Tahoe Deep, page 29
part #17 of An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Series
“That hurt,” I said. “A curmudgeon who uses his cane to physically abuse others. Let’s get you locked inside a vehicle so you can’t hurt anyone else.”
Soon, we had Daniel home and ensconced in his rocker. Mae made a pot of tea and poured cups for each of us. Daniel had taken off his glasses. He seemed in good spirits although weary. Spot lay on the floor next to him. Spot was on his side, stretched out, taking up as much space as possible. Daniel let his arm hang off the side of the chair so he could pet him.
“I guess not all dogs are dangerous,” he said. “Will he mind if I measure his neck for a triquetra necklace?”
“No. He’ll think you’re fashioning a collar, which he likes because they make him think he’s going on a W-A-L-K.”
At the sound of the letters, Spot lifted his head and looked at me. I stared the opposite direction, toward the kitchen, staying as unresponsive as possible. Eventually, Spot put his head back down.
Daniel reached over to his leather spool, found the end of the strap and pulled it out, unspooling a long piece. As Daniel reached down to thread it under Spot’s neck, Spot rolled up onto his chest and elbows, his head up. He started panting.
“Neck like a horse,” Daniel said as he wrapped the leather around Spot’s neck, gauging the length he needed. Then he removed it, added substantial extra length, and cut it off with his wire cutter. Daniel took one end of the strip and made a loop. With deft movements that showed years of practice, he worked the leather into a complex shape, pulling and tugging just so to create something that initially looked like a large knot with multiple loops and intersections. He used his index finger as a measuring stick, working the intersections gradually tighter as he adjusted the loops into a careful shape that would eventually be an uncanny shamrock.
“Daniel, I’ve been thinking…” I said as he worked.
“I’m glad someone is. You listen to the news and find out it’s just about celebrities, you get the idea that most people regard thinking as an affliction best to be dispensed with.”
I nodded. “When you showed us the framed picture of Nora and sang the lines that were printed in Braille on the frame’s backing paper, I watched you use your fingertips on the dots.”
“Of course. That’s how you read Braille,” he said with a bit of an edge to his voice. He looked up toward the mantle where the picture sat. I noticed that he was looking at the wrong angle. But that was as good as his foggy vision provided. He knew the picture was up there.
“It seemed like you didn’t sing all the words on the back of the picture,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
Daniel had doubled up the leather loops to make them stiffer. Even though I’d seen his finished triquetras and was watching him create a new one, I still couldn’t understand how it worked.
“Your fingers went along,” I said, “and you sang the words. Then you stopped singing at the end of the chorus. But your fingertips seemed to be feeling more Braille.”
“Hand me the picture.”
I lifted it off the mantle and handed it to him. He set the knot of leather cord in his lap. He took the picture, turned it over, and ran his fingers over the dots. His mouth made little silent movements. At the bottom of the backing paper, he stopped moving his lips as his index fingertip came to the last dots.
“I understand the confusion,” he said. “The words are ‘Oh Danny Boy, Oh Danny Boy, I love you so.’ Then come more dots as if more words are to come.”
“At the bottom of the backing paper,” I said.
“Yes. This was done with the Hall Braille Writer. It was a cumbersome process back then, punching keys to make the corresponding dots. After Nora ran the paper through the Braille writer, she must have torn off the end of the paper so it would fit the back of the frame.”
“What if whatever words came next were put inside the frame behind the photo?”
Daniel held the frame without moving. Then he pushed in on the backing paper as if to judge what might be behind it.
“Mae,” he said. “Would you please get me my scissors?”
Mae stood up, went into the galley kitchen and opened a drawer. She came back and reached out with a small scissors, holding the handle end toward him.
Daniel took the scissors and, feeling very carefully, inserted the pointed end through the backing paper next to the edge of the frame. He slowly snipped with the scissors, cutting with precision around the frame’s perimeter.
Daniel set the scissors aside. He caught the edge of the paper with his fingernails and lifted out a group of several papers. Gripping them as a group, he carefully set the original backing paper on his lap. The paper below it also had Braille dots. Daniel felt carefully. He made a strong frown.
“Yes, you are right, Owen. There is more here to read. Much more. It seems Nora wrote me a letter about eighty years ago.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Daniel began to read with halting words.
“March twenty-six, nineteen forty-two.
Danny darling,
I’ve been working on this note for some time, typing it on the Braille writer. I’m not good at typing Braille like you, so you will see typos. But of course you already know that. I’m actually not good at anything the way you are. The only thing I can do better than you is see, I suppose. But even vision is something where you eventually developed superior skills to mine and those of most people. You may not see well, but your powers of observation are amazing.
You know that I’ve always wanted to write. Virginia Woolf said that if a woman wants to write, she needs some money and a room of her own. I’ve started many different writing projects. But they never came to anything. I thought it was because I was broke and didn’t have the physical space or mental space. So I worked hard arranging for both. But once I had a little space and money, it didn’t help me.
Writing is for loners. But I’m a social creature. I belong in an office with all the commotion.
Now that I realize I don’t have the right temperament to pursue my dream, I’m giving you what I’ve got. It’s not cash money, but it’s almost the same. The main thing I want you to know is that I only hurt two people. One was to protect you. And the other was you.
It’s time to tell you a story. Two stories.
First, when I met Frank, I learned that he had tried his hand at barnstorming during the depression around Fresno, where he grew up. Despite Frank’s interest in me, his first and main love was a girl named Jenny.
He flew a Jenny, a type of plane first used in The Great War. After the war, all the leftover Jenny planes were sold cheap. Frank said you could land that plane on any field. And of course, there’s nothing but fields near Fresno. When I got to know him better, he said he’d let me in on a secret. He’d met a man who also flew Jenny planes. A rich man named Jack Questman who had a mansion at Lake Tahoe. Jack Questman didn’t get rich from hard work but from crime. He made a business of stealing valuable things, items that didn’t have something called chain of ownership. Frank said the word for it was provenance. The way he explained it was that with some things there is a way to identify the item, like an identification number. And many things come with a bill of sale that names the seller and the buyer and the date of the transaction. That is what makes provenance an ongoing record of ownership. So if you find an item with provenance, then you can know if it is held by its rightful owner or not. But if you have something that doesn’t come with provenance, then simple possession of it is the main qualification for ownership. Whoever has it can sell it. And if the person who has it stole it from someone else who previously stole it, then the former owner would have no claim on it.
Frank said that the rich man had stolen treasure from others far across the country. According to Frank, Questman had even committed murder. Frank said one of the rich man’s greatest treasures was a stamp with a picture of a Jenny airplane, only the plane was mistakenly printed upside down. Which made the stamp extremely valuable. Frank said the rich man stole the stamp from a New York collector who was in trouble with the Mafia, and that’s why the collector kept his possession of the stamp secret.
Frank realized that if he stole the stamp from the rich man and wasn’t caught in the process, the rich man couldn’t prove he’d ever owned it. Frank often talked about his plan to steal the stamp. But his statements were sometimes contradictory. I came to think that it was a charade, that he’d already broken into the man’s Tahoe mansion and stolen it. Then one time, I went to visit Frank at the campground where he was staying. I could see Frank in his tent. He didn’t know I was there. He was holding a sheet of paper folded in half. And it was taped on all the edges for protection. Frank put it in a pocket on the inside of his jacket. Several times, when we were close, I sensed that folded paper in his inner pocket.
Because he pretended he hadn’t yet stolen it, I knew his lies were expanding.
Frank also thought that you would figure out his plan and betray him to the authorities. He said you’d been nearby when we’d discussed things, and that you could have overheard us. Of course, we never explicitly stated what we were doing. But Frank said you were smarter than anyone he knew and that we couldn’t trust you.
He made frequent references to you being a threat. I was so afraid that he’d hurt you or worse. Maybe I was suffering from paranoia. But I think my concerns were realistic. After some scary things Frank said, I came to believe that Frank was going to do something terrible to you so you couldn’t ever tell anyone about the stamp. And there were other things about Frank, certain things he did, that were very troubling, things I can’t even bring myself to mention. All I’ll say was that I discovered the hard way that he was a very bad man.
So I figured out how to get him out to the Tahoe Steamer before they scuttled it. I did it under the guise of explaining how we could kill and hide the rich man’s body. I was showing him the ship’s lockers and said we could hide the rich man’s body there. When Frank leaned into the locker, I hit him on the head. He fell inside. I reached into his inner pocket and pulled out the folded paper with the inverted Jenny stamp taped inside. Then I shut the door and locked it with his body inside. They scuttled the Steamer the next day.
Anyway, now that I have something worth lots of money, I realize that you’re the only one who really needs money. So I’m putting the stamp in the safest place I can think of, behind a picture of me to give to you, my sweet kid brother who I love more than life. I’m going to put something in Braille on the back of the frame, so you’ll know to look inside. I know they say that surgery for your eyes isn’t very helpful or reliable, either. But they keep developing new techniques. When the time is right, you’ll have money to pay for it.”
Daniel paused and set the Braille letter down in his lap. He was breathing hard.
“So I was wrong all these years,” he said. “Frank wasn’t two-timing Nora for a girl named Jenny. How could I have made such a misjudgment? Things always seem crystal clear to us until we find out we are wrong.”
After a minute he resumed reading.
“Now there is just one more story to tell you. This is harder to admit than telling you what I did to Frank. But I’ve decided to tell you so you will understand what I’m about to do.
When you were burned, mom and dad swore me to secrecy. They said that if I ever told you the truth, it would take a situation that was already unbelievably bad and make it much worse.
They are no doubt right. But if I don’t tell you, you will think that I’m just a flighty, ditzy girl, incapable of controlling my moods. I would be one of those silly people who, despite having most things people need, think life is so unfair that they’ll just end it.
Well, I may be vain and self-indulgent. I may overreact. I may be unrealistic.
But I have my reasons. I hurt you badly. It was a terrible wrong.
You of course remember that I’ve read a lot about both the Japanese Samurai warriors and Virginia Woolf. The Samurai have multiple ways of finding an honorable end to a very shameful experience. The way they die depends on their circumstances, such as if they’ve committed a serious crime. Or maybe they’re about to lose a battle in a war. There are even death traditions for expressing ultimate indignation over something their leaders have done wrong.
The tradition that applies to me is called Sokotsu-shi. It is for when a Samurai has committed a serious transgression that brings endless shame on him even if it’s not a crime. You will probably find it a very flawed concept, but it’s a Samurai way to make up for reckless behavior, something terrible that one did wrong. For some, it’s about making amends to their gods. For me, it’s about a personal honor. It’s called expiation. Although, you’re so smart, maybe you already know that. One of the ways that Samurai performed Sokotsu-shi was to weigh themselves down by putting on their heaviest armor and jumping into the sea. In a sense, that’s what Virginia Woolf did. Sokotsu-shi. It will work for me, too.
As you know, I’ve struggled mightily over the years, always charging one way or the other to find some kind of balance in my moods.
The reason is this. What you never knew is that you didn’t cause the accident that ruined your eyes. You didn’t pull the boiling water down on yourself. That was something mom and dad wanted you to think. They were trying to protect me.
It happened one night when mom and dad were out on one of their rare summer dates. They had asked me to be your babysitter.
I remember the scene like it was burned into my brain. I was cooking us dinner. I had chicken thighs in the fry pan and potatoes and green beans boiling in the sauce pan. I had the radio on loud so I could hear it in the kitchen. They were playing big band swing. While I cooked, I danced around, stepping and jumping and turning, practicing the steps to the Lindy Hop. I was imagining that someday I’d meet a dream boy who would sweep me out onto the dance floor.
You were standing there, looking up at me, reaching up to the edge of the counter. You were a tiny kid, asking me if you could have a drink of water.
I was very stupid. While I reached for a glass in the cupboard above the sink, I kept dancing. I pulled the glass out, held it above my head, and spun around, singing to the music.
My dress caught the handle of the pan with the potatoes, and it tipped off. The boiling water fell onto your upturned face.
Danny, I could never say how sorry I am. I’m the one who destroyed your vision and so much of your life.
They say that an accident is just that, an accident. The person who was hurt didn’t deserve it. The person who caused it didn’t mean to do harm. If we accept that accidents happen - that it isn’t fate - we have to accept that we could be on the receiving end or on the causing end of any accident, no matter how bad. Even the most cautious people still have accidents, right?
The problem is that it wasn’t just an innocent accident. I caused it through gross negligence, dancing while I was cooking, ignoring the fact that my baby brother was near the stove. I was conjuring up my dream boy, while my real dream boy was right there in the kitchen with me.
What I’m about to do after writing this will also cause you pain, too. But I can’t take this next step without you knowing that it is about taking an honorable action in the Samurai tradition. To have honor, a terrible wrong needs to be balanced with some kind of response, even if it brings pain to those we love. The response is aimed at myself, no one else. Is that selfish? Yes, certainly. But this is what I must do.
Please try to accept my feelings even though you won’t agree. You are my light, Danny. When I spiral down, it’s real dark. When the cold winds suck the fire out of me, I look to you for warmth and sustenance. And I always will. Oh, Danny Boy, I love you so.’”
Daniel stopped reading. He held the papers in one hand and wiped his eyes with the other. He seemed to have trouble getting enough air into his lungs.
None of us dared interrupt the moment. It was some time before he spoke.
“Now I learn the truth,” he said. “Eighty years later. What a terrible, terrible mistake she made. Nora was always the most important person in my life. Now, because of her decision, I’ve lived my entire life without her.”
Eventually, Mae said, “I’m so sorry, Daniel.”
“Her hero Virginia Woolf died on March twenty-eighth, nineteen forty-one. Woolf struggled with mental illness just as Nora struggled. When Woolf couldn’t bear it any longer, she filled her coat pockets with rocks and walked into the River Ouse near where she lived in Sussex, England. Exactly one year later, Nora did the same thing in Monterey Bay. She was twenty-three.”
Mae raised her fist to her mouth.
Street was sitting next to me. She reached for my hand and squeezed it hard.
After a long silence, Daniel set the Braille letter to the side. Underneath it was another paper, folded once. It had decorative tape around the perimeter. He ran his fingertips around the edges, then handed the folded paper to Mae. “Maybe you better do it so I don’t tear anything.”
Mae used the scissors to slit one of the edges, then flexed it open an inch. She looked inside and inhaled. “Daniel, the stamp Nora mentioned? The Jenny airplane that was printed upside down? This is a whole bunch of them in a sheet.” She pulled out a rectangle of stamps, unfolded it twice, and counted. “There’s twenty of them.”
Daniel breathed hard. After a long moment, he said, “I remember hearing about the inverted Jenny stamp when I was a boy. I think there are only a few in existence. Or at least until this group joins the stamp world. Years ago, they were a million dollars each or something. Of course, the price of a collector’s item is supported by the item’s rarity. So this quantity would lessen the value. But twenty of them would add up. Oh, Nora, Nora, Nora…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “All these years on my mantle. But I’d rather have you.”
