Her Father's Secret

by Sara Blaedel

  His face was white with anger as he continued. Ilka tried to absorb all this. “That’s half of everything my grandfather owned. His properties, his half of the stable, the companies he built up in his lifetime. Fletcher wants her to have as much of it as I do. Because he was her grandfather too.”

  “But don’t you already have the inheritance?” Ilka was confused; she’d thought that was part of the reason behind the dispute between the two partners.

  He nodded and explained that he’d received an advance on his inheritance. Plus, he’d been given control of the assets that needed to be managed. “But it’s a long, drawn-out process, and the estate isn’t completely settled yet. The will can still be contested, and that’s what Fletcher’s doing.”

  Ilka tried to sort all this out in her head, but it wasn’t easy; the scope of the tragedy was too much for her. Apparently, the man killed in the car accident was the man Mary Ann loved and had been denied.

  “I know my father wasn’t Leslie’s biological father, I just found that out. But I didn’t know your father was her father. Mary Ann was pregnant when she and my father were forced into marriage.”

  “Forced? What do you mean?”

  Ilka couldn’t meet his eyes. A bird flew by the open window, and she heard the droning of the buoy in Lake Michigan, reminding everyone of the danger out there.

  Finally, she straightened up and looked at him again. “Back when Mary Ann got pregnant, Fletcher didn’t think your father was good enough for his daughter. He forced her to break it off, and your father never found out about the pregnancy. Fletcher was the one who decided my father would claim he was Leslie’s father. It’s a long story.”

  She shook her head, hoping he understood that she didn’t think of her father as being better than his.

  “So Dad never found out that Leslie was his daughter, that’s what you’re saying?”

  “I haven’t spoken to Mary Ann about that, but I don’t think he did.”

  “But your father knew the baby wasn’t his?”

  Ilka nodded. “That was part of the deal. It was supposed to look like he was Leslie’s father.”

  “So. Dad wasn’t good enough for Raymond Fletcher. He worked in his stable, but he wasn’t good enough for his daughter. And now the old bastard wants to get his hands on part of the inheritance.” A tight-lipped Davidson shook his head and stared at the floor.

  “Mary Ann was very much in love with your father,” Ilka said. As if that was any comfort. “She kept her pregnancy a secret because otherwise Fletcher would have made her get an abortion or give the baby up for adoption.”

  Ilka couldn’t see him well enough to know how he took that, and she stopped guessing his thoughts. First her father had accepted the child as his own, then he’d caused the accident that orphaned Davidson.

  Suddenly he stood up. “This isn’t about money.” His eyes were clear and steely, and he looked determined. Ilka winced, but he didn’t seem to be blaming her. “I have plenty. But I’m not going to let him get away with this. They don’t need the money either, he’s out to humiliate me. It’s because I’m trying to prove that Frank Conaway is innocent of the charges against him. Raymond Fletcher is going down. He doesn’t realize who he’s up against.” A vein bulged at his temple.

  Ilka spoke softly. “Be careful.” She understood him, and she wanted to help if she could. She felt miserable about the situation her father had been in, yet something hard and unyielding was building up inside her: a hate of a man she hardly knew. Raymond Fletcher.

  “Why do you need my father’s DNA?” She would search for any possible trace of her father if it could help.

  “Before my lawyers get started, we need to know if Fletcher is telling the truth. I’ve had an oral sample taken, and we intend to contact Leslie for a sample from her. And then we have to eliminate your dad as her biological father.”

  “Leslie still thinks he is,” Ilka said.

  “I’m aware of that, but that’s going to change.”

  She nodded. And really, it was fair enough that she knew the truth. Ilka asked him to wait while she went up for the comb in her father’s desk drawer. Back downstairs she found an envelope, carefully laid the comb inside, and handed it to him. “I hope there’s something on it you can use. And thank you for bringing me the urn. It means a lot to me.”

  He stood up and told her that the lawyer working on Frank Conaway’s case could already prove that Conaway hadn’t been in the stable office four of the days he’d supposedly signed a receipt.

  “We’re going to get him off. And I’m going to see to it that Fletcher goes to prison for fraud. But I still don’t know why he deposited ten percent of the race income in a special account for my grandfather.”

  Out in the parking lot, Davidson said he realized his grandfather’s reputation might be damaged if it turned out that he and Fletcher had somehow been cheating.

  “But if my grandfather’s name has to be ruined, at least Fletcher will go down with him.”

  He opened his car door, and Ilka remembered something. “What about the horses? Where are they?”

  He frowned at her, as if suddenly recalling her connection to the Fletchers.

  “Amber’s worried,” she said. “It was her horses you took, not his. I really think you need to return them.”

  Ilka explained that she’d visited her half sister at the hospital, and that Amber had asked her to drive out to the ranch to make sure her horses were okay.

  “I know they’re hers,” he said. “That’s why we took them. I’m sure she’ll pressure Fletcher to deal with us, if it becomes necessary. If the horses had been his, he’d just have written them off.”

  Unbelievable! Ilka thought, and she almost yelled at him, but instead she stepped back and watched in disbelief as he stepped into the car and slammed the door. She stared while he drove away. Kept staring even after he’d vanished.

  Ilka walked into a cold blast of air when she came down the stairs the next morning. A door slammed out back, and she folded her father’s robe around herself and headed for the kitchenette. Her father’s office window stood open, and the curtain had been sucked out and was fluttering in the breeze. A cable drum lay on top of the desk, which was back in place now. Someone had pulled a red cable through the window; it lay slack on the asphalt around the corner.

  Naturally Ilka was curious. On her way to the back door, she passed the memorial room and noticed the chairs gathered around the dais and the candles in the two floor candelabras. Sister Eileen and Artie must have been up early, she thought, preparing for the memorial service. No trace remained of the yard sale; everything was in its place, except of course what they had sold before Davidson arrived.

  She called out for Artie and tried the door to the preparation room, but it was locked. She slipped into a pair of his rubber boots by the door and walked out to find him. At Sister Eileen’s front door, she froze at the sight of Artie straddling the low fence to the neighbors. A cigarette hung from his mouth as he concentrated on plugging the red extension cord into an outlet on what looked like a shed. The neighbor’s shed.

  She couldn’t believe it. “Are you stealing electricity?”

  Artie started at the sound of her voice, and instinctively she ducked. He glanced quickly at the neighbor’s house, let go of the extension cord, and swung his leg back over the fence. He kicked some leaves over the cord to hide it.

  Suddenly she was very aware of what she was wearing. She nudged the cord close to the building with the tip of Artie’s rubber boots, hoping that would hide it better.

  “They asked for music, and we need to make coffee after the memorial,” Artie said. “We need electricity. I’ll pull it when they’re gone.”

  Ilka didn’t know what to say. He was right, they had no choice, even though Sister Eileen had promised to get ahold of the electric company and make sure the bill was paid.

  Back inside the house, Artie plugged in another extension cord to reach the kitchen. �
��We have a little less than an hour, so one of us needs to get the tables set.”

  Ilka was still wearing her robe.

  “Looks like Sister Eileen’s got everything ready in the memorial room,” he continued. “All we lack is the table for coffee.”

  It was Sister Eileen’s job to set out the cups and plates, fill the bowls with chocolates, and generally make sure everything was ready when people arrived for a service.

  “Where is she?” Ilka asked.

  Artie said she’d been there when he showed up. She’d helped him put everything back into place, but then she’d left. “Some guy came by and asked directions to the harbor, and when I was getting our city map in the reception I saw her walking across the street. She disappeared somewhere down by the school.”

  Ilka frowned. “Where was she going?”

  Artie shrugged. “She didn’t say, but we’re out of milk. She’s probably doing some shopping.”

  Ilka couldn’t remember any stores in the residential area behind the school. But as long as Sister Eileen was back before the memorial service started, it didn’t matter. She asked Artie about the flowers; she’d already grudgingly accepted him picking them up from the common grave. Before he could answer, though, she heard herself say that she’d handle it.

  Artie went into the cold room for the urn containing Maggie’s ashes. Without electricity the room had warmed up. Ilka had gotten used to the odor of cold and chemicals, but now the smell seeping into the hallway was rank and nauseating. It didn’t seem to have affected Artie, though, as he walked out carrying the urn. He set it down on the dais, and when Ilka came over to smooth out the tablecloth, she noticed that the urn stank. On her way to the kitchen to get a wet rag, she decided instead to run upstairs for her deodorant and a quick change of clothes. Back downstairs, she wiped down the urn and sprayed all the deodorant on it. After a moment she leaned over and sniffed; it worked. The smell was gone.

  Michael Graham would be there in less than forty-five minutes, with no sign yet of flowers or Sister Eileen to greet him. Even though she breathed deeply into her stomach, she felt the pressure inside her chest. This memorial service would be it, she reminded herself.

  “Where the hell is she?” she hissed, unable to hold it in. The plan was that Maggie’s husband would show up before the rest of the family, and he would take care of the music. Ilka noticed Artie staring at her as she walked around talking to herself. She broke off her monologue, and he offered to take care of the flowers if she thought she should stay there.

  She shook her head and fished the car keys out of her pocket. “I’ll be right back.” She reminded him that the daughter was bringing home-baked cookies to serve with the coffee. “We’ll need some bowls.”

  By now Ilka knew the way there; she didn’t need the GPS. Other than a few big semis up ahead of her, the traffic was very light. It took her less than ten minutes. She’d brought along a pair of garden shears she’d found in the neighbor’s shed; she hadn’t even checked to see if anyone was around when she jumped the fence. Soon it would all be over, then she would resurrect the morality she’d temporarily buried inside her when she took over the business.

  A young guy with a dog was walking her way when she parked at the curb. She slumped down in her seat and looked away to hide her face. When she peeked up, he was obviously more interested in his phone than her, and after he passed by, she grabbed the shears, jumped out, and trotted up the sidewalk and around the house. For a moment she stood admiring the bed of golden flowers; they hadn’t been weeded lately, but the blossoms were magnificent. Quickly she snipped off all the asters and dahlias and carried them back to the car. It pleased her to know someone would get some enjoyment out of them, now that Mary Ann wasn’t around anymore.

  Without a single glance at the neighbor, she opened the trunk and dropped the flowers in, making sure she didn’t mash them when she shut the lid.

  She left West Racine fifteen minutes before Graham was to arrive.

  Back at the funeral home, she had to find something to put the flowers in, now that they’d sold all the vases. Artie had a few tall glass jars in the preparation room, but they seemed a bit too plain. When she went into the memorial room to see how many they needed, Sister Eileen was standing there with three large ceramic vases. It took Ilka a moment to see they were urns without lids.

  The nun was setting out boxes of tissues on chairs, and she also had stacked coffee cups and cake plates on a table against the wall. Ilka waited in the doorway and gave her a chance to say something about where she’d been, but the nun simply said hello and pointed at the urns. “I’ve already put water in them.”

  Ilka fetched the trunkful of flowers, carefully carried them inside, and laid them on the wheeled cart with the urns. Several of the blossoms were already hanging, but sorting them out would take too much time. At once she began arranging them, and was about to start on the last urn when Artie walked in.

  “What about the music?” she asked. She plucked out a few flowers that were simply too sad-looking.

  “We don’t have any more extension cords that can reach the stereo, so I brought my little CD player in from the prep room. It’s enough, long as there are only a few people here.”

  Ilka realized she wasn’t listening, not really. She heard what he said, she understood the absurdity of the situation, but it didn’t sink in. It was as if she’d resigned herself to it all. Right now, the only thing that mattered was giving the Grahams their money’s worth. After that it was over. She gazed at the dead woman’s urn, thought about the one containing her father’s ashes that Davidson had given her. She’d taken the deep-blue urn up to her father’s room and put it out of her mind before going to bed. Something inside her had shut off, or else she was subconsciously pushing everything away, not allowing herself to think things over.

  “Sorry, but before we stopped yesterday I sold all the small chocolates to a mother holding a birthday party for her child,” Sister Eileen said. “Did we promise them anything for the coffee besides what they’re bringing?”

  Ilka shook her head, but then she thought she’d better check. Artie had lit the candles on both sides of the dais and tested his small CD player, and now it was ready for when Graham arrived with the music. The family had made a playlist on an iPhone; it was simply a matter of plugging it in. At least some things were turning out okay, she thought.

  She walked out into the hallway and almost ran into Stan Thomas. It surprised her to see him, and yet maybe it wasn’t so unusual for the police to show up at a service for a homicide victim. She remembered the extension cord running over to the neighbors’ house; hopefully he’d come in through the front door.

  Sister Eileen nodded politely at him when she walked by with an urn of flowers.

  Ilka noted how the deep-red dahlias brightened up the memorial room, then she asked, “Is there anything new in the case?”

  The policeman crossed his arms and shook his head. “No witnesses, nobody saw a thing. All we have to go on is the caliber of the bullet fired, and that it matches a number of automatic weapons on the market. I’m inclined to agree with you, it doesn’t look like a break-in that went all wrong. It looks like a professional job. But other than the situation between the deceased and your father, we haven’t dug up any motives that could explain a hit on her.”

  He studied Ilka for a moment then looked her right in the eyes. She refused to look away, and finally he broke it off. “Obviously your father didn’t do it. But we’re keeping our eyes and ears open. And we do have one person we’re looking at.”

  The front door opened, and Michael Graham stepped in wearing a dark-blue suit with a narrow, lighter tie. He seemed to be okay.

  Ilka greeted him and showed him into the memorial room, where she tried to make him feel at home. She pointed at the small CD player, thinking that if he was going to complain about it, this was the time to do so. Before anyone else arrived. But he simply nodded and smiled at the sight of the flower
s.

  “My wife loved dahlias.” He thanked her for the elaborate decorations, then began placing small folded sheets of paper on the chairs. Texts of the songs they would be singing.

  He guessed about twenty people would be showing up, including his daughter and three grandkids. And siblings, cousins, and a few close friends. Though he wasn’t sure. He apologized and said he’d sort of lost track. Ilka assured him there would be plenty of coffee, and of course they were bringing along the cookies. She hadn’t had time to check the agreement, but he didn’t seem to expect anything more.

  She hurried upstairs; she’d hoped to have enough time for a shower, but now she simply changed clothes. Pulled on her father’s coat, buttoned the white shirt all the way up, tightened the belt, hoisted up the pants. Her father had been tall, and he hadn’t gotten any shorter with age, she’d noticed. She brushed her hair and made it back downstairs just as the car doors began slamming.

  A short time later Ilka left the memorial room. Music played softly behind the closed doors. The coffeepots in front of her were full, the bowls overflowed with cookies, and one of Maggie’s friends had set two bottles of sherry on the table and asked if they had any small glasses. Somehow Sister Eileen had come up with fourteen nearly identical cut liqueur glasses with flower designs. Ilka had never seen them before; they’d definitely not been set out for the yard sale. Yet there they were, next to the coffee cups. She closed her eyes and listened to the soft, soothing music accompanying the farewell ceremony. Someone was speaking, but the words flowed together from inside the closed room, and she let herself float away for a moment without thinking of what had happened before Maggie Graham’s death.

  Her eyes were still closed when the back door leading to the parking lot opened and someone cleared his throat. Ilka turned and looked at the stocky, bearded man. She walked over to show him into the memorial service, but then she noticed his old jeans and thick sweater. “Can I help you?”