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  “Maggie? Oh, I remember. What about it?”

  “She’s in trouble, I think...”

  “How’s that?” I hadn’t reported to him about my phone conversation with the woman, so I filled him in on it. When I quit talking, he let the silence hang again to the point I wondered if we’d disconnected, “Jay?”

  “I’m here, just trying to put your facts with my suspicions and see if anything matches up.”

  “What suspicions?”

  “I think she thinks – this is some kind of riddle already, but I’ll try to organize my thoughts – I felt, after we’d talked this time, that she thinks you have decided to harass her for raising the specter of her grandmother...” He stalled out, and I decided to wait.

  “She thinks, Dad. She didn’t come right out and say it, but she thinks it. I tried to dissuade her from such an idea, and she, of course, denied she was even considering it, but, well, I hear and comprehend at a reasonable rate, and that’s what it sounded like to me.”

  “I wouldn’t have any idea how to react to that, Jay. I didn’t sleep with her grandmother or any other woman in 1973; never kissed one; never really knew one. I met one beautiful young woman in Florida that year, but I never gave her another thought after I went back to the Navy. Tell me what you heard, okay?”

  He gave a sigh, “After she spoke to you, she started working the phone and Internet looking for high school yearbooks from that era. She found a Karen O’Connor from Cleveland, Ohio, in one of the books.

  “Then, apparently following your suggestions, she started culling property tax rolls, newspaper obituaries, anything she could think of. She found some bits and pieces. She found a woman named Renée Tollifson who graduated with the O’Connor woman. But Tollifson is now Renée Rockland, still living in Cleveland, a grandmother of four.

  “Maggie had several phone conversations with her, and then anonymous calls started coming to her. She said a voice, she didn’t think it sounded like yours, but this voice told her, ‘History needs to be left alone or it could cause pain in unexpected places.’

  “I made her repeat that, and wrote it down. I asked her what connection she made from that to you, and her only response was, ‘Who else could it be? Who else even knows I’m curious?’”

  I tried to understand that reasoning, but came up empty. “Other than knowing that I didn’t make such calls, I can’t begin to offer any rational explanation...”

  “You don’t have to, Dad. That kind of call is not in your makeup, and I told her so. I asked her if she’d made a log of all the places she’d searched on-line and any calls she’d made in this pursuit. She hadn’t but she could, and I suggested she do that.”

  “To what purpose, Jay?”

  “If you rule Jim Stanton out of the source of these calls, then it has to be someone touched by other efforts she’s made. I thought if she logged those efforts, I could send them to you, and you might see a connection to your past – Dad, it has to be someone who did have sex with Karen, and someone who shares markers with us. I don’t know how that could work, but remember Sherlock.”

  ‘“When you rule out the possible, what you have left, no matter how improbable, is the answer,’” I recited. “It serves me right for reading those stories to you as a child.”

  “But it’s still logical, right?”

  “What did she say?”

  “She’s supposedly sending me that list. When I receive it, I’ll forward it to you, if that’s okay.”

  “Can’t wait. I’ll attend to it the moment it arrives.”

  “Thanks, Dad. You guys stay well, okay?”

  We disconnected, and I sat for some time, wondering how Maggie Lennon’s inquiry could possibly involve me, but I once again came up empty. I also wondered idly how the Lennon inquiry could possibly be linked to Art Truman and the Table of Grace, that only made my head hurt.

  Jan had gone to town while I had been talking; left a note on the blackboard by the garage door. Judy was prancing, signaling her need for release. I let her out and started my stretching routine as prelude to a walk. The dog recognized the routine and settled down to watch, her body seemed to be quivering in anticipation.

  Chapter 25

  Jan wasn’t home yet when Judy and I returned from our two-thousand-foot vertical walk. I had paused at intervals to practice my forms; and once, about half way up the mountain trail we often used, Judy had gone tharn on point that I allowed her to hold during my entire forms period. When I was ready to resume the walk, the pointer was still rigidly entranced with a ruffed grouse sitting on a nest.

  I carefully put my hand on Judy’s collar and, talking softly and reassuringly all the while, I led her away from the broody hen, put her at heel, and we went on our way. She balked a bit, wanting to return to the hen, but her training held, and she followed me up another couple hundred yards, and then I took another trail for the trip home.

  I had my shower, Judy had her long drink, and there was still no sign of Jan. I felt a worm of concern begin wiggling in my bowels. I picked up my phone, checked for messages, and found none. I contemplated making a call, then put it aside as I heard the growling of the garage door.

  All her groceries were stored before Jan came to find me in my writing room. “You smell good,” she said as she draped her arms around my neck and bent her head to find my face. “Good walk?”

  I twisted my desk chair around and spilled her into my lap where I could hug and kiss her properly. After a few quiet moments, I admitted to her my niggling concerns.

  “What’s eating you? I thought you were out of the Art Truman deal, right?”

  “But I haven’t heard a word from Rhodes or Boyd; I’m not positive that ‘no news is good news.’ When you were gone so long; I was concerned, that’s all.”

  “Well, nothing untoward happened; I went, I shopped, and I returned. I didn’t even run into someone in the store that I knew; I don’t think I was gone longer than usual, either.”

  “Unfounded angst, I’m sure; but I felt compelled to share it with you and remind you that we can’t afford to drop our guard, you know?”

  “I have my – Shirlee’s – Colt, and I have my instructions. I’m on guard, dear.”

  I kissed her again, and told her about Jeremy’s call. I watched her process the concept. “I think you need to find out more about your DNA history; can you think of anyone who could help with that?”

  “Maybe Wild Bill Chance will know of someone.”

  “Then call him.”

  Chance wasn’t answering so I left a message, expecting him to call back when he could.

  Chapter 26

  The final Monday of June found us at the Table of Grace just before 10 a.m. Elmo was plating desserts and Grace was mixing a noodle concoction when we arrived. Jan went to work setting up tables with silverware and water glasses upside down to differentiate them from used glasses.

  I busied myself filling water carafes for each table and the counter, then I ran water for the dish wash, rinse tub and the “sanitary” table wash bucket that sat atop our garbage can where dirty dishes were scraped before entering the wash process.

  The conversation was muted and it didn’t take long for both Jan and I to be trading cocked eyebrows at each other. Finally she spoke up, “Grace? Elmo? What’s bothering us today?”

  “Not what, but who is the question,” Elmo spoke quietly.

  “Okay, who?” Jan persisted.

  “We don’t know, actually,” Grace said from her end of the counter. “But somebody has certainly taken an unhealthy interest in the Table and its guests.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “We served eleven lunches on Friday,” Grace said. “Twenty-two on Thursday.”

  “At the end of the month?” Jan asked in amazement. “Where are the folks getting fed?”

  “Far as we can figure, they aren’t,” Grace said with what sounded like a whimper in her voice. “Something stronger than a growling belly is keeping them away.”<
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  “Did you ask anyone?” Jan said.

  “Sure,” Elmo said, “but we didn’t hear any answers, just shrugs and averted eyes.”

  At a quarter to eleven, I took a pile of empty pie boxes and such to the dumpster outside. There were no hungry people waiting for the door to open. Traditionally there would have been ten or more this close to serving time.

  I reported the situation as I saw it, and heard what might have been a choked-off sob from Grace. I took off the apron bearing the kitchen’s logo and hung it by the dishwashing station. “I’m going to take a walk around the neighborhood,” I said as I left by the back door.

  The soup kitchen was adjacent to, but not really a part of, the main drag in Pendleton. The neighborhood adjacent to the Umatilla River was a mixture of small businesses interspersed among single-family residences with an occasional rental unit. The noise of the business district was muffled here. I headed toward a park that often served as a staging area for lunch patrons. There were several little clusters of people hanging out in the shade of the park.

  I recognized a few of the folks from the kitchen, and moseyed casually into their areas, waiting to be recognized, but instead of the smiles of greeting I had expected, my smile was met with vacant stares.

  “Howdy,” I said to a man and a woman sitting on a picnic table. I had served them often at the kitchen, and they had always gone out of their way to show their gratitude. Today it was as if I were invisible.

  “Coming to lunch today?” I asked. “Chicken and noodles, from what I hear.”

  The woman met my eyes for an instant, but her smile died in a grimace of regret and a single shake of her head.

  I took a seat on the table behind them, my feet, like theirs, resting on the seat board, my elbows on my knees. I listened to the park sounds and carefully scanned others in the park. There were two women, barely out of high school, with their babies, similarly using a picnic table to the east of me, and there was the guy I had secretly tabbed “the codger” sitting on a bench with a box of books and papers that never left his presence.

  I listened for any sound of conversation and there was none.

  I spoke softly without looking at the couple behind me, “Can you tell me what’s going on with Table of Grace?”

  Silence.

  “Was it something Elmo or Grace did?”

  “Oh, dear God, no,” the woman whispered. “Those folks are lifesavers.”

  “They’re broken-hearted lifesavers right now,” I answered. “Can you explain why the folks are treating them this way?”

  “Can’t say for anyone else,” the man said in a voice that matched mine, somewhere between a mumble and a whisper, “but for us it’s a matter of staying healthy.”

  I waited for an explanation, but none seemed forthcoming. “How’s that?”

  “Don’t wanna end up like Stan and Mary.”

  “Who are... what happened to them?”

  “You know them,” the woman said, “maybe not by name, but Stan’s that tall fella with the reddish hair; Mary’s the Mexican woman he’s always with...”

  I had an instant memory of the two. He was at least my height; the woman seemingly no taller than his outsized belt buckle. I had tagged them “Mutt and Minor.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “Decided to ignore the Giant’s warning and ate anyway; got busted up.”

  “Giant?”

  “Big guy, that’s for sure; meaner’n hell, too.”

  “What happened?”

  “Stan’s in St. Anthony’s, intensive care; Mary’s hiding out with her kin; haven’t seen her since last Thursday, but her eyes were swelled up...”

  “And the warning was that if you eat at the Table the same thing might happen to you?”

  “No ‘might’ about it,” he said. “Sure-fire promise.”

  “Anyone tell the cops?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I didn’t mean to be. You don’t think the police will help you?”

  “Nobody’s sure the Giant ain’t a cop his self. Cops in this town no friend of folks like us, that’s for sure.”

  “Thanks for the info, guys. If you’re hungry, come on over, nobody’ll hurt you there.”

  “You sure of that?”

  “Reasonably. At least nobody will hurt you without dealing with others first.”

  As I left, I punched Pete Boyd’s number on my phone. He answered right away, “Jim, good to hear from you. Gotta hand it to you, I expected this call several days ago, but I can assure you...”

  I interrupted him. “I’m not calling about Truman, Pete.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Somebody has warned the clients at Table of Grace that if they eat there, they’ll recover at St. Anthony’s. Made an example of a guy and his woman last Thursday, and on Friday only 11 people came for lunch. Today there’s a number of hungry folks in the park, but none of them are making moves toward the Table.”

  “What ‘n’ hell?”

  “There’s a feeling that the threat may have come from the city cops.”

  “Bullshit, that is,” Pete blurted. “I’m not a fan of everything the city does, but I know too many officers to believe anything like that would emanate from the department or a majority of the members.”

  “We have hungry people too intimidated to eat; any ideas how to reassure them?”

  “Not my patch, but I can make a call; who knows, maybe the PPD could use some state support? I’ll volunteer it, and see what happens.”

  “Thanks, Pete...” Of course, he’d already hung up.

  When I returned to the kitchen, the others were waiting, holding hands. I joined the circle and listened as Grace asked for blessings on our efforts and those in need. Elmo took the “now serving” sign out to the sidewalk, and came in, shoulders slumped. “Nada.”

  At 11:15 the man and the woman from the picnic table entered the kitchen, and minutes later, others started arriving.

  The normal sounds of the noon meal were missing. In their place was a muted murmur.

  “Elmo!” I spoke up.

  “Yessir?” He blurted back from the front of the room.

  “Why are you so quiet today? I thought this too was another day created by God for his cherished children?”

  “Yes it is!” He boomed back at me just as the two young women with their tykes in tow stepped into the room, “Hello, Margie! Jackie, look at you, you’re filling out quite nicely this summer, my dear.”

  The chubby mom giggled at the attention, and Elmo’s contagious good cheer slowly ate away at the atmosphere of fear and doubt as more and more of the kitchen’s regulars made their appearance.

  The next two hours were a blur of activity and dishes for me, until once again the quiet settled over the kitchen. I reached for the next batch of dishes to find the place empty. Grace, Elmo, and Jan were just sitting down to a lunch of their own.

  “Jim, you want some lunch?” Grace called out from her perch behind the counter. I could see a bowl in front of her. Jan and Elmo were facing her with bowls of their own.

  “I guess I was lost in my own world,” I said with some wonder. “It was as if everyone recovered from whatever was keeping them away.”

  At that moment three uniformed officers and two more in street clothes entered the kitchen.

  Elmo greeted them, “How can we help you?”

  “Just checking to make sure everything’s okay,” one of the men in plain clothes responded, “I’m Chief Harry Wilson. We wanted to check to make sure y’all are all right.”

  “Chief?” I spoke up from my end of the counter. “Were you and your folks involved today?”

  “I don’t know you, sir.”

  “Jim Stanton; my wife, Jan,” I nodded at her, “and I are volunteers here.”

  “Oh, sure, Mr. Stanton. Pete Boyd told us we might be of some use today, so we just took a tour, talking to folks about lunch, and one thing led to another... you know?”
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  I could see understanding dawn on Grace, and her smile that would light candles replaced her look of confusion. “Gentlemen, we have leftovers here; can we feed you?”

  The men shared a look, and one of the uniforms spoke for all, “Sure would be nice; kinda missed our Code 10-7 radio call for lunch.”

  The others chuckled and took seats at the counter. I intercepted Grace from getting up to serve, and performed the task of dishing up bowls of steaming noodles in chicken gravy. I buttered a pile of bread and put that on the counter for them to share. It took just seconds to complete the task.

  “There’s applesauce in the fridge, Jim,” Grace mumbled.

  I found the open can, and served a small bowl for everyone.

  “You don’t eat, Mr. Stanton?” Chief Wilson asked.

  “Weird as it is, but being around all this food, I never feel hungry until I’m home.”

  Another of the uniforms spoke up, “That is weird; I, for one, eat to avoid hunger, not because of it.”

  That earned an appreciative chuckle from everyone, and then silence dominated as they cleaned up their lunch. “Seconds?” I asked.

  There were no takers. Wilson moved to the “donation” box hanging on the wall just inside the door, and shoved some bills into the slot. When he came back to his place, he confronted Grace. “Ma’am, we’re aware that some folks ’round here wonder how my department feels about your effort. With that in mind, I’m gonna make sure we have uniforms taking 10-7s with you for a while, starting today. I’m gonna ask that you understand we’ll be sending a check by the beginning of next month so’s they won’t feel uncomfortable at not making personal donations each day.”

  “It’s a free will donation, sir. Nobody will give it a thought.”

  “I wish that were true, but it’ll help us if you let your clients know about the monthly donation being made by the officers and men of the department – there’s no tax money paying for lunches here or anywhere else.” He winked at her, “And, believe me, there’ll be those who will jump to the wrong assumption, so will y’all do what you can to set ’em straight?”