Chapter 9 - The Woman in Room 214
The first person to tell me my grandfather had lived a second life was a seventy-four-year-old motel clerk named Ruth Delaney.
She lived outside Charleston, West Virginia, in a small white house overlooking the Kanawha River.
We found her because Grandma never threw anything away.
Especially phone books.
By noon Wednesday, we were sitting in Ruth's living room beneath a framed photograph of her late husband.
When I showed her Grandpa Arthur's picture, she covered her mouth.
“Oh my Lord.”
“You remember him?”
“Arthur Mercer.”
Grandma stiffened beside me.
Ruth looked at her.
“You're Eleanor.”
“Yes.”
Ruth's eyes filled with something that looked like pity.
“I wondered if you ever knew.”
Grandma gripped her handbag.
“Knew what?”
Ruth hesitated.
Then she stood.
“Coffee?”
“No.”
Grandma's voice was sharp.
“Please tell me.”
Ruth sat again.
“In November of 1997, Arthur stayed at the Dayton Motor Lodge for three nights.”
“With whom?”
Ruth looked at me.
Then Grandma.
“A woman named Evelyn Harrison.”
Silence.
Harrison.
I felt Grandma's hand tighten around mine.
“Charles's wife?” I asked.
Ruth shook her head.
“His sister.”
Grandma closed her eyes.
For several seconds, I thought she might faint.
“Were they having an affair?”
Ruth looked horrified.
“No.”
Grandma opened her eyes.
“No?”
“Evelyn was terrified.”
Ruth leaned forward.
“She checked in first. Arthur arrived later. They argued for hours, but not like lovers. Like people trying to solve something dangerous.”
“What?”
“I don't know everything.”
“Anything helps.”
Ruth looked toward the window.
“Charles Harrison was trying to force his sister to sign over her shares in the family company.”
“Why?”
“Because Evelyn controlled forty-nine percent.”
Grandma whispered, “I remember her.”
“You met her?”
“Once. At a county fundraiser.”
Ruth continued.
“Evelyn discovered something in the Harrison mining records. Environmental reports. Groundwater contamination. Illegal dumping. I don't know.”
“And Grandpa?”
“Arthur had evidence.”
“What kind?”
“Land samples.”
The glass tubes.
I leaned forward.
“From Parcel 17?”
Ruth nodded.
“Evelyn believed Harrison Development had contaminated several properties while conducting unauthorized exploratory drilling.”
Grandma stared at me.
Suddenly the rare-earth deposit was no longer the whole story.
“Where is Evelyn now?” I asked.
Ruth's expression changed.
“She died.”
“When?”
“Three weeks after that meeting.”
Grandma inhaled.
“How?”
“Car accident.”
Of course.
“What happened to Arthur?”
“He checked out early.”
“Why?”
“Because somebody came looking for him.”
“Who?”
Ruth's eyes moved toward the photograph.
“Charles.”
Grandma stood.
“I need air.”
I followed her outside.
She walked to the riverbank.
For several minutes she said nothing.
Then she whispered:
“He came home with bruises.”
“What?”
“Arthur. After those three days.”
She looked ashamed.
“He told me he fell unloading equipment.”
“You believed him.”
“I wanted to.”
She wiped her eyes.
“I was angry. I thought he had another woman.”
“He was protecting you.”
“Or shutting me out.”
Both could be true.
That was the painful part.
Grandpa had loved her.
But love did not erase secrecy.
When we returned inside, Ruth was holding an old envelope.
“I kept this because Arthur told me somebody might eventually come.”
She handed it to Grandma.
The envelope had one word on it.
ELEANOR.
Grandma's fingers shook.
Inside was a cassette tape.
Ruth brought out an old player.
We pressed play.
Static.
Then Grandpa's voice.
“Eleanor, if you're hearing this, then I failed to keep the problem buried.”
Grandma began crying before he finished the first sentence.
“I need you to understand that I did not tell you because I was ashamed. I made a mistake. Harrison Development offered me money in 1996 to permit geological testing on Parcel 17. I agreed. I thought it was harmless.”
Static.
“They found something valuable.”
A pause.
“But they also found something dangerous.”
I looked at Grandma.
Grandpa continued.
“The groundwater samples showed industrial solvents that should never have been there. Evelyn Harrison believed her brother had been illegally disposing of chemical waste on neighboring industrial parcels and that it had migrated underground.”
My stomach tightened.
“Harrison offered me five million dollars to sell.”
Static.
“When I refused, they threatened the farm.”
Grandma covered her mouth.
Then Grandpa said:
“Evelyn copied the internal records.”
A long pause.
“She gave them to me.”
“Where?” I whispered.
The tape crackled.
“If Charles ever comes for Parcel 17 again, the records are where Richard would never willingly look.”
The recording stopped.
“That’s it?” I said.
Ruth nodded.
“The tape was damaged.”
Grandma stared at the cassette.
Where Richard would never willingly look.
We drove home in silence.
Halfway through Ohio, Grandma suddenly sat upright.
“Stop the car.”
“What?”
“Pull over.”
I did.
She turned toward me.
“I know where Arthur hid them.”
“Where?”
She almost laughed.
“The greenhouse.”
“Dad has been in the greenhouse.”
“No.”
Her eyes lit with realization.
“Your father has never once stepped inside the propagation cellar.”
“Why?”
“He hates spiders.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
We reached the farm after dark.
The propagation cellar sat beneath greenhouse number three.
Grandma unlocked it.
Cobwebs hung from the rafters.
Old clay pots covered shelves.
At the back was Grandpa's wooden seed cabinet.
We moved it.
Behind it was a sealed plastic container.
Inside were corporate records.
Hundreds of pages.
Photographs.
Laboratory reports.
And a notarized affidavit signed by Evelyn Harrison.
Grandma stared at it.
“This could destroy Charles.”
Then headlights appeared outside.
Not one vehicle.
Five.
They came down the driveway together.
Black SUVs.
Doors opened.
May you like
Men stepped out.
And standing in front of them was my father.
