Fifteen minutes later, Goldie was walking up the sidewalk of the Eggleston residence on Falcon Drive with the boxed and gift-wrapped angel in hand. She’d gotten the address from Clara, although Peter had mentioned she lived on Falcon Drive the day before. Like so many houses in town, it was a lovely two-story Victorian. It was built in 1879, and although the house was wood, it had a distinctive fieldstone chimney that ran up the right-hand side of the house. It also had a nice rectangular stained glass window over the front door and a red Sparkledove Realty sign in the front yard.
Martha Eggleston was trim, in her mid-to-late thirties, and had black hair that she wore in tight curls on the sides of her head that got longer and looser toward the back; Victory Curls, people called them. She wore a plain blue dress with a white cardigan sweater. Goldie asked for a few minutes of her time to give her a little gift. Martha recognized her from the potluck dinner at St. Mark’s and invited her in for coffee. The house had very few lights on, but Goldie could see that it was nicely decorated, although not for Christmas.
While water was heating up in a tea kettle on the stove, the women sat at the kitchen table, and Goldie presented her gift. Martha was both pleased with and saddened by the ceramic angel.
“It’s beautiful!” she exclaimed. “But my heart’s just not into decorating this year. In fact, I’ve asked to withdraw from the Tour of Homes.”
“What’s that?” Goldie queried.
“Homes are opened up to visitors on the second Friday and Saturday evenings in December,” she replied. “Just the first floors. Everybody on the tour decorates their home in the style of the 1860s to 1890s. Except, no candles on the Christmas trees. That’s too much of a fire hazard.”
“Right,” Goldie recalled, “the mayor mentioned something to me about that.”
“Yes,” she said, disgusted. “Just another one of his many ways to drive us homeowners into the poor house.”
Martha caught herself and stepped back on her attitude. “Sorry, Goldie. You’re here to write a tourism story. Not hear the gripes of an angry widow.”
“It’s okay,” the younger woman reassured. “Anything you say to me is off the record and won’t have any effect on the article. Part of the reason I’m here today is that I thought you might need to vent.”
“Vent?”
“Talk things out. Believe me, I understand having no one to talk to when things turn to crap.”
Martha rose from the table, folded her arms, and went to her kitchen window, staring out pensively at the overcast day.
“We moved here six years ago because of the charm of the town and the beautiful old houses, nestled in between the mountains and the river. We liked the idea of living in a place where people wanted to go for the holidays… the Fourth of July, Christmas… things like that.
“But the town’s historical society really expects you to keep your houses just so. Especially on the outside. Owning an old home is like owning a boat. You just keep pouring more and more money into this big hole. Exterior painting, a new roof, landscaping, and even the type of curtains we hang are dictated. Besides the upkeep, we were also paying dues to the historical society for street maintenance, upkeep of the covered bridge, flowers in common areas in the summer—you name it. With Bucky commuting and me not working, we never saved a dime.”
“Did you ever think about goin’ to work?” Goldie asked.
“Of course. But I’ve got no car now, and that really limits work options. I also have no skills. I never worked before because Bucky wanted his wife to be a homemaker like his mother. We were hoping to raise a family. We tried for years to have kids, but it never happened. Actually, in an odd way, that turned out to be a blessing. We had to take out a second mortgage because we weren’t keeping up with things. Mayor Banyan actually makes home inspections. Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t,” Goldie replied.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s taking some of those historical society dues and lining his own pockets.”
Just then, the tea kettle started to whistle.
“When the war broke out, things got even tougher,” Martha continued, rising and going over to the stove. “There were manpower shortages at Bucky’s office. He was working longer and longer hours.”
“Yes. I heard he’d fallen asleep and gone off the road comin’ home one night,” Goldie said. “I’m so very sorry.”
Martha stopped in mid-reach for two coffee cups and turned to her visitor. “He didn’t fall asleep,” she said with certainty. “He called me just before he left the office that night and said he’d been drinking coffee all day. I distinctly remember. It was a Wednesday, and he joked on the phone about how he’d be up until Friday. Hedidn’tfall asleep.”
“He could’ve been drinkin’ decaf?” Goldie suggested.
“Bucky hated decaf,” the hostess replied. “Said there was a big taste difference.”
Goldie paused and thought while her hostess turned back to get the coffee cups.
“Okay… so, what doyouthink happened?”
“I think he either swerved to avoid something on the highway, or…”
“Or, what?”
“Or he was purposely run off the road. Maybe by another car following or an oncoming car from the opposite direction. Possibly a drunk driver that weaved over the centerline.”
