Secrets Don't Sink, page 24
Viv wrinkled her forehead. “I’m not sure if I’m more curious about that or the fact you’re spending the day with Darren. Sounds like we do indeed have a lot of catching up to do. I’m only working at the station until noon today, so maybe we can talk before I have to leave for Nautilus.”
After Viv left, I returned my attention to Marcus’s safe, which taunted me from the coffee table. I glared back at it.
I started with Marcus’s birthday, June seventeenth. Six-one-seven, twist. Nothing.
I stomped to the bedroom Quasimodo-style to get my phone, which had a text from Darren reminding me of our designated pick-up time.
Leaning against the edge of the bed for support, I opened Facebook and searched for Renee Washburn. We had several mutual friends. Renee’s profile picture was of Tom Brady, which didn’t help my already-low opinion of her. That was considered blasphemy in Seahawks country.
A scan of her bio revealed Renee’s birthday to be November third. A Scorpio.
Hobbling back to the living room, I rotated the dials into position for Renee’s birthday. One-one-three. Again, the knob resisted. I tried their children’s birthdates, which I pieced together from Marcus’s postings. No luck.
On a whim, I maneuvered the gears into a code I was certain would prove futile. I twisted the knob. It made a full revolution, and the metal plate sealing the safe lifted.
The code he’d chosen was my birthday. I could hardly believe it, but the unlocked safe spoke for itself.
My hands shook with anticipation as I removed the torn piece of paper on top, and my chest constricted at the sight of my name in Marcus’s handwriting.
Audrey,
I know you’ll find this, and I know you’ll know what to do with it.
Marcus
The bulky item underneath the note was enveloped in animal hide and bound by leather ribbon. The front flap had a slit, with a leather button poking through. I carefully lifted the item as if removing a baby bird from its nest and brought it to my nostrils. The musty smell reminded me of all the downtown Chattertowne antique stores my Gramma May used to frequent, often with Viv and me in tow.
I placed it in my lap and began opening it. With each unraveling of the strap, I came closer to revealing the cocooned prize.
At last, when I reached the end of the labyrinth of trim, I slid the button through the hole and lifted the flap to find a bundle of fragile yellowed papers. My fingertips caught the edge of the first sheet and turned it on its face to reveal the next one. I loosely held each page and cursorily examined paragraphs of faded sepia cursive writing, lists, maps, and drawings.
It didn’t take an expert to know the papers were old.
I was holding Jonathan Chatterton’s journal. I’d believed the safe contained something important, but never in my dreams had I imagined it to be a nineteenth-century historical record from the town’s founder.
I glanced at the clock on the microwave. If I didn’t hop in the shower right away, Darren would arrive to find me wearing pajamas.
Still, I couldn’t resist letting my index finger trace over the soft cover one more time.
The promised hot cup of coffee warmed my hands as Darren merged onto the interstate. If it weren’t for the chilly temperatures, I’d have rolled my window down to inhale the scent of pine. After my shower, I’d slid the diary into a plastic Ziploc bag and into the satchel, which now rested at my feet. It was a delicious secret, one I didn’t think I could keep to myself for long, but I still wasn’t sure if Darren could be trusted with such an important revelation.
On the east side of Snoqualmie Summit, the forest began to give way to plains, and soon we took the exit for Ellensburg.
Marie had asked to meet at an old-school diner near Central Washington University. A red and white sign reading “Gary’s” hung over the door of a tan building with oil-rubbed bronze street lanterns flanking each side. The interior was cluttered with memorabilia such as tin signs, classic car and iconic celebrity posters, retro neon logos, and advertisements for everything from soda to soap to automotive oils. The booths were red leather, the counter stools were red leather, as was the waitress’s skin. Not really, but she’d seen a lot of sun and/or indoor tanning beds. Her hair was a platinum bouffant straight out of 1962.
“Seat yourselves, darlin’s!” Her raspy greeting completed the scene.
In the corner was a woman with braided silver hair so long it rested on the table in front of her. She wore a cobalt cowl-necked sweater patterned with beige zigzags, dream-catcher earrings, and beaded necklaces which adorned her wrinkled décolletage. In contrast, her bisque face was smooth and serene. She could’ve been anywhere from sixty to a hundred.
Upon our approach, she considered us, and whatever she’d observed must’ve passed scrutiny because she nodded her assent for us to join her.
“You must be Audrey.” Marie extended her thin, frail hand in greeting. Her skin was cold but not clammy, supple without being slick.
“Yes, hi, Marie. Thank you for agreeing to talk with us this morning. This is my, uh, coworker Darren.”
Instead of a normal handshake, Darren cradled her hand like he was holding a valuable antiquity. “So lovely to meet you.”
“So, how do you know Mildred?” I asked, scooting into the booth across from Marie.
“Mildred and I have known each other since we were girls. She used to babysit me and my little sister on the nights our parents played bridge.”
I leaned forward. “She told me about those bridge nights. She said the couples were tight until Eddie Chatterton and George Hart had a falling out. Do you remember anything about that?”
“I wasn’t very interested in what was happening with the grown-ups. I was enamored with Mildred in the way little girls admire older girls who seem far more mature and sophisticated. I do, however, remember very clearly Mr. Chatterton’s boys were brats.”
“That’s what Mildred said, with regard to Jimmy more than Dickie. Speaking of Mildred, did she explain why I wanted to meet with you?”
Marie played with the bead necklaces. “She said something about you writing about Chattertowne’s inception for the newspaper, but also, you’re on a personal quest to understand your own heritage.”
“Until recently, I thought those were two separate things, but now I believe they’re connected. I’ve seen evidence Jonathan Chatterton was romantically involved with, maybe even married to, a Flathead woman named Nettie and I’m almost positive they had a child together. Then last night Mildred dropped a couple bombshells about Aunt Fanny and my Grandma Allie having Flathead heritage.”
“Aunt Fanny?”
“You might have known her as Frances Dedeaux…or Frances Bristow…or Lundquist…Littlejohn…or Doughty. None of the men who gave her those names stuck around for long, although I suspect Aunt Fanny was the one who ended the relationships.”
“Oh! Mrs. Doughty, yes, I do remember her and her granddaughter Allie Bristow as well, although she was younger than me.” Marie tapped her lips with a long arthritic finger. Her nail was painted fuchsia. “I recall hearing rumors about a Flathead connection to the Chatterton family, but always disregarded them. People tend to romanticize Native history. They want to claim the perceived benefits of tribal heritage while exempting themselves from the biases, racism, and persecution Indigenous People experience. They love the idea of Indigenous culture but couldn’t tell you the difference between the Bitterroot-Salish and the neighboring Blackfeet Nation.”
“So, you think the rumors are false?” I couldn’t hide my disappointment.
“Not necessarily. Mrs. Doughty likely had Salish roots because she was good friends with my grandmother, and my grandmother rarely associated with anyone outside her social circle.”
“What can you tell me about the Flathead People? Or should I call them Bitterroot-Salish? Flathead sounds like it might be a derogatory term.”
“No one knows for certain how the name came to be. There were tribes who participated in the flattening of heads, but the Salish did not. We believe it was likely the result of a misunderstanding. This is the sign language used to identify our People.” Marie pressed a hand to each side of her head. “It means we the people.”
“Fanny’s maiden name, Dedeaux, sounds French, which fits with what my mother always told me about that part of my heritage. She never mentioned any Indigenous relatives, though. Was intermarriage common between the French and the local tribes?”
“It wasn’t uncommon. A lot of traders came through, not to mention the Black Robes.”
“Black Robes?” I asked.
“The Jesuits. One of my ancestors was a French Jesuit priest, Henri Journet, who fell in love with my three times great grandmother, a Salish woman named Sulee. Family lore is they met while building St. Mary’s Mission. Sulee helped in the hewing of the timber. We are from the Billings area, so I am also part Crow,” Marie said.
Darren leaned forward. “This is fascinating stuff. So, if Audrey’s descended from any of these groups, how would she go about establishing her connection?”
Marie shook her head. “She likely cannot, and, truthfully, she probably should not. She can take a DNA test, but if she is even ten percent North American Indigenous, I would be surprised. The blood-quantum issue is a sticky one.” She glanced at me. “You could try to reconstruct your lineage, but records are spotty. All I have are my family’s oral history and traditions, along with some artifacts I have inherited. My skin is pale. My eyes are light. I have only my father’s and my grandfather’s word. For me, that is enough. For others, maybe not. As the Cherokee Nation has stated, using a DNA test or family stories to imply a connection to any tribe is wholly inappropriate and wrong. What defines a member of a tribe is not easily quantified. This is an area everyone must tread carefully.”
The waitress brought our food, which created a lull in the conversation. I surprised even myself when the next words flew out of my mouth.
“I have Jonathan Chatterton’s journal!”
Darren’s brows furrowed. “What?”
Marie’s eyes widened. “The Jonathan Chatterton?”
“Yes. The Jonathan Chatterton.”
Darren’s scowl intensified. “Audrey, what are you talking about?”
“I just found it this morning, but I haven’t read it yet.”
Darren took a deep breath, pacing its release. “You tend to start conversations where you left off in your own mind. Could you bring the rest of us up to speed?”
I pulled out the Ziploc bag. “Yesterday, I was at Marcus’s house going through stacks of files, trying to find a possible motive for his murder and Renee’s disappearance. I figured Marcus got his hands on something which fed his blog posts about the Chatterton family, like the pages missing from George Hart’s book. I also couldn’t discount the possibility he was paranoid and delusional. Okay, not a possibility, he definitely was, but not necessarily about this.” I tapped the table with my fingertips. “When I was in his office yesterday looking through the files he’d compiled, I noticed a book on his shelf identical to one my boss keeps in his office for hiding his whiskey flask. It looks like a dictionary but has a locking safe inside. I didn’t tell Sergeant Bianchi I found it because I didn’t want him to take it before I’d had a chance to see what was inside. I shoved it in my bag.”
“That’s a crime.” Darren crossed his arms.
“When I got home last night, I was planning on busting into the safe, but—”
“I was standing there waiting for you,” Darren said. “I sensed you were agitated, but I figured it was about me.”
I pursed my lips. “You’re not totally wrong about that. My reservations about you have been growing by the day.”
Marie looked between the two of us with fascination.
Darren raised and lowered his left brow. “Understandable. So, after I left, did you look at it?”
“Marcus prided himself in being able to sniff out corruption and conspiracies,” I said. “He considered himself brighter than the average guy. He wasn’t, so I figured he’d have used a basic code like triple zero or one-two-three.”
“What did the magic number turn out to be?” Marie shoveled a caramelized banana from her Jamaican French toast into her mouth. “Excuse my manners. I’m starving, and this is delicious.”
I shifted in my seat. “By all means, please eat.”
Darren’s gaze narrowed at me. “You’re acting squirrelly.”
My cheeks warmed. “It’s embarrassing, but I swear it’s not what it sounds like.”
“Spit it out.”
“He used my birthday.”
Darren’s left eyebrow shot up again, and this time it stayed there. “Wow, he must’ve still carried a torch for you after all these years.”
“See, that’s what I thought at first, but then I found a note inside addressed to me. I think he reached out to me knowing if anything happened to him, I’d pursue the story until eventually I found the safe.”
Marie’s expression brightened. “You’re in possession of an artifact that could change Chattertowne’s historical narrative significantly. After we’re done here, I’ll have you two follow me to my house, and we can lay it out on my dining room table to take a look.”
Darren gestured toward my plate. “Go on, then. Chow down. I wanna see what old Johnny boy has to say for himself.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
27 September 1863
Chattertowne, Territory of Washington
I am a coward and a sinner. I have sent Nettie away to my former home to lie-in until such time she can birth my child. I have given her neither the dignity of my last name, nor the defense of her reputation.
She was there for my beloved wife Madeleine as she brought our son Michael into the world, and as she took her last breaths. She has raised Michael as her own, she has been a helpmate to me, and I have rewarded her by denying her in the public square.
I have lain with her, and loved her, and impregnated her, and now have abandoned her. Instead of honoring her and making her my wife, I have bastardized our child, never to be legitimate, and sentenced her to life as a Jezebel. I am no better than her Jesuit father, Phillipe Dedeaux, who never claimed her and raised her as an orphan instead of as his own after her mother passed.
Whispers and innuendo abound, but Nettie has promised to remain steadfast in her denials. Tis a cruel world in which we live, and I am complicit in its cruelty. I am ashamed and embarrassed and find myself contemplating what Madeleine might think of such matters. No doubt she would be ashamed on my behalf.
Tis a sign of my deep abiding cowardice that legitimacy for my child shall come only when I can no longer be held to accompt for my iniquities.
24 April 1864
Chattertowne, Territory of Washington
The Lord hast blessed me with another son, and Nettie has given him the virile name of Jacob Philippe. Her accompt is he has black hair and hazel-gray eyes with brown skin, markedly different from his fair-haired light-eyed brother. Tis unlikely anyone in Chattertowne will match him to me.
When Nettie comes home, we shall have a ceremony between the two of us to unite in Spiritual Matrimony. I love her, and I want her to be my wife, even if in secret.
In the Name of God, Amen. The Seventeenth Day of July in the Year of our Lord One Thousand Eight Hundred and Seventy-Two, I, Jonathan Chatterton, of Chattertowne Township, Territory of Washington, being of sound body and mind, thanks be to God Almighty, do hereby enter this document, my last will, and testament. At the time of my death, will I commit my Spirit unto the Heavenly Realm and into the waiting arms of my Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ, upon whom my faith rests. I authorize the disposal of my estate, land, and belongings in the following manner.
To my firstborn son Michael Jonathan Chatterton, I bequeath half my land, as designated at the incorporation of the Chattertowne Charter. I bequeath my current home and all of its contents. I hereby request he be made executor of my will and testament. May he use wisdom, disposing of my Earthly possessions according to my desires listed herein.
To my son Jacob Philippe Dedeaux, I bequeath half my land, as designated at the incorporation of the Chattertowne Charter. Bearing the surname of his mother has both protected him and robbed him of his birthright. I pray one day, he shall freely use my name.
To my love Nettie, my wife in the Eyes of Almighty, I give and bequeath the remainder of my belongings and my original homestead for her to live in until I am face to face with her again at the Pearly Gates.
On this, I hereunto set my hand and seal,
Jonathan Chatterton
Signed, Sealed, and Acknowledged by Jonathan Chatterton in our presence and witnessed thusly,
Aaron Grimes
Hugh Shropshire, Attorney
Chapter Thirty
I gasped as the parchment, wrinkled and worn soft with time, fell from my fingertips. Marie was on the verge of tears. Darren’s skin was sallow, and his expression was filled with horror.
Dedeaux. Jacob Dedeaux. His mother’s name. His mother, Nettie. Jeannetta. Jeannetta Dedeaux. Daughter of French priest Philippe Dedeaux.
Could it be? Could I really be?
I looked again at Darren. “Are you okay? You look like you might vomit.”
He shook his head no. I wasn’t sure if he meant no, I’m not okay or no, I’m not going to vomit.
After a prolonged silence, Marie clapped her hands. “Well, isn’t that just… something! Do you suppose there is a connection between your Dedeaux ancestors and Nettie and Jacob?”
“The rumors of Salish heritage, the same French last name, the sense of illegitimacy and shame hanging over my family, passed from generation to generation through our DNA…if it is true, and if we are descendants of Jonathan—”
“Then you are rightful heirs and blood-related….” Darren began but stopped, grimacing as he swallowed. He stared at the documents on Marie’s kitchen table like they carried the plague.
