Bitter Past, page 6
After that, she’d go to the library, introduce herself to Amanda Cocker, and hopefully get her talking. Even counting on a short stop for groceries, she should still have time to buy groceries and get home in time to take Trix for a good walk. Maybe they’d explore the hiking trail right out the front door.
Myrtle was outside in her chain-link-fenced garden when Joelle headed for her car twenty minutes later. A portion of the fence had been flattened, and a bunch of the green stuff growing there had been razed.
“Good morning,” Joelle called out. “Did the deer get at your garden?”
“Afraid so. This is an older section of fence that I’d been meaning to ask Sam or Shawn to replace.”
“That’s too bad. Did they do much damage?”
“Cleaned out my romaine and spinach,” Myrtle said.
Joelle made a sympathetic face. “Thanks again for dinner last night. The food was great, and it was nice to meet your family.”
“You’re welcome. How was your first night in the cottage?”
“Very comfortable. I’m looking forward to taking Trix for a hike later today. The forest looks so beautiful and peaceful.”
“This old-growth cedar forest is special. Some would say sacred. Have you heard of thin places?”
Joelle admitted she hadn’t.
“Some people believe—” and clearly, Myrtle was one of them “—that there are places where the veil between this world and the next is thin.”
Joelle was both intrigued and skeptical. “What does that mean, exactly?”
She shrugged. “It can mean different things for different people. Some find thin places transformational. The religious may feel closer to God. Those in pain find comfort. Those grieving may feel the presence of their loved one most intensely in a thin place.”
Joelle shivered, thinking of her dream and how it hadn’t bothered her before she’d come to this place. Though she said nothing about this, she could feel Myrtle’s perceptive gaze on her.
“I hope I’m not prying, but I get feelings about people. And I’m sensing there is something weighing on you.”
“If you mean my brother-in-law’s death—”
She waved that off. “No. Something from when you were younger.”
Joelle found herself backing away. This was uncanny, almost creepy.
Myrtle obviously sensed she’d crossed a boundary. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. By the way, if you find the cottage too hot at night, there’s a fan in the linen closet.”
*
The sky was so blue today it almost hurt Joelle’s eyes, and the interior of her vehicle was already baking. She tried the air conditioning, but it was having an “off” day, so she unrolled her driver’s-side window. She tried to focus on the day ahead, but her thoughts were totally unmanageable, ping-ponging from Myrtle’s uncanny comment about childhood trauma, to the possibility that Brent and Amanda had had a summer romance, and then to Eve’s family, who had gone all these years without knowing what had happened to her.
She also spent some time speculating about the Sheriff. If she was right, and he’d come to dinner last night because of her. What exactly had he been hoping to learn? If anyone knew the people of this county it would be the Sheriff, and a part of her wanted to take him into her confidence, show him the blackmail note, and see if he had any helpful information to share.
But she didn’t feel she could automatically trust Zak Waller. Why would he put the interests of her, a stranger, ahead of those of the citizens who had voted for him?
The drive seemed to go faster than it had yesterday, and she had no trouble finding the office for the Lost Trail Courier, housed in a small brick building on Main Street. The front window advertised passport photos, print, copy, and fax services, office supplies and ink cartridges, in addition to UPS services and dry-cleaning pick-up. Joelle guessed in a small town you had to be a jack-of-all-trades. At any rate, their business model must work. According to their website, this paper had been in business, in the hands of the Cocker family, since 1905.
The office manager at the front desk, whose name according to the silver plate on her desk was Annie Baker, looked to be in her late twenties, well groomed, her long fingernails polished a pale pink. Jo, who could never grow her own nails more than a quarter of an inch, always wondered how anyone could write, or eat, or pick things up with nails like that.
“Hi, I’m Joelle Medler. I work for the Flathead Journal and I’m curious about any stories you may have published about a woman who went missing in the summer of 2009. Her name was Eve Brooks.”
Annie’s eyes were bright with a hint of curiosity. “You probably want to talk to Jessica Hardy. She’s our archivist. She just ran out to get her morning matcha latte, but she should be back soon if you want to wait.”
One of the office doors behind Annie opened, and a distinguished-looking man with graying hair and a neatly trimmed beard shot her an interested look. “I’ll talk to you if you like.” And then, like a turtle, his head withdrew.
“That’s Edward Cocker,” Annie told her as she gestured for Joelle to follow him. “Editor and publisher of the Courier.”
That one glance had been enough for Joelle to confirm that Edward Cocker had been present at the pancake breakfast. His hair had been darker back then, and he hadn’t had a beard, but he had the same square forehead and pronounced widow’s peak.
“Are you going in?” Annie prompted.
“Right. Thanks.”
She tapped on the door, then stepped inside. Edward Cocker’s office reminded Joelle of the few times she’d consulted one of her professors in college. The room was dominated by a large oak desk, upon which were many disorderly stacks of paper. His walls were lined with bookshelves and the two that weren’t had framed black-and-white photos chronicling the early history of the paper.
“That’s my great-grandfather holding the first edition of the Lost Trail Courier.”
“So cool.” Joelle couldn’t imagine what it must be like, to have a business that had been in the family since the early nineteen hundreds. Especially a newspaper business, which, in her opinion, was a singularly interesting and important institution. She tore her gaze from the wall and offered him her hand.
“Joelle Medler.”
“I’m Edward Cocker.” He gave her a smile that was surprisingly charming. “You wouldn’t be a staff writer with the Flathead Journal?”
“I am.” Once again, she was pleased to be recognized, especially from someone in the business. There were more framed photos on the bookshelf behind Edward Cocker. These seemed mostly from his hunting and fishing exploits. She noticed Sam Ward was in several of them. And in another Edward was joined by a young boy with dark hair, and the beautiful Joan Crawford lookalike from Brent’s photo. They were standing over the carcass of a giant bull moose. It was the woman who was holding the rifle, a proud smile on her face.
“Your family?” she asked.
“Yes. My son, Wyatt, and wife, Vera. Ex-wife,” he corrected himself.
He seemed to enjoy her interest in his office and waited patiently as she turned her attention to the books. There were a lot of really old volumes on those shelves. He had pretty much everything Hemingway had written, as well as books from F. Scott Fitzgerald, Mark Twain, J. D. Salinger, and a short story collection by Richard Connell. “This is like the reading list for one of my American literature classes.”
“Most of the Hemingways are first edition,” he said with some pride. “Handed down in the family. I could never afford to buy them now.”
“Impressive.” Despite his huge mystique, Hemingway had never been one of her favorites. The man against nature theme that pervaded his writings had been too adversarial for her taste. How about man working with nature for a change?
“These are books that should be read by all Americans.”
She gave a noncommittal nod. A man of opinions. Not surprising for the publisher and editor of a newspaper.
He waved her toward a chair. “Please sit and fill me in on the reason for your visit. Did I hear you’re looking for articles written in 2009?”
“Yes. A woman hiker went missing that summer. Her last known sighting was here in Lost Trail.”
“That was a hell of a long time ago.”
“That’s true. Do you remember her?”
“A lot of people have gone missing between now and then,” he answered evasively. “Why are you focused on her?”
“This is personal interest on my part. You see my brother-in-law died in a car crash recently. And I just learned that he spent that summer working up here for the Forest Service.”
“Sorry about your brother-in-law. But I fail to see the connection between him and this missing hiker?”
“Brent was a professional investigator. He’d recently started a file on her—her name was Eve Brooks. In fact Brent was here in Lost Trail the day before he died. There’s probably no connection between Eve and his death. But my sister—Brent’s wife—she asked me to look into it. For her own peace of mind.”
Cocker grunted. “Sounds like a waste of your time. But since you’re here, anyway, go ahead and poke around. Jessica should be able to help you find the articles you need.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.” Joelle stood up to leave.
“You staying in town long?”
She paused at the door. “A week.”
“Renting the cottage on Myrtle Ward’s property?”
Joelle blinked. Someone must have been talking to him about her. His good friend Sam? “Yes.”
“Myrtle and Sam have a nice piece of property. Connects right into the Ancient Cedar hiking system. You do much hiking around Whitefish?”
Now her nerves gave a warning tingle. How did Edward Cocker know she lived in Whitefish specifically? “A bit.”
“Well, if you do, make sure you stick to the trails.” His smile wasn’t quite so charming as he watched her leave his office. But Joelle’s reporter instincts were on high alert. It seemed the locals were doing some chatting behind her back. If they were circling their wagons, it seemed likely there was something to hide.
*
Less than a minute later, Jessica Hardy returned from her coffee break. She was tiny and wiry with white frizzy hair and networks of wrinkles on the tissue-thin skin of her face. She had to be well past retirement age, but her eyes sparked with interest when Joelle asked about Eve Brooks.
“Oh yes, I remember as if it were yesterday. She was such a lovely woman.”
“Did you meet her?”
“I did. Edward wrote a profile piece about her, which we had to scrap, but we did write some features when she went missing. Everything’s online, but if you’d like to see the actual print copies, we have them all filed in the basement.”
Online would have been fine, but it was obvious Jessica was hoping to show her the print copies, so Joelle followed her down a narrow, steep staircase. When Jessica reached the basement, she threw on a series of lights, illuminating rows and rows of shelving containing neatly labeled cardboard boxes.
“It’s all here! The entire history of the Lost Trail Courier. Isn’t it marvelous? Of course you can access everything digitally now,” she said, “via the Montana Newspaper Association. But I enjoy browsing through the actual papers.”
Seeing that big room, full of boxed history, Joelle was impressed and a little awed. “In today’s digital world, it’s so challenging to keep a small newspaper viable.”
“The key is to be relevant to your community. Folks around here care about their history. One of our most popular columns is my ‘Remember When’ column where I dive into our old issues for some of the more interesting stories and events from our past.”
As she was talking, Jessica had been disappearing deeper and deeper into the stacks. Finally she emerged with a box labeled July – December 2009. “Here you go. You’re welcome to make copies, but the actual newspapers can’t leave the premises.”
“Thanks so much.” Joelle spent the next hour looking through the weekly September issues for articles about Eve Brooks. She only found a few, which she copied to read later. After refiling the box in the proper space, she went back upstairs, where Jessica gave her the most current issue of the paper.
“Come back any time if you have more questions.”
It was a relief to get out of the cool basement with its small casement windows and dusty, old-paper smell. She’d intended to go to the library next, but though it was only a few minutes past eleven, she felt tired, and hungry, and in need of more caffeine. She remembered seeing the Snowdrift Café on her way into town and decided to head there for some rejuvenating.
As she lined up behind two young mothers with babies strapped to their chests, she contemplated the choices on the chalkboard, and in the display case, with an avid appetite. When it was her turn, a woman in her late thirties, with a long braid and a warm smile, asked what she wanted.
“Large iced latte, quinoa salad, and a peanut butter cookie.”
“Coming right up. Are you in town for the Huckleberry Festival?”
“Not particularly. I’m visiting from Whitefish.”
“Welcome to Lost Trail. I hope you enjoy your stay. I’m Patsy and I hope to see you in here again.”
“Thanks, I’m Joelle. And I’m sure you’ll see me again.” Joelle took her food to the outdoor patio, where she settled down to read the Lost Trail Courier. The front headline read Volunteers Prepare for Huckleberry Onslaught. The accompanying article focused on the preparations for the county’s largest summer festival, with many quotes from the head organizer, Vera Cocker. Joelle’s assumption that the woman had been present at the pancake breakfast was confirmed when she turned the page and saw a photo of the Huckleberry Festival’s organizing committee. Standing front row center was a silver-haired woman with a distinctive beauty. Definitely the Joan Crawford lookalike: Wyatt’s mother and Edward’s ex-wife.
On page four Joelle found the “Remember When” column with Jessica Hardy’s byline. This week Jessica had featured a church picnic sixty-five years ago that had been broken up by an uninvited black bear who made quick work of the basket of fried chicken, before grabbing a large watermelon and loping off into the woods.
As Joelle flipped the page, another bear caught her attention, this one standing upright next to the thick reddish trunk of an old ponderosa pine tree. It was captioned: Male Griz Poses for Trail Cam. It was an extraordinary picture—the bear seemed to be staring right into the camera. The short accompanying paragraph read: Wildlife biologist, Shawn Ward, shares this week’s best trail cam image, taken less than a mile from the Ancient Cedars trail parking lot. A good reminder to make lots of noise and carry bear spray when hiking in the area. A small headshot of Shawn accompanied the article, and Joelle thought again what a nice-looking guy he was.
Joelle read a few more articles before diving into the obituaries. A ninety-four-year-old retired rancher had played center and linebacker for the Missoula Grizzlies—her alma mater—before establishing the Sapphire Ranch and growing it to one of the most successful operations in the Bitterroot Valley. The rancher, Lee Lawson, had also been president of the Western Montana Stockmen’s Association and been awarded a Lifelong Achievement Award for his years of service. He left behind four children and ten grandchildren, all of whom he was said to consider his greatest achievements.
As Joelle refolded the newspaper, she reflected that it provided a good look into what life was like here in Lost Trail. No wonder it remained so popular with the locals. As she prepared to leave, she noticed a guy in his early twenties eyeing her. He had a long ponytail and thickly lashed brown eyes.
“Excuse me, ma’am. If you’re done with that, would you mind if I read it?”
Joelle didn’t particularly like being called “ma’am,” but she recognized he was simply being courteous. She noticed he had a trail map spread out on his table, with a portion of the Continental Divide hiking trail highlighted in yellow.
“No problem.” She handed him the paper. “It’s very interesting. I hope you enjoy it.” The paper had actually exceeded her expectations in almost every way. There’d been a beautifully written article about enjoying simple pleasures in a hard life, which she’d found particularly moving.
“Thanks a lot. I’m trying to pass some time before meeting my girlfriend, Jamie. We’ve booked a room at the Sweet Dreams Bed and Breakfast by the library for the town’s big Huckleberry Festival.”
The man’s oversharing word dump suggested he was nervous. “Is your girlfriend driving in from somewhere?”
“No, she’s hiking. She’s due off the Continental Divide Trail today. She’s supposed to be calling me when she reaches Chief Joseph Pass.”
From her research Joelle knew the pass was a common pick-up and drop-off point for hikers. “Is she hiking with friends?”
“No. Alone,” he said anxiously. “She decided to do this very spur-of-the-moment. If she could have waited until next year, I would have been able to join her.”
“Well, I hope she phones in soon.”
“Me too. She’s already a few hours later than I expected.” He took the paper from her. “I’m Matt, by the way.”
“And I’m Joelle. When did you last hear from Jamie?”
“She can’t contact me on the trail—there’s almost never any cell reception. But she did call me from Anaconda about six days ago. Everything was fine then.”
“She’s probably just tired and hiking slower than expected,” Joelle said to cheer him up.
“Thanks. I hope you’re right.”
Joelle said goodbye, then took the stairs down from the patio to the sidewalk, where she almost bumped into Myrtle, heading toward the café.
Her landlady was no longer in her gardening clothes, but a floral kimono-styled dress, which looked both pretty and cool. On her feet were the same tan-colored Birkenstocks Joelle had noticed yesterday.
