Iced (10 page)

Geraldine’s grandfather, Burton P. Spoonfellow, had been one of the early prospectors who struggled across the Continental Divide in the early 1880s and settled in Aspen, which was known as Ute City at the time. He staked his claim on a section of land and made a fortune in the silver that lay below. It was an exciting era until the year 1893, when the U.S. Government changed the currency standard from silver to gold.

“It blew my mind, Geraldine,” he used to tell her as she snuggled in his lap and heard all the old stories of the early pioneers. “I wanted to go to Washington to kick their fannies, but I stayed here and toughed it out. That’s what you’ve got to do in life during the hard times, and you can be sure they’ll be many. Keep your chin up and tough it out.”

Geraldine would take her thumb out of her mouth long enough to say, “Yes, Pop-Pop,” find a new section of her security blanket to whiff, then lay her cheek back against the scratchy comfort of Pop-Pop’s turkey neck.

For Pop-Pop toughing it out meant living off the fortune he had already made. He took some of those funds and opened up a saloon in town, which only made more money for him. He married and had a son, Geraldine’s father. When his wife, the blessed and saintly Winifred, died from dropsy, Pop-Pop and their son, Felix, lived alone together until Felix took his own wife, Imogene. She moved in with them, bringing back into the house the feminine touch that had been so sorely missed.

In that old Victorian house built in the shade of Aspen Mountain, Geraldine and her brother, Charles, had grown up basking in the attention of two caring parents and their beloved Pop-Pop. The great out doors was at their fingertips, and they were taught to take advantage of the lakes and mountains and rivers long before anyone dreamed up
Field & Stream
magazine. They picked raspberries, fed the pigs, chickens, and rabbits, milked the cows and were pulled around in donkey and dog carts. Geraldine became a veritable tomboy, learning to keep up when Charles would run ahead of her up the mountain, her pace only slowed by the sight of an irresistible rock that just had to be picked up and fired at a nearby evergreen.

Aspen was a tight-knit community when Geraldine was a child. The population had dropped dramatically after the silver crash in 1893, and the townspeople who remained stuck together during the quiet years that lasted until the 1940s.

Waffle suppers, hog roasts, church socials, canasta games played around the radio, while the children played run-sheep-run and kick-the-can, were all part of the life. The Volunteer Fire Department sponsored picnics, and occasionally a theater troupe would come through to provide a little entertainment.

Today Geraldine still lived in that same house, the only surviving member of the Spoonfellow family. Never having married meant Geraldine never moved out. “No decent girl leaves her home before she’s a bride,” her mother used to say. When she was fifty-seven, Geraldine broached the subject of getting an apartment in town, but her parents just gave her that look. The subject was dropped and never came up again because they both died a few years later. At age sixty, Geraldine finally had her bachelorette pad.

It was lonely sometimes, but, following Pop-Pop’s advice, Geraldine toughed it out and made the best of it. With no family of her own, Geraldine became even more involved in the town’s activities, arguments and political unrest. She had made friends and enemies of all ages and was a regular at every town meeting, always anxious to put in her two cents about the fight of the minute.

Outspokenness and assertiveness were valued Spoonfellow traits. “Make a difference in life,” Pop-Pop had always preached. Geraldine had heeded his advice. Back in 1956, she had led the brigade that under cover of darkness had cut down all the billboards on Highway 82 because they were ruining the beauty of the Aspen area. There hadn’t been a billboard in the area since. Geraldine’s group made sure they were banned. Recently she’d joined the group who drove their cars around city hall honking their horns in protest of the plan to establish paid parking in Aspen. The noise, Geraldine bragged, reached 114 decibels.

In July the
Aspen Globe
had started a series of stories focusing on the descendants of the original settlers of Aspen. Geraldine was among the first, interviewed and photographed in her home, posing proudly under the 8by-10-foot portrait of Pop-Pop that hung on the dining-room wall. He had commissioned it when he opened the saloon. Wearing his Sunday best, he stood in front of the saloon with his walking stick, looking as proud as a peacock.

When the reporter asked to be shown around and was brought back to the barn, another painting caught his eye. Ever since the Spoonfellows gave up their animals, the big old barn had become the dumping ground for all their paraphernalia. “You’ll never know when you’ll find a use for it” was yet another family motto, and everything from Pop-Pop’s wedding bed to turn-of-the-century kitchen utensils was scattered about.

Ted Weems, the reporter, an intense young man who fancied himself a history buff, started poking around. “Fascinating,” he said, “just fascinating.” When he pulled a large drop cloth off a painting, he nearly fainted. Staring him in the face was a picture of Pop-Pop in his mining days, coming down the mountain with a fellow miner. Lanterns in hand, they were followed by a line of workers slogging along, all with their own twinkling lanterns.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked Geraldine, trembling.

“A picture of my Pop-Pop. But I like the one inside the house better. In this one his face is dirty.”

“Ms. Spoonfellow, it looks to me as if this is a Beasley painting!”

“Who’s Beasley?” Geraldine had answered.

When the article was written up, a great deal of attention was paid to the fact that Geraldine did not even know she had an invaluable painting on her hands. One of the missing Beasleys, it had been called
The Homecoming
. Beasley was an artist who had traveled from mining town to mining town in the 1880s and 1890s, capturing on canvas the spirit of the times. The painting was authenticated and its value estimated to be at least three million dollars.

Licking their chops, the Rescue Aspen’s Past Association got together and hatched a plan. A whole entourage, led by Ted Weems, who was very active in the association, drove up the mountain to Geraldine’s homestead to pay a little visit. The motivation, of course, was to attempt to pry the painting out of her clutches for their new museum, which would be opening on the first of the year. But first they had to pay homage to Pop-Pop.

“
The Homecoming
captures the spirit of the early years, which of course were so important to your grandfather,” one of them said to Geraldine in a hushed, reverential tone. “To have it hanging in our museum would be a tribute to him.”

“What about his portrait?” Gerladine had asked practically. “Why don’t you want that one?”

“Well-l-l-l,” one of the committee members said, “we didn’t want to be selfish. We thought you would want to keep it.”

“If I give you
The Homecoming
, then I want a special room in the museum dedicated to Pop-Pop. Where both his paintings will hang.”

It took about a nanosecond for the committee members to nod their heads in unison, gushing about what a wonderful idea that was. They told Geraldine about the Christmastime benefit they were planning and how it would be the biggest event of the season in Aspen. She would have to come and be guest of honor. Geraldine, her civic-mindedness getting the best of her, offered to underwrite the benefit and let the ticket money go to the museum. “I have no one to leave my money to anyway, and as long as Pop-Pop’s memory lives on...”

The committee members almost fell off their chairs.

A few weeks ago they had paid another call on Geraldine to bring her up-to-date on their plans for the party and the museum. They’d now decided to recreate entire rooms as they might have looked at the turn of the century and to give the museum-goers the feel of the old mining village. Maybe Geraldine had a few items in her barn that she’d wish to donate.

“That barn hasn’t been cleaned out in decades,” Geraldine said. “This might give me a good excuse.”

“Anything, anything that might be of historical significance. I can help you if you’d like,” Ted Weems had said.

Geraldine had declined the offer. “At first I’d like to be left alone with the memories,” she’d said. “If I get good and depressed, I’ll call you in for help.”

Now, as Geraldine pushed herself out of her rocker, the stiffness in her bones made her feel every day of her seventy-five years. “Let’s get going, girly,” she said to herself. “The day is a-wastin’. If I’m going to get anything done in that barn, I’ve got to move.”

She had already made a few interesting discoveries, like old spittoons that had been put to use in Pop-Pop’s saloon and a pair of Pop-Pop’s faded overalls that she thought they might hang on display to symbolize the work ethic.

Geraldine ambled past the painting of Pop-Pop in front of the saloon and saluted as she did every morning. She wanted to keep him home until the night of the party.

“I’ll come down and visit you all the time,” she said aloud as she buttoned up her jacket.

Geraldine pulled open the front door, stepped down on the porch and bent over to pick up the paper. She was about to chuck it inside the living room when the headline caught her eye.

She growled, scanned the story, and charged back into her house to make a phone call.

18

T
HAT’SIT! I’M ruined!” Louis howled when Regan appeared at his office door.

Tripp, the young tanned clerk who’d been at the desk when Regan arrived, was standing there with a dejected look on his face.

“What happened?” Regan asked quickly, unzipping her ski jacket.

Louis waved his hands at Tripp. “Tell, tell, tell!” Louis’s eyes were watery and his face looked as if his blood pressure must be as high as the altitude. In the corner near his desk a little humidifier was humming away, gently blowing a fine mist of cool air into the tense environment.

Tripp ran his hand through his sun-streaked hair. Regan sat down on an upholstered chair opposite Louis’s antique desk. Tripp sat down in its twin.

“What?” Regan asked again impatiently.

“My buddy Jake, who works at a restaurant across town . . . it’s a pretty cool place . . .” Tripp began.

Louis moaned.

“Anyway, he called me up a few minutes ago. I guess that Geraldine Spoonfellow, the one who’s sponsoring the party and donating the painting, is bent out of shape because Louis recommended an ex-con for a job in Aspen and didn’t tell anybody . . .”

“So?” Regan asked.

“She called over to this other restaurant and asked about their availability. She wants the historical committee or whatever to switch the big party from here.”

“You see, Regan?” Louis asked plaintively.

“Why is it so important to her?” Regan asked.

“Because she’s been on a crusade to take a bite out of crime. She’s taking it out on me because that no-good Eben went back to his old tricks.” Louis pounded his desk. “I’m having an anxiety attack.”

“Take it easy, Louis,” Regan warned. “Can I get you anything?”

“A cup of coffee?”

“No coffee now. You need something a little soothing. How about some herbal tea?”

“Whatever. Tripp, you go get it,” Louis growled.

Shoot the messenger, Regan thought.

“Sure, man,” Tripp said, glad to get away.

“Herbal tea for two and a plate of cookies.”

Tripp gave him the thumbs-up sign, which made Louis scream, “Hurry up!”

“Tell me more about this Geraldine,” Regan said when the door had closed behind Tripp.

Louis threw a file across the desk at her. Regan opened it and skimmed the article from the
Aspen Globe.
She looked up at Louis. “Let’s go visit her.”

“I’m afraid,” Louis whined.

“Stop it. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“She’ll tell us she’s definitely moving the party.”

“Right.”

“Which means I’m ruined. All those wonderful publicity people I’ve lined up for Thursday night. Everyone would have seen me in
People
magazine!”

“Louis, going up to see Geraldine can’t hurt, it can only help; and furthermore, it’s our only hope.”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“Today, Louis.”

“This afternoon.”

“Now.”

“Let’s call first.”

“No. She might not agree to see us.”

“That’s not polite. Didn’t your mother ever tell you you’re not supposed to just drop in on people?”

“Louis,” Regan said firmly. “Get your coat on.”

“What about our tea?” Louis asked.

“Maybe we can have a tea party with Geraldine.” Regan stood up. “We’ll make this very civilized.” She reached for his hand and pulled him out of his seat. “This Geraldine sounds like a character. Let’s go give her hell.”

“If you say so,” Louis said in a little voice as he thought of the angry faces of all his investors. “I could just kill that Eben. Look at what he’s done to me!”

19

G
ERALDINE WAS OUT in the barn muttering to herself when Regan, followed by Louis, tried to locate her.

Geraldine’s house looked, Regan thought, probably the same as it did when it was first built. Painted white with green trim, it was old-fashioned and charming. A barn was out back.

“Ms. Spoonfellow?” Regan called. They had seen that the barn door was open; when no one had answered the doorbell at the house, they had gone around the side to check.

“Maybe we should leave,” Louis suggested.

“Come on, Louis,” Regan insisted.

They stepped into the barn, their eyes slowly adjusting to the change in light. The place was filled with junk; Regan wondered if any animal had ever laid down its weary head on the straw-covered floor.

“Who’s there?” a voice called sharply.

“Ms. Spoonfellow?” Regan asked.

“That’s me. Who are you?” Geraldine snarled as she came into view.