Escape from Scrutiny

By Mary Brockway

Andrea Madison, she told Kent. The Andrea part was right, but her married name was Andrea Madison Silverton, widow of the Under Secretary of the Interior.  Couldn't blame her for wanting to shed two years of hearings and malicious speculation about his tragic death, by leaving Washington D.C.  Why Grass Springs, Montana? Did she know someone here?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613091708

Book preview

One

Andrea squinted over her easel, pondering why endless knolls of grassland had become such a fascinating subject for the brush she dabbed into a mixture of yellow ochre and sepia. She had gotten up at dawn, packed her paint box, easel, a thermos of coffee and a cold box of sandwiches, before driving her leased sports van to the Montana vista. Two weeks of this kind of peace and solitude had begun to heal two years of severe stress.

Moisture trickled down her temples and she pulled off her wide-brimmed straw hat to fan limp blonde strands of hair clinging to her neck. Settling the hat on her head again, she changed brushes to outline a lone cloud above the horizon. Drying too fast. Time to move to the cottonwoods before freckles appeared in spite of hat and sunscreen. A long shadow angling to her left caused her to jerk the brush, marring the cloud with a smear of light blue.

Didn’t mean to disturb you, a masculine voice apologized. Just curious about what brings anyone to this lonely spot every day to paint nothing but prairie grass.

You did startle me. Either you are stealthy or I was too deep in concentration. Andrea twisted on her folding stool to face a tall Levi-clad man. Is it your land? I didn’t mean to trespass. And, I guess lonely is what I come out here to be. Why tell that to a stranger? Familiar tension crawled up her spine. Was there nowhere to escape? Had he been paid to watch her activities every day? She should have spotted a man who was over six feet tall unless he was very well hidden. Stupid to get so engrossed in painting or anything else that she lost connection with her surroundings.

He smiled and removed his worn Stetson. His closely-cropped dark hair had gray in the sideburns. Creases in his face and beside his eyes were like those in many people Andrea observed in this part of Montana. Sun and wind toughened their skin, making ages appear somewhere between thirty and fifty.

I’m-uh-Kent Jasper, and I do happen to own this piece of Montana. My house is a mile through the cottonwoods and I ride the lines nearly every day. He stooped to scan the canvas. You paint grass well, but I suggest you add a bit more of that rusty shade in the foreground.

You paint too?

No. I’m a Russell fan, though, and appreciate art that looks like real western scenery.

Andrea carried the easel to a flat shady spot under the trees. I have coffee and sandwiches in the van, and was about to bring them up to the shade. You’re welcome to share.

I’ll join you in a cup of coffee. Breakfast came late this morning. You going to tell me who you are?

Andrea, but everyone calls me Andy.

You have a last name?

Last names can be anything when you’re on vacation. I could be Jane Fonda in disguise.

Kent grinned. I’d say a couple decades younger than Jane, though last time I saw her she had your shade of blonde hair. Montana encourages folks who come here to lose old habits and adopt ours.

The chill settled again. Careful, Andy. He’s too smooth, his speech too Harvard/Yale for a native Montanan. Yet, the leathery tan on his forearms below rolled-up denim sleeves meant he spent a lot of time on the open range.

Andrea brought the lunch things and a blanket to the sheltering tree. She poured a mug of coffee for Kent and offered him packets of sugar and cream filched from the diner next door to her motel.

Kent sat on a corner of the blanket, wincing a little when he stretched out his long legs. He sipped the coffee. Spent too much time in the saddle yesterday and woke up with a few aches from riding to the plateau to check the summer range for water and wolves.

Wolves?

Yeah. The environmental folks are reintroducing the animals to this area. Ranchers nearly wiped out the wolves for what they thought were good reasons.

And do you fear them? Do wolves kill many of your cattle?

Not enough of them yet to cause trouble. They get the calves and weak animals sometimes.

A nicker turned Andrea’s head toward a liver-spotted Appaloosa tethered to one of the cottonwoods about twenty yards away. You have a patient horse.

As long as Jos has me in sight, he’s fine. Didn’t want to distract you when I came.

Or make my paint brush smear that precious grass! Sure you won’t share a sandwich? I brought two pastrami on rye in case I decided to stay out past dinner.

He glanced at a dented pocket watch A half then. Got to get back to the house. Expecting a call. He patted his shirt pocket. Forgot my cell. When I saw you here several days in a row, I wondered if the old Sawyer place had been rented to a woman who finds something to paint out here.

Sawyer place?

The log house where you turned off the main road.

They rent it?

Yeah, belongs to a guy who spends most of his time in the East. He uses the place for a hunting lodge, but hardly ever makes it for bird season anymore. You interested in living this far out of town?

Might be, if the rent isn’t too high. The motel in Grass Springs is a bit hard on my budget. Now she’d told him where and how frugally she lived. Nearly two years under the scrutiny of every kind of media should have made her permanently speechless. She’d quickly copied the friendly attitude of the locals, yet something about this man opened deep layers of suspicion. In Washington, even their close friends had been harried by reporters. And, if Doug hadn’t had so many friends, he might be alive.

If you’re interested, Thad Corwin, who runs the real estate office in Grass Springs, handles the rental. He laughed. I ought to warn you that if you stay for them, winters are mighty cold. Most folks that can afford it, head for Arizona come November.

Thanks. I may consider spending a few months here. It’s so peaceful and quiet, so far from everywhere else.

Glad I stopped by, Andy. Maybe I’ll come again to see if you found a deer or something to put into that grass. Jasper stood and bent to brush several fallen twigs from the blanket. See you.

Andrea watched him mount smoothly and disappear through the cottonwood grove. She gathered up the lunch kit, and mopped her brow. A dip in the motel pool would be welcome when she returned to town. She hurried back to retrieve the paint kit and easel, stowed them, and headed down the section road.

At the corner near the log house, she slowed the van and turned into a hundred-foot gravel driveway which was fast being invaded by grass. Wouldn’t hurt to look. No one’s around to care.

A step creaked when she ascended to the broad veranda sheltering the front of the house. Two chipmunks scurried away, chattering at the interruption of their nap. She peeked through a double window and could see a stone fireplace which took up one wall. In front of it were two large wood and leather chairs. A hooked rug covered most of the floor. The room looked as if winter snow would only make the occupants cozy when fire logs were blazing.

At the heavy weathered door in the middle of the veranda, her hand felt drawn to the tarnished brass door knob. Turning it, she uttered a cry when it opened. Don’t even lock empty houses out here. Maybe it isn’t. Better check. Stepping back, she knocked loudly, then leaned inside and shouted, Come out, come out whoever you are! No answer. Okay then, I’ll just look around a bit. Silly talking to a house...

The central hall she entered contained hooks for coats, a rack for boots, and a stairway at the end. Through an archway was the room where the fireplace stood. A blanket-covered sofa with scratched wooden arms was against a pine-paneled wall. An old-fashioned floor lamp with sagging fringe trim stood on one side and a bookcase filled with old magazines and paperbacks at the other end. Beneath the double casement windows was a round oak table with an oil lamp in the center and four chairs around it. Dust motes scattered as she walked through the room and across the hall.

The open door on the other side of the hall led to the kitchen where a propane range and yellowed refrigerator occupied one wall. A dirty, chipped sink with galvanized faucets and cracked linoleum drain boards took up the area beneath a small window. An old-fashioned hand water pump was on the other side of the sink. She tried the pump and it spurted rusty water. Must have a well somewhere. Don’t see any way to heat water. Pretty basic. No wonder the owner doesn’t come often. Across the room stood a big wood stove that looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned in years. A box of kindling shuddered and a mouse leapt out. An old trestle table that had been scrubbed of all its varnish was under another window facing the road.

She opened a door beside the range, thinking it led to the back porch. Instead, she discovered a pantry with one of those kitchen cupboards which cost lots of money in antique stores. Beside it were open shelves and a linoleum counter matching the one in the kitchen. It stretched beneath a rear view window like a picture right out of Fanny Farmer’s original cookbook. This room might just keep me in Montana awhile longer. She wiped dust from the window and faced a view of distant white-capped mountains. I’m certain now. The pantry door led outside to a covered porch and a weed-filled expanse of yard fenced with sagging wood rails. In a corner under a tall cottonwood tree, was an open shed. A little building with a half-moon in the door, abutted the shed, and it might change her mind about renting unless it was a relic from the past. She crossed her fingers that more modern facilities were somewhere in the house.

Might as well look at the rest, she muttered. Back inside, she walked down the hallway to the stairs, and ascended to the upper floor, testing the creaking steps for soundness. Upstairs were two bedrooms lit by dormer windows facing east. Both rooms contained brass-framed beds covered with handmade quilts. The quilt on the double bed labeled the room the master bedroom because of its blue and white double wedding ring pattern. A white-enameled door led to a walk-in closet with a light bulb hanging from the sloping ceiling.

In the other room were twin beds with quilted coverlets in bright red, blue and white calico prints. She recognized this pattern as Texas Star. Her grandmother had made one for each of her grandchildren. Her own quilt had been on a bed in the Virginia house. Couldn’t quite escape reminders of her recent unresolved past.

She puzzled a minute when facing two doors at the back of this room. Opening the first, she found a closet much like the one in the master bedroom. Turning the knob on the second one, she gasped with surprise. Another room was nestled snugly under the west eaves. It had a single rustic wooden bed, a rocker, and a dresser. Under its three-foot dormer with vistas of the distant mountains was a padded window seat. David would love this hideaway room.

She wished the children could be with her on the tour of the house. Nine-year-old Amy would be enchanted. Amy loved anything pioneer. Andrea could visualize seven-year-old David tumbling through the grassy fields chasing the numerous rabbits that populated them. Both children said they were having a grand time with her friends, Brad and Sue Demming, who owned a guest ranch near Red Lodge. Talking to the kids by phone every night couldn’t replace hugs and kisses.

The bathroom, situated between the bedrooms, she saved to examine last, almost fearing what she would find. It was a turn-of-the-century affair, with a claw-footed tub, a toilet with its tank mounted near the ceiling, and a washbasin that looked like one she’d seen in pages from an antique store Sears and Roebuck catalog. She tried the chain to the toilet and it gurgled slowly to flush out the rusty water, leaving an ugly ring that had probably been with it always. The best discovery was a propane hot water heater that looked quite new.

Andrea glanced at her watch. What would she lose by inquiring? Hadn’t done anything rash or unplanned in years. Might as well begin. She hurried downstairs, shut the outer door, and skipped down the steps. I may be back soon, she told the chipmunk sitting on the porch rail.

After tossing half a sandwich to the little animal, she backed the van out of the lane onto the blacktopped county road. A sudden feeling of hope that she might find another beginning sent her humming Home on the Range, a song she hadn’t thought about since she had sung it in grade school. The teacher had admired anything Gene Autry.

~ * ~

In Grass Springs, she angled the van into a parking spot in front of Corwin Realty and Travel Agency. Beneath the gold letters of the business were the names: Thad Corwin, Real Estate and Rentals, Judy Corwin, Travel. A short balding man was locking the door when Andrea approached.

She glanced at her watch. Are you closing up?

He smiled. I know it’s only four-thirty, but it felt like a good time for late afternoon fly fishing. My wife Judy’s gone home to pack us a picnic supper. But, business first. How can I help you?

I-I am sort of interested in renting the old Sawyer place for a while. That is, if I can afford it.

Thad reopened the door and led her to a cluttered desk facing the window. She felt uncomfortable so exposed to whoever passed by, but fought away the familiar tension.

Corwin pulled out a plastic-covered chair for her, then moving behind the desk, settled into a matching one. He swiveled his chair around to fumble through a file cabinet and pulled out several tattered folders. And what can you afford Mrs...? I didn’t catch your name.

Andrea Madison. Having her maiden name for necessary registrations and credit cards was becoming easier. I confess I know nothing about what houses rent for in this area. I stopped by the Sawyer house today and it needs cleaning and a coat of paint in the kitchen and bedrooms.

Could you stand three hundred a month on a six-month lease?

That would make the lease end in December if I started it now. I’m not certain I will be able to stay that long, close to the holidays and all.

We’ll make it four months then, with the option to extend if you decide to brave one of Montana’s freeze-box winters. The old house has no central heating, but the log walls are tight. The owner had all the windows replaced with double-pane glass and the ceilings insulated several years ago.

How soon could I move in?

Tomorrow, if you like. Read this over and sign if you find it agreeable.

Andrea scanned the paper. The lease looks fine. I’ll just write you a check. Do you want first and last months’ rent?

No. Just the three hundred. And if repairs don’t include a complete remodeling job, send me the bills. Thad opened another drawer, took out a couple keys, and slid them across the desk. Folks out here seldom lock their doors, but city people are in the habit.

Andrea nodded and picked up the keys. Since the house is on the county road, I’ll probably lock it. But when I looked the place over this afternoon, I found only mice and chipmunks. She handed him the check written on a Helena bank account she’d opened when she arrived there a month ago. She rose to leave. Thanks, Mr. Corwin. Hope you catch your limit.

My mother had the audacity to name me Thaddeus, but I consider it a blessing that everyone calls me Thad. I’ll drop out in a couple of days to see how you are settling in. He reached for the ringing phone. Hello, Judge. Yeah, I’m still here. Just rented the old Sawyer place. He smiled as Andrea closed the door.

Two

The following morning, Andrea called the electric company to have the lights at the house turned on, and ordered a delivery of propane. She considered checking on a telephone land line installation because she knew her cellular didn’t work well in some areas there. Couldn’t remember for certain if there were phone outlets in the old house.

After packing her two suitcases, she checked out of the motel and drove to the hardware/feed store. There she bought cleaning supplies, a cheap tank vacuum cleaner, dishes, basic cooking utensils and silverware. When she passed the tool section, she decided to buy a hoe, rake, shovel, and a small sickle to tackle the weeds around the porches. Her next stop was Grass Spring’s only supermarket for a week’s supply of groceries. No sense in driving the fifteen-mile round trip just for a few supplies. She remembered seeing a yellowish gas refrigerator, but had no idea whether or not it worked. She added an ice chest and a block of ice to her purchases. For lunch, she picked up a sandwich and fruit at the store’s deli.

The day was another bright sunny one and she thought briefly that she would miss painting. Would Kent Jasper be watching from the trees? Her neighbor was ruggedly handsome and his Levis fit like he’d always worn them. She pushed aside a nagging feeling about the man, a sense she ought to remember him from somewhere besides Montana.

Andrea turned the car into the weedy driveway. It felt good to have a home again, however temporary. Gathering a load of supplies from the van, she carried them into the house.

Since the power had not yet been turned on for vacuuming, she cleaned the kitchen and pantry first. Both stoves took a lot of scrubbing, and she used the blackening liquid suggested by the hardware clerk, to brighten up the old wood range. She remembered someone saying you had to be careful starting a fire in case soot had accumulated in the chimney. Thumping the short section of exposed pipe, she couldn’t hear anything dropping into the stove.

After scrubbing and waxing the linoleum, the blue and white floor looked ten years younger. The sink became a challenge she couldn’t quite master and the counter top was impossibly cracked. Both of them ought to be replaced. But what could you expect for three hundred a month?

When the gas man arrived, she asked him to check the safety of the refrigerator, stove and the hot water heater. The little man adjusted his battered red hat and crawled around the appliances.

They’re in good working order. The judge wouldn’t let anyone rent the place if they weren’t safe, he said. The electricity is turned on. I work for the light company as well as for propane delivery.

Thank you for everything then, she called after him as he hurried out to his truck. What do I do about connecting a land-line?

He glanced toward the frayed lines leading from a pole at the corner of the driveway. I’ll tell Kevin when I get back to town. Might take a couple of days.

After the dust from his truck settled, Andrea felt some misgiving about having a link to the outside world. A ringing phone would shatter the peace of this quiet house, though she must be able to reach her folks in Arizona and the kids in Red Lodge. Her cellular didn’t work well here. She could barely wait until July 1st when their guest camp vacation would be over and she could have them here.

In the kitchen, she stored the groceries in the freshly-cleaned pantry and refrigerator. Checking her watch, she set the hands on the stove clock. Two-thirty. No wonder her stomach felt empty. She hadn’t eaten anything but an English muffin and coffee since dinner last night. She filled the new kettle from the rusty faucet and turned on the flame under it. After unpacking a cup from the carton containing a four-place setting of Corelle, she rinsed it out and placed a tea bag into it. She set the deli sandwich and six plump strawberries on a section of paper towel and pulled out one of the elderly oak chairs.

Sipping the tea, she felt almost normal for the first time in two years. If memories could be erased by a delete key, real healing might come. The nightmare lingered, but out here away from cameras and reporters seeking another tidbit for a headline, she felt alive once more. Answers to her own questions were unlikely and she must accept that. But questions came when her recent past was allowed to enter her mind. How could Doug, a former F-16 pilot, fly his Piper Seneca III into a mountain? Weather, the F.A.A. reported, and the probability of early spring icing complicated by overloading the plane. Not like Doug to be that careless. And why had he taken Dolores Hermanez with him on the flight to Arizona? Reporters speculated that the Under Secretary of the Interior was in the business of transporting illegal immigrants when the body of the girl, a Mexican national, was discovered in the wreckage. Dolores had been employed as a domestic in a Washington, D.C. home. The media reported that some officials were hiring the cheap illegal labor, and that many households employed girls like Dolores.

During the congressional hearings, a friend and former staff member testified that Doug only meant to help the girl back into Mexico, or find other employment for her in Arizona. Several others from Interior took the fifth amendment. The most disturbing for Andrea was the two-inch tabloid headline saying the real function of Dolores, the nineteen-year-old girl, was being Doug Silverton’s mistress.

Andrea felt the familiar ache in her throat when she recalled the gossipy items. They had no proof, but neither did she. In ten years of marriage, Doug had given her no hint of anything but love and loyalty. They had often been separated, first by Navy orders, then by his work with the Department. Dolores Hermanez would never be able to answer anyone’s questions. Lawyers had found that Dolores was the niece of Andrea’s own housekeeper, who had worked for them as a domestic in Washington and Arizona.

If only Doug had not accepted that ego-flattering government appointment... Crunching the paper towel, she tossed it into the new trash container across the room. No more if onlys. Think of what’s now, not what you can’t replace, the grief counselor had told her.

She still had to clean the living room and make up a bed. At least sleep ought to come quickly tonight after so much physical exercise. The vacuum cleaner hummed over the hooked rug in the living room, gradually revealing an intricate pattern woven around dozens of red S’s. The rug was an art piece. She rolled the edges over to clean the floor under it and caught her breath. Pegged pine. Running the vacuum over the draperies, she could see they were threadbare. She’d mention it to Thad, but it was hardly worth fussing about for only four months residence there.

Andrea slumped into one of the chairs to watch the sun as it cast early evening shadows across the grassland. This time of the year daylight lasted until nine. A knock at the door startled her. Who would come this late? Cold tenseness settled in her stomach. She’d ignore the knock except the door was wide open to air the house. She crept softly to the window. It was impossible to see the door from that angle. All that was visible was part of a long shadow from the waning sun rays, stretched across the porch.

Who is it? she called.

Your neighbor, Kent Jasper.

Three

Jasper stood grinning down at her. You look right fetching with soot on your nose, Andy. I brought over supper. Thought you’d probably not take time to cook or eat anything but sandwiches. Hope you don’t mind if I invite myself to join you.

Though she felt slightly annoyed at his assumption, she laughed. So you knew I’d rented the place. Like I suspect everyone in Grass Springs knows. Probably that gas and light man doubles as the town’s gossip column. But come in and see if I’ve earned the sooty nose.

Pete’s not the talkative type. Now Arnie Becker, who delivers the mail, keeps most folks informed. He goes clear back to party-line phones. Kent carried a basket to the kitchen table. Hope you like chicken. It’s what our ranch cook decided on for tonight. He removed his hat and tossed it into a chair. Hey, kitchen looks great. Bet the real color of that linoleum hasn’t come to light for years.

Andrea watched him lay out insulated containers of fried chicken, hot biscuits, cream gravy, and buttered corn. She reached into the newly papered shelves in the pantry for plates and stainless steel knives and forks. I have cola, beer or milk in the refrigerator.

Beer for me. Kent pulled out a chair for her after she placed two bottles on the table.

Andrea hadn’t tasted food so good in ages. You must have best the cook in Montana. Give her my compliments.

Him. Bates has been cooking for ranch hands for about fifty years. He hasn’t much patience with that low fat, low calorie stuff. I have to work hard to keep it all from clinging to my arteries.

"I don’t see any extra weight on most people here, though the menus at the