Deep in the Valley (6 page)

In the Mulls’ cottage, June realized, there could be that same sense of family, unity and abundance in better times, but at this moment there was only foreboding. Jurea seemed nervous and pale. Wanda was afraid; there were tearstains on her cheeks. And Clarence stood at the door with a gun, paranoid, peeking out at police.

But yet…they seemed to be well fed and, with the exception of Clinton’s injured and now infected foot, they appeared healthy. Perhaps not educated or medicated as well as they should be, but who was she to judge? Maybe things here were okay when Clarence wasn’t in a bad patch.

She knelt beside Clinton. He was feverish, his cheeks pink and dry.

“Oh Mr. Mull, what have you done?” He turned from the door and looked across the room at her. June met his gaze, but she did not see understanding. Instead she saw the paranoia in his eyes. “I told you to get Clinton to the hospital.” Clarence didn’t respond. In many ways, he was sicker than Clinton. “Okay,” she said, turning back to the boy and opening her bag. “I’ll see what I can do.”

She pulled out a stethoscope and hooked it into her ears. Then, while she listened to Clinton’s heart, she withdrew a syringe from her bag and, with a thumb, popped the top. She had to get Clinton help soon. Very soon. She couldn’t wait for Clarence to calm down, see reason. She rose silently and prayed his overalls weren’t too stiff with dirt. She approached his back on silent feet, and when she was almost there, Jurea spoke softly.

“Clarence is upset, is all. He just needs a little time…and for those police to get on back to their business.”

June stopped suddenly and hid the syringe in the folds of her sleeve. She moved to sit at the table by Jurea. “Is he afraid of the police, Mrs. Mull?”

“Not directly so, no. He thinks of them as soldiers. Left alone, Clarence does all right.”

“You mean he doesn’t hallucinate?” June asked.

“Not so much, no.”

“Mrs. Mull, tell me the truth now, because you know I don’t mean you any harm. Is Clarence growing cannabis back here? Marijuana? On this land?”

Clarence turned from the door and barked at her so loudly she jumped. “We don’t have no use for drugs in this house!”

“The Lord frowns on weeds and hemp except for the healing,” Jurea said. “I did give Clinton some herb for the pain—got it from one of my brothers—but we don’t traffic in that. We keep to ourselves is all. We got our reasons.” She leaned closer and whispered, “You know.”

June then noticed the large Bible by the lamp on the table.

“Mrs. Mull,” she said softly. “I have to take Clinton out of here or he’ll die.”

Jurea’s gaze dropped. “I don’t like to defy Clarence,” she whispered. “He’s always been so good to me. To us.”

“Well, this isn’t good,” June said. “Clarence,” she said sharply. “Come here and listen to me. If you aren’t growing pot here, those police have no interest in you! I asked Sheriff Toopeek to find you and your boy because he needs medical attention. So do you, but that’s your business, not mine.”

“I don’t aim to be taking drugs and shots,” he said.

“They gave him shots when he got home and they made him sick,” Jurea said. “He just needs to be left alone. He can’t take the people.” She lowered her gaze, lowered her hideously scarred face. “We each have our
own reasons for that, do Clarence and me. That’s why we get along so nice, I reckon.”

“But it isn’t always the best thing for the children.”

“I see that. I do.”

“You have to help me with this, then.”

“What little I can do, I will.”

“Good enough,” June said. “Clarence, I think we understand each other. I understand why you live back here and why you want to be left alone. That’s fine by me. So just let me take the boy to the hospital. You don’t have to go.”

“Can’t let the boy go alone, Doc. He’d be afraid.”

“No he won’t, Clarence,” Jurea stated, and she said it very strongly. “He don’t have that sickness that makes him afraid of people. It’s just you and me get like that.”

“There you have it, Clarence. Let me take Clinton to the hospital and try to save his life. You can stay here with your wife and daughter. If you deny me this chance, he may die…and I know you don’t want that.”

“He’s taking the medicine,” Clarence argued.

“It’s not enough. Now, do you want to carry him to my car, or should I have Tom Toopeek come in here?”

“That Tom fellow there. He’s Vietnamese, ain’t he?”

“Tom?” She almost laughed, but quickly cleared her throat. “Um, no. Tom is Cherokee. His family moved here from Oklahoma when he was five. I grew up with him. He’s my best friend.”

“He looks Vietnamese from here,” Clarence snorted.

Everyone probably looks Vietnamese, June thought. “He’s Native American. Indian. My best friend. Would you like to have him carry Clinton?”

Tom, Elmer, Stan, Bob and a Forestry Service officer named Warren all waited tensely by their vehicles. The door to the shack opened and June came out carrying her bag and Clarence’s rifle. Behind her was Clarence, huge and heavily tattooed, who wore only a vest on his naked chest, despite the harsh chill in the forest. He carried in his arms his barely conscious son, a lad of substantial size.

“Give the boy to Tom,” June instructed him.

Without hesitation, Clarence transferred the boy, then June handed Clarence back his rifle.

“I’ll see that everything possible is done for him, Clarence. And I’ll send someone out here to bring you news of his condition. Tomorrow, or maybe the next day.”

Clarence took his rifle and looked into Tom’s black eyes. They were both large men, over six feet tall. They both wore ponytails and had faces chiseled out of brown granite. “Cherokee, huh?” Clarence asked.

“Yep.”

“I was in country with a Navajo.”

“My wife’s people.”

“All right then. Keep them other Vietnamese away from here,” he said, indicating the other police with his eyes.

Tom gave a brief nod and turned, taking the boy to his car. “Go to the hospital in Rockport, it’s closer. I’ll follow,” June said. Then she turned back to Clarence. “Do you know Charlie McNeil? From the VA hospital?”

“I thought I told you!” Clarence barked. “I ain’t going to that hospital!”

“I understand that, but if Charlie came out here to see if there was anything you needed, would that be all right?”

“Is he Indian? Like that guy?”

“No. I think he’s Irish. Short fellow with red hair. Very nice man. Can he come?”

Clarence thought about this for a moment. Finally he said, “If he brings some books and magazines for Jurea.”

M
yrna Hudson Claypool’s dinner parties were legendary. Not for the food served, which, in fact, was often disastrous, but for the unique atmosphere, both planned and spontaneous.

When Myrna learned that June was inviting John Stone to join the clinic, she had the perfect excuse to have a party—to welcome him. She’d invite those who would be working with him. That would be Elmer, June, Charlotte and Jessica. Charlotte’s husband, Bud, was invited, but he was on a fishing trip. In fact, he was always fishing when Myrna had one of her dinner parties. Then there was the Stone family—John, his wife and their six-year-old daughter were the guests of honor. And to keep things interesting she would add her poker table—Sam Cussler, Judge Forrest and his wife, Birdie, Burt Crandall and his wife, Syl. Thirteen, all told. By Grace Valley standards, a bash.

Myrna would be the chef and would have both Miss Barstows to help, serve and clean up. Amelia and Endeara, the sixty-two-year-old spinster twins who
hadn’t said a kind word to each other in as many years, usually job-shared cleaning and cooking duties at Hudson House. To have them both on duty was rare and probably dangerous, but it underscored Myrna’s desire that the evening be special.

Myrna used her new color printer to make up fancy invitations. She made a little menu insert to put inside that read:

clam petit four appetizers
shrimp salad
du bois
potato leek soup
rolled candied lamb with mint
cucumber stuffing with walnuts
asparagus à la crème
devil’s torte supreme

When Elmer saw his invitation he said, “Yikes.”

June was having a short business meeting with John after hours in the clinic, trying to put the final touches on his six-month contract. She handed him his invitation, saying, “You’re the guests of honor—you, and Mrs. Stone and your daughter—so you’ll have to go.”

“But of course we’ll go! How lovely of Mrs. Claypool!” And then, “What do you suppose ‘rolled candied lamb’ could be?”

“I wouldn’t dare hazard a guess,” June replied. “Mrs. Claypool is my aunt. She’s a fascinating woman, really. And kind of…well…eccentric is really too tame a description. But she is adorable and great fun. Your daughter will especially love her. Her dinner parties are
famous, and highly entertaining, but I recommend you have a bite to eat before going.”

“Still, it is nice of her, isn’t it?”

June shrugged. “Myrna’s nothing if not nice.”

The night of the party, John and his wife opted for a country club casual look in linens and knits. Their daughter, Sydney, was stunning in yellow denim overalls and Doc Martens. Jessica wore a long, lean, black dress that accentuated her multicolored Mohawk, and Charlotte wore a beige, double knit pantsuit and her white nurse’s shoes. “Corns,” she said when she caught Judge Forrest staring at her feet. But it was Myrna, as usual, who stole the show. She answered the door in a stunning floor-length shiny black cocktail dress with enormous shoulder pads and a slit up one side. Nothing risque, but a rather demure Bette Davis ensemble that didn’t bare too much of her skinny calf. If she held a cigarette in a holder, the picture would be complete.

Susan Stone gasped in surprise and took a step backward.

“Welcome to my home,” Myrna said dramatically, bowing at the waist and throwing an arm wide. “You must be Sydney Stone,” she said to the little girl.

“No one mentioned this was formal,” John said.

“This isn’t formal,” she explained. “I’m eighty-four years old. I have at least a hundred years’ worth of keepsakes in this house.”

Susan’s eyes grew round. “Then it
is
an heirloom gown,” she said almost reverently.

“Well, it
will
be…when I’m done with it,” Myrna said. “Come in, come in, come in.”

“This is going to be fun, isn’t it, honey?” John whispered to his wife.

“Weird,” Susan said suspiciously. “Pretty weird.”

June could see the relief on John’s face when he entered the sitting room and saw familiar faces from the clinic. She greeted him, met his wife, introduced him to her father and a couple of the others. While they made small talk, the bell rang and the remainder of the guests arrived.

Sydney hid behind her mother’s legs, staring out at Jessica, mesmerized by her hair and piercings. Jessica, smiling, bent at the waist so that her colorful plume was eye level for Sydney, and gave it a playful wobble. Sydney withdrew even farther.

Myrna had thrown her shoulder wrap over one of the overstuffed wing chairs in the sitting room, taking possession of that piece of furniture for herself. Beside the thronelike chair was a hassock comprised of a stack of three large pillows on wheels. On the hassock was a tiara.

“Miss Stone,” Myrna called. Everyone turned to look at her. The Stones stared in some confusion, but those of Myrna’s friends and family who knew her and had been to her dinner parties just smiled knowingly. “Miss
Sydney
Stone. Come here.” Myrna patted the hassock.

John gave his daughter a gentle push and Sydney went to Myrna, but slowly.

June often wondered what it must have been like for her father as a toddler, preschooler, grade-schooler and onward, to be mothered by this slip of a girl who had never quite grown up herself. Myrna wasn’t much bigger than six-year-old Sydney.

“Miss Stone, do you go to many dinner parties?”

Sydney shook her head and chewed her finger.

“No? Then you can be the princess for this one. For tonight you can wear the princess crown and tinkle the bell for the servants, and next time we’ll poke around this big old house and see if we can find you a proper gown.”

“But not like hers,” Sydney said, pointing at Jessica. The room howled with laughter.

“It’s not for everyone,” Jessica said, not offended.

“No, you don’t want that much jewelry,” Myrna agreed. “Maybe something a bit more like Cinderella? All right then! Come, come, let’s crown you.” Sydney allowed Myrna to put the tiara on her head, and she sat cautiously on the cushions. The bell remained on the floor. “Very nice. Tinkle the bell one time for the drinks and hors d’oeuvres.” Sydney complied, and as she did, her smile grew.

“I told you your daughter would love Aunt Myrna,” June whispered to John. “When I was growing up, my favorite thing in all the world was to come to Aunt Myrna’s and look through her collections. I don’t believe she’s ever thrown a thing away.”

Amelia bore the drinks—apple cider or white wine. Endeara bore the appetizers. They wore their black serving dresses with white aprons and white caps, like clones, wearing identical frowns as they passed among the guests.

“Good evening, Amelia, Endeara,” everyone in their turn uttered softly, but neither maid bothered to respond. When things were passed around, they moved silently back into the kitchen.

“Things haven’t been going all that smoothly in the kitchen,” Myrna confided. “But I think they’ll manage to get the meal served just the same. I’ve been doing a fair part of the cooking myself. And tasting. I must say, it’s the best I’ve had.”

Judge Forrest bit into a crab petit four and made a sour face. Wrinkled as he was, it looked as though he’d just conjured up a few more lines. The rest of the room paused with their hands midair, then slowly returned the little square appetizers to their small plates. Myrna seemed not to notice. “I don’t know if you’ll like this Princess Sydney,” she said. “It’s very much an adult food.”

“But I do like it,” Sydney said, taking small bites of her square. She, too, made a face, but was having such fun, she’d never admit it tasted awful. She was a little girl; she’d eat mud pies.

“Not to worry,” June whispered to John and Susan. “It might taste bad, but it’s not dangerous.”

“Splendid!” Myrna exclaimed to Sydney. “You’re a princess of excellent tastes! I should have known!”

Sydney giggled happily.

The dinner was horrible, almost completely inedible. Judge grumbled to Sam, “You’d think she’d get a decent cook, since she can afford it!”

To which Sam said, “That’d sure take all the fun out of it.” Everyone at the table was accustomed to Myrna’s ghastly meals, except the Stones—and they had been warned. But no one in Grace Valley would refuse one of her invitations. Myrna was the most interesting person in the valley.

The coffee was good and the torte was passable.
The conversation, on the other hand, was delicious. Judge Forrest, who still sat on the bench, had utterly no discretion and told tales of the last week’s cases: feuds, battery, drunk driving, one contested will. “I think you’d call it a perfect week. It was my pleasure to put Gus Craven behind bars, with no work program and no time off for good behavior.”

“It’s about damn time,” Elmer said.

“If there’s a God, Gus’ll lip off to some big bruiser in jail and get his skull cracked open,” Charlotte said.

“We’ll have to check on Leah,” Birdie added, and withdrew from her purse a small notebook in which she kept track of her endless commitments. “Susan, if I give you a call sometime, can I persuade you to do some charitable work?”

“Of course,” Susan said. “I’m partial to charities that cater to the needs of women and children.”

June whispered to John and Susan, “Gus Craven has been beating up on his family for years. Most of the town has been waiting for him to get his just reward.” Both Stones nodded. “I’m sure some of the women will want to get together and see what can be done to help Leah now.”

“Is there no shelter in the area?” Susan wanted to know.

“Not in Grace Valley,” Birdie said. “And it’s a matter that could probably use our attention soon. I’d like to think Leah’s the only woman this happens to, but the unfortunate fact is, she’s hardly alone.”

Burt and Syl Crandall had raised seven children while running their bakery at the center of town. Sam’s gas station was a block away. Between the two of them
they came across enough gossip to keep any dinner party going.

“Justine Roberts spends at least three hours delivering flowers to the church,” Burt said. “Pastor Wickham, by coincidence, always seems to be alone there at the time.”

“Do you mean to say he’s finally found himself a willing woman?” Myrna asked.

Sam’s eyes sparkled and his pink cheeks above his silver beard turned into red candied apples. “She looks happier coming out than she does going in. I reckon it’s a spiritual thing for her.”

Elmer wheezed and laughed. “It puts her in a holy mood. It always did me.”

“Listen to you, pretending to remember,” Judge scoffed, at which Birdie whacked him on the arm with her fan and told him to mind his manners.

“That young woman is a flirt,” Charlotte announced.

“Young?” Jessica choked. “God, she must be thirty!”

All eyes turned sharply toward her and she gulped. “And Pastor Wickham is an old lech! Susan, you don’t want to be bending over to help pick up hymnals if he’s around!”

“I’ll take that as a warning,” she said. “But how are his sermons? I think we’ll be attending there.”

“Not nearly as entertaining as his passes…and his wife’s futile attempts to keep him in line,” Sam said.

John Stone slapped his knee and laughed. “I’m going to love this town!”

Susan Stone wore a very uncertain look.

“Let this serve as fair warning, Dr. Stone,” Myrna announced. “Your every move will be watched.”

“I can see that,” he acknowledged. “And I’ll be watching right back!”

“Now, let’s retire to the parlor for the evening’s entertainment!”

“Oh goodie,” Jessica said, rising quickly. “I hope it’s dancing!”

“I hope it ain’t no goddamn charades,” Judge grumbled.

June rose and moved between John and Susan Stone, escorting them toward the parlor. “Once we took off all our clothes and did body painting,” she said. They stopped walking and their chins practically dusted the floor as their mouths hung open in stupor. “Kidding,” she said, moving ahead of them.

“No, no, no,” Myrna protested. She held Sydney’s hand as they entered the parlor together. “Princess Sydney should hear the story of our angels. But first, we’ll have the Barstows bring us a refill on the coffee. Princess? Will you ring the bell for me?”

By now Sydney was fully involved in her role. With gravity befitting a hostess princess, she lifted her chin and the bell simultaneously and gave the latter a jingle.

“Splendid!” Myrna said.

“I’ll do it!” one of the Barstows snapped offstage. “Just get the devil out of my way!”

“You’d better mind telling me what to do. I don’t work for you!” the other snapped back.

“Thank you, Endeara,” Myrna said as she was served first. “No more squabbling back in the kitchen now. It sets everyone’s nerves on edge, you know.”

“Are they always like this?” Susan asked under her breath.

“Always. Since they were children, actually.”

“Why do you put up with it?”

“Well…because someone has to, I suppose.”

“What I mean is—” But Susan stopped. She had meant to inquire as to why Myrna didn’t simply hire maids who didn’t squabble, but as she looked into Myrna’s large, clear, innocent eyes, she knew her question would not be understood. Myrna had not so much hired them as taken them in.

June glanced at Susan and saw that she had grave doubts about her move to Grace Valley. Hearing about the angels could either improve those doubts or bring them into specific relief.

“South of here, in the foothills, is a town called Pleasure,” Myrna began. “Now it’s the county seat and where Judge does his judging, but back then it was just a little speck on the map. There were prospectors looking for gold in the hills, Spaniards sailing up the Pacific Coast looking for war, homesteaders, fortune hunters, painted ladies and barroom brawls. It was a town that catered to the whims of men with loose change and low morals.

“There was a man named Clint Barker who lived there, the meanest, most low-down son of a gun you ever wanted to meet. He was probably an ancestor of Gus Craven’s.”

“Who?” Sydney asked.

“Never mind, darling. Just know that Clint was
mean!
He lived alone all his life, and then when he was about forty and crusty as an old dog—forty was older then than it is now—he hit a gold vein, came into a princely sum of money, and went south for a few
weeks. He came back with a young wife. Young! All of sixteen, I believe. And beautiful. Her name was Miranda.