Confessions to Mr. Roosevelt Read online

“From what we’ve seen thus far, I conclude that this is a male,” he said, addressing his comments to the sheriff. “Is it a native Indian? Most people think all skeletons look alike, but we can tell a person’s race by the shape of the skull, its size, the shape of the eye sockets, and so forth.”

  Sheriff Logan scowled as he wiped the back of his neck with an oversized handkerchief. “If you were to hazard a guess?”

  “Don’t need to guess.” Wales gave a dry laugh. “Let me explain one or two points. This skull has sloping eye orbits, and its shape indicates a long, narrow face. These are characteristics of someone with European ancestry. With a native inhabitant, you are more likely to find round eye orbits and a wider face surface. There are other factors, but without getting too technical, that’s it in a nutshell.”

  “So, this is not an American Indian,” the sheriff finished for the archaeologist.

  Iris opened her mouth to speak but was silenced by a stern look from the sheriff.

  The man nodded. “There’s also the matter of what we are not finding. A native burial should have grave goods. Those might be small pots, arrowheads, or other fighting weapons. Certainly, we could expect beads or fragments of shells that ornamented necklaces or clothing.” He looked around the group to see if they were following. Satisfied that they understood, he continued, “Now, if you look there, at the material just visible near the rib cage, you’ll see a few bits of cloth, possibly wool.”

  They all leaned forward, following the man’s pointing finger. “I would need to analyze these pieces in my laboratory, but my guess is they come from cloth manufactured on an industrial loom. Of course, native groups had these sorts of goods after contact with whites, but I stand by my first assessment. This is not an Indian burial. Nor is there any immediate indication of a native habitation.”

  Iris Hewitt could no longer remain silent. She sputtered with indignation, steadily finding traction for her rage. Maynard positioned himself to one side of Ellen and a little behind her. “Don’t move,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. A brief nod of her head told him she understood. He was using her as a shield as he lifted the Leica from beneath his shirt. There was a small click and then another. Iris Hewitt was captured on film, standing toe to toe with the archaeologist, her mouth open in angry argument.

  Wales took Iris’s onslaught in stride, apologizing for dashing her hopes. Then, holding up a finger to silence any more protests, he turned to the sheriff. “Based on what I see, I’d say this is a Caucasian male. He’s been in the ground for at least half a century. Very possibly longer.

  “I find it quite curious there is no indication of such things as coat buttons, a belt buckle, or leather such as you would find with a belt or shoes. Perhaps this is a victim of robbery. We hear of people being killed today for a pair of shoes or a coat. I don’t imagine it was much different back then. But it beats me why someone would strip a man completely naked before burial.”

  Ellen glanced at Calley, who, for once, seemed surprised by something he’d come across in life. The sheriff had the look of a very unhappy man, made even more so when Wales pulled him over to observe a gouge along the edge of one rib, which the archaeologist suspected had been caused by a bullet or long-bladed knife. The sheriff nodded, stood, and walked away, shaking his head.

  “I’d like to get a shot of the bones,” Maynard mumbled. Ellen nodded, moving away from the knot of people caught up in the drama of the archaeologist’s revelations. Maynard ambled beside her as she walked to the far side of the work area. Stopping near one of the student assistants, she dropped down beside him.

  He turned, earnest blue eyes staring out from a sun-browned face dripping with sweat. Ellen ignored his protests that she leave, talking over him as she explained she was with the newspaper, writing a story about archaeology as a sidebar to this discovery.

  Ellen was elated to find that the student, who introduced himself as Owen Bushnell, needed little prodding to expound on burial and habitation sites unearthed in Kansas and how they compared to those discovered in other parts of the country. He’d visited several and worked on others. He’d even spent part of the previous year in Central America, which, he assured Ellen, was the place to be for some dramatic discoveries, even when your life was in danger from disease-carrying insects and poisonous snakes.

  It was only after Ellen heard the last of the Leica’s soft clicks that she gently interrupted Owen’s enthusiastic descriptions of the jungle and the Mayan ruin it concealed.

  “I heard the professor tell the sheriff about a nick on the rib. What do you think caused it?” She gave Owen her full attention, pencil poised above her notebook.

  He beamed, clearly pleased to be asked his opinion. Pointing toward the rib in question, he began to explain. “It’s chipped a little. A knife or other sharp object, like a screwdriver, might cause that. But my best guess is a bullet.”

  “Have you found one?”

  The young man shook his head. “Not yet. We’ll probably have to sift the dirt to find it, if it’s here. The man could have been shot somewhere else. If the bullet passed through, it won’t be found. I don’t know that much about firearms and their capabilities, but I’ve seen what a lance or arrow can do to a bone. This doesn’t look quite the same.”

  Ellen thought it all sounded reasonable. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Maynard casually walking back the way they’d come.

  She stayed for a few minutes longer, asking Owen what he might conclude about John Featherstone’s collection and the possibility of an Indian village. “I’m not surprised that things like that would be found around here,” he answered. “There may be a village site near the river. But this isn’t it.”

  She thanked him and stood, brushing dust off the hem of her dress.

  Calley and Maynard, she saw, were walking back to the car, with Calley impatiently gesturing for her to catch up.

  “Got to get back to the paper,” he urged, opening the passenger door for her. Ellen slid into the front. Maynard took the back. She fanned her face with the notebook. The car was like an oven. There was a general sigh of relief when air began to circulate through the open windows as Calley maneuvered the car around the barricade and picked up speed on the paved road.

  “Maynard!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Tell me about the shots!”

  The man leaned toward the front seat and Calley’s ear. “I’ve got general shots of the site. Took some pictures of two CCC boys who were there when the skull was discovered. I also got Iris Hewitt spitting mad.” Maynard couldn’t stop himself from smiling at what he knew were great pictures.

  Calley barked a laugh. “She’s going to be even madder when she sees herself in the paper.”

  “The last shots I got were close-ups of the skeleton,” Maynard said. “Ellen, thanks for keeping that kid occupied.”

  She turned sideways in the seat, surprised and a little pleased he appreciated her help. “You’re welcome. As for the kid,” she turned to Calley, “he gave me a lot of information you could use in a sidebar about archaeology. Maybe it would soothe Mrs. Hewitt’s feathers a little to include the places in Kansas where burials and villages have been found. The ‘kid,’ who hopes to have his doctorate next year, gave me county locations where he said indigenous artifacts have been found.”

  Ellen flipped the pages of her notebook, ready to read off the names, but Calley broke in. “He used the word ‘indigenous?’ ” He laughed again. “That’ll get our readers going to their dictionaries. And don’t change it when you write that up!”

  Ellen nodded, as if she’d expected all along to write the piece when, in fact, she’d only told Owen about a sidebar to get his cooperation.

  “There’s something else,” Ellen added. “The student thinks that the nick on the rib was caused by a bullet, not a sharp object. He seemed pretty confident about it, but they haven’t found any bullet.”

  Calley seemed to be digesting this news as he sped into town. The c
ar rumbled across the railroad tracks. He didn’t slow down until they reached the town square. As he pulled into a parking space, he gave Maynard instructions and asked Ellen to follow him into the newspaper office. He wanted her to start working immediately on her piece.

  Once inside the building, Ellen walked past Calley, straight to the restroom hidden under the stairs. She was hot, sweaty, and knew she must look a fright. The mirror proved it. She let out a little yelp when she saw her reflection. She washed away the dirt and grime as best she could before brushing out her hair. When she emerged a few minutes later, Calley was still standing in the newspaper’s reception area. Ellen was aware of him watching her as she tossed her hat on a desk and claimed a typewriter.

  “Was there something else, Mr. Calley?” She turned in his direction.

  The man nodded as he pulled a ten dollar bill from his money clip. “You did a good job out there.” The man’s voice was gruff. “You didn’t complain about the heat. You used your initiative to start a story, and you’re not whining about missing supper. On top of that, you somehow got Maynard, who’s always a loner, to treat you like a partner.”

  He tossed the bill next to the typewriter. “If it wasn’t for this damned Depression, I’d hire you. But I can’t, so here’s a little something for a day’s work.”

  He walked away so fast, Ellen wasn’t sure he heard her call out her thanks.

  CHAPTER 20

  ELLEN

  As the WPA workers filed into the basement on Friday morning, Iris Hewitt’s greetings were subdued. Ellen attributed it to the events of the previous day, but Audrey saw it differently. She leaned over and whispered, “Bet you a milkshake we’re getting the axe. Iris is afraid to tell us.”

  In a few moments, Audrey’s prediction proved true. Iris faced the group and clapped her hands for attention. The word had come from Topeka. The project would not be extended to other counties.

  “You are all to be commended for what you have accomplished here. However, the state historical society says it has more than enough pioneer stories for its archives, and the editors for the WPA’s state guide report they have enough material to include in their publication. For its part, the WPA wants to use its limited funds elsewhere. If any of you wish to apply for new work, you must contact Mrs. Fletcher in Topeka.”

  Iris stopped, expecting a volley of questions and perhaps an angry outcry. None came. “Well, I must say you are all taking this much better than I anticipated.”

  “We didn’t expect this work to last too long. I think we’ve all been trying to plan ahead.” The science-fiction writer didn’t go on to share what he intended, only hinting that it might involve going to Hollywood.

  Jess raised his hand to get their attention. “I had a piece of luck.” Sounding both proud and still a little dazed, he recounted his trip to Kansas City. He had a temporary newspaper job, covering sports. Applause broke out. Audrey stuck two fingers between her teeth and whistled.

  “I’ve got plans, too.” Cowboy Joe stood.

  “And what are those?” Ralph’s tone was condescending.

  Audrey blew out a breath, irritated that her reclamation project on Ralph had just taken a backward step.

  “Gonna sing on WIBW in Topeka. They got this program called ‘Jamboree.’ ” Joe’s smile was wide as a country mile. “A man from the radio station offered me the job after he heard me sing.”

  More applause filled the room. Ellen noticed Joe deftly avoided mentioning the man had no doubt heard Joe during one of his weekend performances at the Hurley-Burley.

  After receiving her paycheck, Ellen headed out of the courthouse. She had an interview with a man she’d inherited from Mae Swenson’s list. Ewell Morgan lived with his widowed daughter and two grown grandchildren in a narrow two-story house in the area the locals called “south of the tracks.” In this part of town, residential blocks were occasionally interrupted by the appearance of small businesses. The Morgan house, weathered gray, sat between similar houses. Across the street was a mechanic’s shop that did double duty as a place for tire repair.

  Ellen’s knock brought a sprightly middle-aged woman to the door. “Come on in. Dad’s been waiting for you,” she said, smoothing the front of her apron with a hand. “He’s just here in the front room. Thought it might be quieter to talk in here than in the kitchen where the girls and I are making strawberry jam.” She led Ellen to a room on the left, called out to her father that his company had arrived, and excused herself.

  People said Ewell Morgan had once been a muscled, barrel-chested man, like his father before him. He was still a big man, taking up a large part of a cushioned chair, but the years had chiseled away the hard muscle and whittled away at his strength. He motioned Ellen to take a seat on a sofa that was old but comfortable. It matched the homey feeling of the tidy room.

  “Glad you came,” he said, nodding. “Thought I was gonna get stuck with Mae Swenson. She’s a nice enough lady, I guess, but doesn’t know which way is up, if you ask me.”

  Ellen let that go and introduced herself.

  “You’re the one in the paper!” Ewell grabbed the morning paper from its place on a side table and stabbed a finger at Ellen’s article about archaeology in Kansas. “You were out there when they were digging up that skeleton! Now, isn’t that something?” He leaned forward. “You know, if my dad was alive today, he’d be real interested in those bones.”

  Ellen hastily pulled out her notebook and pencil. “Why is that?”

  “Well, he might have some ideas about who those bones belong to.”

  Ellen struggled to hide her excitement. What a coup it would be to present Mr. Calley with an article identifying the buried remains. She took a deep breath and told herself to go slowly and get the man’s story from the beginning. Lay the groundwork, she told herself, before grabbing for the prize.

  “I truly want to know what you think your father might have believed, but let’s take one step at a time. Why don’t you begin with who your father was and how your family came to be in Opal’s Grove?”

  The man nodded. “Dad was Henry Ewell Morgan. My mother was Mary. We came to Opal’s Grove from Indiana in the spring of 1868. I was eight years old. So you see, I was old enough to have some memory of the Civil War, mainly of the soldiers, like Dad, coming home. Dad was a blacksmith by trade. He could have picked up where he left off in our little town, but he couldn’t seem to get settled after the war. He started to look at moving west. The question was where.”

  Ellen nodded encouragement, taking it all down.

  “There were so many town companies advertising in newspapers or mailing out handbills, it seemed like a fella had his pick of places. As I recall, Dad saw a handbill for this town and wrote to Sylvester Vine. He wrote back, and, before you knew it, we were on a train with all our belongings, including Dad’s tools, boxed up in a baggage car. The town seemed better than some of places we saw from the train, and Dad said we’d stay. Mr. Vine and Mr. Bright at the bank helped Dad get set up, and we had a little cottage back of the blacksmith shop. For a little while, we were strapped for money, but things picked up. My older sister, Dorie, got a job helping in one of those big houses north of the courthouse. My younger sisters helped Ma at home, and Mr. Hill, who opened up the Railroad Hotel, took me on to do odd jobs and run errands like going over to the depot to collect or send telegrams for the guests.” Ewell stopped to take a breath and shout in a bellowing voice for his daughter to bring him a glass of water.

  In a few moments, the woman who had greeted Ellen at the door arrived with a glass of water for her father and one for Ellen. As she handed her father his glass, she gave his shoulder an affectionate squeeze.

  Ewell drank deeply, giving Ellen time to ask about school.

  He wiped the back of a hand across his mouth, shaking his head. “When they started a school, Dorie refused to go. Said she was too old, but Ma laid down the law with me and my younger sisters. Most of the time I liked school, but I didn’t go v
ery long. Quit at age eleven. I knew how to read, write, and do sums. What else was there to know? Seemed to me I should be working with Dad and learning the trade, and he agreed. To earn a little extra, I sometimes still helped out at the hotel.

  “By the time I was twenty-five, Dad had turned most of the work over to me. Over the years he did less and less, but he was at the shop every day until he came down with pneumonia and died at the age of seventy.”

  “And you had a family.” Ellen wanted to include this before they returned to the subject of the skeleton.

  “Married Kristina Anderson, one of the Swedish immigrant girls. She only knew a few words of English, and what I knew in Swedish had to do with things I made, like horseshoes and barrel hoops. But we got along fine. When we got married, I rented this house. After a good long while, I managed to buy it. Brought up five children here. I’d say I’ve had a good life. Never rich, but never too poor. And the wife and I raised a good family.” He sat back with a smile of satisfaction. “Now, let’s talk about those bones.”

  Ellen laughed and gave in. “Okay. Why would they be of such interest to your father?”

  “Dad may have been a blacksmith by trade, but there were times when the sheriff called on him to be a deputy. Dad was a big man, but it wasn’t just his size that got people’s attention. He was respected around these parts. So, if there was trouble, Dad was a good man to have on your side.”

  Ellen waited while Ewell downed the remainder of his water. He leaned forward. “You see, hearing about that skeleton reminded me of a time when one particular fella in town just seemed to take off without saying a word to anybody. Now, I’m not saying this was all that unusual. Why, I can name five or six families that up and left the county without even a goodbye wave to their neighbors. But I recall Dad didn’t agree with folks, including the sheriff, who thought this fella had just skedaddled.”

  “Did your father have a reason?” Ellen was sitting on the edge of her seat.

  “Sure did. This fella made furniture. Nothing fancy, you understand, but it was sturdy. He promised my mother a whatnot shelf to sit in the corner of the living room, but when the man’s boss went looking for him in the little workshop he had, there was Mom’s shelf half-finished and another lady’s linen chest without a finished lid. Dad couldn’t believe this fella would just up and leave things the way they were. I remember Dad saying the man was a bit of a rascal with the ladies, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a hard worker. He told the sheriff what he thought, but Showcross, that was the sheriff, didn’t want to hear it.”