Cold River

  http://www.lizadairfreebooks.com

  This is a work of fiction, and the views expressed herein are the sole responsibility of the authors. Likewise, certain characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Cold River

  Published by Century Press

  496 West Kane Drive

  Kanab, UT 84741

  Cover design by Marlene Barnes

  Copyright © 2011 by Liz Adair

  Cover design copyright © 2015 by Century Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for supporting the author’s rights.

  ISBN: 978-0-9905027-3-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  Year of first issue: 2011; Year of second issue 2015

  To Elizabeth Raper, brave and beautiful daughter

  of one of my former students at Concrete High.

  Acknowledgements

  This book is a valentine to the town of Concrete, Washington. I taught school there over three decades ago for just a year, and I’ve based the town of Limestone on wispy memory fragments–– tenuous stuff. That’s why I write fiction. I don’t have to get it right.

  A second valentine goes to the school system in Chilliwack, B.C., Canada. They have a marvelous tradition of teaching jazz in the schools. My husband, Derrill, and I always look for the Big Bang Jazz Band when we go to jazz festivals—they’re all Chilliwack High School alumni, and they’re terrific musicians. In addition, the school has a huge steel band that charms audiences wherever it performs.

  Thanks to Bill John, a member of the Lummi Nation, who is dedicated to reviving the Lummi language among his people. He gave me the words hiesel and stallo, which I have used as names in this book.

  And thanks to Katy Mellom, my hairdresser when I lived in Sedro Woolley, Washington. Her family came to that area from North Carolina in 1940, and she’s the one that gave me the phrase, “I love you like a mule a-kickin’.”

  A big thank you goes to beta readers: Melisse Lee, Mark Chatt, Addy Gifford, and my daughter and son-in-law, Ruth and Rich Lavine. Thanks to my critique group, Terry Deighton, Ann Acton, Tanya Mills, and Christine Thackeray for great feedback. I’ve learned so much about the craft from those ladies.

  Thanks to Ron Davis for permission for my fictional character, Manday, to use the Davis Symbol Mastery that he describes in his real book, The Gift of Dyslexia.

  And thanks to Linda Prince for the wonderful editing she did. She’s always a pleasure to work with.

  MANDY STEENBURG GRIPPED the steering wheel tighter as a blast of March wind buffeted her tiny Miata. The log truck up ahead turned off the highway, giving her the first glimpse of the town that was to be her new home. Her heart sank, and she felt as bleak as the weather.

  Limestone, Washington, squatted a block off the highway, and she craned her neck as she drove by. In the waning light of a rainy afternoon, she got an impression of tired buildings, vacant streets, no stoplights, and huge fir trees marching en masse down the mountainside to invade the town.

  Mandy stayed on the highway as she had been instructed. As she crossed a short bridge, she started looking for Shingle Mill Road. Slowing, she squinted at the first sign she came to. Harvey’s Still Road. Nope. Harvey’s Still Road? What kind of name is that? Tarheel Road. Nope. Finally, there it was— Shingle Mill Road.

  She turned right and passed a large building with rusty, corrugated-metal siding and a faded sign that said Anderson’s Cedar Shakes. Driving down the road, she began to wonder if she had written the directions correctly. There were no houses or businesses, and the forest grew right up to the road on both sides. Finally she came to a clearing, and after the oppressive tunnel of green, it was like the world opened up. Her eyes grew wide, and she hit the brakes. There before her on a small, landscaped rise stood an imposing house that looked like something out of a fairy tale.

  Painted a pale yellow, with gingerbread on gables and porch, the house had a circular room at one corner that went up both stories and ended with a shingled cupola. Shiny-leaved shrubbery accented the manicured grounds, but it was the flowers that made it seem as if the house was sitting in a pool of sunshine. Daffodils, hundreds of them, bent in the breeze and brightened the end of Mandy’s very trying day.

  A huge wooden sign with painted letters declared that she had reached the end of her journey: District Offices, North Cascade School District. Heartened, she turned into the parking lot and spied a space marked Reserved for Superintendent. She hesitated only a moment before pulling into it, unable to resist a small smile.

  As she opened the car door, a gust almost tore it from her hand. Leaning into the horizontal raindrops, she made her way down the walk and up the porch stairs. Saying “Dr. Steenburg” under her breath for practice, she pushed open the door and stepped into the grand entryway. On her left, a beautifully crafted wooden staircase swept up to a mezzanine that circled around three sides, leaving the entry open to the ornate second-story ceiling.

  A mirror hung on the wall just inside the door. Mandy glanced at it and took a moment to run her fingers though her short, springy curls to undo some of the wind damage. After brushing the moisture off her navy suit, she surveyed her reflection, aware she was about to make a first impression. Certainly she had nice eyes, brown and fringed with thick lashes. Her straight nose and high cheekbones were fine, too, but not for the first time, she wished she were taller.

  A semicircular reception desk backed up to the staircase, but there was no receptionist and no bell to summon one. Wondering if she should call out, Mandy looked around and spied four grim-faced people framed by the window in the door leading to the corner room. Four pairs of hostile eyes stared at her through the glass.

  Mandy blinked. This certainly wasn’t the welcome she had envisioned. She raised her brows in inquiry as she studied the visages. The one in front belonged to a plump, gray-haired, grandmotherly looking lady. On the right stood a younger woman, tall and horse-faced, with stringy hair. To Grandma’s left was a smallish man, balding on top, with a thin pencil moustache making a dirty mark above his upper lip. Behind them all, head and shoulders above even the tall woman, was a dark-haired, square-jawed man with piercing blue eyes and a strange look on his face. One brow was lowered, and one corner of his mouth was compressed, but the other side of his face was expressionless. It made an otherwise handsome face odd-looking, almost menacing.

  The tall man said something to the others. Grandma turned the doorknob, and they stepped out single file. Silently, they walked to stand in a group in front of Mandy.

  After waiting for one of the four to speak, Mandy finally said, “I’m the new superintendent. I spoke to Mrs. Berman?” She looked questioningly from one of the women to the other.

  “I’m Mrs. Berman,” the older lady said.

  Mandy forced a smile. “Your directions were very good. Thank you very much.”

  Mrs. Berman didn’t reply until the tall man placed his hand on her shoulder. “You’re welcome,” she said crisply. Her eyes didn’t offer any welcome at all.

  The tall man stepped forward. “I’m Grange Timberlain, assistant superintendent.” Half of his face formed a wooden smile, but the other half was vacant of expression. He held out his hand, almost as an afterthought, it seemed, and Mandy, determined to be civil in the face of such rudeness, shook it briefly.

  Grange Timberlain continued, “This is Midge Cooley. She’s in charge of records, and this is
our accountant, Elmo Smith. We call him Mo.”

  Neither Midge nor Mo offered to shake hands. Mandy nodded to each, and an uncomfortable silence ensued.

  Grange looked at his watch. “Shall I show you your office? It’s too late in the day to take care of any business, so we won’t keep the staff any longer.”

  “I was delayed in Oregon. Car trouble.”

  “No problem,” Grange said. “If you’ll follow me…”

  As Grange headed to the stairs, Mandy turned to the other three. “Glad to have met you,” she said, but they had already turned away, and no one responded.

  “Whew! What a reception,” she muttered. As she followed Grange up to the second-floor landing, she had a good view of his blue flannel shirt, Levi’s, and boots, and she wondered if he dressed that way every day.

  Grange waited for her in the middle of the mezzanine. “Your office is the corner one.” He pointed. “Mrs. Berman’s is next to you, between your office and mine. Mo is across the way on the other side of the stairs. Midge is downstairs with records.”

  Grange winked at her. Then he walked to her office, opened the door, and stepped aside so she could enter.

  Taken aback, Mandy hesitated a moment, watching with narrowed eyes for a follow-up to that obvious come-on. When there was none, she walked through the door and found herself in a pleasant, circular space. Even on this gray, blustery day, the room seemed suffused with light. Warm-grained wood trimmed the surrounding bank of windows, and a matching crown molding curved gracefully around the ceiling.

  The expansive desk, though obviously old, had a high polish that made it a handsome piece of furniture. A bank of wooden filing cabinets stood along the one straight wall where the circle joined the house. “This is very nice,” Mandy said. “I wasn’t expecting anything quite so grand.”

  “This was the Anderson’s home— you probably noticed Anderson’s Shingle Mill when you turned off the highway? They were fairly well to do, but childless. When old Widow Anderson died, she left the house to the school district. This was Mr. Anderson’s desk.”

  Mandy noticed that Grange talked out of one side of his mouth. Like Harry the Horse in Guys and Dolls, she thought.

  “Edith— Mrs. Berman— has your keys laid out for you.” Grange pointed to the key ring on the top of the desk.

  “She has us all color coded,” he went on. “The blue one lets you in the front door. Green one is your office. Red is for cupboards. Yellow opens filing cabinets.” He looked around. “I guess that’s all. Oh— the restroom is downstairs. There’s a kitchen down there, too. Midge keeps the coffee pot going, and there’s a fridge and microwave. Oscar, the IT guy, will be in tomorrow to set up your computer and passwords.” He winked again.

  “Thank you.” Realizing suddenly that what she thought was a wink was simply Grange’s inability to close one eye, Mandy couldn’t think of anything else to say. She looked away, afraid she might be staring at the frozen left side of his face.

  “I guess that’s all,” he said again. “Look around. Settle in. Stay as long as you want tonight, and come as early as you want tomorrow.”

  “Thank you for your… uh… introduction. And for the keys. Do we consider this the changing of the guard?”

  A rosy tinge crept up Grange’s neck and settled on his cheeks. He looked first at his feet, then at the door, and finally at Mandy. “Yes, the guard has been changed.” He cleared his throat. “Edith usually locks the front door when she leaves, but if you’ll check it on your way out, that would be great. Leave the lights on in the entryway.”

  Grange turned to go, but paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Um, I know your name is Amanda. Is that what you would like to be called?”

  She picked up the keys and held them in one hand, remembering the cold reception downstairs, so different from the camaraderie she had left behind in Albuquerque, where everyone called her Mandy. Everyone except one special person who called her cherie when they were working late and alone.

  All of a sudden, she felt her lip quiver. She dropped the keys on the desk, turned away for a moment, and willed the trembling to cease. Then she faced Grange, and with her chin up, she met his eyes squarely. “I’d prefer that you call me Dr. Steenburg. Good night, Mr. Timberlain.”

  MANDY STOOD FOR a moment looking around her office as snatches of conversation drifted up from downstairs. Humming to show she didn’t care that she was left alone and ignored, she examined her desk.

  A skillfully crafted computer station matching the antique look of the desk sat at a right angle to it, and a burgundy leather chair swiveled between the two. Trying the chair, Mandy opened the pencil drawer and discovered an ample supply of mechanical pencils, pens, notepads and sticky notes. Exploring further, she found the top right-hand drawer held stationery with North Cascade School District letterhead. Her brows went up when she saw her name listed as superintendent of schools. Grange Timberlain’s name was just below hers as assistant superintendent.

  The middle right-hand drawer held a district phone list printed on crisp, yellow card stock, a dog-eared pamphlet that seemed to be a more complete district directory, and a slender North Cascades phone directory. She glanced at the yellow phone card and saw that her name was again listed as superintendent. She noted that her extension number was 2292 and picked up the receiver. The dial tone was somehow reassuring.

  She closed the middle drawer and opened the bottom one. It was full of hanging files, all empty. She swiveled around and eyed the filing cabinets along the wall. The vacant brass label holders gave no clue as to what the cabinets contained. She stood and went to the first and pulled out the top drawer. Just like the desk, this one was full of empty hanging files. So was the next. And the next. “Welcome to North Cascade, Dr. Steenburg,” she said acidly, then opened and closed each of the next nine drawers. “I wonder what they’re trying to hide.”

  Suddenly aware that her voice was loud in the stillness, Mandy listened, but no more conversation drifted up from below. Just then the entry door slammed, and she heard footsteps outside. She moved to the window and saw Grange Timberlain descend the porch stairs. She continued to watch his tall figure as he walked to a pickup parked at the far corner of the lot. He had his collar turned up and the brim of his baseball cap pulled low against the rain. As he opened the door to climb in the truck, he looked up at her window, and she pulled away, wishing he hadn’t caught her watching him.

  She stayed at the window, though, until his taillights disappeared into the darkness of the conifer tunnel. She turned away and surveyed the empty room. “What to do?” she asked aloud. After a moment’s thought, she answered her own question. “Make a list.” She smiled as she remembered her stepfather’s comment that people who talked to themselves weren’t crazy, just the ones who answered.

  “I guess I was crazy to leave Albuquerque.” With a long sigh, she sat again at the desk and pulled out a notepad. She adjusted the lead on a pencil, thought a moment, and wrote

  1. Place to stay

  2. Supper

  3. Meet staff (tomorrow a.m.)

  4. Ask for district handbooks, curricula, etc.

  5. Meet school board (read minutes of school board meetings?)

  6. Staff meeting to set goals

  7. Look at next year’s budget

  Mandy put arrows from number 6 to number 7, thinking that before goals were set she needed to know what the district had to work with. The grumbling in her stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since the bag of Fritos she grabbed as they were fixing her tire in Corvallis. She had skipped lunch, since she had a seven-hour drive and wanted to make up for lost time. Number 2 on the list suddenly became top priority.

  Mandy fished the phone directory out of the drawer and opened it to the skimpy yellow-page section. There were three listings under restaurant, and she dialed the first number, intending to ask for directions. On the second ring a recorded message announced the number was no longer in service. Mandy disconnected a
nd punched the number for the second restaurant on the list, only to get the same recording. Feeling a little desperate, she dialed the last number. When the familiar mechanical voice spoke the third time, she dropped the receiver in the cradle and groaned, “What now?”

  Her stomach growled again as she paged through the listings, hoping for a miracle. It appeared in the guise of a Qwik-E Market located on Highway 20.

  “I think I can find that!” Mandy gathered up her purse and the rainbow ring of keys and headed for the door. As she hurried downstairs, she made sure to turn off all the lights, but dutifully left the reception area lit.

  The wind had lessened, but she hunched her shoulders against the drizzle that dampened her well-cut jacket. After folding herself into the sports car, she switched on the ignition, turned on the lights, and with high hopes set out to find the Qwik-E Market.

  It wasn’t hard to find. She turned right when she reached the highway, and there it was. The market consisted of a small, rustic building with two gas pumps in front. It was well lit, and one of the large windows had OPEN written in welcoming red neon. Mandy pulled up next to a mid-size pickup, the only other car in the lot, and made a dash through the rain for the door. Just inside, she paused to brush herself off.

  “Can I help you?” The girl at the counter had a smile as cheery as daffodils. She looked to be about seventeen, had dark hair, dark eyes, a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, and a name tag that said her name was Elizabeth.

  “I hope so,” Mandy said. “I’m starving, and I can’t seem to find a restaurant.”

  “Oh, they’re all closed for the winter,” Elizabeth said. “They’ll open when the pass does.”

  “So what do you do if you need to buy a meal?”

  There was that smile again. “You come to Qwik-E Market, home of Lorenzo’s Polish Hot Dogs.” She indicated a small appliance where four fat wieners rotated on a spit.