Land Sakes (19 page)

I made a pallet on either side of Mrs. Winchester's bed and settled Lucy on one side and Desi on the other. They lay down and spread their long limbs as if they were used to sleeping on the floor beside her bed. There was nothing else for me to do before supper, so I went in my room. I felt so convicted I hardly had the face to ask the Lord to forgive me.

I didn't like to think about the way I had enjoyed calling Percival “Nozzle Nose.” I had not given a second thought to the fact that might be a sin. Maybe I had
considered it a “little” sin, but it hadn't bothered my conscience any. Splurgeon said, “It is a great sin to love a little sin,” and he was right.

After I prayed I opened the Bible and read a chapter or two, but I found it hard to concentrate. I kept wondering what I might do to make it up to Percival for the way I had treated him.

It wasn't long before it came to me. Finding a note pad and a pen, I made a grocery list. Then I took it down to the kitchen. Minnie, the cook, was still there, and I asked her if there was some way I could make a meal in her kitchen.

“Not in my kitchen,” she said, “but if you would like to use the bakery kitchen, it's all yours.”

She took me in the next room, where there was a stove and utensils for making bread, cakes, and pastries. “This will be fine,” I told her. “Minnie, one thing more, would it be possible for you to get a few things from the grocery store for me?”

“I'm going to the store right now. If you give me your list I'll be glad to do your shopping. I'll be back within an hour.”

I could have hugged her!

The next day after lunch, we left for Ketchum. Mrs. Winchester was in her glory and lit into telling me all about this writer whose grave we were going to visit. “Ernest Hemingway wrote a lot of best sellers,” she told me. “But he was more than a writer. He was a hero in World War I. He was an ambulance driver and was badly
wounded. After the war he became one of those drop-out artists—kind of like hippies, who lived in Paris. They were called the lost generation.”

I was trying to remember where I had heard that name, Hemingway.

“Somewhere along the way he went to Africa to hunt big game and to Spain to watch bullfights; and one time he crashed a plane and survived. People called him ‘Papa Hemingway,' but I don't know why. I think it was during World War II that he got interested in Cuba. Anyway, he lived in Cuba until Castro took over. Then he moved back here to Idaho.”

“Did you say he committed suicide?”

“Yes, he did. Suicide ran in his family; his father, sister, and brother killed themselves.”

“Maybe they were crazy.”

“It would seem so.”

As we drove into Ketchum, Percival turned on Route 75. About a half mile up the road I saw the cemetery. We drove inside, and the grave was not far. Three beautiful evergreen trees grew above the marble tablet marking his grave. That was nice. But it was sad standing there knowing a man who had the gift for writing famous books had buried himself and his talent before his time.

As at all these graves, there was nothing more to do than read the inscription and then get back in the car. Yet, in a way I was beginning to understand how Mrs. Winchester could get interested in dead people. Especially since she was a poet. Maybe she wasn't so wacko after all.

Percival turned the Rolls around, and as we headed
back to the lodge Mrs. Winchester took out her little moleskin book and a pen. Several miles down the road, she broke the silence.

“And you say all these people like Hemingway who have died will come alive again?”

“Yes, that's what the Bible teaches. No matter how we wind up—buried at sea or burned up in a fire—our bodies will be raised and changed to live forever.”

“Then what?”

“Some of us will be raised to everlasting life and some of us to shame and everlasting contempt.”

I was hoping she'd ask me what made the difference, but when she didn't, I sensed I had said enough right then.

I started thinking about the surprise I was planning and figured this was the time to ask permission. “Mrs. Winchester, what would you think if I had supper with Percival tonight?”

“With Percival?”

“Yes. Would you mind?”

She looked puzzled. “No. Do whatever you like.”

“Thanks.”

She started writing the poem. As she scribbled, scratched out words, and wrote more, she seemed frustrated. Tearing off one sheet, she started over. More scribbling, more scratching out words.

We were nearly back to the lodge before Mrs. Winchester was satisfied with what she had written and handed me the book.

I read the poem to myself:

“That's good,” I said, handing it back to her but thinking it was the saddest poem I had ever read.

When we arrived at the lodge I went straight to the kitchen. Minnie handed me an apron, and I went to work. She had the pinto beans with the salt meat simmering on the bakery stove, and I started making the biscuits.

It didn't take long before I had the biscuits ready to pop in the oven. I glanced at the clock. Percival would be coming down in half an hour, so I started making the gravy.

While the gravy simmered and the biscuits baked, I set a table for two in the bakery. I had timed it just right; I heard Percival coming down the stairs. Then I heard him talking with Minnie. In a few minutes she brought him to the door of the bakery. “Here he is,” she said and left us.

He looked like a surprised little boy. “Miss E., what's this?”

I started serving our plates. “Sit down, Percival. Tonight you and I are going to have some soul food.”

Seeing the biscuits and gravy bowled him over. He looked up at me. “You did all this for me?”

“For you, Marvin, so you won't forget who you are.” He smiled sheepishly. “I guess I told you everything.”

“Enough,” I said. “Enough to make me proud that I know you.”

How we enjoyed that meal! We talked a good deal about what it was like growing up poor—the good and the bad. He would look across at me, pause, and say nothing, then he would start talking about his mother and his eyes would get misty. I brought up every funny thing I could think of to keep him from getting sad.

After he cleaned his plate, he went to the stove and helped himself to another biscuit and gravy. “I'm about to pop, but I'm not quitting.”

As much as anything, he probably didn't cotton to going back to being Percival. I watched him devour that biscuit and gravy and thought about the mother who had raised him, how hard it must have been making do with little or nothing. Seeing her boy railroaded to jail surely broke her heart, and that was probably what killed her.

When he finished, we got up and were putting our dishes in the dishwasher when, lo and behold, here came one of the maids so upset she was wringing her hands!

19

“What is it? What is it?” I cried.

“Oh, Miss Esmeralda, it's the safe—the safe's been stolen!”

“Are you sure? Where do they keep it?”

“In the library.”

“Show me.”

Percival and I followed her into the library, where Minnie and the other staff members were huddled around a bookcase that had been pulled out from the wall. “It was in back of this,” she said. “Oh, Miss Esmeralda, to think they walked right in here and walked right out with the Win
chus
ter safe! What if they come back? What if we all get arrested?”

Like I say, she was wringing her hands and tearful, which don't make for cool-headed thinking. Poor Percival, he was scared too. Actually, they were all historical, with the exception of Minnie. Cooks are used to emergencies. Of course, this was not no boiled-over pot.

All I could see was this big square hole where the safe had been. “Which one of you discovered this?” I asked.

“I did,” said the same maid who had told us the news. “I was dusting.”

“When did this happen?”

“We don't know. Maybe last night—maybe before, when the house was shut up. Oh, Miss Esmeralda, what should we do?” I do believe her knees were knocking. “To think a man walked right in this house and walked right out with Mr. Win
chus
ter's safe!”

She made it sound easy to lift a thousand-pound safe and carry it away. “Have you called the police?”

“No.”

“Does Mrs. Winchester know about this?”

“No, we haven't told her.”

“In that case, I will.”

“Oh, would you?” They all seemed relieved.

“I suggest you all go back to work and I'll handle this.”

After everyone had scattered, I looked at Percival. He was pale—about to become unglued. “What do you think?”

“Oh, Miss E., if the police come, it'll be in all the papers.”

“I don't know that we can get around not calling them, Percival. That's up to Mrs. Winchester.”

I examined the floor to see if there were recent scrapes or any evidence to tell us when the safe was took. “Percival, I don't see any reason to think this was done last
night or any time recently, do you? They probably came in here when the lodge was closed.”

“But what if it was last night? That could mean that whoever is following us came in and did this.”

“I hope not. But we can't take any chances. I say we ought to leave right now and let somebody else call the cops after we're gone. This is not one of Mrs. Winchester's publicity stunts. They shouldn't blame you if it gets in the papers.”

“Miss E., we'll have a tough time persuading Mrs. Win
chus
ter to leave if she thinks there's any chance of making headlines.”

“Well, tell me, Percival, when do we have to be in Vancouver to board that boat?”

“In three days.”

“That's all I need to know. Get the Rolls gassed up in case this works.”

Going up to the third floor, I breathed a little prayer that I would say the right thing in the right way to convince her that we needed to get on the road.

I found Mrs. Winchester watching TV and had to interrupt her program. “Mrs. Winchester, someone has stolen the safe out of the library.”

“Oh? When did that happen?”

“No one knows. The maid found it was gone when she was cleaning in there this morning.”

“Well, it doesn't matter. There's nothing in that safe. They tell me Philip only uses it to store his important papers while he's here.” She reached for the remote to get back to her show.

“But it still means that someone broke in and made off
with it,” I said. “We don't know who did that. What if it was done by the people who are following us? Whoever stole it may come back and do more devilment once they find it's empty.”

“I see. I'll call the police—and the newspaper. Oh yes, the newspaper!” That got her excited.

“If you call the police, there'll be cops, detectives, reporters all over the place.”

“Oh, I don't mind the press.” She picked up the phone.

“But Mrs. Winchester, the ship leaves in three days! If you call the cops they will no doubt hold us here until they finish their investigation, catch the thieves or whatever, and we'll miss the boat.”

She put down the phone. “Well, we don't want to miss the boat.”

“What would you think of our leaving right now? Then we won't have to report this—we can leave reporting it to somebody else and not get involved...”

Disappointed, she hesitated. “Well, I guess we could leave now... Must we?”

“Yes, we gotta go or miss the boat.”

“I hate missing the excitement.”

“It's your choice.”

“Well, I guess I should call my secretary and tell her to take care of notifying the police after we're gone.”

“You better let someone here do that, because if your secretary notifies them, they're bound to know you were here. Let somebody here call them and tell the staff not to mention that we were here. Otherwise the authorities might hold us until their investigation is over.”