Harvestman Lodge (64 page)

“You must be an avid reader,” Eli said.

“Books are my life.”

Weary from the exertion of walking on his arthritic bones and joints, Caldwell maneuvered his walker to a worn leather chair in the midst of the library room and sat down. The leather cushion sighed beneath his weight, and Caldwell sighed as well. “Ah, me! It’s good to sit down for a moment, youngsters! Might we rest here briefly before we go upstairs?”

“Of course.” Melinda and Eli found chairs of their own.

“Is this also your writing room, Mr. Caldwell?” Eli asked.

“Seldom. I have an office upstairs, near my bedroom, where I do most of that.”

“Pen? Typewriter? Word processor?”

Caldwell grinned. “I know you are indeed a writer from the questions you ask. I’m convinced that, if all the great writers of history could be resurrected and put into a massive conversation with one another, the topics most addressed would have to do with the varying mechanics of putting words on paper, parchment, disk, or whatever medium is used. The best idea, most marvelous character, the most compelling plot … none of these things ever become real outside the mechanical process of writing.”

“Very true. And what is
your
process, Mr. Caldwell?”

“We may as well be on a first-name basis, don’t you think? My process, Eli, has multiple levels. The first is simple notes, handwritten, jotted down as self-reminders. Usually on a simple notepad with a pen, and often in the middle of the night if I’ve been restless and something has come to mind worth remembering.”

“I’ve done the same thing myself,” Eli said.

“And I’ve done that, too, with ideas or thoughts about my reporting,” Melinda added. She was feeling a little like the odd-woman-out in this conversation.

“My second phase is often also done with pen and pad,” said Caldwell. “Individual words, sentences, sentence fragments … things that would probably look like gibberish or meaningless ramblings to anyone else, but that serve as signals to me about how I want to approach this particular chapter, or chapter portion, and so on.

“From there, it’s on to the actual writing phase, and that I do on my beloved old manual Royal. Yes, I know there are word processors now, and they’ll only grow better, cheaper, and more ubiquitous over coming years, but I am a creature of habit. I’m addicted to the feel of that little knocking vibration that comes through the fingertips when the key strikes the ribbon against the paper. It gives a kind of solidity to the writing process.”

“I wrote most of my own novel on a manual typewriter,” Eli said. “I understand what you are saying. I have a word processor now, though, and am glad for it.”

“I’ll make that transition at some point,” Caldwell said. “I see advantages to waiting as technology advances. Quality of the hardware will go up, costs will go down.”

“I agree,” Eli said. “I needed the ability to make easier corrections, though. I am not the most skilled of typists.”

The conversation went on, Eli asking Caldwell about his own books. Caldwell showed him several of them on the shelves around them. Eli asked if they were available in the local library, and Caldwell surprised him by making a gift to Eli of two of his novels. That he had planned to do so even before the subject came up was evidenced by the fact he had personalized the books and autographed them to “Eli Scudder, fellow novelist” before Eli and Melinda had arrived.

The tour moved upstairs, slowly, due to Caldwell’s inhibited locomotion. Caldwell showed them his bedroom, which featured a very dramatic and massive four-poster bed with posts the circumference of utility poles and rounded finials the size of volleyballs. Again book-laden shelves lined the walls. Even the massive walk-in closet, which Caldwell pointed out with particular pride, had a couple of book shelves, most of these holding out-of-date law books going back to Caldwell’s active attorney days.

The second bedroom on the top floor was directly beside Caldwell’s room. It was oddly shaped because the walk-in closet Caldwell had installed in his own bedchamber next door intruded through what had been the original wall of this room. This reshaped space had become Caldwell’s writing room. A beautiful old chestnut desk sat to one side, upon it an ancient manual typewriter, stacks of paper, and a manuscript box. Like all the windows in this house, the two in this room were covered over outside by the vines and ivy that had been allowed to overrun the yard.

The only wall not dominated by books on shelves was covered by framed photographs and certificates of various types. Most of the latter related to Caldwell’s old law career or to honors received in law, civic club activity, and literary achievement. An honorary Doctor of Letters degree from Bowington College was prominently placed. Eli spent some time looking over the items, but Melinda drifted to a different side of the room, looking at a shelf filled now with books, but photographs in free-standing frames.

“Who is this, Coleman?” she asked, looking at a candid photo of a dark-haired, smiling young woman posing side-by-side with a somewhat younger-looking Curtis Stokes, who had a big smile on his face.

“That is Miss Kendra Miller, is a dear friend of mine, and especially of Curtis’s. She is in fact, now his fiance, though not at the time that picture was made. I made the photograph myself. Curtis and I had driven in to pay a visit to her that day, which was July 4, to go see a fireworks display. I took the photograph myself, in the parking lot of the restaurant where we ate that afternoon.”

Melinda was looking closely at Kendra Miller’s picture. “Hmmm. I find myself wondering if I might have met her somewhere.”

“She has a certain amount of public visibility, being the Listening Ears Storytime Lady who reads for children at the library.”

“Maybe I saw her face on a billboard or something, if they’ve advertised the story-telling program.”

“Perhaps. Or maybe she has been featured in your station’s news at sometime or another.”

Melinda shrugged and the subject passed. Curtis Stokes appeared at the door. “Chef says to come downstairs. It’s time to eat.”

Even the half-crippled Caldwell managed to make it down with all haste. The aromas that had drifted up the stairs were too enticing to be resisted.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

BY THE TIME THE UPSTAIRS FOLK were downstairs folk again, Chef Francois Ansel was not alone in the kitchen. Two of his restaurant’s waiters had arrived, found their way through the thicket with the help of Curtis Stokes, and were prepared to diligently serve Coleman Caldwell and guests. Both the two young male waiters were as astonished as Eli and Melinda had been at the contrast between the rugged outside and well-tended inside of Coleman Caldwell’s home. They were also quite fascinated with Melinda, which Eli noticed with mild annoyance.

Better get used to it,
Eli told himself.
It’s going to be that way for a long time, considering her looks.

Caldwell’s own meal was preceded by a handful of pills and several poorly hidden winces of pain and wistful looks at his gnarled hands. His guests quietly pitied him; he clearly lived in chronic discomfort, even outright pain.

Dinner was served in the dining room adjacent to the kitchen. Eli had never eaten better fare. The lamb dish around which the meal was built was astonishingly tender and flavorful. Compliments to Chef Ansel flowed profusely. So did excellent wine. “I’ve got a wine cellar here, and in my more prosperous years I laid in quite a store of fine wines,” Caldwell said. “Over the years I have drawn from my stock for special occasions such as this one.”

“We’re even more honored then, sir,” Eli said. “But honestly, what would make a visit by us be, well, ‘special’?”

Caldwell shifted in his seat, winced again from the pain the movement brought to his joints, and cleared his throat. “All that I know about you fascinates me, Eli. Even before you joined our community, I had read your novel, based on the review it received in the
Clarion
, and on the simple fact that the novel was set in our own area and incorporated actual local history. Frontier sagas are not particularly my cup of tea, but even so, I was caught up in the story, the characters, the flow of the narrative. As a novelist myself, I recognized your talent, and admired it. When a story appeared later in the paper saying that the author of
Farlow’s Trail
would be joining the
Clarion
staff, I was delighted, and knew I would have to meet you. After your move here, I heard from a friend of mine, one of our former county sheriffs, that you and I possess some common interests apart from our writing activities.”

“We’re talking about Harvestman Lodge?”

Caldwell leaned forward. “We are indeed.” He lowered his volume and glanced meaningfully toward the swinging door leading into the kitchen. “Just not here and now. Other ears, you know.”

Eli had all but forgotten the chef and waiters, who, being good at their work, had somehow blended into the woodwork despite being constantly in and out of the dining room. He glanced over at Melinda, whose unspoken question was written in her expression:
will I be part of that discussion?

“After dinner, then?”

“Long after dinner, actually. There is something you must read before we have such a talk. A piece of work I started but have yet to finish.”

“I had heard you had written a novel, or a significant portion of one, based on … based on our subject of common interest. Is that what you want me to read?”

“I do. And have no fear … I don’t expect you to do that reading tonight. In fact the manuscript of that piece of work is not even in this house. I’ll tell you where to find it, though, and give you the means to access it.”

Melinda started to say, “This sounds like something out of a spy novel,” then realized the words might come across as sarcastic, so what she actually said was: “… sounds like something I would be interested in as well. Would I be permitted to read it too?”

Caldwell looked at Eli. “Is she discreet?”

“You can trust her totally, sir. Besides, she already has explored the old lod … the old building with me. And heard quite a lot of detail, along with me, from Kyle Feely regarding what may have happened there.”

“Oh yes … the good reverend is a good source of information on that subject. Much of what he knows he learned from me, as well as others he has talked to independently.”

“He is very cautious in how much he shares,” Eli said. “I think that comes from his experience in ministry and counseling. Confidentiality is his default mode.”

“Exactly. It gives me tremendous respect for him … one of the marks of a good minister, or counselor, attorney-at-law, or law enforcement officer, or even a good journalist, is the ability to respect confidences shared by others. Any lawyer with an ounce of common sense and a pound of experience carries around many secrets belonging to others that would bring nothing but hurt and harm if they were freely and openly shared.”

Melinda shrugged. “I suppose … but in journalism school, the focus tends to go in the other direction … the ever-present theme of fulfilling ‘the public’s right to know.’”

Caldwell did not appear to feel challenged by the remark. He replied, “I fully believe in the public’s right to know. It is as valid and compelling a right as any other. Like all other rights, it has to be assessed within the context of other rights and obligations. There are times, for example, when the public’s right to safety overrides their right to know … or at least to know immediately. I might argue that there is a right, or very nearly a right, for public freedom from unnecessary public panic. And certainly there is a right, in some times and places, to individual or family privacy.” He looked squarely into Melinda’s face. “For example, privacy regarding specific details might be treasured by a family in a situation, purely theoretical, of course, in which the father zealously and even violently protects his daughter from harm from an aggressive young man … ”

“Your point is made,” Melinda said.

He smiled at her. “A good lawyer knows when to speak … and when to stop speaking. As in Clarence Darrow’s famous tale of the over-eager lawyer who forced a witness to admit he had not actually seen his client bite off the ear of another man in a barroom brawl. That was the point at which the lawyer should have shut up and sat down. Instead he asked the witness why, if he had not seen the man bite off the ear, he had previously testified that he knew the act had occurred. The witness’s reply … ”

Eli couldn’t resist finishing the anecdote. “’I saw him spit it out.’”

“Ah! You’ve heard that one already.”

“My father was a cop, and knew a lot of lawyers, and he’d picked that one up from one of them.”

Caldwell nodded. “As I said, a famous tale, and a favorite, I’m told, of law professors everywhere.”

The meal went on, followed by excellent dessert, a rich, raspberry-tinged chocolate concoction the chef had invented but not yet attached a name to. It was all Eli could do to resist licking the dish when he was done.

“To the library, friends!” Caldwell said after all had heaped abundant thanks upon Chef Ansel and Melinda had rendered the waiters weak at the knees by giving them each a peck on the cheek.