Sixteen
THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY
The following morning, Goldie called her boss, Owen Mitchell, in Columbus and gave him an update. She told him she’d learned about silver mining and had even explored a silver mine to get some historical context. She filled him in on the tree lighting ceremony and its almost county-fair-like significance to the area. She talked about the charming stores on River Street, how the Victorian houses in town were strictly maintained, and how lots of people had made visiting Sparkledove part of their Christmas tradition. Mitchell was pleased with the report and said it sounded like she was gathering the makings of an excellent feature article. Goldie ended the conversation by trying to learn more about her life in Columbus. She asked Mitchell if he recalled what he liked about her when they met and how she came to work for the magazine. He jokingly responded that it was because she didn’t waste his time with stupid questions and said he had to run to a meeting. So the call ended without her gaining additional insight about her life in 1942. This was frustrating, but at the moment, she didn’t know what she could do about it. She figured that if her stay in the 1940s was permanent, she’d eventually find out about her background.
After the call, she headed for the Sparkledove Historical Society, which was just two storefronts down from Sparkledove Realty. This was the first day she wasn’t wearing gauze on her hand since cutting herself in the bus terminal seven days earlier, and the injury was healing nicely. The community was now covered with a two-inch blanket of sparkling snow, and even though her entire existence in Colorado was a hugely bizarre magical mystery trip, she couldn’t help but think how pretty the mountain town looked. She was also greeted by familiar faces as she walked. Clara of Clara’s Gifts said hello as she was shoveling the plank sidewalk in front of her store. Deke Miller of Miller’s General Store waved to her while standing outside with a cane and giving instructions to his son, Chad, who was inside and decorating the store’s front window. It was nice to be known, she thought.
While she walked, she thought about her kiss with Peter Banyan. She had enjoyed it and liked feeling desired again, especially after Markie’s rejection, but she really couldn’t explain or justify it beyond that. Truth be told, she didn’t want to.
What the hell? Life’s messy,she concluded.
The historical society was run by a white-haired woman who introduced herself as Harriette Noise. She was in her eighties, wore a dress with a lace collar, moved slowly, and joked with Goldie that she, herself, was a historical artifact. She’d taught at the area high school for thirty-five years and claimed she hadn’t traveled more than two hundred miles in any direction from Sparkledove. She had a sweet, creaky, grandmotherly voice that was as comforting as a porch swing on a summer’s day. “I’ve seen the town at its most crowded and most desolate,” she told her visitor. Once upon a time, the building where the society was located had been occupied by a saddle maker. Now, it was a mini museum with historical pictures on the wall, antiques in glass cases, and mannequins wearing period clothing. The centerpiece of the place was a six-foot-square three-dimensional balsa wood replica of the town circa 1878, complete with painted houses, horse-drawn carriages, trees, and small figures on the wood-plank sidewalks. Goldie was frankly impressed and pleased with the displays.
She pointed to the Maynard Mining operation, where she had just been the day before. But in the model, the woods around the buildings were much thinner.
“So, this is where Maynard Mining was?” she asked Harriette, pretending ignorance. “They were the biggest mining company in town, right?”
“That’s right,” she replied. “But you can’t go up there anymore. It’s all fenced off because it’s not safe.”
“And what’s this buildin’ right here?” she questioned, pointing to the director of operations’ house.”
“That’s where the mine director lived. He was in charge of everything Maynard did in town. It was a beautiful house, but very near the mine, so men and wagons passed in front of it all day, kicking up dust. I doubt his wife was much pleased with the location.”
Goldie grinned at the old woman confidentially. “Do you have any interestin’ stories about the Maynard grounds? I know there was a tragic explosion that killed thirty-one men in 1881, but anything else?”
The old woman thought for a moment, then remembered. “Well, therewasone strange incident that happened in 1902. A woman came into town one day. Nobody had ever seen her before. She was young. About your age. Claimed she didn’t know where she was or how she got here. But she had money and wound up taking a room somewhere. She wasn’t in town very long, but she went plum crazy. Got up early one morning, walked up to the director’s house in her nightgown, which by then had been abandoned for twenty years, and hung herself in the front foyer.”
“That’s terrible!” Goldie said, empathetically.
“It sure was,” Harriette agreed. “I was teaching at the time and raising my family. So, I didn’t pay much attention to the gory details. But Idoremember it was a big deal. The town’s population was only about four hundred people. No police, newspaper, and certainly no tourism business like there is now.”
“Did anyone find out who she was?” Goldie asked.
“No. Not that I recall.The Denver Posteven ran a picture of her poor deceased face to see if anyone knew her. But no one came forward.”
Goldie’s goosebumps flared, and she became momentarily light-headed. The parallels between this woman, Claude Bolton, and, to some extent, herself were undeniable.
“W-what time of year did this happen?” Goldie asked.
“Summertime,” the white-haired woman answered. “Either late July or August.”
That would explain the short-sleeve nightgown,Goldie thought. She nodded, then changed subjects, looking at the model of the town. “And where’s Falcon Drive?”
“Oh, that’s over here,” her hostess replied. “North of the mine.”
Goldie looked at the miniature houses on the street, then pointed to one in particular. “So this one would be Martha Eggleston’s house?”
“Yes, that’s right. Although she just sold it.”
“So I heard. I went to visit Martha the other day and noticed the house next door was for sale, too.”
“Yes, George and Susan Ash,” Harriette answered knowingly. “Lovely people. Lived in town for years. But after their kids were grown, they wanted something smaller and closer to Denver. They had their house up for sale, but with the war and all, it’s a very depressed market. So, Mayor Banyan, bless his heart, took it off their hands so they could get on with their lives.”
Goldie looked at her, surprised. “Wait. You mean to say heboughtthe Ash house?”
“That’s right. Now he’s the one selling it.”
“Didn’t he just buy the Eggleston house, too?”
