and fumbled around in the top pocket of his overalls. "I wanted you to have this. And after this afternoon-well, it's more important than ever."
He pulled out a photograph and handed it to her.
"That's my Mom, that's my brother Ron, he's the baby of the family, and that'@) my sister Noreen. Oh yeah, and that'@ me." He was in uniform, and shining with pride. "i look good, huh?"
"When was this taken?"
"The week after I came out of basic training," he said.
"Why didn't you stay in the army?"
"It's a long story," he said, his smile fading.
"You don't have to-" The phone interrupted her. "Oh shit! I'm not going to answer that."
"It could be important."
"Yeah, and it could be Morton," she said. I don't want to talk to him right now."
"We don't want him getting suspicious," Joe said, "at least till we've made up our minds how we're going to handle all this."
She sighed, nodded, and hurried down to the phone, calling back as she went: "We have to talk about this soon."
"How 'bout tomorrow? Same time?" She told him yes, then picked up the receiver. It wasn't Morton, it was Emmeline Harper, who ran the Historical Society, an overwrought woman with a puffed up view of her own importance.
"Phoebe-"
"Emmeline?"
"Phoebe, I need a favor. Dorothy just called, and apparently somebody needs to get into the schoolhouse to look through the records. I can't get over there, and I was wondering would you be a sweetheart?" No was on the tip of Phoebe's tongue. Then Emmeline said: "It's that nice Mr. Toothaker, the attorney? Have you met him?"
"Yes. A couple of years back." A bit of a cold fish, as she remembered. But maybe this wouldn't be such a bad time to talk to a man who knew the law. She could quietly quiz him about divorce, and maybe she'd learn something to her advantage.
"I mean I'm sure he's very trustworthy-I don't think for a moment he'd tamper with the collection, but I think somebody should be there to let him in and show him what's what." "Fine."
"He's over at the Chamber of Commerce. Can I call F: over and say you'll be twenty minutes?"
THREE
Society had been a repository for all manner of items relating to the city's past. One of the first and most valuable bequests came from Hubert Nordhoff, whose family had owned and run the mill that now stood deserted on the Molina road, three-quarters of a mile out of town. In the three and a half decades between 1880 and 1915, the Nordhoff Mill had pro vided employment for a good portion of Everville's citizens, while helping to amass a considerable fortune for the Nordhoffs. they had built a mansion in Salem, and another in Oregon City, before withdrawing from the blanket- and fabric-making business and putting their money into lumber, real estate (most of it in Portland), and even, it was rumored, an-naments. Hubert Nordhoff's bequest of some thousand photographs of life at the mill, along with several other pieces of memorabilia, had been widely interpreted as a belated act of contrition for his ancestor's sudden desertion; the years immediately following the closure of the mill had been Everville's darkest hour, economically speaking.
The Nordhoff bequest had begun a small avalanche of gifts. Seventeen watercolors of local scenes, prettily if some what blandly painted by the wife of Everville's first dentist, were now framed and hung in the walls of the schoolhouse
(the renovation of which had been paid for by H. Nordhoff).
A collection of walking sticks topped with the heads of fantastical animals, carved by one of the city's great eccentrics, Milius Biggs, was displayed in a glass case in what had been the principal's office.
But far outnumbering these aesthetic bequests were more mundane offerings, most of them from ordinary Evervillians. School reports, wedding announcements, obituaries, family albums, a collection of cuttings from The Oregonian, all of which mentioned the town (this assembled by the librarian Stanley Tharp, who had stammered traumatically for
He pulled out a photograph and handed it to her.
"That's my Mom, that's my brother Ron, he's the baby of the family, and that'@) my sister Noreen. Oh yeah, and that'@ me." He was in uniform, and shining with pride. "i look good, huh?"
"When was this taken?"
"The week after I came out of basic training," he said.
"Why didn't you stay in the army?"
"It's a long story," he said, his smile fading.
"You don't have to-" The phone interrupted her. "Oh shit! I'm not going to answer that."
"It could be important."
"Yeah, and it could be Morton," she said. I don't want to talk to him right now."
"We don't want him getting suspicious," Joe said, "at least till we've made up our minds how we're going to handle all this."
She sighed, nodded, and hurried down to the phone, calling back as she went: "We have to talk about this soon."
"How 'bout tomorrow? Same time?" She told him yes, then picked up the receiver. It wasn't Morton, it was Emmeline Harper, who ran the Historical Society, an overwrought woman with a puffed up view of her own importance.
"Phoebe-"
"Emmeline?"
"Phoebe, I need a favor. Dorothy just called, and apparently somebody needs to get into the schoolhouse to look through the records. I can't get over there, and I was wondering would you be a sweetheart?" No was on the tip of Phoebe's tongue. Then Emmeline said: "It's that nice Mr. Toothaker, the attorney? Have you met him?"
"Yes. A couple of years back." A bit of a cold fish, as she remembered. But maybe this wouldn't be such a bad time to talk to a man who knew the law. She could quietly quiz him about divorce, and maybe she'd learn something to her advantage.
"I mean I'm sure he's very trustworthy-I don't think for a moment he'd tamper with the collection, but I think somebody should be there to let him in and show him what's what." "Fine."
"He's over at the Chamber of Commerce. Can I call F: over and say you'll be twenty minutes?"
THREE
Society had been a repository for all manner of items relating to the city's past. One of the first and most valuable bequests came from Hubert Nordhoff, whose family had owned and run the mill that now stood deserted on the Molina road, three-quarters of a mile out of town. In the three and a half decades between 1880 and 1915, the Nordhoff Mill had pro vided employment for a good portion of Everville's citizens, while helping to amass a considerable fortune for the Nordhoffs. they had built a mansion in Salem, and another in Oregon City, before withdrawing from the blanket- and fabric-making business and putting their money into lumber, real estate (most of it in Portland), and even, it was rumored, an-naments. Hubert Nordhoff's bequest of some thousand photographs of life at the mill, along with several other pieces of memorabilia, had been widely interpreted as a belated act of contrition for his ancestor's sudden desertion; the years immediately following the closure of the mill had been Everville's darkest hour, economically speaking.
The Nordhoff bequest had begun a small avalanche of gifts. Seventeen watercolors of local scenes, prettily if some what blandly painted by the wife of Everville's first dentist, were now framed and hung in the walls of the schoolhouse
(the renovation of which had been paid for by H. Nordhoff).
A collection of walking sticks topped with the heads of fantastical animals, carved by one of the city's great eccentrics, Milius Biggs, was displayed in a glass case in what had been the principal's office.
But far outnumbering these aesthetic bequests were more mundane offerings, most of them from ordinary Evervillians. School reports, wedding announcements, obituaries, family albums, a collection of cuttings from The Oregonian, all of which mentioned the town (this assembled by the librarian Stanley Tharp, who had stammered traumatically for
Similar Books
