Steps to the Altar (36 page)

“Hugh?” I asked.

“Hugh Laramie. A dear man. Reminded me a lot of Marybell, actually. Reserved, a bit of a loner, quite religious himself. Like Marybell, he never missed a service at the Episcopal church. For years he owned a little leather shop downtown before his hands got too full of arthritis to work. Made belts and wallets and key chains to sell to the tourists. His shop was even featured on one of those travel shows—that Huell Howser fellow. We always wondered about him and Marybell, if there wasn’t something going on. But if there was, they hid it well. Of course, at the end, when she asked for him, we just wondered all the more. But by that time, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was we’d lost her.”

Thelma’s eyes teared up and she reached into the sleeve of her sweater for an embroidered handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes with the wrinkled cotton. “Then we lost Lily, which about did me in. Me and Hugh shared a lot of tears during that time. We surely did.”

“This Hugh Laramie,” I said. “Is he still living here?”

She nodded. “Yes, over on the other side of the Fort. You know, that big log building in town. He’s got a house over by the arts camp.”

“You said he was the last person to talk to Marybell before she died.”

She nodded again. “Lily said he was in there for a good long time. Over an hour. When he left, she went back to sit with Marybell, who was kinda slipping in and out because of the pain medicine, and then Marybell just squeezed Lily’s hand. Lily went out to the living room, and when she came back to check on her an hour or so later, she’d passed on.” Thelma gave a small sniff and dabbed at her nose. “Guess Marybell just had to say goodbye to Hugh. Whatever they had together, she wanted to talk to him last. That tells you something right there.”

I set my half-eaten cookie down and asked, “Do you think Hugh might talk to me?”

“I don’t see why not,” she said. “Let me call him. But first, let me show you her box.”

She took me out to the single-car garage and pointed to a pasteboard box on a low shelf. “Go ahead and put it in your car,” she said. “I’ll go give Hugh a call and see if he’ll talk to you.”

I lugged the box to my truck and slipped it in the bed. Resisting the urge to go through it, I hurried back inside to find out if this Hugh Laramie would see me.

She was on the phone in the kitchen. “She’s right here,” she said into the receiver. Then she handed it to me. “He wants to speak to you.”

“Hello? Mr. Laramie,” I said. “I’m Benni Harper.”

“Thelma told me you wanted to speak to me about Marybell Knott.”

“Yes, if you’re not too busy.”

“Come by at six o’clock,” he said, his voice so soft I had to press my ear to the receiver to hear him. “I’ll talk to you then. Thelma will give you directions.”

“He said he’d talk to me,” I said, hanging up the phone. “And that you’d give me directions to his house.”

After writing the easy instructions on a piece of notebook paper, I thanked Thelma profusely and went to get Scout.

Thelma stood on her back step and asked, “Will her things be part of your museum up in . . . where was it you said you were from?”

“San Celina. If I have a say, they will.” And, I thought, if they are truly Maple Bennett Sullivan’s possessions. “Are you sure you want to give them to me?”

She waved a hand at me. “I’m an old woman with more than enough of my own junk. When I pass away, they’d just be given to the Goodwill or sold to a junk dealer. Just as well you have them as strangers.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Take care.”

It was only 3:30 P.M. so I had a while to wait before my meeting with Hugh Laramie. I went to a small grocery store a couple of blocks from my cabin and bought some dog food, a roll of paper towels, a loaf of bread, a package of bologna, a small jar of mayonnaise, and a couple of Cokes. I was hungry even after the four cookies, but I didn’t want to take the time to go to a restaurant. I wanted to see what was in that box.

After drying off Scout’s feet and legs as best I could with the paper towels, I poured him some dog food, made myself a sandwich, and opened the pasteboard box marked MARYBELL on the side.

There wasn’t much to see. A lot of letters and cards, which I scanned to see if any were connected to San Celina. They were all from people here in Idyllwild. There was a redwood box of junk jewelry, some crocheted doilies, a couple of teacups, a pale pink scarf knitted from angora yarn, a worn King James Bible, once white leather but now butter-colored with age. The Bible held no confessional letters or indications that she’d once been Maple Sullivan. After I’d spread everything out on the double bed, I patiently went through it again, believing in my heart that she hadn’t completely abandoned who she’d been. Something was here, somewhere in this meager box of possessions she’d left behind.

I went through each piece of jewelry, felt inside the three handbags that were in the box. Nothing. I sat at the small brown table and finished my sandwich, chewing it in frustration. She was a smart woman, if Marybell had indeed been Maple, and had completely covered her tracks. What now? All I had left was Hugh Laramie.

After putting everything back into the box, I set my travel alarm clock for five forty-five and lay down on the bed. Fatigue made every blink of my eyes feel like sandpaper against skin. It seemed only seconds before the alarm jarred me awake. For a moment, I was disoriented, not remembering where I was, why I was there. I splashed some cold water on my face, took Scout out for a quick walk, and then left him inside the cabin with strict instructions to be good.

Hugh Laramie lived in a small stucco house on a lot surprisingly barren of trees. Unlike Thelma’s house, his place was extremely plain, almost spartan. A single pine, at least thirty feet tall, grew in front. I walked down the recently cleared sidewalk to his pale blue front door. He answered after two knocks. He appeared to be in his late seventies with a full head of white hair and the shiny reddish complexion you often see on people with Celtic blood running through their veins. Even though he was slightly stooped with age, he towered over me at least a foot.

“Mr. Laramie?” I held out my hand. “I’m Benni Harper.”

He took my hand in both of his, patting the top of my hand gently. They were warm and soft, and for some reason, I instantly felt soothed.

“Yes, yes, come in, young lady. I have some peppermint tea brewing. Do you drink tea? I made it with bottled water. I know how you young people hate tap water.”

“Thank you,” I said, stepping into his overly warm living room. “Peppermint tea would be wonderful.”

“Make yourself at home,” he said, pointing over at a threadbare brown sofa. “I’ll go on now and get the tea.”

I took off my jacket and laid it down on the sofa. The room was as undecorated as the outside of his house. The sofa, a maple rocking chair, a small television, a couple of end tables, and a coffee table. The walls were bare except for the far wall, where an impressive collection of crosses and crucifixes, about thirty or so, hung. I was studying them when he came back into the living room with a tray filled with tea items.

“My only indulgence,” he said, nodding at the wall of crosses. “Been collecting them since I was twenty years old. My favorite is that Navajo one.” He pointed to a silver-and-turquoise cross to my left. “The man who made it for me died of liver cancer. Last thing he ever made. Lloyd Yazzi. Good man. God-fearing man.” His blue eyes clouded with memories of his friend.

He gave his head a small shake and gestured at me to take a seat on the sofa. After fussing with the tea and offering me a plate of pale sugar cookies, he leaned back in his rocking chair. “So, you’re wanting to know about Marybell Knott.”

I nodded.

“Why?”

I looked into his pale eyes, and for some reason, for the first time since I’d started on this quest, I felt compelled to tell the whole story, completely, without any lies or evasions. I don’t know what it was about this man, but whether he wanted it or not, as he slowly rocked in his maple chair, he received the real story, including everything that was happening between me and Gabe, me and Hud, and how I realized that I wanted desperately for a happy ending to everything, especially Maple’s story, even though I knew that was probably an impossible wish.

“I guess,” I said, “what I really want is to know she ended up okay. That she had a good life. I don’t believe she killed Garvey. I don’t know why, but I just don’t.” I set my teacup down and leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Mr. Laramie, I have a feeling you have what I need. Was Marybell Knott really Maple Sullivan? Did she have a happy life? Can you help me?”

He stopped rocking and stood up. “I have something to show you.” I stood up to follow him, but he gestured at me to sit back down. “No, stay here. I’ll get it.”

When he came back, he carried a small box. He sat down next to me on the sofa and handed it to me. I opened the box and pulled out a small silver locket.

“Oh,” I said, my exclamation a small sigh. I knew what this was and what I’d find when I opened it. A picture of Garvey Sullivan. The picture that she’d gently complained about in her letter, the one where he wasn’t smiling.

I looked up at Mr. Laramie. “How did you . . . I . . . I don’t know where to start. Did you know who she was?”

He clasped his large, soft hands in his lap. “Not for many, many years. To us here, she was Marybell Knott. She was a waitress at the Red Kettle and belonged to the historical society. She loved cats and was very clever with words. Back in the sixties, she wrote a Christmas play for the children at the church that was so popular we’ve done it every year since.”

“Were you and she . . . ?” I didn’t know exactly how to say it.

He gave a sad smile. “A couple? Oh, no, we were only friends. Dear, dear friends. We felt comfortable with each other. Never felt like we had to chatter away when we were together. That says a lot about a friendship, the ability to be quiet together. Had a lot in common, the two of us, though we didn’t find out how much until the end of her life.”

“What do you mean?”

He pointed at the wall of crosses and crucifixes. “I was a Jesuit priest. Left the priesthood when I was forty, back in 1965. Moved here and started my leather shop.”

I smiled. That explained why I found him so easy to talk to. He was trained in listening to people’s deepest feelings.

As if he were reading my mind, he said, “It’s a long story why I parted from the Catholic Church. Wasn’t the Church’s fault. It all lay within me. I’ve been happy with the Episcopalians. All the same God, as far as I’m concerned.” He looked at me silently for a moment, then said, “I’ve never told anyone else but Marybell that I was a priest. Until now.”

“Maple Sullivan converted to Catholicism when she married Garvey,” I said.

“I know.”

I held his steady gaze and said in a low voice, “Mr. Laramie, I need to know what happened to Maple.”

“Even if you can’t make it public knowledge? Even if it would be her wishes that the history books remain as they are?”

That stopped me. I had assumed from the beginning that whatever I found out, unless she was still alive, would fill out the story of her life, would set the record straight. I never thought about what she might have wanted known about her . . . or not known. I assumed that the truth would always be the most important thing.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly.

“I’ll tell you and then you can make up your mind. Everyone who’s involved with this is dead now. No one can be hurt, but memories are funny, precious things that many people guard like gold. Sometimes, even if we reveal the truth, people still don’t want to change their memories.”

“That’s awful,” I said. “The truth should always be better than a lie.”

“Ah, but it’s a fallen world we live in, my dear.”

“So, what is the truth about Maple Sullivan?”

He twisted around, arranged a pillow behind his back, and proceeded to tell me the true story of Garvey Sullivan’s death.

23

BENNI

“I TOLD MARYBELL . . . Maple . . . a few years before she died that I’d been a priest,” he said. “She laughed and said she’d guessed it a long time ago. She was no dummy. I asked how she knew and she confessed that she’d been a Catholic for a short, happy time of her life and she missed it. I didn’t ask her at the time why she’d left the Church, just as she never quizzed me about why I left. Our ability to let the other have their past without insisting on knowing it was what made our friendship so special. We both had things to hide, things we were ashamed of, for good reasons or not, and we never forced the other to reveal more than they wanted.”

He folded his hands across his stomach. “The day she died, she asked Thelma to call me. I guess she suspected the end was near. She wanted to make a confession, get absolution, receive the Holy Eucharist. I told her she knew I couldn’t officially perform Extreme Unction, but she said that we were both a couple of rogue Catholics and that perhaps God would grant us mercy and forgiveness in our attempt to do what is right. I agreed with her and heard her confession, prayed with her for forgiveness, and gave her my blessing, such as it was.” His old blue eyes grew watery at the memory. “Since it wasn’t an official confession, I don’t think it would hurt to tell you. Whatever judgment God has rendered has already been done. Whether you tell anyone or not about this is up to you. Frankly, it will feel good to get it off my chest. You were right, she didn’t kill her husband, Garvey.”