David Winchester Darby approached the
“Pearly Gates”
with a well earned
feeling of Remorse!
Darbyville, Massachusetts - September 14, 1893
Papa died today. They say a grizzly bear killed him. I don’t believe them. He was much too intelligent. I used to love going to Camp Dream but now I never want to see it again!
Friday, September 22, 1893 –
We buried Papa today. Mother wouldn’t let anyone except Grandma see him. She said the bear did terrible things to him, so she kept the coffin closed. I should have been with him, maybe then the bear would have killed me instead of him. I loved Papa.
What am I going to do now?
Saturday, September 23, 1893 –
I’m going to stop writing. Possibly forever. I tried to stop breathing last night, but God told me to keep living. Why? What does He care anyway?
February 2, 1898
Boston, Massachusetts -
I arrived at the bank first thing this morning, for some reason the banker had to leave last night for New York City. His assistant had the telegram from DME, but it was addressed to the banker. I tried to convince him I had every right to open the box, but he kept telling me the telegram wasn’t addressed to me, Martha Darby. He said the banker will be back Friday afternoon, and I should come back then.
With a chill in the air, snowflakes falling all about, and the smell of fresh saltwater, I donned my wool scarf and visited Faneuil Hall, where Samuel Adams once encouraged our independence from Great Britain. I’ll end today with hot chocolate and brandy.
Ignorant Banker!
Friday, February 4
My shadow was directly below me when I returned to the bank; however, the banker didn’t show up until closing. I’m getting tired of overly refined Boston, and the lack of concern for us “folks from the mountains.” That’s exactly what the assistant called me Wednesday.
Inside the safety deposit box there were four sealed envelopes, with names and cities on them. Unfortunately, I’m not familiar with any of the names. One in North Napa, one in Albany, New York, one in Baltimore, and one in Missoula, Montana. Also in the box was a copy of The Lord’s Prayer, and the sheet music for What A Friend We Have In Jesus.
I need to find Papa’s one true friend. I need to know what’s going on.
How did Papa die . . . and why?
September 1898
Missoula, Montana - September 1
WOW!
Mr. Japermann was standing in a corner of his office, looking out a window at the snowcapped mountains in the distance, and for a second I thought he was Uncle Charlie. When he turned around I laughed to myself, there was no resemblance. Mr. Japermann is an incredibly handsome man, in a rugged, mountain man sort of way.
He knew I was lying about knowing Luke Rothman, but he wanted to know why I used Mr. Rothman’s name. I was extremely cautious as to what I told him. I still wasn’t sure if giving him the letter of death was the right thing to do, so I never mentioned it.
When he pressed me about Luke, I told him I knew his wife back in Massachusetts, and she hired me to find him. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard a grown man laugh so hard, then he looked at me when he finished, and started up again. Then he reminded me of Uncle Robert. I believe I turned bright red, got up to leave, was at the door when he hollered “Hold on a minute!”
We did some small talk, and much to my amazement he said he was raised in Westfield, Massachusetts, a small town just west of St. Upstans School for Unwanted Children, where I used to work. He respected my courage, or lack of brains, as he called it, in trying to find Mr. Rothman, but right now he was terribly busy with the mines and the men working them. He asked if I could meet him Saturday afternoon around four at his office so we can exchange what we know about Mr. Rothman.
We have a date.
They’re getting to know me at the Double Nugget Saloon.
Fifty–Seven Years, One Month and Nineteen Days Later:
Missoula, Montana - July 12, 1958
“Dad, what is this box of stuff, and where did it come from? And why does it have Mom’s name Martha written all over it?”
“Benny, I thought I told you last week that I’d be giving you all of your Mom’s old diaries.” I wasn’t sure how much Dad actually remembered; his dementia has been getting harder on him.
“Dad, if you told me about this stuff, I guess I must have forgotten.”
“Benny, I found them when I was going through your Mom’s things shortly after she died. I remember her distinctly telling me that after her last day in court, she’d never write in her diaries, or look at them again, and I certainly wasn’t going to look at them myself.”
“Court? What about court? I don’t remember Mom ever talk about being in court.” I was totally confused.
“Benny, I can’t remember much more than I’ve already told you. That was a long time ago. Why don’t you go back to Darbyville, and find out what happened for yourself?”
Darbyville, Massachusetts – July 21, 1958
My plane touched down at eight this morning. I was here to find out if our grandfather David Winchester Darby was actually guilty of murder, and why Mom never talked about him or her day in court.
July 23, 1958
I found the May 29, 1901, Darbyville Daily News, the headline read:
David Winchester Darby, Guilty of the Murder of Luke Rothman! Sentenced to Death by Electrocution!
I was shocked. All the entries in Mom’s diaries showed that everything pointed to someone else. I’ve got to find out what happened - - - -