot of coins. Mack says he can’t remember where he put the loot that night! Ha! Judge Fergulia is livid—says it belongs to the town.”
Hearing the judge’s name brought my mind back to why I had ventured to the café in the first place—their thoughts on that big question: Should I take in the Wyder boy?
Part 3: Coffee, Complications, A Guilty Judge
As we sat that Saturday morning in Jeremy’s River Eats Café, the rain started again: a heavy downpour—sheets and sheets. A big wind whipped up, threw water against the window panes. Outside, the pretty view of the rivers junction and two bridges disappeared into a blurry sheen of mists. The children’s hot chocolate and a platter of doughnuts arrived.
“These are on me,” Jeremy said, “in celebration of Marnie’s return.”
Jazz and Jake latched onto the two maple-covered bars, and I took a plain old-fashioned. I like doughnuts, but not all the sticky decorations. Also, I don’t bite into a doughnut. I pick off pieces, bit by bit. With a nice strong cup of coffee, I use the time eating to deliberate. This habit I learned from years of watching Rennie do the same. A placid, slow-speaking, patient man, he was not easily riled. He got things done in a manner unassuming, a wave of a hand “Sure, let me think about it,” and off he went. How I missed him—a man old enough to be my father.
“What I need to know,” I said, “should I let Richie stay at my place?”
Hearing this, Jazz and Jake’s eyes grew wide. I smiled. “You may be getting a big brother for a while.” They liked that.
Noel spoke, immediately going off on a tangent. “Of course, you know why the judge is involved? Really, he could have stayed out of this.”
Nick chimed in, “He feels guilty, that’s why.”
“For what?”
Nick explained. “About eight years ago when the Wyders moved up from the valley, Harry Fergulia sold them part of his family homestead on Mountbank Creek.”
Rev. Steve took over here. “Harry realizes that Don Wyder was on the land because of him. What happened, then, Judge Fergulia played a part in—admittedly obscure. So, he wants to come to the rescue in regard to Richie. Doesn’t want the boy to get hurt because of what adults did. It’s existential guilt!”
“Existential guilt? I asked. “That’s for folks who read too many literary novels. His reasoning seems far-fetched; but OK, so Harry steps in. How does that help me make up my mind?”
“I’d be careful,” said Nick. “It could get complicated—having the boy there.”
Picking apart the doughnut, I realized the gang was holding back on me. I guess having absented myself for a few months from the goings-on in town put me at a disadvantage. Still, the café functions as a gossip exchange, and being my friends, they needed to deliver.
“What about the mom?” I asked. “Why can’t she take him—or come back?”
Carole looked at straight at me, nodded her head. “Yep, that’s the size of it: What about the mom?”
“I presume she and the boy must get along,” I replied. “No one has ever said any different.” That statement met with silence.
“What did the judge say to you about Barbara?” Rev. Steve asked.
“That they couldn’t yet get ahold of her, where she was back east.”
The gang, though, kept mum about the mother, and Rev. Steve filled in the silence saying the boy needs help, someone should step up, and that I stood as that someone who most likely had the wherewithal. Also, the boy’s stay would certainly be temporary.
“You have to wonder if Richie has been warped by the father,” Noel reflected. “You know the story: Ages ago, little Donnie Wyder becomes part of a famous kiddie TV show cast—and then is washed up by age sixteen. That’s got to twist a person’s self-esteem.”
Don Wyder’s story certainly fell into the realm of fable. After the big copper mine hereby shut down, the family moved to Southern California where his father went to work for the Borax Co., and Donnie was discovered by a talent agent, got cast in The Hare and Hound Hour, which lasted on TV for a few years in the ‘70s. Afterward, he had a few bit parts in TV serials, but the career evaporated. He returned years later as an insurance agent.
“Have you ever noticed how ex-actors and athletes end up selling insurance?” Noel asked. “It’s kind of a cliché, but here we are. Barbara surely married him partly because he had been famous. She certainly has boat loads of her own money, so probably didn’t worry about his livelihood.”
“I don’t know about that,” Carole said. “On the one hand, she was famous for asking people to pay for lunch—and say she’d reimburse them later—.”
Nick broke in, “Oh, she had money all right. The golf country club membership she paid for—and the dues. My wife’s the new bookkeeper there and knows that. It’s not cheap.”
“I don’t like to speak ill of people,” Rev. Steve said, lowering his voice, “but it could be she enjoyed making him squirm. I liked her, but I saw her ask Don for money several times. He usually told her he didn’t have any. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t, and she liked holding that over him. Husband-and-wife relationships certainly can get wonky.”
So the conversation went. Saturday coffee-and-doughnuts drifted into lunch as rain continued pounding down. Jeremy made grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup—the ideal meal for a dreary day. By the time the kids and I arrived home that afternoon, I had decided Richie could come stay with us. When I phoned Harry that evening, the judge seemed pleased and relieved.
“There’s a lot that needs figuring out,” he said. “The family’s finances and whatnot. The funeral arrangements. We need the boy to answer some questions, and we’re going to rely on you to gently debrief him as times goes along. That’s why we want him in Two Rivers.”
So, part of my job was to dig for information. I could do that. I had no idea of the surprise we eventually would find.
Part 4: The Deputy Makes a Wild Surmise
Back on that first day when Richie came to live with us, Jazmine and Jake showed him upstairs to his new room, their voices cracking with excitement. I suppose suddenly their having a big brother, they felt deep inside he was a substitute for their daddy—an older male in the house. But they came downstairs, crestfallen, soon afterward.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Doesn’t Richie like his room?”
“He said it’s very nice,” Jake whispered, his lip trembling.
Jazmine cut in. “Then he just sat down and started crying awfully.
Jake said, “I hugged him. I asked if I could sign his cast. That made him cry even more. Did I do something wrong?”
Taking in a deep breath, I knelt down and told Jake he had done everything just right, that Richie was sad about other things and needed to cry about them. My boy nodded his head, wiped a tear, and Jazmine pulled him outside.
That was three weeks ago—the day after I optimistically told Judge Fergulia I’d help out. But now, looking back, I realized that I hadn’t then prepared for taking in a broken boy. I was torn between wanting to engage him in activities and outings and just leaving him alone. Upon consultation, Rev. Steve suggested that I let Richie make up his own mind about things.
So when Carole stopped by a few days later to offer help so Richie could start delivering the Ledger again, I said nothing and let him decide. The kids, on their own, piped up to volunteer. He agreed easily to all of it. With Carole driving the route through town, Richie directs where the children should put the newspapers. She then drops them all off at school. I could see he was happy zipping around with Carole and the kids. The chore turned into a welcome distraction and part of a new routine being established in our home.
Carole and the kids helping with the newspaper has been typical of how we managed to accommodate the 15-year-old boy that accident and circumstance had landed in our home. As Carole had done, other townspeople chipped in, too: Sally brought leftover quiche and salads from the deli, and Jeremy sent mac-and-cheese casseroles once a week. I felt overwhelmed by their largesse—and slightly guilty—until Rex Jenner showed up a few days ago and remodeling commenced on the main house. With my hands full managing that project, receiving prepared meals was manna from heaven! I made sure that Carole joined us on Thursdays for dinner—as repayment for her helping with the paper route. This made the kids happy, and I had noticed that even teen Richie had taken a sideways shine to Carole.
Of course, remodeling a home is quite a project—but transforming a place into a bed-and-breakfast turns into another creature entirely. The county building inspector, Jim Kelly, stopped by with a booklets about disability access, commercial kitchens and emergency egress. I had joined the Country Inn Association for help on the business side. I was happy that I had those few weeks to get Richie settled in. He now occupies the attic bedroom of the carriage house. The room is long, narrow, lit by two dormer windows and two gable windows. Richie does his homework at night up there—and I don’t have to remind him to. He’s a good kid.
On this Thursday morning, I watched Carole and the kids scoot away in the jeep to deliver papers. Though the actually painting was weeks away, today’s big chore centered on choosing interior colors for the main house. When I heard a vehicle drive up, I thought it must be Rex and the crew, but a rap on the door startled. Outside stood Judge Fergulia and Deputy Jack.
The sight of the law at one’s door is always unnerving—and immediately I assumed something bad happened to the kids, but they had just left, so that was surely impossible.
“We know you’re free now,” Deputy Jack said, “since everyone is out on the paper route.
Inviting them in, I sat them down at the table and poured coffee. They small-talked the weather—finally entire days of sun—and came around to the point of their visit.
“The day of the mine accident last month, we tried to reach Barbara Wyder,” Deputy Jack said. “We couldn’t find her. I asked Richie when he’d last talked to her, and he said it was the day she left. That was after Thanksgiving! Richie said his father would periodically tell him his mom had called, but he hadn’t overheard the conversations.”
They asked me if Richie had spoken about his mom. He hadn’t. They asked if Richie acted strange or cried a lot. I said he cried the day he arrived, but he was very sad. They asked if he talked about his father, or the day of the accident. He hadn’t.
From talking to folks around town, Judge Fergulia and Deputy Jack had pieced together a few facts. When Don had claimed he found gold in his creek, his life went to hell-in-a-hand basket. He left his job selling insurance, bought up all sorts of supplies at the hardware store—even asked for dynamite! Barbara was seen driving through town most mornings, and then one day after Thanksgiving, she just disappeared. Rev. Steve said she quit coming to church.
“Very odd behavior all around,” Harry said. “I hear this kind of thing in the courtroom when families crack up.”
Deputy Jack added, “So, it seems that the mom has vanished. We don’t know when or where. For all we know, the mother could be buried in that mine.”
Part 5: A New Theory on A Missing Mom
No sooner had I ushered out the judge and the deputy, then Sally showed up, bearing a large plate of apple-spice cookies. Undoubtedly, she had seen Harry and Jack driving away in the deputy’s SUV. And undoubtedly, I’d be subject to her third-degree questioning about their visit. However, since I hadn’t been cautioned not to speak about the Wyders, I felt Sally might be rewarded with a few pertinent details. I made a fresh pot of coffee and re-plated a half dozen cookies and set them down for our little chat. The rest went into the cookie jar because I knew the kids—even Richie—would be happy to find it full, and I set some aside for the construction crew.
Settling herself at the kitchen table, Sally said, “Can’t imagine why they stopped by. “They don’t bake!” she chuckled. “Actually, I’m here to invite you on a mission. I’ve been visiting Mack Boyd at the convalescent hospital in Truckee. Naturally, it’s a bit of a drive. I’m wondering if you’d come along next time.”
This was news to me. But as Sally had trained as a nurse, I wasn’t surprised. She is known around Two Rivers for her rescue efforts: bringing soup to the sick, driving folks to clinics. She had helped mastermind the food kitchen at the Church of Peter and Paul during the recent flood scare in April.
“How’s Mack doing?”
“As well as can be expected,” she said. “He really poisoned himself drinking that old bottle of elixir he found. Apparently, the concoction was full of heavy metals. Damaged the kidney and liver. They’re monitoring him closely, so that’s why he’s in the nursing home. Mack’s really weak and will need help when he gets out.”
Just then, Rex drove up with his crew and they came inside. Today, they were pulling in new wiring on the main floor of the house. I gave them a small bag of Sally’s cookies. For a few minutes as his men set up, Rex joined us at the table for coffee.
“What’s the talk today?” he asked. “I’m playing poker at the Pick & Pan tonight and can spread it around for you.”
Sally told him about our upcoming visit to Mack and that she was waiting now to hear why Judge Fergulia and Deputy Jack had just paid me a visit.
So I told them about Barbara Wyder—that she hadn’t been seen around lately.
The Wyders, living up the ravine near Canton Flat, kept to themselves. Even though Don had sold insurance, his only foray into town life was as a Rotary Club member. Barbara, who apparently played golf most days miles away at The Red Eagle, didn’t mix in too much besides church, ergo, gossip was in short supply.
“I can’t imagine old Don whacking his wife,” Rex said. “Insurance guys don’t do anything where they can’t spread out the risk.”
“What does Richie say about all this,” Sally asked. She turned and her eyes burrowed into mine, waiting to catch me withholding. Her round, cherubic face and dimples gave her an aura of innocence, but she was sharp.
“Not a word. I haven’t asked. He hasn’t volunteered anything. The judge and Jack want me to start poking around. See what he says.”
“That’s not going to be fun,” Rex said. “Kid might fall apart on you.”
“That’s my worry. He’s doing well now. Occupied with delivering the Ledger. Does his homework every night. Perfectly normal behavior.”
Rex and I agreed that Richie would speak up if there had been anything untoward that happened that he’d known about. So far, he was taking his mom’s absence as just another incident in a string of happenings.
But to Sally, that seemed very odd, indeed. “The boy’s mom has been gone for—what—months now? Not a word from her. The father claims he spoke to her, according to the boy.” She took a cookie from the plate, broke it apart, crumbs falling, which she picked up on her fingertips and licked. “There’s more there, I tell you. You know, according to Noel, hubbie Don drank. In the mornings, he’d slip into the Pick & Pan Saloon through the back door. A secret drinker always has other secrets.”
About this time, Rex excused himself. His crew were ready for him, and with luck, I’d have modern wiring in a few days. I hoped to have The Golden Gables Inn open for business by the annual RiversFest during Fourth of July—just weeks away.
Before she left, Sally and I set plans to visit Mack Boyd the next day. We’d leave early and be back just before the dinner rush at the deli—the time when folks stopped in to pick up take-out.
On the way out the door, she said, “On our way back, I want to stop by The Red Eagle Golf Course.”
“What’s there?”
“Well, I’m working with the catering folks on supplying desserts, but something occurred to me.” She lifted her eyebrows. Sally loved being mysterious. “Talking about Barbara Wyder just now. All the time she spent golfing. Was there about every day. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”
To me, a single mother raising two kids by herself, it didn’t seem odd at all. It sounded wonderfully refreshing. Time for myself!
“I could see trading places,” I said.
“What I’m saying is that maybe there’s another reason Barbara disappeared. Not murder at all. A deputy will naturally be inclined to think a crime occurred when someone’s gone missing. It could be something more prosaic, more mundane: Maybe, she was having an affair!”
Part 6: Guess Who's Coming for Dinner
Now, you mustn’t take me for a gossip. Naturally, living in Two Rivers one enjoys hearing curious stories. This kind of “intelligence” makes navigating life easier—and more interesting in a small village. And really, what is Mack Boyd’s Two Rivers Ledger but gossip legitimized by being printed in 12-point Times Roman. As The Nugget movie house only shows features on Friday and Saturday nights, entertainment sources hereabouts are limited. One doesn’t relish deriving vicarious enjoyment out of folks’ troubles. Who doesn’t have troubles? Who amongst us could endure the scrutiny of lookiloos if the roof were yanked off the top of one’s home? In fact, if you were to query anthropologists on the intrinsic value of “local knowledge,” I bet they agree that this type of talk keeps a social unit viable: Gossip is a survival skill!
All this is to say that I was secretly anticipating my adventure with Sally. Seeing Mack would be OK as a mission of mercy. I really wanted to know what Sally was up to by visiting the golf course. But wouldn’t you know it—the next morning Jake woke up with a bad cold and stayed home from school. I called Sally with regrets, and she promised a report that evening.
I spent the morning in our quarters in the Carriage House making Cornish pasties—a favorite meal long ago of hard rock miners. Rex stopped by, and hearing Jake was sick, went upstairs with me and gave him a hard hat to wear for the day.
“We might need help with running wire,” Rex said, winking at me. “So be sure to have this on and ready to go.” Jake soaked up the manly attention.
Out of earshot, Rex told me that at his card game the night before the subject of Don Wyder came up.
“I don’t think the marriage was a happy one,” he confided. “There was a general impression that Barbara lorded over him the fact that she had money—a lot of it—from her daddy’s Buick dealership. That’s why they always have new cars. But it was his money that built the house—an inheritance from his parents. He did OK in the insurance business—but nothing big. His drinking started to get in the way.”
I chipped in that Sally thought Don’s wife was having an affair—thus her departure and absence.
“Could be true,” Rex said. “I’ll say this again: I don’t think Don popped the old gal off. She was moneybags. Apparently, it was an allowance she had from her parents. So, no wife, maybe no moola!”
After Rex got to work, I finished the pastry dough and the filling for the pasties. Looking into the courtyard just before noon, I saw Babe Garibaldi opening the picket gate. He moved very deliberately and kept an eye out in front of his feet. Guess he didn’t want to trip. If I were in my ‘80s, I’d do the same.
The former Ledger publisher rapped at the door and peeked inside. “Mind if I come?”
“Not at all,” I said. “Set yourself down for some coffee and cookies.”
He settled in and commented sadly that he hadn’t been here since Renwick took ill. As I remember, he left that day with his head down and his eyes moist. The two men were the town’s elders. They harkened back to a time that folks longed for now: No internet, no smart phones or social media. Just the telephone and newspaper. No out-of-towners buying up our homes for vacation getaways and jacking up the prices for us locals. No need for health insurance. The good ol’ days.
“How’s your boy?” he asked. “Heard he’s sick.”
“A bad cold, that’s all. Rex left him a hard hat. That cheered him up.”
He sipped the coffee, and I sensed he temporized, sought an opening for his visit. I asked how he was doing, stepping in to run the newspaper for Mack. He said it was fun again because he knew it was going to be temporary.
“My wife says you’ve taken in the Wyder boy,” Babe said. “That’s nice. He’s very conscientious about getting the papers out. What a tragedy!”
I figured the Wyder situation to be where he wanted to go, so I mentioned the puzzle of Barbara up and taking off, but Babe didn’t take the bait. He merely said what Rev. Steve had opined: Marriages are a tricky affair—and I’m not sure that he intended irony by using the word “affair.”
“How’s it going with Richie?” he asked. “Is he a burden?”
“Not at all. The kids love him. He’s folded into our household like he was always here. That’s reassuring.”
Glancing around, he said, “You’ve certainly got the room for him. Why, you’ve got a lot of room, as a matter of fact.”
This was true. The carriage house had two bedrooms downstairs and two upstairs. The main house was three stories. The third story, a rambling warren of rooms that I intended to remake into at least three bedrooms and a common bathroom as time went along. With luck, I’d have a decent seven- or eight-room bed-and-breakfast.
Finally Babe said, “Better get to why I’m here. You know who called me a little while ago?” He didn’t’ wait for me to answer. “—Sally, where she was visiting Mack in that Truckee convalescent home.”
This caught my attention. I expected bad news about Boyd.
“Guess what! They released him today. Sally’s on her way with him right now!” He stared at me straight on—leaving no way to avert my gaze. “Mack needs a place to stay until he gets his feet on the ground. I made some quick calls around town after Sally hung up. Everyone agrees—he should come here, since you don’t have to work and also have the most room!”
Part 7: Digging Up Dirt--And Maybe More Ore
Recovering editor Mack Boyd became, de facto, The Golden Gables’ first guest. The afternoon he arrived, he hobbled in on a cane with help from Sally. We settled him into a makeshift bedroom on the first floor of the main house.
“Much appreciate this,” he said, weakly. “I won’t stay too long.”
He had lost 20 pounds. His yellow skin hung loosely on his face. The boyish demeanor of “Coach’s Kid” had dissipated. Clearly middle-aged now, he was frail at that. Sally handed over a bag of medication with the instructions. She would stop in every day to check on him and bring food.
“Naturally, I couldn’t visit the golf course,” Sally said, “but we’ll go soon.” With that she dashed off, promising to return with a cheesecake for dessert.
By then, the children were in from school and excited to have another visitor. They fussed over him, brought towels, puffed up pillows and found magazines from Rennie’s library. Richie pitched in, too, and gave him the latest Ledger. So, just like that, another troubled soul blended into our routine and life went on.
Over my first cup of coffee with Mack, he asked for the latest gossip. I told him I’d didn’t know much.
“Any word on who inherits Rennie’s company?”
The subject of the Two Rivers Telephone and Telegraph Co. had, indeed, been on folks’ minds since Renwick died. In all the years I worked for Rennie, and though we’d been close, he hadn’t talked much about business affairs.
“The last thing I heard, Attorney Paul Bartley was working on it,” I said.
Babe also visited, checking in about newspaper business. Mack asked me to temporarily help keep the subscription list up-to-date. I converted the pantry into the inn back-office, set up my computer there and also began organizing for The Golden Gables business. One evening, Judge Fergulia and Deputy Jack stopped by and asked to speak with Richie. They went upstairs to his room. When they left, they didn’t say a word to me! Later, the boy came downstairs and rummaged in the kitchen.
“I’m making hot chocolate,” he said. “Would you like a cup?”
I was at the dining room table and soon he brought in the mugs, sat down.
“That was weird—those guys visiting,” he began. “They asked me if I’d ever seen any of Dad’s gold. He showed me a few small pieces. The rest he said he was in a safe deposit box in a bank. They asked me which one, and I said probably here.”
“Have you ever found gold?”
“Not by myself. I was with Dad some nights when he picked some rocks he said were gold out of the creek. I mainly dug dirt.”
Here, I thought, I could open a conversation about his mother, so asked, “What did your mom think about the gold?
“I don’t know. She went looking in the creek one time. Didn’t find any. Mom asked to see the nuggets, but Dad said they were already in the bank—or maybe sold—I forget.”
He shook his head, eyes watering. “When I think about this stuff, my stomach hurts. So I don’t. It’s better that way. I don’t care about the gold. I just want my old life back.”
I wondered if he really knew exactly what his old life had been—father a secret drinker, mother maybe having an affair. The boy rose then and walked over to the little fireplace in the kitchen. On the mantle were photos of the kids, my late husband and Rennie.
He picked up the photo of Rennie, which showed him in his usual spot on the company patio. “Who’s this? Your grandfather?”
“No, that’s the man who owned the telephone business in town. Mr. Selleck. This was his house. You remember him?”
Richie said he didn’t, and I wasn’t surprised, since the Wyders lived out of town.
“There’s some odd about him,” Richie said, studying the photo closely. “He’s looks familiar, somehow, like I’ve seen this face before.”
The next day, Sally stopped by to check on Mack and then joined me for coffee.
“He’s doing better already,” she said. “Would you know, Deputy Jack paid a visit at the deli. Wants me to chat up Mack about his digging in the graveyard. They know he found coins. Some were scattered around the hole. Anyway, they want the gold. Says it belongs to town since The Church of Peter and Paul is the town property.”
I told her about Jack and the judge’s visit the night before—and what I’d found out then from Richie.
“Look at us—a real pair of sleuths. Grown-up Nancy Drews we are! That’s country living for you, keeping tabs on the neighbors,” Sally exclaimed, and then whispered, “So, do you think Barbara is really missing?”
We chewed on that for a bit—wondered if credit card or phone records had been checked for recent activity. Taking the initiative, I called Deputy Jack right then and put him on speaker phone so Sally could hear. He said that they hadn’t searched the Wyder home yet, but planned to soon.
“Greg Haslam at the bank says Don Wyder didn’t have a safety deposit box,” Deputy Jack added. “Maybe there’s one in Nevada City or somewhere else. The thing is, where’s all the gold that Donny-boy was talking about?”
“You think Barbara took it?” I asked.
“Don’t know. It would be better if she had—then that means she’s alive. The gold is the key. If there’s no gold, why was Don digging?” He left that thought hanging and hung up.
Weighing that idea, we sat silently, and then Sally said, “After the kids leave for school tomorrow, let’s go to Red Eagle. Barbara Wyder spent more time golfing then at home. Someone there must know something!”
Part 8: The Secret Life of a Country Wife
Promptly at eight o’clock a.m., Sally drove up in her white Subaru Outback for our trip to Red Eagle. It was Thursday. Richie and the kids were off to school after delivering the Ledger. Before we left, Sally checked on Mack Boyd, and then she and I piled into the car. She brought along a Thermos of hot coffee for the hour-long, twisty drive down Highway 49. As the roadway is narrow and attracts Sunday drivers even on weekdays, one needs to be alert. We drank coffee while chewing over facts.
“If Barbara was supposed to be golfing most days, I can’t see how she could stand this road,” I said.
“I suppose if you have an unpleasant husband then a getaway would be a huge relief and rejuvenate—more time away from a bad situation,” Sally suggested, and then described how she had been kept awake at night trying to figure out what had been going on between the Wyders. We considered the many angles we already knew—Don’s drinking, money issues, her possible affair, his obsession with finding gold: They all counted for something.
About an hour later, we came down the hill into Red Eagle. A touristy-trap town, the little stores are in buildings that had been an old lumber camp. Shingle-sided shacks now painted in festive colors—bright green, red, blue—lined the highway. The stores cater to valley folks. While the men play golf, their “little ladies” go shopping.
Red Eagle sports three antique shops, several heavily incensed stores selling candles and crystals, and with airy music tinkling in the background; there are two dress shops, a place that offers very expensive backpack and outdoor gear, a land office and the post office, a bakery, two cozy cafes, plus a bookstore. All-in-all, the typical fare in the typical Gold Rush town—only useful if you need to buy a birthday gift—still, cheery like Disneyland Main Street.
Beyond town, lay the Red Eagle Golf Course. The course sits on a forested ridge above the Empire River. The links wend their way among tall Sugar Pines and outcroppings of granite—a spectacular, one-of-a-kind scenery. Early on, the property served as the playground for wealthy lowlanders who came to soak in the warm springs onsite and relax at the massive-timbered Red Eagle Lodge. Over the decades, the lodge passed down through a succession of owners. It has been a chautauqua venue, a prep school and an alumni retreat of a private university. Then, some valley developers snapped up the acreage and created a members-only golf course and club. Locals are welcome if they can plunk down the very hefty membership fees.
We turned onto the property and passed newly-built condominiums—cottage style, with Victorian architecture—red metal roofs. Very cute, very expensive. Red Eagle has gentrified and citified, more Knott’s Berry Farm now than Old McDonald’s Farm.
A beautiful spring morning in the Mother Lode, a host of golfers could already be seen swatting on the links. We went inside. The café bustled, the air heavy with freshly brewed coffee. Men sat in little clutches around tables. They eyed us with a bit of interest—or suspicion.
Sally waved back, as if she knew them. “They’re not going to intimidate me,” she whispered.
A group of lady golfers—just one table—chatted on merrily. If anyone would know about Barbara’s doings here, they would. Then Betty Norbert, who knew we to visit, came dashing in and hastily escorted us to the back offices.
“Your café looks lively,” Sally commented as we settled into our chairs. “How’s business?”
“Doing well,” Betty said. “Most members are retirees. They eat here a lot. The rest are folks who come up for the weekend or vacations. The owners only solicit memberships to people making over a hundred grand a year or whose net wealth is above $2 million. You have to prove it with bank records. Very exclusive. Too posh for me, but it’s a job!”
Sally got right to the point. “So that means that Barbara Wyder must have been really well off. The membership couldn’t have been her husband’s.”
Picking up a sheaf of papers, Betty studied them. “Since I just started working here, I’m still learning the system. Barbara joined two years ago. Paid cash for the membership. She pays $200 a month for a golf cart. The entire account is active and up-to-date since it’s on autopay. All of last year, she paid for golfing lessons at $60 a pop. She had three a week.” Betty broke off, flipped some more pages, “Wow. Here’s the charge sheet for the food. Her café bill ran about $300 a week.” She stopped again. “A lot of drinks—and each time, she’s paying for meals for two!”
“Is she paying in gold nuggets?” Sally joked. “When was the last time she ate here?”
Betty studied the papers again. “April 3 is the last charge. No recent fees for lessons, either.”
Sally and I glanced at each other in disbelief. Richie had said the last time he’d seen his mom was just after Thanksgiving—and then his father said she’d gone to visit her parents back east. The mine accident that killed Don had happened in mid-April.
After Sally related this timeline Betty mused, “So, she was golfing here after Don said she’d left town. She stopped coming to the club not long before her husband died.”
“What is the billing address for her credit card?” I asked.
Shuffling through the account papers, Betty said, “Here in Red Eagle—1873 Marshall Way. That’s those condos down at the entrance.” She stopped. “And I’ve seen that address elsewhere.” Betty pulled up a screen on her computer.
“Here it is!” she exclaimed. “That’s the same one that Gavin Stallard uses—he’s one of our golf pros!”
Part 9: A Nosy Reporter and Wine--A Decision About a Mine
Our trip to Red Eagle had been wildly successful. Sally and I had learned that Barbara Wyder been staying at home of a golf pro named Gavin Stallard—or he had been staying with her. Whatever the arrangements, the news had energized us. On the drive back, we began laying down plans for more sleuthing. By two thirty, we had returned exhausted to Two Rivers. Since we were both hungry and hadn’t eaten in Red Eagle, I suggested that we stop at the River Eats Café—my treat—and a chance for Sally to enjoy a meal away from her deli.
Greeting us, Jeremy said, “People have been asking for you!” He handed me a business card for a LuLu Chan, senior reporter, at The Celeb magazine. “She’s doing a story about Don Wyder. Called it a ‘whatever-happened-to’ article. The lady is quite the looker—wow—long dark hair, svelte dress, bright lipstick. Dressed to the nines—at least for Two Rivers. She’s probably waiting at your place, Marnie. Maybe Mack Boyd is chatting her up.”
The thought of Mack chatting up a gal named LuLu created all sorts of visions in my head. Sally rolled her eyes.
“It would be nice if we could solve one problem before another arrives on the doorstep,” Sally lamented. “But life’s rarely tidy and neatly tied up. There’s always a loose end.”
We ate quickly and then headed first to school to pick up the children. When we got to my place, a Lexus convertible sat in front of The Golden Gables.
“Good luck, there,” Sally said, and headed to the Sheriff’s station to report our discovery to Deputy Jack. I sent the children round the back way into the carriage house and went into the main house. Sure enough, in the clutter of construction, Mack and LuLu Chan sat at the kitchen counter. He had poured glasses of red wine. The newly opened bottle was nearly empty. I was flabbergasted at his beverage choice, given his medical condition—but bit my tongue.
“Mr. Boyd has been filling me in about the town, and that terrible tragedy,” LuLu began. “Is the boy home yet?”
“He has homework.”
“I was telling her about the Ledger’s story back in the fall about Don and the gold,” Mack said, brightening. “Our reporter Cara was on to something out there. She never said what it was, but that it could be big.”
“Guess we’ll never know, with Don dead and the wife…” I broke off, wondering if I should reveal the latest news, and wondering what LuLu might have discovered snooping around Two Rivers.
“Oh, we all know about Barbara,” Mack said, interrupting. “She flew the coop back in November.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said. “Deputy Jack thinks she might be buried in the mine.”
At hearing this, Ms. Chan gasped and scribbled furiously in her reporter’s notepad. I left them alone and went to the carriage house to get the kids snacks and started on their homework. When I returned about 30 minutes later, Lulu said, “I want to talk to Mr. Wyder’s son for the article I’m doing. It’s about when Don was a teenager and a bit of a TV star. You know about that I’m sure. When can I talk to Richie?”
I suggested a reporter questioning the boy might be heaping on more trauma. Suddenly, from behind us, a voice, cracking horse, said “I don’t mind talking about Dad.”
We turned and there stood Richie, eyes watering.
Immediately, I went to the refrigerator for milk and also brought the boy a plate of cookies. He settled onto a kitchen stool, broke a cookie into pieces and at them slowly, deliberately—a gesture oddly familiar—and we waited. I frowned at LuLu when it appeared she was going to speak.
Out of nowhere, he said, “I don’t know why Mom left. They sometimes argued in their bedroom, the door closed. It sounded like talk about money. But we weren’t poor, always had everything. Mom had a lot of money.” He slowly chewed another piece of cookie, drank some milk. “Then came the day Dad said he found gold. He became possessed. Said he dreamed that something big was buried inside the mountain.”
“Gold?” asked Mack, he perked up a bit. I could see his gaze grow more intense, eyes wider, fixated.
“I suppose so. He got mystical about the power of gold. Ancient artifacts. He had a collection of books on archeology, King Tut, and stuff like that.” The boy’s voice faltered. “He went kind of loopy. Talked about how finding gold was a devine design. Maybe that’s why Mom left. I didn’t want to go anywhere. I didn’t have any place to go, but she did—wherever it was…”
Mack rose and began slow pacing about, his cane stumping on the floor. “We need to go back up to the mine. Just to be sure.” He stopped, fixed his gaze on Richie. “Son, there could be a whole pile of gold in the tunnel. We have to do this for your father, to finish his work!”
The boy stared back, silently, his face taught, questioning, maybe a hint of revulsion. Just then, the doorbell rang, startling everyone. I went into the foyer and could see Deputy Jack on the porch and let him in, explained who all was in the kitchen.
He spoke softly. “I heard there was reporter nosing about today. Talked to about half the town, she did. Anyway, Sally just filled me in on your little adventure to Red Eagle. Good job. When you look at the timing of things—there’s a chance Barbara Wyder came back at some point after April 3, unknown to anyone but Don, and there’s a chance she might have come to harm. We’ve definitely have to open up that mine again.”
Part 10: A Startling Confession
Speculation and suspicions swirled through my mind and made my head ache! There was Deputy Jack saying that Barbara Wyder might be buried in the mine. There was Mack Boyd, guessing, instead, the mine to be full of gold. Sally thinks Barbara is having an affair. Buried gold. Buried bodies. Assignations. I marveled at how hungry is the human eye, always seeking spectacle. We crave excitement so much and the adrenaline rush that comes with it that it seems that grown-ups are still children at heart who like to blow things up. That’s what I concluded standing in the foyer with Deputy Jack that afternoon.
These distracting thoughts plus the chatter of Mack and LuLu Chan yacking away in the kitchen concealed Richie coming up behind. Deputy Jack and I were quite surprised when the boy spoke up.
“Can I go there and help?” the boy asked, looking directly at Deputy Jack. “It’s my family’s place. I know the mine.”
Jack considered for a second. “Ok, but you don’t take any chances. Can’t have you breaking that other arm.”
We agreed to be at the Wyder place at nine Saturday morning. Deputy Jack left; Richie and I headed back to the guests. I saw no point in hiding from LuLu Chan what was planned. Certainly, it would make interesting reading in The Celeb magazine, but I wondered if she—or her shoes—were up for roughing it.
Our little party reconvened in the carriage house for a light dinner, and I asked LuLu to join us. Mack had brightened considerably. I couldn’t tell if it were from LuLu’s presence or from the impending big dig and big story that would run in the Ledger—or from the wine. His face was aflush.
“Who doesn’t like a good murder mystery,” he said, no thought for poor Richie, sitting across from him. The boy didn’t react, just ate slowly. A few minutes later he finished his meal and asked to be excused. Jake scampered off with him, and Jazz left, too.
Mack’s behavior angered me, and I asked LuLu flatly, “Did Mack tell you about the gold he found digging up a grave?”
“That’s wildly preposterous!” Mack exclaimed. “I didn’t dig up a grave. I dug next to one.”
“And found gold!”
Mack went silent.
Lulu looked back and forth at us quickly—not knowing what to say—or do, her mouth gaped.
“Deputy Jack and the judge want to know where you stashed the loot,” I pressed on, and added, “It belongs to the town.” There, I got that out. “We can go digging in the mine and then go digging around your place.”
Mack glared at me, and LuLu began scribbling again. “Gosh, this town is full of mystery and intrigue,” she said. “We just need a sex scandal!”
Mack offered, “As I said before, my reporter Cara intimated she was onto something about the Wyders that involved the wife. Cara hadn’t interviewed Mrs. Wyder for the article about the gold that Don found. Later, though, Cara ran into the wife and someone else, somewhere else. Cara saw something.”
Of course, this got my attention. “Did Cara say where?”
“Out in Red Eagle when Cara was shopping with her parents who had come to visit.”
My mind suddenly blazed alive, relishing the obvious connections: Barbara golfing every day. Lunches for two. Lessons from the golf pro, Gavin Stallard. Sharing an address with the man. Now, Barbara and him being seen by a third party. The facts certainly added up to a woman—a wife—a mother!—having an illicit affair. A conclusion I had been secretly wanting to confirm.
Sally would be grateful to hear this juicy, new detail from Mack. It could mean another trip to Red Eagle! As soon as the reporter left and I was alone, I phoned her. We both concluded it was obvious that Barbara Wyder is—or was—having an affair.
So, Friday morning Sally showed up again at eight, and we dashed off down the road to Red Eagle to see if we could locate Barbara’s boyfriend, Gavin. We marched right into the clubhouse to talk to Betty Norbert. Surprised to see us, she made a few phone calls and found out that the golf pro wasn’t at work yet. As we left, Betty took us down a side hall and pointed out pictures on a wall of the club officials—president, chair of the board, others and the three golf pros—including Gavin Stallard.
We were stunned! He was the epitome of the blond toy boy—more surfer than golfer.
“Is this photo recent?” Sally asked, a touch of incredulity in her voice.
“I suppose,” Betty said. “You can see our golf course in the background. It’s not an old publicity shot. He looks like that.”
Gavin was gorgeous—and young—and had the deepest blue eyes I’d ever seen. He could be a cross between a young Paul Newman and Brad Pitt. The golf pro was an attractive nuisance!
When Sally and I left the club, we decided to stop at the condo whose address Barbara and Gavin shared. A shiny, new Buick SUV with Pennsylvania license plates sat in the driveway. We knocked on the door and rang the bell, but no one answered. Disappointed again, we were getting into Sally’s Subaru, when Gavin himself suddenly opened the front door and came out.
Very charmingly he asked, “Can I help you young ladies?”
Startled so, I became tongue-tied, but Sally jumped right in.
“We’re looking for Barbara Wyder.”
His tone turned immediately cool. “She’s not in.”
Sally demanded, “What the heck is she doing living here? Her boy needs her. Doesn’t she care? He’s lost his father!”
Gavin chuckled. “Can’t say one way or another.” He turned abruptly to go back inside, stopped, and turned again, faced us. “But I can tell you this: Richie is not her son!”
Part 11: Of Dreamers and Gold Schemers
With the bombshell news that Mrs. Wyder wasn’t Richie’s mother, we held a meeting that Friday night at my place. Attending were Rev. Steve Gagnon, Judge Fergulia, Deputy Jack, Sally and myself. To be discrete, we met in the main house dining room. We didn’t tell Richie what we had learned.
I don’t think The Golden Gables had seen such a large crowd since Renwick Selleck’s last days. And here we were again meeting under difficult circumstances. Editor Mack Boyd tried to push his way in, but the judge gently asked him to leave. With a bit more vigor than usual, Mack stomped his cane back to his. We then heard him turn on the TV set.
The judge began, “Tomorrow, when we go to the Wyder’s to dig, we’ll also ask Richie if we can search the house for important papers. I will do that. If we find nothing in the mine, then we’ll have to declare Barbara Wyder a missing person and put out a bulletin. I checked with the other attorneys in town, and none had done any work for Don, so gosh knows if there’s a will lying about there. The search will also give me an opportunity to look for any birth or adoption records on Richie. There must be something.”
“What about Mack and that magazine reporter?” Jack asked. “Are we going to allow them up at the dig?”
“They can look from the road. We can’t stop that,” the judge said. “But giving them access to the property—I don’t know. We’ll see. I want to protect the boy as much as I can.”
We then all chewed on Gavin’s Stallard’s startling news about Barbara Wyder. Did Richie know she wasn’t his mom? Was the boy a biological son from another relationship? Or had the couple adopted him outright? According to the reverend, from his previous visits to the Wyders and chats with Barbara at church, no mention had ever been made about Richie being adopted.
“It’s certainly not unusual for a couple to keep an adoption from a child until they are older,” Rev. Steve said. “Some folks never say anything at all—it’s only late in life that a person finds out they’re adopted. I find that jarring. Nowadays, certainly from a medical history point-of-view, an adoption should be revealed.”
Later, taking a break, Jack and the Rev. Steve went outside to get wood for a fire in the dining room. Though it was May, evenings in Two Rivers can certainly turn chilly. I brought out coffee cake and coffee, and, in a conversation turned oddly philosophical, we chit-chatted about the town while enjoying our dessert.
“Of course, everyone thinks that you, Marnie, are a saint for taking in both Richie and Mack,” the reverend said.
“Well, then I am in good company,” I replied, “right alongside Babe who is keeping the Ledger going. Sally, here, and Jeremy at the café have been feeding us. Carole is helping Richie deliver the newspapers in town.”
“As they say, it takes a village,” the judge said. “Two Rivers has always been famous for that—residents helping each other in times of crisis. I suppose that’s what happens when you live in a river canyon that floods regularly.”
“Water built this town—and water will destroy it!”
That startling statement came from behind. We turned and saw Mack back again, standing in the doorway. He hobbled over with his cane, sat down at the table. I got up to serve him cake and coffee.
“The mere threat of flooding might destroy Two Rivers,” he added. “You know, the government wants to take action that will prevent any kind of construction—or reconstruction—in perennial flood zones. It’s happening out in Tennessee.”
“Come hell or high water!” Sally exclaimed. “Dream on! There’s no way we will abandon Two Rivers!” Everyone murmured in agreement.
The judge then reminded that the town’s early settlers were essentially dreamers: Men looking for gold—all the fathers and sons who left their loved ones and headed west in ‘49.
“They had gold fever,” Harry said. “That’s a mighty powerful affliction. I guess we inherited some of their extreme optimism. Because time and again, flood after flood, we rebuild.”
“That’s right,” Mack chimed in. “Look around. Two Rivers was built by a bunch of people who were wild about gold. We make our homes here now because of them—they’re passion, misguided as it might have been. That’s got to be good, right? None of this would exist if it weren’t for the ‘49ers. We owe them some respect.”
Deputy Jack said to Mack, “You certainly are well acquainted with gold fever. It made you sick. Hell, it killed Don Wyder. The craziness abides.”
Sally chipped in, “Yet, look at this. We need that fever. We feed that fever. It helps the town survive. Those guys dredging the rivers and working claims in the hills: They eat at my deli and Jeremy’s café and drink at the Pick and Pan saloon!”
Out of the blue, the judge turned, looked at Mack and asked, “Speaking of gold, do you remember yet where you hid the treasure?”
Stunned silence followed. Mack, shocked, shook his head no. “I found that elixir stuff and started drinking it. You guys came to the door. That’s all I recall.”
“When you get well enough, we’ll need to organize a search of your place” the judge said. “If you don’t mind.”
The newspaper editor looked down, looked sheepish. “It’s OK.”
After they had all left that night, I considered the list of secrets: What’s in the mine, where did Mack hide the coins, is—or was—Barbara Wyder having an affair? Secrets kept in a small town. Yes, I have to be honest. I knew something about that.
Part 12: What Was Missing, What Was Found
Early the Saturday morning that we were to go to the Wyder’s, my phone rang. When I answered, I heard dishes clattering. Jeremy, from the River Eats Café, was on the line, saying he’d bring carafes of coffee, and he offered to drive me out there. This was fine, since I had tasked Carole to take the children there and stand by to bring them home if circumstance warranted—if a body were found when they reopened the mine.
Awhile later, a growling diesel engine across the canyon drew my attention. The Norberts, with a tractor on a flatbed trailer, were on their way to the mine, going out to Canton Flat. Just then, Richie came downstairs and poured himself a cup of coffee, watched the truck disappear around a bend.
“They’re not going to find anything,” he said, sitting down at the kitchen bar. “I know what you’re looking for. My mom. Dad didn’t do anything to her.”
“Why do you think she left?”
“I can’t say. She always seemed distant—not involved in what Dad was doing, or me, for that matter. Distracted, maybe. Except for golf. She sure liked playing golf, taking lessons, and playing the piano in church. She practiced at home for that.”
I suggested that sometimes marriages transform, people change, discover new interests that don’t include their spouses. It’s not a bad thing—it just happens. He related that his mom didn’t seem to be close to her parents, either, that they had sent her away to boarding school, and then she went off to college here in California. As a child, she spent most holidays at her grandparents.
“She never really lived at home much,” he said, looking very sad. “I felt sorry for her when I learned that. It’s almost like she never learned how to be part of a family. I guess that’s what a lot of money does.”
What surprised me was that a teenage boy possessed enough awareness to make these observations.
“Dad was mostly happy-go-lucky,” he continued. “Finding that gold excited him. He said he felt like a kid again. I think that upset mom.”
A bit later, Carole stopped by in her yellow jeep. Jazmine and Jake were happy to be going on an outing, and Richie seemed in good spirits, too. I sent a bag of food with them—sandwiches for their little party, and some fruit. Richie lifted the kids into the vehicle and they were off. When Jeremy drove up in his big four-door truck, I was surprised to see Judge Fergulia and Attorney Paul Bartley with him.
The judge rolled down the window. “We’re carpooling today,” he smiled. “Paul’s joining us. I figured two legal minds are better than one, given what we might find. Paul is the family law expert.”
As I knew this, having some experience with Paul years ago, I just kept silent, and Paul merely looked away.
When we arrived at the Wyder home, Deputy Jack was already there, along with a few other sheriff’s officials. The Norberts had the little tractor off the trailer and waiting at the tunnel entrance. It was a jumble of timbers, dirt and rocks, left that way after the rescue effort that found Richie partially buried and his father, who had been killed outright by the cave-in. Carole, Richie and the kids were up at the house.
Deputy Jack walked over to the judge and said, “We’ll get this started now. We need to go in at least 40 feet—that’s the extent of the collapse. We’ll be looking to see if the floor of the tunnel had been earlier excavated—or the sides—and then filled back in. Essentially, a grave.”
The machine’s engine roared loudly and we watched as the tractor slowly removed the debris. Nick manned the controls, and Noel stood by with a shovel.
Judge Fergulia and Paul Bartley left for their own exploration of the house, and I followed. Jeremy tagged along. At the kitchen table, Carole had Jazmine and Jake eating grapes from the lunch bag. Richie had gone into his bedroom. I found him lying on the bed, staring at model airplanes hanging at jaunty angles from the ceiling.
The room was extremely tidy for a teenage boy, and obviously it had been a very happy place for him. The walls were painted pale yellow. Pine bookcases flanked another window. A big poster of the Earthrise over Moon famous from the Apollo space mission decorated another wall. French doors led to a balcony that overlooked Mountbank Creek.
“I haven’t been here since the day of the accident,” he said. Tears coursed down his face. “I miss this room. It made me feel safe—like I belonged. I wonder if I’ll ever come back.”
I sat down beside him, gave him a hug, said nothing.
“I’m going to take a nap.”
I placed a comforter over him and left. Downstairs, I found Jeremy cleaning out the refrigerator.
“No one’s been here for weeks,” he said, holding up a moldy head of lettuce. “It’s the least I could do. Sit down and keep me company.”
I did so for a bit and then heard my name called from inside the den. I went there. Harry and Paul were at Don’s desk reading a document.
“We found the will,” the judge said. “Very interesting. He leaves the house to the boy, and a savings account and whatnot. Richie is going to be well off. All in a trust. That’s going to make things very easy. No probate!”
“This is the house deed,” said Paul, waving another paper. “It’s rather notable, too. It’s in Don’s name only. The wife’s not on it—which makes some sense, since it was his money alone that built the house.”
Suddenly, we heard outside the tractor shut down and a commotion. We looked out the window. Deputy Jack ran into the tunnel: A discovery!
Chapter 13: The Discovery of a Significant Number
The Norbert Brothers were outside the mine tunnel, staring at something in Deputy Jack’s hand. Judge Fergulia and Paul Bartley had come out with me, and we walked up to the little group. The deputy held a cell phone covered in dirt.
Richie ran up, just then, and said, “That’s Dad’s. I wondered what happened to it.”
Deputy Jack flipped it open, hit a button. The little screen came to life. “Still has power!”
“That’s because he always turned it off because there wasn’t any reception in the mine,” Richie explained.
“Whose numbers are these?” Deputy Jack asked, showing Richie previous calls that had been made. “They’re the same Reno area code.”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Well, let’s just see what happens when I dial.”
We could hear the number ringing, and then a recorded voice that was Barbara Wyder’s. Glancing over to Richie, I saw his eyebrows raise and his eyes grow glassy. Deputy Jack handed the phone to Richie, “Leave a message.”
The boy, his voice halting, said, in a whisper, “Hello Mom. It’s Richie. Please call me. I’m at the house. We just found Dad’s phone. Please call. I miss you!” He rang off. “I hope she gets this.” He handed the phone back.
The judge and Deputy Jack looked at one another, shook their heads, and I knew what they thought: The boy’s message may never be answered.
Looking around, Deputy Jack said, “We have to keeping digging.” The judge and Paul Bartley agreed. Nick got on the tractor and fired it up. We went back inside the house.
Richie seemed happier now. I don’t know if he realized that his mom might not call back. He had heard her voice: That was something to hang onto. With nothing to do myself, I helped Jeremy tidy up the kitchen. There were still dishes in the sink and I put them into the dishwasher and turned it on. I tossed a bowl of shriveling apples. Richie came in and began helping, took out the garbage, came back and swept the floor. Carole excused herself and went to watch the digging, and the children remained at the table, watching us. A calm settled over the room as we went about our work.
Richie stopped his sweeping, glanced around and said, “This feels good.” Then he sighed. I wished desperately that something nice would happen for the boy—his mom return—that a piece of his old life would resurrect. I well knew the challenge of having to recreate a life after something bad happened. I suppose since children take things as they come, they don’t lean much into the notion of rebuilding. They just do it. Adults are the ones who overthink, make a process of it. Children stay in the present. What a gift! Sadly, it’s also an ability that dims with age—and adults spend a lot of money on self-help books and delving into Eastern religions to rekindle what was so natural when we were so young. I considered my own children, Jazmine and Jake. Obviously, they were sad for months after their father had died. I consoled them with saying their daddy was in heaven and looking down on them. They accepted that and sometimes Jazmine would talk to him—“See Daddy, look what I did!”—that sort of expression. This made her happy, and amazed me. Then Rennie died.
Outside, we heard another commotion—rising voices and saw that Mack Boyd and Lulu Chan, the reporter from The Celeb magazine had come onto the property. Deputy Jack, obviously displeased, pointed toward the house, and the pair came this way, Mack hobbling along with his cane. They stepped onto the deck and knocked on the front door. Richie asked if he should let them in, and I said that was his choice. He did. I went back to the kitchen and asked Jeremy to pour coffee for them. They settled into the living room, and I heard the reporter asking Richie for photo albums of his father. Richie went into the den and came out with several.
“I don’t know many of these people in this one,” he said, handing them a tattered album. “They’re from the TV show.”
“Well, I can help with that,” Lulu said, brightly. “I’ve interviewed a lot of the cast over the years. Sit down here, and I’ll tell you who the people are—and all I know about your father.”
When the coffee was served, I went back to the den. Judge Fergulia sorted through a box of financial statements. “Nothing here too remarkable,” the judge said. “The new cars were from her father—all paid for! I can’t find any other bank records other than for ours here in town. I was hoping we’d locate another one—and that might mean a safety deposit box—and maybe the gold Don had discovered.”
I suddenly understood what he meant, “You think he hadn’t really found any?”
“Where is it? There’s not much physical evidence, yet. The boy said he saw a few bits.”
Paul had another drawer open and suddenly exclaimed, “Aha!” He took out a file and asked, “When is Richie’s birthday?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, and Paul showed me a file, with a label that read, “July 1”— a date also very familiar to me from a long time ago.
Paul flipped through a few pages. “These are Richie’s adoption papers.” Then he stopped short and exclaimed. “Oh, my god!”
He looked at me, eyes wide. “They used the North Valley agency in Sacramento,” he said. “That’s the one we worked through years ago.”
Judge Fergulia came over, looked at the document, “What’s this?”
Paul explained, and I suddenly, understood. The little boy I gave up for adoption was brought to that agency. He, too, had been born on July 1.
With considerable disbelief, Harry Fergulia asked, “You had a baby?”
Part 14: Exhuming the Past
Looking at Richie’s adoption file, the judge asked me, “How did this happen?” He was surprised and kind at the same time. He was patient as I recalled a long-gone event, both wonderful and distressing.
“A year or so after I came to work as housekeeper and years before I got married to Mark, I had an affair with Rennie and got pregnant. Only Paul and the doctor knew. I kept to The Golden Gables. My confinement! It wasn’t hard to stay in. I had the baby in Reno.”
Sitting down, I asked, “What are the chances?” I was overwhelmed by the notion that the boy a few steps away could be my son—the little boy that I gave up for adoption.
Paul took back the file from the judge, flipped through the papers in the folder. “No photos of the baby, though.” He walked over to chair, “It’s the same date, same year. If true, this will make my life a lot easier.”
“What do you mean?” the judge asked.
“As you know, everyone in town is wondering who inherits Rennie’s business,” Paul said, sitting down next to me. “It’s complicated, so I’ve not said anything. I’m waiting on a judge’s order in Sacramento on the adoption records—for Rennie’s child. It’s taking time.” He looked over to Judge Fergulia. “Am I doing anything illegal by talking?”
The judge shrugged his shoulders. “I think you’re OK.”
“Since his wife and older son had died years ago, Renwick left the phone company to the boy given up for adoption. The records need unsealing so we can locate him.” He waved the file. “This may make things a lot easier, as there’s a case number here. If we can match it, then Richie would inherit. And obviously, Marnie, is your son!”
“What about Barbara,” I asked. “If she’s still alive, she has custody.”
“Perhaps, but here’s the thing,” Paul said. “The adoption records show that only Don Wyder adopted the boy. Not Barbara. Puzzling! She’s not his mother, biologically or legally.”
I said nothing, as there was too much now to consider. But we agreed that Richie should be told none of this until there was certainty. Of course, I was too stunned by the idea that Richie might be my son. Over the years, I had thought of the little baby we gave up and had many regrets. Now, they returned.
Needing to clear my head, I went to go outside. In the living room, Lulu, Mack and Richie were still looking at photo albums. I stopped and picked up an album labeled “Richie” and looked for baby photos—there were none. The photos started at about age two, but the face was too small to see. Walking down to the creek, then, I sat in one of two Adirondack chairs and watched the water play over the rocks, the little water skeeters skipping across the surface. Then Jeremy arrived.
“Are you all right? You seem dazed.”
“There’s a lot happening right now,” I said. “Trying to take it all in.”
“Well, let’s enjoy the scenery for a bit.” He sat in the other chair, the motor noise of the tractor seemed to fade away. We stared silently into the water, mesmerizing and calming, watching as the stream flowed peacefully in truckles and swirls. Where rocks slowed the flow, the water eddied, turning back on itself, and then finding an opening, continued on. I thought life seemed like this stream, churning around, running into obstacles, turning, going backwards on itself, but eventually always moving onward.
“I could stay here forever,” Jeremy sighed. “Leave the café behind. Look for gold, instead!” He chuckled. “Dig a mine.”
“Dig a mine—and die,” I added, breaking the mood.
“Well, yes. That’s the risk in living on the edge,” he said. “How did it go with the paperwork. Find anything useful?”
I considered and then said, “Well, we discovered Richie is adopted. Don’t know if he knows, so keep that to yourself.”
“I wondered what was going on because Sally had mentioned what that golf pro had said about Barbara Wyder not being Richie’s mother. Makes some sense, then, the mom going AWOL.” He looked at me and laughed, “Gossip travels fast. What did you expect? We’re stuck in or kitchens all day long cooking for the town. Sally and I have to have some entertainment!”
All those years ago, when I was pregnant, Renwick was so concerned about my reputation. He made sure no one beside Paul and the doctor knew, so there had been no gossip about a child. I’m sure Mark would have married me, no matter, and I had planned on telling the children once they were older. But now, the truth would come out. Which, was, I decided best for all—especially Richie, so he would know about himself. That’s only fair.
“There’s bound to be more gossip about this,” I told Jeremy.
We continued gazing into the water, and then a bit later, Richie came up. In his hand, he had a square photograph, color fading.
“Look here,” he pointed to a young boy and girl. “This is Dad and another cast member, Shirley Mann, from the TV show. They were married a few years! That reporter told me. I didn’t know. It was in one of the albums.” He sat on the arm of the Adirondack. “Maybe they had kids…Maybe I have brothers and sisters.”
Taking the photo, I felt obliged to comment. Young Don Wyder was handsome. Long blond hair, cheeky smile. Easy to wow the girls. Shirley was pretty, too. “You dad was a looker,” I said.
Jazmine and Jake came running down to the creek and wanted to wade. They took off their shoes. Richie joined them, moving downstream. A few minutes later, we heard the tractor stop running.
Cell phone in hand, Deputy Jack walked up to us. “Well, we found her.”
Chapter 15: Shouting Down Doughnuts
The excursion to the Wyder house that sunny Saturday morning in May proved to be a day of discoveries. Big ones. The guys digging in the mine tunnel found Don Wyder’s cellphone. I found out that Richie might be the son I gave up for adoption years before, Richie found out that his father had a first wife—and then Barbara Wyder had phoned—and Richie talked to her for the first time in months.
We were all down at the creek when Barbara returned Richie’s call. Believe me, all of us that day—Deputy Jack, the Norbert Brothers, Carole Chukar, Judge Fergulia, Paul Bartley, Jeremy—we were all grateful beyond words that Barbara was alive. Finding a body in the mine—though thrilling in abstract the way murder mysteries are—would really be gruesome in the here-and-now. We had dodged a bullet!
“God, I’m done with dirt,” Deputy Jack said later, exasperated. “Last month, that impound dam. This month, a mine tunnel. Next month, I hope for dearth of earth!”
Sidling up to me, Judge Fergulia whispered, “Jack’s forgetting we still don’t know what Don did with the gold he allegedly found—and then there’s the little matter of Mack Boyd’s stash of coins.” He chuckled.
And if we were thinking there’d be happiness in Richie’s reconnecting with his mom—we were wrong. When she had called, he had taken the phone and walked away from the crowd to speak to her. It wasn’t a long conversation. When he came back, he was shaken and crying.
“She’s not coming home. She said mean things about Dad.”
I rose and put my arm around him—as a mother would comfort her son.
“And I’m adopted!” the boy exclaimed. “How about that! That’s what she said. Maybe that’s why she’s not coming back.” His brow carried worry and shock.
Deputy Jack shook his head, “Jeez, that’s brutal. Son, I’m sorry. Best you learn now, I suppose.” He gave the boy a hug, too. Harry and Paul looked at me, smiled slightly. My mind was a muddle. Secretly, it was a relief that the boy found out he was adopted, as I would not want to be the one telling him that. And perhaps the next news of his biological parents would bring some relief.
The judge spoke up then—a speech like from a father: “Richie, son, you have an entire town pulling for you. There’s naught to worry about. Just keep doing what you’re doing—you’ve managed admirably so far, and we’re all proud of you!”
All around, everyone assented, and we could see the tension and terror drain from the boy’s face. He relaxed, said thank you sir. Jazmine and Jake ran up now, feet muddy from their wading, and hugged him.
“Come see the pollywogs,” Jake said. “There’s a whole little pond of them.” And off they went—seemingly not a care in the world.
That day, I’m sure editor Mack Boyd and reporter LuLu Chan from The Celeb magazine left disappointed. A dead body would have made big headlines and newsstand sales. Tragedy can be so lucrative for newspapers and magazines in the same way that disasters are good for the economy.
On account of the pressing deadline, LuLu stayed only one more day so she could interview Barbara Wyder in person. The reporter promised to send copies of her article when it was printed. Later, Deputy Jack also spoke to Barbara and urged the woman to come home. Well, Barbara did return—long enough to retrieve clothes and whatnot and make funeral arrangements. After the magazine interview, she beat a fast retreat back to Red Eagle and her golf pro. I could not judge her.
Copies of The Celeb arrived on July 3—just as the annual RiversFest celebration began. I asked Richie if he wanted to be the first to read the story, but he said, nah, he’ look at it later. Then he took the kids to the little stream that cascaded in waterfalls behind The Golden Gables to find pollywogs.
Magazines in hand, I headed to Jeremy’s River Eats café. The usual gang had taken over the front table, Rev. Steve, Nick and Noel Norbert, and Carole Chukar. They eagerly took the copies I handed out and dived right into reading.
Two Rivers Trauma: The Sad Ending Of A Former Teenage TV Star
By LuLu Chan, Senior Correspondent
That ‘70s children’s show The Hare and The Hound Hour attracted kids aged four to ten, but also a sizeable crowd of teenage groupies—girls with nothing better to do on a Saturday morning. The reason? A gorgeous boy with long blond hair, blue eyes and a killing smile: Donnie Wyder. The teenage groupies started showing up at the live tapings in the third year of the show—about the time Donnie turned fourteen and his apparent star qualities lit up the stage. Oldest of the cast of five children, he…
The article bored me already. I stopped reading. Jeremy came by and sat down beside me, squeezed my hand. I offered him the magazine, but he shook his head. “Just leave it for the customers. I’ll read it sometime.”
The front door opened and in walked Attorney Paul Bartley and Judge Fergulia.
“Thought we’d find you here,” Paul said. He grinned widely. “Word just came in from Sacramento. The numbers match!”
Carole Chukar overheard the comment and asked, “What numbers? Marnie, did you win the lottery?”
Suddenly, I had tears in my eyes. Carole noticed, her face dropped.
“Yes, I did. The best kind.”
“Richie did all right, too,” Judge Fergulia said. “He’s going to live up to that name of his.”
The table grew quiet. “What’s that?” asked Nick Norbert. They looked first at me, then Paul, then the judge.
Suddenly, I was very, very happy and exclaimed, “Jeremy, let’s have doughnuts all around. There’s news!”
It’s late in May here in Two Rivers, and the spring rains have returned—threatening again to overrun the banks of the Empire and the Rancheria. Back in the pioneer days, our town grew and prospered because of all the water. Water for drinking! Water for gold mining! Then came the deluge—many of them. Old photos in the museum show our ancestors preparing for floods, wading through floods, rebuilding from floods.
I’m not sure I could have endured that kind of tribulation. Imagine the inside of your home time and again everything coated in mud and slime. What could you do, except clean out the muck and get back at it. Fortunately, my place, The Golden Gables, is located above the river canyon. I have a pretty view of the Two Rivers bridge, the Church of Peter and Paul and tidy homes that peek from banks of pine trees. We’re safe. We’re dry. We’re above the fray.
This Saturday morning, from the main house kitchen window, I watched my children, Jazmine and Jake, outside, enjoying a few ragged bits of morning sunshine. In their galoshes and rain slicks, they stomped in puddles, joyfully splashing each other, happy to be in fresh air. The kids scampered in the courtyard that separates the carriage house—our living quarters—from the main house, a clapboard contraption painted railroad station yellow and trimmed in sienna.
Over the years, I have grown accustomed to this color scheme chosen by my late boss’s wife. She had died 20 years ago, and that’s when I came to keep house for Renwick Gold Selleck. He had owned the local telephone service. I was just 18 and not yet married. When Rennie died recently, he kindly left me the house, plus cash and stocks. The housekeeper had inherited! People in town sure tittered over that—if they only knew! Folks here like to savor a good bit of gossip. It builds community spirit.
So, just another Saturday morning. My job that day was to unravel the strands of ongoing remodeling projects. I had decided to convert the main house into a bed-and-breakfast. All started well. Then the contractor—a friend of a friend from Sacramento—bailed. No reason, he just could no longer work do the work. He gave me the bad news yesterday when he’d retrieved his travel trailer, parked behind the house.
I wandered around, surveying the jumble of tiles, pots of adhesive and grout, a stack of sheet rock in the middle of the living room—the detritus of construction. Local builder, Rex Jenner, had promised to stop by soon for a look-see. I had my fingers crossed that he could take over and was optimistically compiling a to-do list when Judge Fergulia called.
“Got a minute, Marnie?” he asked. “Well, longer than that. Better pour yourself a cup of coffee.”
I always had a minute for the judge—so I obliged. Before Harry was elected to the bench, he had been my attorney and sorted through the legal issues when my husband, Mark Lopez, had died in the infamous Belloumini Bridge collapse. The state and contractor had been at fault. Thanks to Harry, their large payout is still in the bank. Our lives until the accident five years ago had been placid, fruitful and fun. My job housekeeping for Rennie permitted us to stay rent-free in the two-story carriage house. Living right next to my work with a makeshift nursery in the big house pantry, meant I could look after Jazz and Jake and run Rennie’s house. We had enough money to buy 40 acres out of town and begin clearing the land. Mark had always wanted a farmhouse with a big wrap-around porch. Then, the bridge caved in, killing Mark, who ran heavy equipment. Jazz was seven at the time and Jake, five.
Cup of coffee in hand and seated at the counter so I could watch the kids, I listened to the judge: He had a huge request and a compelling case that I should agree. What surprised me, though, was the definite catch in his voice—he was pleading. A surprise, really, because one doesn’t think of judges signaling any whit of emotion. They issue orders: Order in the court! Raise your right hand. Overruled! But Harry Fergulia had been almost begging: The man was on a mission—could I take in Richie Wyder?
Up in his chambers at the century-old courthouse building—yes even on a Saturday he’d be there—I pictured Judge Fergulia. I heard papers shuffle and a few puffs as he smoked his pipe, and considered how to help a boy whose father recently died when a mine tunnel caved in.
“This all is complicated by the fact that we haven’t heard from the wife,” Harry told me. “She apparently traveled back east to visit family. But the family said she left back in January.”
“Don’t the grandparents want the boy?” It seemed the obvious choice to me.
There was an extended silence, and the judge hesitated. “Well, it’s actually…The father’s parents died years ago. On the wife’s side, she was an only child. No aunts or uncles. When I talk to Richie’s grandmother, I can hear she’s very old—shaky voice, forgetful—and hard of hearing. I take it, the grandfather is worse off. He’s in a wheelchair.”
“Can’t you just call Barbara Wyder?”
“We don’t know her cell phone number. It’s apparently new. The boy said his father never gave it to him.”
The judge hinted at more issues, but when I pressed, he demurred. “It would be productive to keep Richie in the county. Also, the boy got his arm broken again in the accident. And other matters need to be resolved. Having him here will help.”
The judge was being guarded and cryptic. That final statement made stop and wonder: Which matters?
Part 2: Questions for the Cafe Regulars
When Renwick Gold Selleck died last month, I hunkered down, stayed in and sorted possessions and paperwork. Another confinement, as it were, at The Golden Gables. I had practice. Attorney Paul Bartley, another trusted friend, had called the day after Rennie died with the surprising news that my boss had provided for me and the kids in a trust, so I didn’t have to move out—and more importantly—would have possession quickly. He also advised to have the electrical system upgraded ASAP because the insurance on the home was sky-high! That cemented my decision to remodel. All of this kept me out of circulation. It had been weeks since I had visited anyone or anywhere.
Calling in Jazz and Jake from outside, I made them wash their hands. Then we headed down to the River Eats Café, taking the back way along the soggy riverfront. The café regulars would be a treasure trove of information about the Wyders. I hadn’t paid much attention to the tunnel accident several weeks before that had killed the father, Don. I knew from the Two Rivers Ledger that last fall he had apparently found a lot of gold in the Mountbank Creek.
I needed Wyder family backstory—and local opinion as to whether I should take in the boy. Judge Fergulia wanted a decision by Sunday evening—the next day. Richie had been staying with neighbors, the Bartons, who had two toddler boys, essentially a full plate, like myself. But I also had a lot more room and loads of sympathy for a fatherless child—the reason Harry had presumably called me. I needed to make the right decision—and quickly!
Jazmine and Jake, still wearing their boots, splashed in puddles all the way to the café. They gleefully stomped and watched water cascade up, the drops spreading all around in pretty, silver arcs. I love their innocence.
When you enter Jeremy’s café, you immediately get the sense of family. It’s Two Rivers way: Folks say “Hi, come sit here.” Jeremy usually hurries over with a cup and coffee—and then sends hot chocolate for the kids. I like him. As a single mom—I can’t quite bring myself to yet claim the word “widow”—I find him attractive: He’ single, successful, friend-to-all. What’s not to like?
I slid into the large booth up front where sat the Gang of Four: Nursery owner Carole Chukar, Rev. Steve Gagnon and the plumbers—the brothers Norbert. The kids squeezed in beside Carole, whom I know they secretly prize as their adult best friend: She gives them rip-roaring rides around town in her yellow World War II jeep.
“Welcome back, Marnie!” Jeremy said, setting down a thick mug and pouring from a freshly-made pot. “We’ve missed you!” He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “Doughnuts?”
At that, the kids perked up and said in unison “Sure!” He turned to go, and Noel Norbert asked, “What about us? We’d like more!”
Jeremy waved his hand in acknowledgement. Nick Norbert, looking at me, said with a wink, “He likes you!”
“As a paying customer, maybe.”
Carole said, “Nah, he’s been asking where you’ve been—of course he could have called you, but that would be obvious.”
The reverend kept quiet, smiled, raised his eyebrows.
I changed the subject quickly. I was five years older than Jeremy and had two kids to boot: Not an attractive package. I got to the point: “So, has anyone received an odd phone call from Judge Fergulia?”
The reverend didn’t have a good poker face. His eyes immediately did a half-roll. “He called me,” Rev. Steve confessed, smiling. “I named names. Yours was near the top.”
Nick Norbert added, “He called Rex, but Rex wisely put him off. Not a good mix there. A teenage girl and a teenage boy who are not relatives under the same roof. That’s another ‘accident’ waiting to happen.” That generated some chuckles.
“Who was first on the list?” I asked.
“Babe!” Rev. Steve said. “The kid has been delivering the newspapers on that motor-scooter to homes in town, so I figured it would be a good match. That, and Babe has a big house. Of course, now that Richie’s arm is broken again, he’s off for a bit.”
“I bet Babe turned the judge down,” I offered. The former Two Rivers Ledger publisher was in his late ‘80s—still spry, as they say, but it would be a huge imposition.
“Babe’s busy,” Carole said. “Having to step in and run the newspaper again since Mack Boyd got sick—what an idiot!”
That brought a consensus of agreement. People tolerated Mack—he had been Coach Boyd’s kid after all—but he’d gone ‘round the bend recently. Those articles he published in the Ledger trying to convince readers that Rennie was 150 years old! Such nonsense. A stunt to sell more newspapers, maybe, no wonder folks around town felt he’d gone over the edge—and then he actually had!
“If Mack hadn’t poisoned himself with that elixir, he’d probably be in jail,” Noel suggested. “Digging in graveyard, can you imagine? That’s what I’d expect from lowlanders—folks from the Bay Area trying out a new metal detector. But a local! That’s just poor taste. It’s lucky Deputy Jack called on him the next morning, or he’d be dead. Collapsed practically right into Jack’s arms.” He leaned closer, and whispered. “They know he found a lot of coins. Mack says he can’t remember where he put the loot that night! Ha! Judge Fergulia is livid—says it belongs to the town.”
Hearing the judge’s name brought my mind back to why I had ventured to the café in the first place—their thoughts on that big question: Should I take in the Wyder boy?
Part 3: Coffee, Complications, A Guilty Judge
As we sat that Saturday morning in Jeremy’s River Eats Café, the rain started again: a heavy downpour—sheets and sheets. A big wind whipped up, threw water against the window panes. Outside, the pretty view of the rivers junction and two bridges disappeared into a blurry sheen of mists. The children’s hot chocolate and a platter of doughnuts arrived.
“These are on me,” Jeremy said, “in celebration of Marnie’s return.”
Jazz and Jake latched onto the two maple-covered bars, and I took a plain old-fashioned. I like doughnuts, but not all the sticky decorations. Also, I don’t bite into a doughnut. I pick off pieces, bit by bit. With a nice strong cup of coffee, I use the time eating to deliberate. This habit I learned from years of watching Rennie do the same. A placid, slow-speaking, patient man, he was not easily riled. He got things done in a manner unassuming, a wave of a hand “Sure, let me think about it,” and off he went. How I missed him—a man old enough to be my father.
“What I need to know,” I said, “should I let Richie stay at my place?”
Hearing this, Jazz and Jake’s eyes grew wide. I smiled. “You may be getting a big brother for a while.” They liked that.
Noel spoke, immediately going off on a tangent. “Of course, you know why the judge is involved? Really, he could have stayed out of this.”
Nick chimed in, “He feels guilty, that’s why.”
“For what?”
Nick explained. “About eight years ago when the Wyders moved up from the valley, Harry Fergulia sold them part of his family homestead on Mountbank Creek.”
Rev. Steve took over here. “Harry realizes that Don Wyder was on the land because of him. What happened, then, Judge Fergulia played a part in—admittedly obscure. So, he wants to come to the rescue in regard to Richie. Doesn’t want the boy to get hurt because of what adults did. It’s existential guilt!”
“Existential guilt? I asked. “That’s for folks who read too many literary novels. His reasoning seems far-fetched; but OK, so Harry steps in. How does that help me make up my mind?”
“I’d be careful,” said Nick. “It could get complicated—having the boy there.”
Picking apart the doughnut, I realized the gang was holding back on me. I guess having absented myself for a few months from the goings-on in town put me at a disadvantage. Still, the café functions as a gossip exchange, and being my friends, they needed to deliver.
“What about the mom?” I asked. “Why can’t she take him—or come back?”
Carole looked at straight at me, nodded her head. “Yep, that’s the size of it: What about the mom?”
“I presume she and the boy must get along,” I replied. “No one has ever said any different.” That statement met with silence.
“What did the judge say to you about Barbara?” Rev. Steve asked.
“That they couldn’t yet get ahold of her, where she was back east.”
The gang, though, kept mum about the mother, and Rev. Steve filled in the silence saying the boy needs help, someone should step up, and that I stood as that someone who most likely had the wherewithal. Also, the boy’s stay would certainly be temporary.
“You have to wonder if Richie has been warped by the father,” Noel reflected. “You know the story: Ages ago, little Donnie Wyder becomes part of a famous kiddie TV show cast—and then is washed up by age sixteen. That’s got to twist a person’s self-esteem.”
Don Wyder’s story certainly fell into the realm of fable. After the big copper mine hereby shut down, the family moved to Southern California where his father went to work for the Borax Co., and Donnie was discovered by a talent agent, got cast in The Hare and Hound Hour, which lasted on TV for a few years in the ‘70s. Afterward, he had a few bit parts in TV serials, but the career evaporated. He returned years later as an insurance agent.
“Have you ever noticed how ex-actors and athletes end up selling insurance?” Noel asked. “It’s kind of a cliché, but here we are. Barbara surely married him partly because he had been famous. She certainly has boat loads of her own money, so probably didn’t worry about his livelihood.”
“I don’t know about that,” Carole said. “On the one hand, she was famous for asking people to pay for lunch—and say she’d reimburse them later—.”
Nick broke in, “Oh, she had money all right. The golf country club membership she paid for—and the dues. My wife’s the new bookkeeper there and knows that. It’s not cheap.”
“I don’t like to speak ill of people,” Rev. Steve said, lowering his voice, “but it could be she enjoyed making him squirm. I liked her, but I saw her ask Don for money several times. He usually told her he didn’t have any. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t, and she liked holding that over him. Husband-and-wife relationships certainly can get wonky.”
So the conversation went. Saturday coffee-and-doughnuts drifted into lunch as rain continued pounding down. Jeremy made grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup—the ideal meal for a dreary day. By the time the kids and I arrived home that afternoon, I had decided Richie could come stay with us. When I phoned Harry that evening, the judge seemed pleased and relieved.
“There’s a lot that needs figuring out,” he said. “The family’s finances and whatnot. The funeral arrangements. We need the boy to answer some questions, and we’re going to rely on you to gently debrief him as times goes along. That’s why we want him in Two Rivers.”
So, part of my job was to dig for information. I could do that. I had no idea of the surprise we eventually would find.
Part 4: The Deputy Makes a Wild Surmise
Back on that first day when Richie came to live with us, Jazmine and Jake showed him upstairs to his new room, their voices cracking with excitement. I suppose suddenly their having a big brother, they felt deep inside he was a substitute for their daddy—an older male in the house. But they came downstairs, crestfallen, soon afterward.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Doesn’t Richie like his room?”
“He said it’s very nice,” Jake whispered, his lip trembling.
Jazmine cut in. “Then he just sat down and started crying awfully.
Jake said, “I hugged him. I asked if I could sign his cast. That made him cry even more. Did I do something wrong?”
Taking in a deep breath, I knelt down and told Jake he had done everything just right, that Richie was sad about other things and needed to cry about them. My boy nodded his head, wiped a tear, and Jazmine pulled him outside.
That was three weeks ago—the day after I optimistically told Judge Fergulia I’d help out. But now, looking back, I realized that I hadn’t then prepared for taking in a broken boy. I was torn between wanting to engage him in activities and outings and just leaving him alone. Upon consultation, Rev. Steve suggested that I let Richie make up his own mind about things.
So when Carole stopped by a few days later to offer help so Richie could start delivering the Ledger again, I said nothing and let him decide. The kids, on their own, piped up to volunteer. He agreed easily to all of it. With Carole driving the route through town, Richie directs where the children should put the newspapers. She then drops them all off at school. I could see he was happy zipping around with Carole and the kids. The chore turned into a welcome distraction and part of a new routine being established in our home.
Carole and the kids helping with the newspaper has been typical of how we managed to accommodate the 15-year-old boy that accident and circumstance had landed in our home. As Carole had done, other townspeople chipped in, too: Sally brought leftover quiche and salads from the deli, and Jeremy sent mac-and-cheese casseroles once a week. I felt overwhelmed by their largesse—and slightly guilty—until Rex Jenner showed up a few days ago and remodeling commenced on the main house. With my hands full managing that project, receiving prepared meals was manna from heaven! I made sure that Carole joined us on Thursdays for dinner—as repayment for her helping with the paper route. This made the kids happy, and I had noticed that even teen Richie had taken a sideways shine to Carole.
Of course, remodeling a home is quite a project—but transforming a place into a bed-and-breakfast turns into another creature entirely. The county building inspector, Jim Kelly, stopped by with a booklets about disability access, commercial kitchens and emergency egress. I had joined the Country Inn Association for help on the business side. I was happy that I had those few weeks to get Richie settled in. He now occupies the attic bedroom of the carriage house. The room is long, narrow, lit by two dormer windows and two gable windows. Richie does his homework at night up there—and I don’t have to remind him to. He’s a good kid.
On this Thursday morning, I watched Carole and the kids scoot away in the jeep to deliver papers. Though the actually painting was weeks away, today’s big chore centered on choosing interior colors for the main house. When I heard a vehicle drive up, I thought it must be Rex and the crew, but a rap on the door startled. Outside stood Judge Fergulia and Deputy Jack.
The sight of the law at one’s door is always unnerving—and immediately I assumed something bad happened to the kids, but they had just left, so that was surely impossible.
“We know you’re free now,” Deputy Jack said, “since everyone is out on the paper route.
Inviting them in, I sat them down at the table and poured coffee. They small-talked the weather—finally entire days of sun—and came around to the point of their visit.
“The day of the mine accident last month, we tried to reach Barbara Wyder,” Deputy Jack said. “We couldn’t find her. I asked Richie when he’d last talked to her, and he said it was the day she left. That was after Thanksgiving! Richie said his father would periodically tell him his mom had called, but he hadn’t overheard the conversations.”
They asked me if Richie had spoken about his mom. He hadn’t. They asked if Richie acted strange or cried a lot. I said he cried the day he arrived, but he was very sad. They asked if he talked about his father, or the day of the accident. He hadn’t.
From talking to folks around town, Judge Fergulia and Deputy Jack had pieced together a few facts. When Don had claimed he found gold in his creek, his life went to hell-in-a-hand basket. He left his job selling insurance, bought up all sorts of supplies at the hardware store—even asked for dynamite! Barbara was seen driving through town most mornings, and then one day after Thanksgiving, she just disappeared. Rev. Steve said she quit coming to church.
“Very odd behavior all around,” Harry said. “I hear this kind of thing in the courtroom when families crack up.”
Deputy Jack added, “So, it seems that the mom has vanished. We don’t know when or where. For all we know, the mother could be buried in that mine.”
Part 5: A New Theory on A Missing Mom
No sooner had I ushered out the judge and the deputy, then Sally showed up, bearing a large plate of apple-spice cookies. Undoubtedly, she had seen Harry and Jack driving away in the deputy’s SUV. And undoubtedly, I’d be subject to her third-degree questioning about their visit. However, since I hadn’t been cautioned not to speak about the Wyders, I felt Sally might be rewarded with a few pertinent details. I made a fresh pot of coffee and re-plated a half dozen cookies and set them down for our little chat. The rest went into the cookie jar because I knew the kids—even Richie—would be happy to find it full, and I set some aside for the construction crew.
Settling herself at the kitchen table, Sally said, “Can’t imagine why they stopped by. “They don’t bake!” she chuckled. “Actually, I’m here to invite you on a mission. I’ve been visiting Mack Boyd at the convalescent hospital in Truckee. Naturally, it’s a bit of a drive. I’m wondering if you’d come along next time.”
This was news to me. But as Sally had trained as a nurse, I wasn’t surprised. She is known around Two Rivers for her rescue efforts: bringing soup to the sick, driving folks to clinics. She had helped mastermind the food kitchen at the Church of Peter and Paul during the recent flood scare in April.
“How’s Mack doing?”
“As well as can be expected,” she said. “He really poisoned himself drinking that old bottle of elixir he found. Apparently, the concoction was full of heavy metals. Damaged the kidney and liver. They’re monitoring him closely, so that’s why he’s in the nursing home. Mack’s really weak and will need help when he gets out.”
Just then, Rex drove up with his crew and they came inside. Today, they were pulling in new wiring on the main floor of the house. I gave them a small bag of Sally’s cookies. For a few minutes as his men set up, Rex joined us at the table for coffee.
“What’s the talk today?” he asked. “I’m playing poker at the Pick & Pan tonight and can spread it around for you.”
Sally told him about our upcoming visit to Mack and that she was waiting now to hear why Judge Fergulia and Deputy Jack had just paid me a visit.
So I told them about Barbara Wyder—that she hadn’t been seen around lately.
The Wyders, living up the ravine near Canton Flat, kept to themselves. Even though Don had sold insurance, his only foray into town life was as a Rotary Club member. Barbara, who apparently played golf most days miles away at The Red Eagle, didn’t mix in too much besides church, ergo, gossip was in short supply.
“I can’t imagine old Don whacking his wife,” Rex said. “Insurance guys don’t do anything where they can’t spread out the risk.”
“What does Richie say about all this,” Sally asked. She turned and her eyes burrowed into mine, waiting to catch me withholding. Her round, cherubic face and dimples gave her an aura of innocence, but she was sharp.
“Not a word. I haven’t asked. He hasn’t volunteered anything. The judge and Jack want me to start poking around. See what he says.”
“That’s not going to be fun,” Rex said. “Kid might fall apart on you.”
“That’s my worry. He’s doing well now. Occupied with delivering the Ledger. Does his homework every night. Perfectly normal behavior.”
Rex and I agreed that Richie would speak up if there had been anything untoward that happened that he’d known about. So far, he was taking his mom’s absence as just another incident in a string of happenings.
But to Sally, that seemed very odd, indeed. “The boy’s mom has been gone for—what—months now? Not a word from her. The father claims he spoke to her, according to the boy.” She took a cookie from the plate, broke it apart, crumbs falling, which she picked up on her fingertips and licked. “There’s more there, I tell you. You know, according to Noel, hubbie Don drank. In the mornings, he’d slip into the Pick & Pan Saloon through the back door. A secret drinker always has other secrets.”
About this time, Rex excused himself. His crew were ready for him, and with luck, I’d have modern wiring in a few days. I hoped to have The Golden Gables Inn open for business by the annual RiversFest during Fourth of July—just weeks away.
Before she left, Sally and I set plans to visit Mack Boyd the next day. We’d leave early and be back just before the dinner rush at the deli—the time when folks stopped in to pick up take-out.
On the way out the door, she said, “On our way back, I want to stop by The Red Eagle Golf Course.”
“What’s there?”
“Well, I’m working with the catering folks on supplying desserts, but something occurred to me.” She lifted her eyebrows. Sally loved being mysterious. “Talking about Barbara Wyder just now. All the time she spent golfing. Was there about every day. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”
To me, a single mother raising two kids by herself, it didn’t seem odd at all. It sounded wonderfully refreshing. Time for myself!
“I could see trading places,” I said.
“What I’m saying is that maybe there’s another reason Barbara disappeared. Not murder at all. A deputy will naturally be inclined to think a crime occurred when someone’s gone missing. It could be something more prosaic, more mundane: Maybe, she was having an affair!”
Part 6: Guess Who's Coming for Dinner
Now, you mustn’t take me for a gossip. Naturally, living in Two Rivers one enjoys hearing curious stories. This kind of “intelligence” makes navigating life easier—and more interesting in a small village. And really, what is Mack Boyd’s Two Rivers Ledger but gossip legitimized by being printed in 12-point Times Roman. As The Nugget movie house only shows features on Friday and Saturday nights, entertainment sources hereabouts are limited. One doesn’t relish deriving vicarious enjoyment out of folks’ troubles. Who doesn’t have troubles? Who amongst us could endure the scrutiny of lookiloos if the roof were yanked off the top of one’s home? In fact, if you were to query anthropologists on the intrinsic value of “local knowledge,” I bet they agree that this type of talk keeps a social unit viable: Gossip is a survival skill!
All this is to say that I was secretly anticipating my adventure with Sally. Seeing Mack would be OK as a mission of mercy. I really wanted to know what Sally was up to by visiting the golf course. But wouldn’t you know it—the next morning Jake woke up with a bad cold and stayed home from school. I called Sally with regrets, and she promised a report that evening.
I spent the morning in our quarters in the Carriage House making Cornish pasties—a favorite meal long ago of hard rock miners. Rex stopped by, and hearing Jake was sick, went upstairs with me and gave him a hard hat to wear for the day.
“We might need help with running wire,” Rex said, winking at me. “So be sure to have this on and ready to go.” Jake soaked up the manly attention.
Out of earshot, Rex told me that at his card game the night before the subject of Don Wyder came up.
“I don’t think the marriage was a happy one,” he confided. “There was a general impression that Barbara lorded over him the fact that she had money—a lot of it—from her daddy’s Buick dealership. That’s why they always have new cars. But it was his money that built the house—an inheritance from his parents. He did OK in the insurance business—but nothing big. His drinking started to get in the way.”
I chipped in that Sally thought Don’s wife was having an affair—thus her departure and absence.
“Could be true,” Rex said. “I’ll say this again: I don’t think Don popped the old gal off. She was moneybags. Apparently, it was an allowance she had from her parents. So, no wife, maybe no moola!”
After Rex got to work, I finished the pastry dough and the filling for the pasties. Looking into the courtyard just before noon, I saw Babe Garibaldi opening the picket gate. He moved very deliberately and kept an eye out in front of his feet. Guess he didn’t want to trip. If I were in my ‘80s, I’d do the same.
The former Ledger publisher rapped at the door and peeked inside. “Mind if I come?”
“Not at all,” I said. “Set yourself down for some coffee and cookies.”
He settled in and commented sadly that he hadn’t been here since Renwick took ill. As I remember, he left that day with his head down and his eyes moist. The two men were the town’s elders. They harkened back to a time that folks longed for now: No internet, no smart phones or social media. Just the telephone and newspaper. No out-of-towners buying up our homes for vacation getaways and jacking up the prices for us locals. No need for health insurance. The good ol’ days.
“How’s your boy?” he asked. “Heard he’s sick.”
“A bad cold, that’s all. Rex left him a hard hat. That cheered him up.”
He sipped the coffee, and I sensed he temporized, sought an opening for his visit. I asked how he was doing, stepping in to run the newspaper for Mack. He said it was fun again because he knew it was going to be temporary.
“My wife says you’ve taken in the Wyder boy,” Babe said. “That’s nice. He’s very conscientious about getting the papers out. What a tragedy!”
I figured the Wyder situation to be where he wanted to go, so I mentioned the puzzle of Barbara up and taking off, but Babe didn’t take the bait. He merely said what Rev. Steve had opined: Marriages are a tricky affair—and I’m not sure that he intended irony by using the word “affair.”
“How’s it going with Richie?” he asked. “Is he a burden?”
“Not at all. The kids love him. He’s folded into our household like he was always here. That’s reassuring.”
Glancing around, he said, “You’ve certainly got the room for him. Why, you’ve got a lot of room, as a matter of fact.”
This was true. The carriage house had two bedrooms downstairs and two upstairs. The main house was three stories. The third story, a rambling warren of rooms that I intended to remake into at least three bedrooms and a common bathroom as time went along. With luck, I’d have a decent seven- or eight-room bed-and-breakfast.
Finally Babe said, “Better get to why I’m here. You know who called me a little while ago?” He didn’t’ wait for me to answer. “—Sally, where she was visiting Mack in that Truckee convalescent home.”
This caught my attention. I expected bad news about Boyd.
“Guess what! They released him today. Sally’s on her way with him right now!” He stared at me straight on—leaving no way to avert my gaze. “Mack needs a place to stay until he gets his feet on the ground. I made some quick calls around town after Sally hung up. Everyone agrees—he should come here, since you don’t have to work and also have the most room!”
Part 7: Digging Up Dirt--And Maybe More Ore
Recovering editor Mack Boyd became, de facto, The Golden Gables’ first guest. The afternoon he arrived, he hobbled in on a cane with help from Sally. We settled him into a makeshift bedroom on the first floor of the main house.
“Much appreciate this,” he said, weakly. “I won’t stay too long.”
He had lost 20 pounds. His yellow skin hung loosely on his face. The boyish demeanor of “Coach’s Kid” had dissipated. Clearly middle-aged now, he was frail at that. Sally handed over a bag of medication with the instructions. She would stop in every day to check on him and bring food.
“Naturally, I couldn’t visit the golf course,” Sally said, “but we’ll go soon.” With that she dashed off, promising to return with a cheesecake for dessert.
By then, the children were in from school and excited to have another visitor. They fussed over him, brought towels, puffed up pillows and found magazines from Rennie’s library. Richie pitched in, too, and gave him the latest Ledger. So, just like that, another troubled soul blended into our routine and life went on.
Over my first cup of coffee with Mack, he asked for the latest gossip. I told him I’d didn’t know much.
“Any word on who inherits Rennie’s company?”
The subject of the Two Rivers Telephone and Telegraph Co. had, indeed, been on folks’ minds since Renwick died. In all the years I worked for Rennie, and though we’d been close, he hadn’t talked much about business affairs.
“The last thing I heard, Attorney Paul Bartley was working on it,” I said.
Babe also visited, checking in about newspaper business. Mack asked me to temporarily help keep the subscription list up-to-date. I converted the pantry into the inn back-office, set up my computer there and also began organizing for The Golden Gables business. One evening, Judge Fergulia and Deputy Jack stopped by and asked to speak with Richie. They went upstairs to his room. When they left, they didn’t say a word to me! Later, the boy came downstairs and rummaged in the kitchen.
“I’m making hot chocolate,” he said. “Would you like a cup?”
I was at the dining room table and soon he brought in the mugs, sat down.
“That was weird—those guys visiting,” he began. “They asked me if I’d ever seen any of Dad’s gold. He showed me a few small pieces. The rest he said he was in a safe deposit box in a bank. They asked me which one, and I said probably here.”
“Have you ever found gold?”
“Not by myself. I was with Dad some nights when he picked some rocks he said were gold out of the creek. I mainly dug dirt.”
Here, I thought, I could open a conversation about his mother, so asked, “What did your mom think about the gold?
“I don’t know. She went looking in the creek one time. Didn’t find any. Mom asked to see the nuggets, but Dad said they were already in the bank—or maybe sold—I forget.”
He shook his head, eyes watering. “When I think about this stuff, my stomach hurts. So I don’t. It’s better that way. I don’t care about the gold. I just want my old life back.”
I wondered if he really knew exactly what his old life had been—father a secret drinker, mother maybe having an affair. The boy rose then and walked over to the little fireplace in the kitchen. On the mantle were photos of the kids, my late husband and Rennie.
He picked up the photo of Rennie, which showed him in his usual spot on the company patio. “Who’s this? Your grandfather?”
“No, that’s the man who owned the telephone business in town. Mr. Selleck. This was his house. You remember him?”
Richie said he didn’t, and I wasn’t surprised, since the Wyders lived out of town.
“There’s some odd about him,” Richie said, studying the photo closely. “He’s looks familiar, somehow, like I’ve seen this face before.”
The next day, Sally stopped by to check on Mack and then joined me for coffee.
“He’s doing better already,” she said. “Would you know, Deputy Jack paid a visit at the deli. Wants me to chat up Mack about his digging in the graveyard. They know he found coins. Some were scattered around the hole. Anyway, they want the gold. Says it belongs to town since The Church of Peter and Paul is the town property.”
I told her about Jack and the judge’s visit the night before—and what I’d found out then from Richie.
“Look at us—a real pair of sleuths. Grown-up Nancy Drews we are! That’s country living for you, keeping tabs on the neighbors,” Sally exclaimed, and then whispered, “So, do you think Barbara is really missing?”
We chewed on that for a bit—wondered if credit card or phone records had been checked for recent activity. Taking the initiative, I called Deputy Jack right then and put him on speaker phone so Sally could hear. He said that they hadn’t searched the Wyder home yet, but planned to soon.
“Greg Haslam at the bank says Don Wyder didn’t have a safety deposit box,” Deputy Jack added. “Maybe there’s one in Nevada City or somewhere else. The thing is, where’s all the gold that Donny-boy was talking about?”
“You think Barbara took it?” I asked.
“Don’t know. It would be better if she had—then that means she’s alive. The gold is the key. If there’s no gold, why was Don digging?” He left that thought hanging and hung up.
Weighing that idea, we sat silently, and then Sally said, “After the kids leave for school tomorrow, let’s go to Red Eagle. Barbara Wyder spent more time golfing then at home. Someone there must know something!”
Part 8: The Secret Life of a Country Wife
Promptly at eight o’clock a.m., Sally drove up in her white Subaru Outback for our trip to Red Eagle. It was Thursday. Richie and the kids were off to school after delivering the Ledger. Before we left, Sally checked on Mack Boyd, and then she and I piled into the car. She brought along a Thermos of hot coffee for the hour-long, twisty drive down Highway 49. As the roadway is narrow and attracts Sunday drivers even on weekdays, one needs to be alert. We drank coffee while chewing over facts.
“If Barbara was supposed to be golfing most days, I can’t see how she could stand this road,” I said.
“I suppose if you have an unpleasant husband then a getaway would be a huge relief and rejuvenate—more time away from a bad situation,” Sally suggested, and then described how she had been kept awake at night trying to figure out what had been going on between the Wyders. We considered the many angles we already knew—Don’s drinking, money issues, her possible affair, his obsession with finding gold: They all counted for something.
About an hour later, we came down the hill into Red Eagle. A touristy-trap town, the little stores are in buildings that had been an old lumber camp. Shingle-sided shacks now painted in festive colors—bright green, red, blue—lined the highway. The stores cater to valley folks. While the men play golf, their “little ladies” go shopping.
Red Eagle sports three antique shops, several heavily incensed stores selling candles and crystals, and with airy music tinkling in the background; there are two dress shops, a place that offers very expensive backpack and outdoor gear, a land office and the post office, a bakery, two cozy cafes, plus a bookstore. All-in-all, the typical fare in the typical Gold Rush town—only useful if you need to buy a birthday gift—still, cheery like Disneyland Main Street.
Beyond town, lay the Red Eagle Golf Course. The course sits on a forested ridge above the Empire River. The links wend their way among tall Sugar Pines and outcroppings of granite—a spectacular, one-of-a-kind scenery. Early on, the property served as the playground for wealthy lowlanders who came to soak in the warm springs onsite and relax at the massive-timbered Red Eagle Lodge. Over the decades, the lodge passed down through a succession of owners. It has been a chautauqua venue, a prep school and an alumni retreat of a private university. Then, some valley developers snapped up the acreage and created a members-only golf course and club. Locals are welcome if they can plunk down the very hefty membership fees.
We turned onto the property and passed newly-built condominiums—cottage style, with Victorian architecture—red metal roofs. Very cute, very expensive. Red Eagle has gentrified and citified, more Knott’s Berry Farm now than Old McDonald’s Farm.
A beautiful spring morning in the Mother Lode, a host of golfers could already be seen swatting on the links. We went inside. The café bustled, the air heavy with freshly brewed coffee. Men sat in little clutches around tables. They eyed us with a bit of interest—or suspicion.
Sally waved back, as if she knew them. “They’re not going to intimidate me,” she whispered.
A group of lady golfers—just one table—chatted on merrily. If anyone would know about Barbara’s doings here, they would. Then Betty Norbert, who knew we to visit, came dashing in and hastily escorted us to the back offices.
“Your café looks lively,” Sally commented as we settled into our chairs. “How’s business?”
“Doing well,” Betty said. “Most members are retirees. They eat here a lot. The rest are folks who come up for the weekend or vacations. The owners only solicit memberships to people making over a hundred grand a year or whose net wealth is above $2 million. You have to prove it with bank records. Very exclusive. Too posh for me, but it’s a job!”
Sally got right to the point. “So that means that Barbara Wyder must have been really well off. The membership couldn’t have been her husband’s.”
Picking up a sheaf of papers, Betty studied them. “Since I just started working here, I’m still learning the system. Barbara joined two years ago. Paid cash for the membership. She pays $200 a month for a golf cart. The entire account is active and up-to-date since it’s on autopay. All of last year, she paid for golfing lessons at $60 a pop. She had three a week.” Betty broke off, flipped some more pages, “Wow. Here’s the charge sheet for the food. Her café bill ran about $300 a week.” She stopped again. “A lot of drinks—and each time, she’s paying for meals for two!”
“Is she paying in gold nuggets?” Sally joked. “When was the last time she ate here?”
Betty studied the papers again. “April 3 is the last charge. No recent fees for lessons, either.”
Sally and I glanced at each other in disbelief. Richie had said the last time he’d seen his mom was just after Thanksgiving—and then his father said she’d gone to visit her parents back east. The mine accident that killed Don had happened in mid-April.
After Sally related this timeline Betty mused, “So, she was golfing here after Don said she’d left town. She stopped coming to the club not long before her husband died.”
“What is the billing address for her credit card?” I asked.
Shuffling through the account papers, Betty said, “Here in Red Eagle—1873 Marshall Way. That’s those condos down at the entrance.” She stopped. “And I’ve seen that address elsewhere.” Betty pulled up a screen on her computer.
“Here it is!” she exclaimed. “That’s the same one that Gavin Stallard uses—he’s one of our golf pros!”
Part 9: A Nosy Reporter and Wine--A Decision About a Mine
Our trip to Red Eagle had been wildly successful. Sally and I had learned that Barbara Wyder been staying at home of a golf pro named Gavin Stallard—or he had been staying with her. Whatever the arrangements, the news had energized us. On the drive back, we began laying down plans for more sleuthing. By two thirty, we had returned exhausted to Two Rivers. Since we were both hungry and hadn’t eaten in Red Eagle, I suggested that we stop at the River Eats Café—my treat—and a chance for Sally to enjoy a meal away from her deli.
Greeting us, Jeremy said, “People have been asking for you!” He handed me a business card for a LuLu Chan, senior reporter, at The Celeb magazine. “She’s doing a story about Don Wyder. Called it a ‘whatever-happened-to’ article. The lady is quite the looker—wow—long dark hair, svelte dress, bright lipstick. Dressed to the nines—at least for Two Rivers. She’s probably waiting at your place, Marnie. Maybe Mack Boyd is chatting her up.”
The thought of Mack chatting up a gal named LuLu created all sorts of visions in my head. Sally rolled her eyes.
“It would be nice if we could solve one problem before another arrives on the doorstep,” Sally lamented. “But life’s rarely tidy and neatly tied up. There’s always a loose end.”
We ate quickly and then headed first to school to pick up the children. When we got to my place, a Lexus convertible sat in front of The Golden Gables.
“Good luck, there,” Sally said, and headed to the Sheriff’s station to report our discovery to Deputy Jack. I sent the children round the back way into the carriage house and went into the main house. Sure enough, in the clutter of construction, Mack and LuLu Chan sat at the kitchen counter. He had poured glasses of red wine. The newly opened bottle was nearly empty. I was flabbergasted at his beverage choice, given his medical condition—but bit my tongue.
“Mr. Boyd has been filling me in about the town, and that terrible tragedy,” LuLu began. “Is the boy home yet?”
“He has homework.”
“I was telling her about the Ledger’s story back in the fall about Don and the gold,” Mack said, brightening. “Our reporter Cara was on to something out there. She never said what it was, but that it could be big.”
“Guess we’ll never know, with Don dead and the wife…” I broke off, wondering if I should reveal the latest news, and wondering what LuLu might have discovered snooping around Two Rivers.
“Oh, we all know about Barbara,” Mack said, interrupting. “She flew the coop back in November.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said. “Deputy Jack thinks she might be buried in the mine.”
At hearing this, Ms. Chan gasped and scribbled furiously in her reporter’s notepad. I left them alone and went to the carriage house to get the kids snacks and started on their homework. When I returned about 30 minutes later, Lulu said, “I want to talk to Mr. Wyder’s son for the article I’m doing. It’s about when Don was a teenager and a bit of a TV star. You know about that I’m sure. When can I talk to Richie?”
I suggested a reporter questioning the boy might be heaping on more trauma. Suddenly, from behind us, a voice, cracking horse, said “I don’t mind talking about Dad.”
We turned and there stood Richie, eyes watering.
Immediately, I went to the refrigerator for milk and also brought the boy a plate of cookies. He settled onto a kitchen stool, broke a cookie into pieces and at them slowly, deliberately—a gesture oddly familiar—and we waited. I frowned at LuLu when it appeared she was going to speak.
Out of nowhere, he said, “I don’t know why Mom left. They sometimes argued in their bedroom, the door closed. It sounded like talk about money. But we weren’t poor, always had everything. Mom had a lot of money.” He slowly chewed another piece of cookie, drank some milk. “Then came the day Dad said he found gold. He became possessed. Said he dreamed that something big was buried inside the mountain.”
“Gold?” asked Mack, he perked up a bit. I could see his gaze grow more intense, eyes wider, fixated.
“I suppose so. He got mystical about the power of gold. Ancient artifacts. He had a collection of books on archeology, King Tut, and stuff like that.” The boy’s voice faltered. “He went kind of loopy. Talked about how finding gold was a devine design. Maybe that’s why Mom left. I didn’t want to go anywhere. I didn’t have any place to go, but she did—wherever it was…”
Mack rose and began slow pacing about, his cane stumping on the floor. “We need to go back up to the mine. Just to be sure.” He stopped, fixed his gaze on Richie. “Son, there could be a whole pile of gold in the tunnel. We have to do this for your father, to finish his work!”
The boy stared back, silently, his face taught, questioning, maybe a hint of revulsion. Just then, the doorbell rang, startling everyone. I went into the foyer and could see Deputy Jack on the porch and let him in, explained who all was in the kitchen.
He spoke softly. “I heard there was reporter nosing about today. Talked to about half the town, she did. Anyway, Sally just filled me in on your little adventure to Red Eagle. Good job. When you look at the timing of things—there’s a chance Barbara Wyder came back at some point after April 3, unknown to anyone but Don, and there’s a chance she might have come to harm. We’ve definitely have to open up that mine again.”
Part 10: A Startling Confession
Speculation and suspicions swirled through my mind and made my head ache! There was Deputy Jack saying that Barbara Wyder might be buried in the mine. There was Mack Boyd, guessing, instead, the mine to be full of gold. Sally thinks Barbara is having an affair. Buried gold. Buried bodies. Assignations. I marveled at how hungry is the human eye, always seeking spectacle. We crave excitement so much and the adrenaline rush that comes with it that it seems that grown-ups are still children at heart who like to blow things up. That’s what I concluded standing in the foyer with Deputy Jack that afternoon.
These distracting thoughts plus the chatter of Mack and LuLu Chan yacking away in the kitchen concealed Richie coming up behind. Deputy Jack and I were quite surprised when the boy spoke up.
“Can I go there and help?” the boy asked, looking directly at Deputy Jack. “It’s my family’s place. I know the mine.”
Jack considered for a second. “Ok, but you don’t take any chances. Can’t have you breaking that other arm.”
We agreed to be at the Wyder place at nine Saturday morning. Deputy Jack left; Richie and I headed back to the guests. I saw no point in hiding from LuLu Chan what was planned. Certainly, it would make interesting reading in The Celeb magazine, but I wondered if she—or her shoes—were up for roughing it.
Our little party reconvened in the carriage house for a light dinner, and I asked LuLu to join us. Mack had brightened considerably. I couldn’t tell if it were from LuLu’s presence or from the impending big dig and big story that would run in the Ledger—or from the wine. His face was aflush.
“Who doesn’t like a good murder mystery,” he said, no thought for poor Richie, sitting across from him. The boy didn’t react, just ate slowly. A few minutes later he finished his meal and asked to be excused. Jake scampered off with him, and Jazz left, too.
Mack’s behavior angered me, and I asked LuLu flatly, “Did Mack tell you about the gold he found digging up a grave?”
“That’s wildly preposterous!” Mack exclaimed. “I didn’t dig up a grave. I dug next to one.”
“And found gold!”
Mack went silent.
Lulu looked back and forth at us quickly—not knowing what to say—or do, her mouth gaped.
“Deputy Jack and the judge want to know where you stashed the loot,” I pressed on, and added, “It belongs to the town.” There, I got that out. “We can go digging in the mine and then go digging around your place.”
Mack glared at me, and LuLu began scribbling again. “Gosh, this town is full of mystery and intrigue,” she said. “We just need a sex scandal!”
Mack offered, “As I said before, my reporter Cara intimated she was onto something about the Wyders that involved the wife. Cara hadn’t interviewed Mrs. Wyder for the article about the gold that Don found. Later, though, Cara ran into the wife and someone else, somewhere else. Cara saw something.”
Of course, this got my attention. “Did Cara say where?”
“Out in Red Eagle when Cara was shopping with her parents who had come to visit.”
My mind suddenly blazed alive, relishing the obvious connections: Barbara golfing every day. Lunches for two. Lessons from the golf pro, Gavin Stallard. Sharing an address with the man. Now, Barbara and him being seen by a third party. The facts certainly added up to a woman—a wife—a mother!—having an illicit affair. A conclusion I had been secretly wanting to confirm.
Sally would be grateful to hear this juicy, new detail from Mack. It could mean another trip to Red Eagle! As soon as the reporter left and I was alone, I phoned her. We both concluded it was obvious that Barbara Wyder is—or was—having an affair.
So, Friday morning Sally showed up again at eight, and we dashed off down the road to Red Eagle to see if we could locate Barbara’s boyfriend, Gavin. We marched right into the clubhouse to talk to Betty Norbert. Surprised to see us, she made a few phone calls and found out that the golf pro wasn’t at work yet. As we left, Betty took us down a side hall and pointed out pictures on a wall of the club officials—president, chair of the board, others and the three golf pros—including Gavin Stallard.
We were stunned! He was the epitome of the blond toy boy—more surfer than golfer.
“Is this photo recent?” Sally asked, a touch of incredulity in her voice.
“I suppose,” Betty said. “You can see our golf course in the background. It’s not an old publicity shot. He looks like that.”
Gavin was gorgeous—and young—and had the deepest blue eyes I’d ever seen. He could be a cross between a young Paul Newman and Brad Pitt. The golf pro was an attractive nuisance!
When Sally and I left the club, we decided to stop at the condo whose address Barbara and Gavin shared. A shiny, new Buick SUV with Pennsylvania license plates sat in the driveway. We knocked on the door and rang the bell, but no one answered. Disappointed again, we were getting into Sally’s Subaru, when Gavin himself suddenly opened the front door and came out.
Very charmingly he asked, “Can I help you young ladies?”
Startled so, I became tongue-tied, but Sally jumped right in.
“We’re looking for Barbara Wyder.”
His tone turned immediately cool. “She’s not in.”
Sally demanded, “What the heck is she doing living here? Her boy needs her. Doesn’t she care? He’s lost his father!”
Gavin chuckled. “Can’t say one way or another.” He turned abruptly to go back inside, stopped, and turned again, faced us. “But I can tell you this: Richie is not her son!”
Part 11: Of Dreamers and Gold Schemers
With the bombshell news that Mrs. Wyder wasn’t Richie’s mother, we held a meeting that Friday night at my place. Attending were Rev. Steve Gagnon, Judge Fergulia, Deputy Jack, Sally and myself. To be discrete, we met in the main house dining room. We didn’t tell Richie what we had learned.
I don’t think The Golden Gables had seen such a large crowd since Renwick Selleck’s last days. And here we were again meeting under difficult circumstances. Editor Mack Boyd tried to push his way in, but the judge gently asked him to leave. With a bit more vigor than usual, Mack stomped his cane back to his. We then heard him turn on the TV set.
The judge began, “Tomorrow, when we go to the Wyder’s to dig, we’ll also ask Richie if we can search the house for important papers. I will do that. If we find nothing in the mine, then we’ll have to declare Barbara Wyder a missing person and put out a bulletin. I checked with the other attorneys in town, and none had done any work for Don, so gosh knows if there’s a will lying about there. The search will also give me an opportunity to look for any birth or adoption records on Richie. There must be something.”
“What about Mack and that magazine reporter?” Jack asked. “Are we going to allow them up at the dig?”
“They can look from the road. We can’t stop that,” the judge said. “But giving them access to the property—I don’t know. We’ll see. I want to protect the boy as much as I can.”
We then all chewed on Gavin’s Stallard’s startling news about Barbara Wyder. Did Richie know she wasn’t his mom? Was the boy a biological son from another relationship? Or had the couple adopted him outright? According to the reverend, from his previous visits to the Wyders and chats with Barbara at church, no mention had ever been made about Richie being adopted.
“It’s certainly not unusual for a couple to keep an adoption from a child until they are older,” Rev. Steve said. “Some folks never say anything at all—it’s only late in life that a person finds out they’re adopted. I find that jarring. Nowadays, certainly from a medical history point-of-view, an adoption should be revealed.”
Later, taking a break, Jack and the Rev. Steve went outside to get wood for a fire in the dining room. Though it was May, evenings in Two Rivers can certainly turn chilly. I brought out coffee cake and coffee, and, in a conversation turned oddly philosophical, we chit-chatted about the town while enjoying our dessert.
“Of course, everyone thinks that you, Marnie, are a saint for taking in both Richie and Mack,” the reverend said.
“Well, then I am in good company,” I replied, “right alongside Babe who is keeping the Ledger going. Sally, here, and Jeremy at the café have been feeding us. Carole is helping Richie deliver the newspapers in town.”
“As they say, it takes a village,” the judge said. “Two Rivers has always been famous for that—residents helping each other in times of crisis. I suppose that’s what happens when you live in a river canyon that floods regularly.”
“Water built this town—and water will destroy it!”
That startling statement came from behind. We turned and saw Mack back again, standing in the doorway. He hobbled over with his cane, sat down at the table. I got up to serve him cake and coffee.
“The mere threat of flooding might destroy Two Rivers,” he added. “You know, the government wants to take action that will prevent any kind of construction—or reconstruction—in perennial flood zones. It’s happening out in Tennessee.”
“Come hell or high water!” Sally exclaimed. “Dream on! There’s no way we will abandon Two Rivers!” Everyone murmured in agreement.
The judge then reminded that the town’s early settlers were essentially dreamers: Men looking for gold—all the fathers and sons who left their loved ones and headed west in ‘49.
“They had gold fever,” Harry said. “That’s a mighty powerful affliction. I guess we inherited some of their extreme optimism. Because time and again, flood after flood, we rebuild.”
“That’s right,” Mack chimed in. “Look around. Two Rivers was built by a bunch of people who were wild about gold. We make our homes here now because of them—they’re passion, misguided as it might have been. That’s got to be good, right? None of this would exist if it weren’t for the ‘49ers. We owe them some respect.”
Deputy Jack said to Mack, “You certainly are well acquainted with gold fever. It made you sick. Hell, it killed Don Wyder. The craziness abides.”
Sally chipped in, “Yet, look at this. We need that fever. We feed that fever. It helps the town survive. Those guys dredging the rivers and working claims in the hills: They eat at my deli and Jeremy’s café and drink at the Pick and Pan saloon!”
Out of the blue, the judge turned, looked at Mack and asked, “Speaking of gold, do you remember yet where you hid the treasure?”
Stunned silence followed. Mack, shocked, shook his head no. “I found that elixir stuff and started drinking it. You guys came to the door. That’s all I recall.”
“When you get well enough, we’ll need to organize a search of your place” the judge said. “If you don’t mind.”
The newspaper editor looked down, looked sheepish. “It’s OK.”
After they had all left that night, I considered the list of secrets: What’s in the mine, where did Mack hide the coins, is—or was—Barbara Wyder having an affair? Secrets kept in a small town. Yes, I have to be honest. I knew something about that.
Part 12: What Was Missing, What Was Found
Early the Saturday morning that we were to go to the Wyder’s, my phone rang. When I answered, I heard dishes clattering. Jeremy, from the River Eats Café, was on the line, saying he’d bring carafes of coffee, and he offered to drive me out there. This was fine, since I had tasked Carole to take the children there and stand by to bring them home if circumstance warranted—if a body were found when they reopened the mine.
Awhile later, a growling diesel engine across the canyon drew my attention. The Norberts, with a tractor on a flatbed trailer, were on their way to the mine, going out to Canton Flat. Just then, Richie came downstairs and poured himself a cup of coffee, watched the truck disappear around a bend.
“They’re not going to find anything,” he said, sitting down at the kitchen bar. “I know what you’re looking for. My mom. Dad didn’t do anything to her.”
“Why do you think she left?”
“I can’t say. She always seemed distant—not involved in what Dad was doing, or me, for that matter. Distracted, maybe. Except for golf. She sure liked playing golf, taking lessons, and playing the piano in church. She practiced at home for that.”
I suggested that sometimes marriages transform, people change, discover new interests that don’t include their spouses. It’s not a bad thing—it just happens. He related that his mom didn’t seem to be close to her parents, either, that they had sent her away to boarding school, and then she went off to college here in California. As a child, she spent most holidays at her grandparents.
“She never really lived at home much,” he said, looking very sad. “I felt sorry for her when I learned that. It’s almost like she never learned how to be part of a family. I guess that’s what a lot of money does.”
What surprised me was that a teenage boy possessed enough awareness to make these observations.
“Dad was mostly happy-go-lucky,” he continued. “Finding that gold excited him. He said he felt like a kid again. I think that upset mom.”
A bit later, Carole stopped by in her yellow jeep. Jazmine and Jake were happy to be going on an outing, and Richie seemed in good spirits, too. I sent a bag of food with them—sandwiches for their little party, and some fruit. Richie lifted the kids into the vehicle and they were off. When Jeremy drove up in his big four-door truck, I was surprised to see Judge Fergulia and Attorney Paul Bartley with him.
The judge rolled down the window. “We’re carpooling today,” he smiled. “Paul’s joining us. I figured two legal minds are better than one, given what we might find. Paul is the family law expert.”
As I knew this, having some experience with Paul years ago, I just kept silent, and Paul merely looked away.
When we arrived at the Wyder home, Deputy Jack was already there, along with a few other sheriff’s officials. The Norberts had the little tractor off the trailer and waiting at the tunnel entrance. It was a jumble of timbers, dirt and rocks, left that way after the rescue effort that found Richie partially buried and his father, who had been killed outright by the cave-in. Carole, Richie and the kids were up at the house.
Deputy Jack walked over to the judge and said, “We’ll get this started now. We need to go in at least 40 feet—that’s the extent of the collapse. We’ll be looking to see if the floor of the tunnel had been earlier excavated—or the sides—and then filled back in. Essentially, a grave.”
The machine’s engine roared loudly and we watched as the tractor slowly removed the debris. Nick manned the controls, and Noel stood by with a shovel.
Judge Fergulia and Paul Bartley left for their own exploration of the house, and I followed. Jeremy tagged along. At the kitchen table, Carole had Jazmine and Jake eating grapes from the lunch bag. Richie had gone into his bedroom. I found him lying on the bed, staring at model airplanes hanging at jaunty angles from the ceiling.
The room was extremely tidy for a teenage boy, and obviously it had been a very happy place for him. The walls were painted pale yellow. Pine bookcases flanked another window. A big poster of the Earthrise over Moon famous from the Apollo space mission decorated another wall. French doors led to a balcony that overlooked Mountbank Creek.
“I haven’t been here since the day of the accident,” he said. Tears coursed down his face. “I miss this room. It made me feel safe—like I belonged. I wonder if I’ll ever come back.”
I sat down beside him, gave him a hug, said nothing.
“I’m going to take a nap.”
I placed a comforter over him and left. Downstairs, I found Jeremy cleaning out the refrigerator.
“No one’s been here for weeks,” he said, holding up a moldy head of lettuce. “It’s the least I could do. Sit down and keep me company.”
I did so for a bit and then heard my name called from inside the den. I went there. Harry and Paul were at Don’s desk reading a document.
“We found the will,” the judge said. “Very interesting. He leaves the house to the boy, and a savings account and whatnot. Richie is going to be well off. All in a trust. That’s going to make things very easy. No probate!”
“This is the house deed,” said Paul, waving another paper. “It’s rather notable, too. It’s in Don’s name only. The wife’s not on it—which makes some sense, since it was his money alone that built the house.”
Suddenly, we heard outside the tractor shut down and a commotion. We looked out the window. Deputy Jack ran into the tunnel: A discovery!
Chapter 13: The Discovery of a Significant Number
The Norbert Brothers were outside the mine tunnel, staring at something in Deputy Jack’s hand. Judge Fergulia and Paul Bartley had come out with me, and we walked up to the little group. The deputy held a cell phone covered in dirt.
Richie ran up, just then, and said, “That’s Dad’s. I wondered what happened to it.”
Deputy Jack flipped it open, hit a button. The little screen came to life. “Still has power!”
“That’s because he always turned it off because there wasn’t any reception in the mine,” Richie explained.
“Whose numbers are these?” Deputy Jack asked, showing Richie previous calls that had been made. “They’re the same Reno area code.”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Well, let’s just see what happens when I dial.”
We could hear the number ringing, and then a recorded voice that was Barbara Wyder’s. Glancing over to Richie, I saw his eyebrows raise and his eyes grow glassy. Deputy Jack handed the phone to Richie, “Leave a message.”
The boy, his voice halting, said, in a whisper, “Hello Mom. It’s Richie. Please call me. I’m at the house. We just found Dad’s phone. Please call. I miss you!” He rang off. “I hope she gets this.” He handed the phone back.
The judge and Deputy Jack looked at one another, shook their heads, and I knew what they thought: The boy’s message may never be answered.
Looking around, Deputy Jack said, “We have to keeping digging.” The judge and Paul Bartley agreed. Nick got on the tractor and fired it up. We went back inside the house.
Richie seemed happier now. I don’t know if he realized that his mom might not call back. He had heard her voice: That was something to hang onto. With nothing to do myself, I helped Jeremy tidy up the kitchen. There were still dishes in the sink and I put them into the dishwasher and turned it on. I tossed a bowl of shriveling apples. Richie came in and began helping, took out the garbage, came back and swept the floor. Carole excused herself and went to watch the digging, and the children remained at the table, watching us. A calm settled over the room as we went about our work.
Richie stopped his sweeping, glanced around and said, “This feels good.” Then he sighed. I wished desperately that something nice would happen for the boy—his mom return—that a piece of his old life would resurrect. I well knew the challenge of having to recreate a life after something bad happened. I suppose since children take things as they come, they don’t lean much into the notion of rebuilding. They just do it. Adults are the ones who overthink, make a process of it. Children stay in the present. What a gift! Sadly, it’s also an ability that dims with age—and adults spend a lot of money on self-help books and delving into Eastern religions to rekindle what was so natural when we were so young. I considered my own children, Jazmine and Jake. Obviously, they were sad for months after their father had died. I consoled them with saying their daddy was in heaven and looking down on them. They accepted that and sometimes Jazmine would talk to him—“See Daddy, look what I did!”—that sort of expression. This made her happy, and amazed me. Then Rennie died.
Outside, we heard another commotion—rising voices and saw that Mack Boyd and Lulu Chan, the reporter from The Celeb magazine had come onto the property. Deputy Jack, obviously displeased, pointed toward the house, and the pair came this way, Mack hobbling along with his cane. They stepped onto the deck and knocked on the front door. Richie asked if he should let them in, and I said that was his choice. He did. I went back to the kitchen and asked Jeremy to pour coffee for them. They settled into the living room, and I heard the reporter asking Richie for photo albums of his father. Richie went into the den and came out with several.
“I don’t know many of these people in this one,” he said, handing them a tattered album. “They’re from the TV show.”
“Well, I can help with that,” Lulu said, brightly. “I’ve interviewed a lot of the cast over the years. Sit down here, and I’ll tell you who the people are—and all I know about your father.”
When the coffee was served, I went back to the den. Judge Fergulia sorted through a box of financial statements. “Nothing here too remarkable,” the judge said. “The new cars were from her father—all paid for! I can’t find any other bank records other than for ours here in town. I was hoping we’d locate another one—and that might mean a safety deposit box—and maybe the gold Don had discovered.”
I suddenly understood what he meant, “You think he hadn’t really found any?”
“Where is it? There’s not much physical evidence, yet. The boy said he saw a few bits.”
Paul had another drawer open and suddenly exclaimed, “Aha!” He took out a file and asked, “When is Richie’s birthday?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, and Paul showed me a file, with a label that read, “July 1”— a date also very familiar to me from a long time ago.
Paul flipped through a few pages. “These are Richie’s adoption papers.” Then he stopped short and exclaimed. “Oh, my god!”
He looked at me, eyes wide. “They used the North Valley agency in Sacramento,” he said. “That’s the one we worked through years ago.”
Judge Fergulia came over, looked at the document, “What’s this?”
Paul explained, and I suddenly, understood. The little boy I gave up for adoption was brought to that agency. He, too, had been born on July 1.
With considerable disbelief, Harry Fergulia asked, “You had a baby?”
Part 14: Exhuming the Past
Looking at Richie’s adoption file, the judge asked me, “How did this happen?” He was surprised and kind at the same time. He was patient as I recalled a long-gone event, both wonderful and distressing.
“A year or so after I came to work as housekeeper and years before I got married to Mark, I had an affair with Rennie and got pregnant. Only Paul and the doctor knew. I kept to The Golden Gables. My confinement! It wasn’t hard to stay in. I had the baby in Reno.”
Sitting down, I asked, “What are the chances?” I was overwhelmed by the notion that the boy a few steps away could be my son—the little boy that I gave up for adoption.
Paul took back the file from the judge, flipped through the papers in the folder. “No photos of the baby, though.” He walked over to chair, “It’s the same date, same year. If true, this will make my life a lot easier.”
“What do you mean?” the judge asked.
“As you know, everyone in town is wondering who inherits Rennie’s business,” Paul said, sitting down next to me. “It’s complicated, so I’ve not said anything. I’m waiting on a judge’s order in Sacramento on the adoption records—for Rennie’s child. It’s taking time.” He looked over to Judge Fergulia. “Am I doing anything illegal by talking?”
The judge shrugged his shoulders. “I think you’re OK.”
“Since his wife and older son had died years ago, Renwick left the phone company to the boy given up for adoption. The records need unsealing so we can locate him.” He waved the file. “This may make things a lot easier, as there’s a case number here. If we can match it, then Richie would inherit. And obviously, Marnie, is your son!”
“What about Barbara,” I asked. “If she’s still alive, she has custody.”
“Perhaps, but here’s the thing,” Paul said. “The adoption records show that only Don Wyder adopted the boy. Not Barbara. Puzzling! She’s not his mother, biologically or legally.”
I said nothing, as there was too much now to consider. But we agreed that Richie should be told none of this until there was certainty. Of course, I was too stunned by the idea that Richie might be my son. Over the years, I had thought of the little baby we gave up and had many regrets. Now, they returned.
Needing to clear my head, I went to go outside. In the living room, Lulu, Mack and Richie were still looking at photo albums. I stopped and picked up an album labeled “Richie” and looked for baby photos—there were none. The photos started at about age two, but the face was too small to see. Walking down to the creek, then, I sat in one of two Adirondack chairs and watched the water play over the rocks, the little water skeeters skipping across the surface. Then Jeremy arrived.
“Are you all right? You seem dazed.”
“There’s a lot happening right now,” I said. “Trying to take it all in.”
“Well, let’s enjoy the scenery for a bit.” He sat in the other chair, the motor noise of the tractor seemed to fade away. We stared silently into the water, mesmerizing and calming, watching as the stream flowed peacefully in truckles and swirls. Where rocks slowed the flow, the water eddied, turning back on itself, and then finding an opening, continued on. I thought life seemed like this stream, churning around, running into obstacles, turning, going backwards on itself, but eventually always moving onward.
“I could stay here forever,” Jeremy sighed. “Leave the café behind. Look for gold, instead!” He chuckled. “Dig a mine.”
“Dig a mine—and die,” I added, breaking the mood.
“Well, yes. That’s the risk in living on the edge,” he said. “How did it go with the paperwork. Find anything useful?”
I considered and then said, “Well, we discovered Richie is adopted. Don’t know if he knows, so keep that to yourself.”
“I wondered what was going on because Sally had mentioned what that golf pro had said about Barbara Wyder not being Richie’s mother. Makes some sense, then, the mom going AWOL.” He looked at me and laughed, “Gossip travels fast. What did you expect? We’re stuck in or kitchens all day long cooking for the town. Sally and I have to have some entertainment!”
All those years ago, when I was pregnant, Renwick was so concerned about my reputation. He made sure no one beside Paul and the doctor knew, so there had been no gossip about a child. I’m sure Mark would have married me, no matter, and I had planned on telling the children once they were older. But now, the truth would come out. Which, was, I decided best for all—especially Richie, so he would know about himself. That’s only fair.
“There’s bound to be more gossip about this,” I told Jeremy.
We continued gazing into the water, and then a bit later, Richie came up. In his hand, he had a square photograph, color fading.
“Look here,” he pointed to a young boy and girl. “This is Dad and another cast member, Shirley Mann, from the TV show. They were married a few years! That reporter told me. I didn’t know. It was in one of the albums.” He sat on the arm of the Adirondack. “Maybe they had kids…Maybe I have brothers and sisters.”
Taking the photo, I felt obliged to comment. Young Don Wyder was handsome. Long blond hair, cheeky smile. Easy to wow the girls. Shirley was pretty, too. “You dad was a looker,” I said.
Jazmine and Jake came running down to the creek and wanted to wade. They took off their shoes. Richie joined them, moving downstream. A few minutes later, we heard the tractor stop running.
Cell phone in hand, Deputy Jack walked up to us. “Well, we found her.”
Chapter 15: Shouting Down Doughnuts
The excursion to the Wyder house that sunny Saturday morning in May proved to be a day of discoveries. Big ones. The guys digging in the mine tunnel found Don Wyder’s cellphone. I found out that Richie might be the son I gave up for adoption years before, Richie found out that his father had a first wife—and then Barbara Wyder had phoned—and Richie talked to her for the first time in months.
We were all down at the creek when Barbara returned Richie’s call. Believe me, all of us that day—Deputy Jack, the Norbert Brothers, Carole Chukar, Judge Fergulia, Paul Bartley, Jeremy—we were all grateful beyond words that Barbara was alive. Finding a body in the mine—though thrilling in abstract the way murder mysteries are—would really be gruesome in the here-and-now. We had dodged a bullet!
“God, I’m done with dirt,” Deputy Jack said later, exasperated. “Last month, that impound dam. This month, a mine tunnel. Next month, I hope for dearth of earth!”
Sidling up to me, Judge Fergulia whispered, “Jack’s forgetting we still don’t know what Don did with the gold he allegedly found—and then there’s the little matter of Mack Boyd’s stash of coins.” He chuckled.
And if we were thinking there’d be happiness in Richie’s reconnecting with his mom—we were wrong. When she had called, he had taken the phone and walked away from the crowd to speak to her. It wasn’t a long conversation. When he came back, he was shaken and crying.
“She’s not coming home. She said mean things about Dad.”
I rose and put my arm around him—as a mother would comfort her son.
“And I’m adopted!” the boy exclaimed. “How about that! That’s what she said. Maybe that’s why she’s not coming back.” His brow carried worry and shock.
Deputy Jack shook his head, “Jeez, that’s brutal. Son, I’m sorry. Best you learn now, I suppose.” He gave the boy a hug, too. Harry and Paul looked at me, smiled slightly. My mind was a muddle. Secretly, it was a relief that the boy found out he was adopted, as I would not want to be the one telling him that. And perhaps the next news of his biological parents would bring some relief.
The judge spoke up then—a speech like from a father: “Richie, son, you have an entire town pulling for you. There’s naught to worry about. Just keep doing what you’re doing—you’ve managed admirably so far, and we’re all proud of you!”
All around, everyone assented, and we could see the tension and terror drain from the boy’s face. He relaxed, said thank you sir. Jazmine and Jake ran up now, feet muddy from their wading, and hugged him.
“Come see the pollywogs,” Jake said. “There’s a whole little pond of them.” And off they went—seemingly not a care in the world.
That day, I’m sure editor Mack Boyd and reporter LuLu Chan from The Celeb magazine left disappointed. A dead body would have made big headlines and newsstand sales. Tragedy can be so lucrative for newspapers and magazines in the same way that disasters are good for the economy.
On account of the pressing deadline, LuLu stayed only one more day so she could interview Barbara Wyder in person. The reporter promised to send copies of her article when it was printed. Later, Deputy Jack also spoke to Barbara and urged the woman to come home. Well, Barbara did return—long enough to retrieve clothes and whatnot and make funeral arrangements. After the magazine interview, she beat a fast retreat back to Red Eagle and her golf pro. I could not judge her.
Copies of The Celeb arrived on July 3—just as the annual RiversFest celebration began. I asked Richie if he wanted to be the first to read the story, but he said, nah, he’ look at it later. Then he took the kids to the little stream that cascaded in waterfalls behind The Golden Gables to find pollywogs.
Magazines in hand, I headed to Jeremy’s River Eats café. The usual gang had taken over the front table, Rev. Steve, Nick and Noel Norbert, and Carole Chukar. They eagerly took the copies I handed out and dived right into reading.
Two Rivers Trauma: The Sad Ending Of A Former Teenage TV Star
By LuLu Chan, Senior Correspondent
That ‘70s children’s show The Hare and The Hound Hour attracted kids aged four to ten, but also a sizeable crowd of teenage groupies—girls with nothing better to do on a Saturday morning. The reason? A gorgeous boy with long blond hair, blue eyes and a killing smile: Donnie Wyder. The teenage groupies started showing up at the live tapings in the third year of the show—about the time Donnie turned fourteen and his apparent star qualities lit up the stage. Oldest of the cast of five children, he…
The article bored me already. I stopped reading. Jeremy came by and sat down beside me, squeezed my hand. I offered him the magazine, but he shook his head. “Just leave it for the customers. I’ll read it sometime.”
The front door opened and in walked Attorney Paul Bartley and Judge Fergulia.
“Thought we’d find you here,” Paul said. He grinned widely. “Word just came in from Sacramento. The numbers match!”
Carole Chukar overheard the comment and asked, “What numbers? Marnie, did you win the lottery?”
Suddenly, I had tears in my eyes. Carole noticed, her face dropped.
“Yes, I did. The best kind.”
“Richie did all right, too,” Judge Fergulia said. “He’s going to live up to that name of his.”
The table grew quiet. “What’s that?” asked Nick Norbert. They looked first at me, then Paul, then the judge.
Suddenly, I was very, very happy and exclaimed, “Jeremy, let’s have doughnuts all around. There’s news!”
The End
Copyright 2021. All rights reserved. A version of this story appeared in The (Downieville) Mountain Messenger, June-September, 2021
The people, places and events portrayed in The Two Rivers Anthology are fictional or fictionally portrayed.
Cover by Diana Rich
The people, places and events portrayed in The Two Rivers Anthology are fictional or fictionally portrayed.
Cover by Diana Rich