Mother Lode (6 page)

Further down the hall he
found the boy’s room. It certainly had his stamp on it. A bookcase
held volumes of poetry, nature and a collection of rocks. One on
geology was inscribed by Dr. Johnson,
For
my young friend, Jorie Radcliff, with high hopes for his future
contributions to science.
It was clear
Arthur had an interest in the boy.

On the top shelf of his closet Earl found
two locked diaries. But the shocker was that toward the back, under
a pile of clothes, he found some drawings of nudes. The face on
them was unmistakably Jorie’s mother. What kind of kid would
imagine his own mother naked, and affix her head to the
pornographic outpouring of his imagination?

Earl decided he’d best secure the diaries
and drawings in his office. That meant a trip across the bridge to
Houghton.

Battles over where to locate the county seat
had been waged more than once: whether to be in Houghton, on one
side of the long, narrow lake, or in Hancock on the other. A thorn
in Earl’s side, Houghton had finally won out. That meant he had to
trudge back and forth across the bridge from his home in Hancock to
Houghton where the courthouse and his office were. And Hancock,
after all, had a population of four thousand, several hundred more
than Houghton.

Hunkering down in his coat, he was almost
knocked down by the winds. Thank God, the old wooden bridge had
been replaced by a steel truss. Yet, real or imagined, he could
still feel its sway, and the fear that it would collapse beneath
him never left.

He kept his mind occupied with the puzzle
before him. He knew Thomas’ other sons had gotten a chunk of money
or stock certificates when they turned eighteen. Thomas Radcliff
had made sure his friends knew whenever one of his boys got their
‘sizeable sum.’ Earl thought he was bragging, a way of letting them
know how well he was doing.

Because Jorie had just turned eighteen, if
it was murder, the timing could be relevant: Jorie might have
waited until he got his inheritance.

But no large amount had been deposited into
Jorie’s account—he’d checked on that in the morning—and none
withdrawn from Catherine’s. He’d asked if there were other accounts
or safe deposit boxes, and inquired of other banks. Nothing. Of
course, Jorie could have received stock certificates. Frustrating
that Wilson was out of town. He might have some answers.

Earl reached his office, built up the fire
in the old, dusty potbelly, and reached for his leftover coffee. He
wondered if Jorie had recorded his feelings toward his mother in
these diaries. With luck, he might find out if the lad had specific
intentions toward her.

He’d located no keys. Opening the diaries
would be no problem, but somehow that seemed a greater breach than
using a key. He started snapping the rubber band on his wrist, and
took a sip of coffee. “Fly’s piss.” He tossed it in the
spittoon.

His wrist was beginning to sting. Well, no
point procrastinating any longer. Scratching in his desk, he found
an old compass. With its point he picked the clasp which gave
easily enough. Now if he could unlock the contents. He leaned back
in his old oak chair, its rusty spring echoing the one in his own
spine.

The first surprise was the diaries weren’t
Jorie’s at all.

They were Catherine’s. Found in the back of
Jorie’s closet.

Chapter 5

Earl sat before the locked volumes with
sweaty hands. What a violation, to read what was meant for no one
except the one who’d penned them.

He let his eyes pass over the yellowed
pages, not ready to give meaning to the words. Where had she
learned her penmanship? Ah, yes, in Scotland. Well, they had a
different hand, all right. The flowery script would make
deciphering the words slow going.

Finally, he focused on the date of the first
entry. She was still in high school then, back in Red Jacket. As
was he.

Stale cookies kept him going all night, and
still he got only part-way through the first diary. He was up to
the page where Jorie was about six.

August 1, 1888

Jorie, thank the Lord, is recovering from
that dreadful assault on his life three weeks ago. The doctor says
his ribs may have been cracked but there’s naught to do for it. He
is up and playing, although still complaining that his bones
hurt.

Thomas still refuses to talk to me. He
speaks only of those matters of necessity that involve the
household. I have tried on several occasions to converse with him,
but he will not have it. Once he looked up from his paper and said,
‘My God, woman, Calumet and Hecula have had three fires this year
in their shafts, and lost thousands in copper production. The same
could happen to us! Do you think I’ve nothing to think about but
you and the boy?’

In bed he turns his back to me. Sunday last
I fixed him Christmas pudding even though it is nowhere near that
time; I was trying to show some kindness, but he ate only one
helping and would take none at the next meal.

He ignores Jorie as well, who can’t
understand why his papa shows no interest in him. Oh, Thomas will
correct him — that he’ll do. But kind words are few and far between
now.

He is after visiting his other sons much of
late. If it weren’t for my beloved Jorie, surely I would die.

I don’t want to be ‘a greetin and roarin’ as
my mother would say, but it is a lonely life I have. At only
twenty-three I feel like an old widow.

Assault on Jorie! What in the world was she
talking about? What had precipitated Thomas’s anger?

He didn’t know women put down all their
feelings, like that. Just laid bare — things you wouldn’t even want
yourself to know. He wondered if his wife wrote such things in her
diary. “Gott in himmel,” he muttered. Catherine even laid out how
she couldn’t get her husband to give her a poke. Holy Mackerel,
Thomas, were you out of your mind?

In his case, it was the other way
around!

Light from the pale white sun was beginning
to work its way into the window, as Earl closed the book and locked
both diaries in his desk. The fire had gone out hours ago, leaving
him chilled. He pulled up his collar and headed for Mik Dougherty’s
café.

The leaves were swirling around his feet as
fast as the thoughts in his head. Catherine’s entries had been
sporadic and often lacking in context. Well, he couldn’t really
fault her for that—she was only writing for herself. But it
certainly made for confusion, raising more questions than it
answered about that family.

He ordered his usual breakfast, but had
little appetite for it. Finishing off with his third cup of coffee
and still with no sleep, he headed back to the office.

A Mr. Olsen was waiting for him. Quite
elderly, the gout in his legs forced him to take his seat with
care. “I’m mostly retired now, but I still see a few clients.”

“Clients?”

“Law practice over in Dollar Bay.”

Slowly the man unfolded a page from the
newspaper. “I guess this is two weeks old now, but papers have a
way of piling up on me. Just noticed last night this piece about
the woman who died in the snowstorm. Name of Radcliff. Survivors
include her son Jordan Radcliff.”

“That’s right.”

“This young man came to see me about a week
before her death.”

That got Earl’s attention.

“He wanted to know the procedure for
committing someone.”

Earl reached for his rubber band.

“Did he say who he wanted committed?”

“His mother. He seemed very nervous at the
time.”

“What reason did he give for this
action?”

“He wouldn’t say.”

“Anything else?”

“I told him that before anything of the sort
could happen there’d have to be a lunacy hearing. He’d need
witnesses — a sworn statement from the woman’s doctor, and so
on.”

“Yes?”

“He seemed discouraged. Paid me on the spot
and left in a hurry.”

Earl’s rubbed his wrist. He took Olsen’s
statement and got his address.

“We may need you later. Thank you very much
for coming in.”

The lawyer rose to his feet with visible
pain and left. As Earl’s pondered the significance of this new
information, his irate wife sailed in. Cuffing him lightly on the
jaw, she cried out, “I should clobber you, I was that worried.
Where were you last night?”

“Cora.” He stared at her.

Was he so consumed with the demise of
Catherine he’d forgotten he had a wife at home?

Earl couldn’t sleep that night wondering why
Jorie would want to have his mother committed. Was he mentally
unbalanced, as his mother had confided, or was he trying to get her
out of the way for some dark reason of his own?

Driven by the need to discover the truth, he
was simultaneously repelled to think his greatest fears could
possibly be true.

The next morning he
stopped by the
News
again. “I couldn’t find the rosary. Thought you might like to
have this.” He handed Jorie the small amber orbs.

“Thanks,” was all Jorie said, as he dropped
the necklace in his pocket.

It was going to take more than a string of
beads to crack this boy.

“I want to see you in my office when you
finish here,” he told Jorie.

Toby Wilson came by in the afternoon.

“The stationer said you wanted to see
me.”

“Yes. You know Catherine Radcliff died.”

“I do. Under suspicious circumstances, I
understand.”

“I need to know if young Radcliff got any
inheritance, Toby. I know it’s privileged, but the boy is under
suspicion for murder.”

Wilson pursed his lips and rocked back and
forth on his new fancy shoes.

“No. To date he hasn’t gotten anything as
far as I know. Mind you, he could have. But his mother didn’t see
fit to open her purse strings.”

Jorie sat opposite Earl with the desk
between them.

“You know a lawyer name of Olsen?”

Jorie frowned. “I’m not sure. . . the name
sounds familiar.”

“He says you went to see him. Over in Dollar
Bay.”

Jorie shook his head slowly.

Earl consulted his notes. “October
third.”

Jorie was silent, his face contorted in
pain.

They sat in silence for some time, the
sheriff hoping Jorie would open up. Earl studied his face, studied
the stacks of papers on his desk that needed to be filed or
disposed of. Some of them had been there so long they were
gathering dust.

Finally, he said, “I’ll be honest with you,
lad. It looks like you took your mother out there to die.”

“You think I—” Jorie clutched the edge of
the desk. Tiny beads of perspiration burst onto his face.

“I don’t know, Jorie. But it doesn’t look
good, doesn’t look good at all.”

Jorie leaned back and closed his eyes.

“There’s too much about this situation that
doesn’t set right, Jorie. I’m going to take you into custody ‘til
you’re ready to do some explaining.”

The lad went without struggle. Maybe a
couple of days in the hoosegow would unlock his jaw, Earl mused.
And he sure couldn’t afford to have his prime suspect up and leave
town.

The prosecuting attorney would have to
submit the petition to the judge for a hearing. He hoped Boyce
wouldn’t drill him on the particulars. He wasn’t at all sure the
kid was guilty and he didn’t want this thing blown out of
proportion to serve Buck Boyce’s political ambitions. Buck would be
itching to bring this case to trial for the publicity it would
bring him.

The prosecutor was just leaving his office.
“Can this wait ‘til tomorrow, Earl?”

“I’ve already got him behind bars.”

“All right. Give it here.”

The next morning Earl got to work early to
tackle the diaries. He read the part about the dispute between
Thomas and Catherine over Jorie’s discipline. Thomas had been so
hard on the boy that Catherine had threatened to take Jorie and
leave. And all the time he’d thought their family life was
harmonious.

About ten o’clock he’d had enough. He locked
the office and headed to Mik’s for breakfast.

He caught the headlines at
the newspaper stand. The paper Jorie worked for
made no mention of the arrest, but their competitor,
The Mining Gazette
reported, “Copper Country Evening News Reporter Held For
Matricide!”

Earl strode down Shelden Street with a
faster step than usual. He reached Dougherty’s just as three of the
locals were leaving.

“Whatcha got on that murder case,
Sheriff?”

“Got him bagged, I hope. Told the wife not
to leave the house, just in case,” Flem Crocker declared.

“When I know something, the paper will know.
And then somebody can read it to you.”

“What’s gotten into you, Foster? Ain’t your
missus given you any?”

“Shut your foul mouth, Flem, or I’ll throw
you in the poky with him."

“Don’t get all wrathy, sheriff. We didn’t
mean nothin’.”

The men shuffled off, but not before Flem
spat his wad within an inch of Earl’s boot.

He found his customary seat occupied, and
chose another as far away from anyone as he could.

When Mik brought him his usual porridge and
coffee, Earl countered his “Good morning, Sheriff,” with, “I didn’t
ask for that. I want three eggs, a rasher of bacon and a
scone.”

Mik looked at him like he was listening to
one of the Finns speaking his native tongue, but finally managed,
“Yes, sir, we’ll get that right up.”

That afternoon the judge summoned Earl. He
was holding the petition Buck Boyce had passed on to him.

“You think Jorie Radcliff murdered his
mother?”

“It’s not for me to say, George. But I think
there’s sufficient reason to have a hearing. You see, he—”