Death Is Written

By R.W. Weiss

As curator of the Lodgepole Historical Museum, Helen knew the instant she bent down to retrieve a weathered and beaten little book under the floorboards of the 200 year old homestead cabin that fame and fortune were wrapped within the the torn jacket of the book. She'd have to get her hair done, of course, before the photographers came rushing through the doors of the little museum; maybe a new dress, too, for the tv news crews out of Billings. What she didn't count on was the problem of death.

Now, who would have cause to crush Helen's head and leaved her lying on the buffalo skins across from the Indian Artifacts display? Her fresh hair style and new dress looked just grand on her as she lay in state in Parlor Number Two in Jacobson's Funerary Establishment. Looks like somebody didn't want the book to see the light of day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Class Act Books
• Release date: Sep 14, 2015

Book preview

Death Is Written

A Hugh Winslow Mystery

by

R.W. Weiss

Published by

CLASS ACT BOOKS

121 Berry Hill Lane

Port Townsend, Washington 98368

www.classactbooks.com

Copyright  2015 by R.W. Weiss

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-938703-71-3

Credits

Cover Artist: Blaise Kilgallen

Editor: Leslie Hodges

Copy Editor: Anita York

Printed in the United States of America

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Dedication

For Dan, Jen, and Anna who each own a third of my heart where pride reigns supreme

Chapter 1

Helen Lowell stood and sweated under the piercing August sun and watched the proceedings with mixed emotions. On the one hand, she was pleased that old Larry Culverton had finally gotten around to doing the job. In the winter, he said, it was too dangerous. In the spring, it was too muddy. In early summer he was too busy. But now, like Goldilocks’ bed, it was just right. On the other hand, she was annoyed that it was taking so long.

Another inch, shouted Bigjohn as he bent over and squinted between the bottom of the homestead cabin they were raising and the railroad tie he was attempting to squeeze under one corner of the cabin. Bigjohn didn’t need to be conscious of the angle of the beer can in his right hand. Years of beer can holding while doing work had instilled a sixth sense for that sort of thing. If asked, he would tell you that he couldn’t for the life of him remember the last time he ever spilled the golden liquid. Well, except for that time, was it maybe fifteen years ago, when that nosy old heifer stuck her tongue onto the top of the can while it sat for a rare moment on the fence post while he stretched the barbed wire tighter. But that, of course, weren’t his fault so it don’t count.

How’s that? said Larry Culverton, the words squeezing out of his throat as he stood on tip-toes to lean and push down with all his weight on the handle of the jack. It finally clicked into the next slot, allowing him to take his hands off the handle, remove off his straw cowboy hat, and wipe his brow on his soiled denim sleeve. He stole a glance at the worn calluses on his right hand; wouldn’t want the others to think he couldn’t take it. He might be near eighty, but he could still out work the youngsters. It was all in the head. He’d given his gloves to his grown grandson Tyler who’d left his own back in the barn.

Good, said Bigjohn as he dragged the heavy lumber under the corner of the cabin. Even with his large frame and his two hundred and forty pounds, or maybe because of it, he was sweat soaked and tired from hauling the lumber.

A bit low on this end, called Tyler Culverton from the corner opposite and to the rear of the cabin, but she’ll level out fine when we get this side.

This was the first time Helen had seen a homestead cabin moved. The process was theoretically simple; jack up one corner and put a 10x12 railroad tie about four or five feet long under that corner, then go to the other three corners and repeat the process, being sure to keep it as level, slow, and careful as possible. Then go back to the first corner, jack it up higher and put another tie on top of the other and do the same for the other three corners. Just keep on going up about three and a half to four feet. When you’re finished, you should have a little log cabin sitting on top of four or five layers of railroad ties under each corner. Well, that’s the theory, anyway.

Fact is, things tend to slide, all railroad ties aren’t created equal, someone forgot to bring enough of ’em, this one’s almost rotted, why in the Hell did you bring this piece of crap, where’d I put my gloves, damn dog’s got ’em, and most importantly, we’re runnin’ low on beer.

About seven that morning, Helen had arrived at the site shortly after the men. It was now nearly 10:00 AM and the sun was pounding down for all its worth through the big sky of Montana. She wore her favorite jeans, denim shirt, red boots, and no hat. Sweat marks were beginning to show on her back and under her arms. The early eighteen mile drive from Lodgepole was pleasant as the two lane county road wound through hilly ranch country with the Beartooth Mountain range on the left and wide open and ranch land to the right. She’d reached the log arch entrance to Larry Culverton’s twelve-thousand acre ranch that spread through the canyon between the Eastbud and Clark rivers, surrounded by ten-thousand mountains that encircled the green and brown basin that was the Lazy HC Ranch. Clusters of the fifteen-hundred head of Angus lounged about here and there as she’d driven the two mile drive down the mostly washboard dirt road to the hundred and twenty-year-old homestead cabin, the seeding ground for five generations of Culvertons.

She now watched with unseeing eyes as the men worked to raise the cabin, while her mind’s eye visualized the impressive display the cabin would make back at the historical museum. She’d have a picture of her standing in the doorway of the cabin taken for the Lodgepole Bulletin. She’d made measurements last week, and the little one room cabin would just squeeze through the double barn doors at the rear of the museum. She and Louise had cleared out a lot of the rusted farm implements from the southeast corner where the cabin would dominate and add authenticity to the place. She absently took another bite of the bear-paw pastry she’d brought from the bakery in town. Maybe she could be holding something; a plaque maybe. That would hide her burgeoning belly. A big plaque, she thought. But now, her excitement had begun to evaporate in the heat as she watched the three men work, usually with one hand, the other being sure not to drop the ubiquitous beer, slowly and with apparent confusion, and many breaks for consultations. Unknowledgeable as she was of such things, she wasn’t aware that these three men actually were experienced and skilled in this field.

She trudged through the tall, brown grass back to her pickup that rested several yards away on the dirt road, turned on the air conditioner, and lit up a cigarette. She had other things to do than watch this circus of clowns. If she’d known, she might have hired someone instead of letting the Culverton clan plus ranch hand piddle around. Be damned surprised if they don’t tilt the thing over and smash the fragile cabin to bits. Finally, forty-five minutes, two cigarettes, and another bear-paw later, the fussing around the cabin stopped. The two Culvertons and the ranch hand sat on the tail-gate of the rusting ‘85 Chevy 3500, cigarettes in one hand, beers in the other, legs swinging back and forth under the tail-gate. Helen left the coolness of her truck and approached the sun dried men who were laughing the laugh she knew that usually followed an off color comment. She also knew the comment had nothing to do with her. She had blossomed and faded many years ago. They stopped as she neared.

How much longer do you think? she asked Larry.

Done, he said.

Except we gotta slide the flatbed under her, said Bigjohn with a drag on his cigarette and a nod to his left.

Helen looked over Bigjohn’s shoulder at the twenty-five foot long flatbed truck. Would it even start, let alone carry the cabin back to Lodgepole?

Be done in a few minutes, said Tyler after a healthy pull on the beer can. He extended it toward Helen.

No thanks, she said. She headed past the men toward the raised cabin. The sides were of cottonwood logs about eight inches in diameter, notched and overlapping on the corners. Over a hundred years of sun, wind, rain, and snow had weathered the boards to a life-telling tale of gray. Yet she knew that only a fraction of an inch below the surface lay the depth, color, and strength of the true wood. The chinking of straw and mud had long since vanished in the harsh Montana extremes, leaving uneven gaps through which the wind would howl. The front door opening required a lowering of the head, but the window opening next to it and the one along the side of the cabin allowed for some form of cross ventilation. The cabin stood jacked and propped above the railroad ties almost four feet high, permitting her to easily see the remnants of the wide planked pine floor. Large gaps were missing, and some of the planking hung toward the ground. The remains of the roof were large planks like the floor. Gaps between the roof boards allowed the sun to penetrate to the floor boards and the ground. Her eye followed one of these shafts of light to the ground. Something was there, under the boards near the back; a little pile of debris in the shape of a book. She walked around and bent under the huge sill that supported the walls of the cabin. Crawling on her hands and knees for a few feet, she managed to reach the object and crawled back out. She brushed off perhaps a century of dirt and litter from the leather bound object. It was indeed a book. With the adrenaline rush that accompanies such finds, and which drove her to become director of the Lodgepole Historical Museum, she cautiously lifted the worn leather lid. The foxed and weathered page that faced her bore an inscription that declared this journal to belong to Hanna Huntington, presented to her by her loving brother Jacob in celebration of the 17th anniversary of her birth, this 18th day of March 1882. Helen’s heart raced as can only the heart of someone who loves gossip as well as history. Again, the picture of her, the cabin, and the journal in the newspaper came to mind. Tears blurred her vision as she stumbled back to her pickup to begin the odyssey through the journal. She began on the first page and soon lost track of time and place.

An hour and three beers later, with the cabin secured to the flat bed, Bigjohn hopped into the cab and eased the truck into first gear. He aimed her toward the dirt road; each inch followed or preceded by commands from the Culverton men.

To the right. To the right. More!

Easy down that little hill!

Christ, Bigjohn, watch for the holes!

It finally reached the relatively level dirt road and headed for Lodgepole. The Culvertons hopped into the old Chevy and followed. Helen forced herself to put the journal on the passenger seat and took up the rear guard as they all made their way at a safe fifteen miles an hour. To Helen’s amazement, Bigjohn drove the load with only the occasional small weaving from side to side.

Once in town, the three men gathered at the rear of the truck.

No shifting of any significance, said Bigjohn.

Did good, said Larry.

Thought you might lose it at that ninety by Bradshaw’s place, laughed Tyler.

You ain’t the only, pardner, laughed Bigjohn.

Lunch, said Larry, then we’ll drop her down. The Cafe, on me.

Helen had already parked out front on Main and was unlocking the door of the little two-story-plus-basement of the Lodgepole Historical Museum. She all but ran down the aisles of displays, turned right past the glass display cabinets of bridles and leads and spurs and stirrups. She hurried past the Please Do Not Handle sign in front of the generations-old clothing that hung limply on mostly headless mannequins and pushed open the door with the Do Not Enter sign. She flopped into her desk chair, put the journal on her desk, and stared at it. She couldn’t believe her luck. Must have fallen between gaps, or hidden by the author, over a century ago. Fortunately, the paper stock was of thick rag and the bindings and glue, though sorely tried, managed to preserve the diary of a typical western hard working woman. But, no, this woman was more than typical. The author had been dangerously, and foolishly, honest. Did her descendants know of her uniqueness? Would they want to know? But was that Helen’s concern? Life and history go on like the mountain streams that have fed the prairies for millennia. Man and Nature live and die side by side, each seemingly to control the other, but nothing will change the fact that what has past is past. It was not Helen’s choice, she conjured, to play God and choose what should and should not be made public. And speaking of God, was it not His—or Her—will that Hanna Huntington’s diary should be found by Helen? Sure, she could lock it in the safe or burn it, but she should not be put in that position of being an arbiter of history. What hubris, she thought, while at the same time being proud of her modesty. Yes, by all means, this little volume must be published. If some folks here in town get hoisted on their own petards, so be it. With these heavy rationalizations, Helen decided that history must be served.

As for the publishing of this little treasure, perhaps a cover in simulated worn leather with artificially yellowed, foxed pages. Could a printer do that? With Helen Lowell’s name as editor on the cover. One does not rewrite history to suit one’s own petty life. Hang the descendants. Besides, who’s going to judge the present families by the actions of their precursors? Nonsense. This little baby must be shown to the world. Better start with the local paper. Call Daniel Grant at the Bulletin.

Chapter 2

Hurry up, girl! Hugh Winslow shouted over his shoulder to Wolfie while reining back his horse. The black Shire stopped immediately. She was in no hurry at her age. Maybe Hugh was ready to return to the barn and pour some mash in the bucket. If