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Dawn arrived slowly in the Lost Mountain Campground. The snowfall brightened the darkness, which then lightened as the sun rose behind the cloak of clouds, turning the sky a silvery white. Ranger Olivia Bradley of the United States Forest Service drove her green truck over the winding gravel road, chains crunching through about six inches of snow. She was delighted; snow made everything look so clean and organized. She crawled past the meadow, looking for anything unusual. Olivia didn’t believe or disbelieve the rumor that the campground was the site of a supposed 1957 UFO crash. However she did agree the meadow had a unique vibe.
All was quiet. She parked the truck and stepped out into the stillness. The silence was eerie and the fresh chill made her nose run. She tried to remember the last time it had snowed. A couple of years at least. Her boots squeaked as she made her way into the meadow toward the big trees. A few stray flakes spun past her, but the weather service said the snowfall was pretty much done and would probably melt by evening—sooner if it started raining.
She decided to walk into the forest a ways. The woods were as gorgeous as she’d ever seen them and the sharp cold heightened her senses. But halfway to the trees, something made her stop. She stood very still and scanned the meadow, listening. There. Toward the trailhead. About 50 feet in front of her. Something.
She hesitated a moment, wondering if she should radio the station. To tell them what? That she was creeped out? Walking slowly across the flat, she felt her scalp crawl. She thought of that tweaker girl who sometimes slept in the woods. She thought of those crazy treesitters who were sticking it out all winter for some stubborn reason. She thought of those timber goons who acted like they owned the woods. She thought of those criminals from the prison work crew who had escaped the summer before last. She thought of the aliens. She thought of Sasquatch. Placing her hand on her chest, she could practically feel her heart beating through her heavy parka. “Hello?” she called, the sound of her voice jarring. When she reached an odd lump in the snow, she stopped, then reached out her foot and nudged it. She squatted and brushed the snow away. Just as she feared. It was a body.
The news reached Mack’s Diner first when a utility worker named Howard, checking WG&E power lines out in the county, had passed a line of law enforcement vehicles snaking up Highway 13—everybody from the sheriff to state troopers to Woodhill’s finest. His curiosity got the best of him—how could it not?—so he pulled a u-ee and followed them to Lost Mountain Campground where he learned about the dead body. When he returned to town, he stopped at Mack’s to fill his thermos and told Geri, the eighty-year-old waitress.
“Man or woman?” she had asked. “A local?”
He had shrugged. “They wouldn’t tell me a thing. Not even how long it had been there. Hours? Weeks? Years?”
Marshall Magruder sat in a nearby booth with his best buddy Larry. Their weekly golf game had been cancelled by the snow, so they’d stopped for a leisurely breakfast before reporting to work at Woodhill Parks and Rec. and the local Ford dealership, respectively. A Denver omelet for Marshall and a large stack of buttermilks for Larry. “Hey Howard,” Marshall stopped the WG&E guy on his way past. “Who do you think it is?”
“Probably some tweaker would be my guess,” He answered. “Or maybe a drunk transient.” He shook his head, looking thoughtful for a moment, then replaced his hardhat, hoisted his thermos and left the diner.
“A bumsicle,” Larry said, and they both groaned. “Remember that time, the summer between fourth and fifth grade I think, when your mom brought us camping up there?”
Marshall laughed. “That was so lame. Sleeping in the station wagon? And that disgusting undercooked food? She couldn’t even build a fire.”
Marshall’s mother, while very sweet, was completely inept. She was the opposite of Marshall’s wife—soon to be ex-wife—Pauline, who was now managing their separation with the precision of a neurosurgeon. The holidays had been tough on Marshall, staying with his folks while Pauline obsessively divvied up their stuff. Larry had picked him up for golf one day right before Christmas to find a box of tree ornaments on the porch, neatly labeled with a list of the contents pasted to its top. “That your stuff?” he had asked.
Marshall had shrugged. “According to Pauline. I’m sure she has some chart or graph or affidavit to prove it.”
Sitting in the diner, Larry was relieved to see Marshall getting back to his old self. Divorce was rough for anyone, but he was glad his friend had finally grown a pair. Pauline had led Marshall around on a short leash for 20 years. It was a definitely a good thing for his buddy. And the news from the campground, though grim and disturbing, had finally set everyone buzzing about something other than Marshall and Pauline’s divorce or Herman Hoffmeister’s wedding.
Spry yet brittle Geri stopped to refill their coffee. “Is Herman here?” Larry asked.
She shook her head, her orange hair not moving a millimeter. “I have no idea where he is. He probably had some god damn wedding appointment and forgot to tell us.”
Lila Hoffmeister watched from the kitchen window as Roger McElroy eased his cruiser up her long gravel driveway. What now, she wondered. She knew Roger well but wouldn’t exactly call him a friend. He had been sheriff for nearly 25 years and had certainly got more than his share of free cop coffee at the diner. He was a fairly decent man, though could be somewhat of a jerk in her estimation. He didn’t have the degree of compassion that Lila thought people in his line of work should have. She remembered once when he arrested some guy in the diner right in front of his little kids. He could have at least stepped outside before Bert had asked him to.
Bert was still eating his breakfast. Raisin Bran with a chaser of plum juice. He had milk dribbling down his chin as he shoveled cereal in his mouth with a spoon clutched in his good hand. Lila walked to the back door and opened it. Roger approached the house, stony faced, and took his hat off when he saw her. Lila noticed his strawberry blonde crewcut was as thick as ever.
“Roger,” she said. “What brings you up here?” Behind her, Bert said something in his garbled language that only she and their son Herman could understand. She turned around. “It’s Roger McElroy.” Bert made a slurred choking noise. “I have no idea,” she answered. She wondered if it was something to do with that god forsaken wedding reception Herman was planning for Valentine’s Day. That’s all anybody wanted to talk to her about lately.
McElroy walked slowly to the back porch. He rarely encountered work tasks that he found difficult anymore, but this one was going to be tough. He hadn’t seen Lila in a while, not even at the tree farm; his wife had purchased an artificial tree so she could keep it up for three months. He knew the Hoffmeisters didn’t get out much since Bert’s stroke. He’d run into them eating down at the diner a few times. He climbed the porch steps; Lila stood blocking the door as much as a little old lady could. He looked at her warily; she still seemed as sour as she’d always been. “I’m afraid I’ve got some hard news, Lila,” he said. “Is Bert in there?”
She stepped aside and he entered the warm kitchen. It was cluttered with the kinds of things old people leave out: newspapers, an unfinished game of solitaire, a bowl of butterscotch hard candy, a furniture-size package of paper towels from Costco, a flashlight that needed a new bulb. “Coffee?” she asked as he nodded at Bert.
“No, thanks. Sit down Lila.”
She perched on a wooden kitchen chair next to Bert’s and took his good hand in hers. “Out with it then, Roger.”
He fingered his drab brown hat. “It’s Herman. A ranger found his body up at the Lost Mountain Campground this morning. He was shot dead. Sometime last night, they say. I’m sorry for your loss.”
There was a moment of deep silence, then Bert began wailing like a hound dog. For some reason, Lila didn’t even think of Herman. She thought of her other son, Bo
bby, who was killed in Vietnam, 1971. Herman had been in preschool. She remembered when they got that visit—all she could think of then was Herman and how he’d never really know his brother. And now all she could think of was Bobby and how she had truly believed if one of her kids had been killed then God would always keep the other safe. Bert continued to howl next to her, clawing at her with his good hand.
“Shut up, you old fool,” she snapped. He wailed harder, the tears streaming down his face and drool dribbling into his lap. “Shut up!” she screeched. “Shut up!”
Tommaso Ricci shoveled snow off his front walk, thinking about his plans for the winery. The grapes were sleeping, so this was the time of year when he could catch up on the business end of his vineyard. In just two months they would start construction on the new winery building. He was using an old barn to store his casks at the moment; his initial crush was quite small and experimental. But the new building would have plenty of cellar space and a tasting room. The trick was to make it look old, like it had been there forever.
He turned at the sound of a vehicle and saw the sheriff’s rig pass his house on its way up to the Hoffmeister’s place. He didn’t think much of it because the Hoffmeisters knew everyone in town. They were getting a bit more traffic than usual lately because of the wedding coming up. The big fat gay wedding. It amused Tom to think about it. Back in Northern California where he was born and raised, plenty of straight couples didn’t even bother to get married. In Santa Rosa, which had a lot of conservative people, a gay wedding wouldn’t get a double-take. But here in Woodhill, it was the talk of the town. Tom had received an invitation and was looking forward to it. He liked Herman. Who didn’t? Herman was the most positive guy he had ever met. Everything was an adventure to him, from cooking to local politics to helping someone out. Herman was the one who had told him about his parents’ property that adjoined Tom’s acreage—it was perfect for more grapes—and helped facilitate the sale. Sure it was a win-win deal, but Herman was the one who had engineered the whole thing.
He heard a window open and his 16-year-old son Ren’s voice called out: “I’ll do that Dad.”
He looked up and waved. “I need the exercise.”
“Just don’t have a heart attack,” Ren replied. “It’s supposed to melt in a few hours anyway.”
“Why aren’t you out here enjoying it? Sophie’s been up for hours.”
“I’ll be down soon. Hey, no shadow. Guess winter’s almost over.” The window slammed shut and Tom returned to shoveling. He thought of his wife, just like he did about 10 times a day. Every time something new happened, like Sophie making snow angels in her own front yard or Ren getting dressed up for his first date, he wished she were there. Like the three of them cutting down a Christmas tree. He had thought getting away from Santa Rosa and all those old memories would make things easier. But it was even harder making new memories without her. He frowned and leaned against the shovel for a moment. Still, it had been a good move. He had gotten away from his father, finally out on his own at age 48. The kids seemed to love Oregon—they’d both made nice friends and settled into school. He didn’t know what he’d do without his kids.
Ren came flying out of the house, then bent down, packed a snowball and hurled it at Tom, beaning him squarely on the side of the head. “Hey,” he yelled, “now I’m enjoying it.” Tom threw down his shovel and responded in kind. The two tossed snow at each other, getting closer and closer, until Ren and his dad were face to face, the boy about half a foot taller than his dad. “Hey shorty,” Ren said, then dumped two handfuls of the heavy wet stuff on Tom’s head.
Tom attempted to push Ren over: “You’re not too big to spank.”
“Oh yeah,” Ren replied, laughing, “I’m shaking, old man.”
They roughhoused and laughed in the snow until Ren suddenly stopped and stood up. “Dad,” he said, “check it.” Tom turned to see what Ren was staring at. It was a news van from the Salem channel heading up the road to the Hoffmeisters. And close behind it, a bigger news truck with a satellite dish on its roof. From the Portland NBC affiliate. “What’s going on, Dad?” Ren asked. “What’s going on?”
Later in the morning, Ellen and Candy sipped strong black coffee in front of the fire in the Ruiz’s great room, sitting close together on the nubbly blue couch. Candy often remarked on how she didn’t particularly care for the gas flame log; she preferred a real wood fire. But the gas was convenient and clean, not that she minded chopping wood—it was good for the upper body strength.
Ellen didn’t care. She was just happy to be there, sitting in front of the cozy fire with Candy. This was the type of scene she had envisioned when she decided to move west with Basil. Candy’s two-year-old twins, Dakota and Sierra, had exhausted themselves playing in the snow, popping up and down like groundhogs. They lay sleeping on a white flannel blanket in their play-yard, their cheeks still impossibly red.
“What about ‘Woodhill: It’s not easy being green?’” Candy asked.
“I’m pretty sure Portland uses that,” Ellen replied. “For real.” She was working on branding Woodhill for the new economic development guy the city had hired. She wanted something that could complement the state advertising motto: Oregon: We love dreamers. “How about ‘Woodhill: Red wine and rednecks?’”
Candy laughed and added, “‘Woodhill: Come for the meth, stay for the unemployment?’”
“’Woodhill: A clearcut above the rest.’”
“’Woodhill: What happens here…is nothing!’”
“’Woodhill: Party like it’s 1987.’”
“’Woodhill: Even the aliens won’t stay.’”
They leaned against each other, laughing, Candy’s silky blonde tresses contrasting with Ellen’s tight black curls. Ellen wiped her eyes and pressed a little harder into Candy’s shoulder.
Perhaps it was because she had been so lonely when she moved to town and Candy had been so fun, so interesting, so crap-free. The more time they spent together—going to yoga, swimming with the twins at the pool, cooking dinner, taking daytrips to Portland—the more Ellen started craving her next-door neighbor. She’d never had those kinds of thoughts about a woman before. She couldn’t even remember feeling that way about Basil, though she must have when they first started out together. Candy filled her head so thoroughly that it frightened and titillated her. Every night that hot summer, when she was sitting alone waiting for Basil to get home from work, she would construct scenarios in her head: Skinny-dipping with Candy, Candy giving her a massage, Candy kissing her, slipping out in the middle of a warm night to meet Candy in the side yard. Eventually, the pressure made her dizzy and awkward. Something had to give.
One sultry August day, they had taken the twins down to the Town Square for a home-spun carnival thrown by Woodhill High Sports Boosters—Ellen had never seen anything so cheesy. She and Candy lounged on a blanket in the shade, feeding the kids after they had ridden ponies in a circle and before they had their faces painted. The Woodhill Hotel stood just across the street. They would probably stop and say hi to Basil in the kitchen on their way home. “Did you go out with many people before you and Mark got together?” Ellen had asked.
Candy rolled her eyes. “Hell, yes,” she answered. “I had tons of boyfriends all through high school and college. I wasn’t really serious about any of them, though. It was more for the sex.” She bit down on a baby carrot.
Ellen stared down into her melting blue sno-cone. “Did you have any girlfriends?”
Candy turned to take the remaining half of Sierra’s peanut butter sandwich out of a plastic bag. “I guess. Yeah, there were girls that I hung out with, like my roommates.”
“I mean a girlfriend girlfriend.”
Candy turned to her and grinned at her mischievously. “Are you asking me if I’ve ever done it with another woman?”
Ellen shrugged, nodded and tried to smile to
o, though she was on the verge of an anxiety attack.
Candy got a soft-focus look in her eyes like she was remembering something, “Oh yeah, I’ve done my share of freaky stuff.” Then she leaned over and kissed Ellen full on the mouth, deep and wet, for a good long time. Her lips were hot on Ellen’s, which were cold from the icy sno-cone. The bottom fell out of Ellen’s privates and she flushed, her heart thumping hard.
Candy leaned back and smiled at her. “Of course I don’t do stuff like that anymore. I’m a happily married woman. I won’t do stuff like that anymore.”
Ellen was speechless for several seconds. She looked around to see if anyone had seen them, then finally blurted out “Jesus!”
Both women had laughed, the tension broken. But Ellen had gotten her answer. She knew what to do, which was nothing. Candy had made herself perfectly clear: She was all about Mark. But for weeks after, Ellen questioned herself; perhaps she was a lesbian. No. The thought of being with a woman other than Candy wasn’t appealing—she couldn’t imagine dating one! When she considered her future, it was with a husband and perhaps some kids—Candy would stay her best friend, of course. She would be content with that life.
Yet months later, like last night, sitting alone watching the snow fall, Ellen allowed herself to remember that kiss and fantasize about loving Candy a bit, though she knew it would never happen—she must be satisfied with a platonic friendship. But sometimes, when she was feeling especially dreamy, she hoped someday she and Candy might get together, maybe as old widows, living out their days in a beach cottage or something, just the two of them.
The phone rang in the kitchen; Candy hopped up, hurrying so it didn’t wake the kids. “Christ,” she said, wobbling a bit, “Mark fucked my brains out last night.” Ellen signed and stretched her feet toward the fire. But when she heard Candy gasp “what?” she sprang up and stood in the doorway. Candy’s back was to her, head bent. “Oh my god!” she muttered into the phone. “Are you sure?” She stood there hunched against the wall. “No. No, I’m not that kind of lawyer but I know someone. I’ll call him right now. Where are you?” As she listened, she turned around and saw Ellen standing there. She shook her head, shock in her eyes. “Sit tight. God, I am so sorry.” She turned the phone off and rifled through a drawer. “Oh my god, Ellen.”
“What?” Ellen rushed over and put her hand on Candy’s shoulder, pink fleece soft under her fingertips. “What’s going on?”
Candy stared at her. “Herman Hoffmeister is dead.”
“What?” Ellen shrieked.
“They found his body up on Lost Mountain. That was Matthew. They’re questioning him. Can you believe it?” Candy reached into the drawer and pulled out the slim Woodhill phonebook. She turned back to Ellen with tears in her eyes. “Oh my god!”
Ellen watched Candy’s beautiful face crack into a grotesque grimace, and for a moment she forgot the shocking news that Herman was dead. She stared at Candy and glimpsed into a deep aspect of her friend she hadn’t seen before—she suspected very few people had. Ellen felt a thrill, though she knew it was inappropriate. Still, it was like learning a delicious secret. The moment passed and she remembered her friend Herman was dead. She threw herself into Candy’s arms and they cried together.
Jared Pratt stirred slightly and pulled the covers over his head. No one had woken him for school that morning, and when he got up to pee, he looked out the window and realized why. Snow. His mother hadn’t come home from the nursing home—she was terrified to drive in the snow. Just as well. He usually got up in the middle of the night and moved back into his own bed, but the night before he had taken two of his mom’s sleeping pills. And when he woke up alone in the house, he took three more. He wanted to stay in Kyle’s bed forever.
Woodhill restaurateur found dead in campground
A well-known Woodhill resident, Herman Hoffmeister, was found dead from a gunshot wound in the Lost Mountain Campground early Thursday, Feb 2. A US Forest Service ranger found Hoffmeister’s body during a routine early-morning check of the campground. It appeared to have been there just a short time, according to River County Sheriff Roger McElroy. “We’re pursuing a number of leads,” says McElroy, “but a hate crime motivation hasn’t been ruled out.” He asks anyone with information about the case to phone the River County Sheriff’s Office at 503-555-5000. An autopsy is scheduled for Friday.
Hoffmeister, 41, was the fourth-generation owner of Mack’s Diner, a popular Woodhill gathering spot, and active in local politics. He and his partner Matthew London were one of over 3,000 same-sex couples who applied for Multnomah County marriage licenses in spring of 2004. Those licenses were revoked after the following November election when Oregon voters narrowly passed Measure 36, which defines marriage as a contract between a man and a woman.
“They were planning one of those domestic partnership weddings,” says Trudy Lister, a waitress who has worked at Mack’s Diner for 43 years. “They were going to have a huge reception on Valentine’s Day. Half the town was invited; the other half was up in arms about it.” Hoffmeister’s parents, Lila and Bert, declined to comment.
From the Willamette Daily Times