“There’s Herbert Aldridge,” Ted said.
Laura hadn’t needed Ted to identify him. Reluctantly, she admitted that he was a handsome man of the Gary Cooper school, as her mother had told her, but something about his face was cold and mean. Sure, the quality of the tape was poor and she was prejudiced against the man, but Laura was sure she could detect the look of a criminal character.
As the tape continued, and in spite of the difficult feelings elicited by the image of her grandfather, Laura couldn’t suppress a smile at the awful way these self-important small-town men were dressed. One wore an oversized pastel-blue suit with a black T-shirt; this might have been acceptable if he had left the brown wing-tipped shoes at home. One was wearing sunglasses; again, this hot trend might have been bearable, if it the man weren’t also wearing what was clearly a badly fitting toupee. Another man had pushed the sleeves of his jacket up to his elbow, not a good look for an overweight man in his fifties. Three others wore fat pinstripes. The lone woman at the gathering looked no better than her male associates. Her hair had been sprayed into a virtual helmet; her earrings were bright blue plastic circles; the shoulder pads of her shiny orange dress were enormous; her black lace stockings were criminal. Forget the 1970s, Laura thought. Were the 1980s the decade that good taste forgot?
“Who is the woman?” she asked when the video had ended.
“I don’t know. Maybe a girlfriend, maybe someone hired to entertain. If you know what I mean.”
Laura nodded grimly.
“Again, this is no proof of anything other than the fact that Herbert Aldridge knew and socialized with the other bigwigs of Port George and beyond back in the day. And that, for some reason, Jake Barber got his hands on the tape. For all we know, he might have been paid to be the videographer. If the sound was better, we might have been able to hear something incriminating, but that’s wishful thinking.”
“It was good of Mr. Barber to bring this to you, though. I just hope he’s not too disappointed if we can’t uncover a crime that links Herbert Aldridge to Jake Barber. After all, there is no podcast team. There are no researchers. There is no real investigation.”
“I warned him about harboring false hope. And about the possibility of learning that his brother was involved in a crime far more serious than James already suspects. But he’s determined to keep digging through his own files and what’s left of his brother’s possessions in the hope that something of use to us will emerge.”
Laura nodded. “A man obsessed. I can understand that.”
“At some point, I will have to tell him the truth, that you’re Rob Smith’s daughter. But not until—”
“Not until this has all been put to rest.”
Shortly thereafter, Ted walked Laura to the door of the reception area. “There’s been a lot of bad feeling about Herbert Aldridge in this town for a very long time. I’m willing to bet my friend is not the only one who would like to see Mr. Aldridge pay for his sins. Rather, his alleged sins.”
And that group, Laura thought, would include Frannie Armitage.
Laura took her leave. On the way back to the Lilac Inn, she found herself thinking about Ted’s choice of the word sin. People didn’t think much in terms of sin anymore, or of evil. There were social and psychological reasons for people doing bad things; society or genetics took the burden of responsibility for most crime. That was fine, a civilized way to consider the problems that plagued the human condition. But what if evil was real in the sense that it used to be considered real, alive, a powerful force, apart from human consciousness or unconsciousness? And what if that sense of evil resided in the mind and heart of Herbert Aldridge, her grandfather?
Laura soon abandoned the troubling thoughts. She wasn’t a philosopher or a theologian, just a tired sort-of academic playing amateur detective and not doing a very good job at it, either. And what this tired sort-of academic needed was a large cup of ice coffee and a sugary cookie.
Chapter 51
Arden was curled up on the couch in the living room, talking with Laura, who was still in Port George. The cats were lumped on the floor nearby, Falstaff snoring loudly as was his usual habit.
“I knew my father hobnobbed with so-called important people,” Arden said when Laura had finished telling her about the video James Barber had unearthed from his brother’s things. “Every time he came back from a business trip to Boston or New York, he would regale my mother with stories of the exclusive restaurants he’d eaten in and the fancy parties he’d attended. But it doesn’t mean he was involved in cover-ups or graft or political fixing back home. Assuming that sort of thing even went on in Port George.”
“According to Ted it did. And I suspect that sort of thing goes on in just about every city and town, large or small, all across the world. But maybe I’m too much of a cynic.”
A cynic or a realist, Arden thought, realizing she had had enough talk of Port George and its politics.
“I know you’ll enjoy the Fourth of July here in Eliot’s Corner,” she said brightly. “There’s the parade of course. It takes about four minutes from beginning to end, but everyone loves it. After the parade, everyone mills around the center of town and the fire department gives the kids tours of the station, and there are always one or two groups, Girl Scouts, the choir from the Baptist church, selling cupcakes and lemonade. Eventually, people move off to their homes and their private celebrations.”
“What about fireworks?”
“Eliot’s Corner doesn’t have fireworks, but there are plenty of places within an hour’s drive that put on a show. I don’t like fireworks. Ever since I was small, I’ve hated loud noises, loud music, even the television turned up too loudly.”
“Funny, I don’t like loud noises, either. Jared knew that, but I swear he seemed to enjoy crashing about the house and blaring his music. I might not have minded the music so much but we had totally opposite tastes. Techno-pop at high volume might be some people’s idea of happiness, but not mine.”
“His behavior was cruel,” Arden said passionately. And protectively. For so many years she had not had the opportunity to protect her child. It wasn’t too late to start now, she thought. Though she wished she could shake that Jared Pence. “What are your plans for tomorrow? I hope you’re being careful.”
“I’m not entirely sure about my plans. But I’m being as careful as I can be. I haven’t seen that woman again, the one who was following me. I suppose I could ask Mr. Meyer if I could look through the Chronicle archives again, though I’m not sure where that would get me.”
“Didn’t you tell me that a psychic had offered to help in Rob’s case? And that Frannie had hired her at one point, after the police had rejected her help?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“Well, do you think we should consider contacting her? Maybe she has something useful to tell us after all.”
“But if what the Chronicle said was true, Frannie dismissed her as being of no help. Besides, I think turning to a psychic should be one of our last resorts. A few years back a colleague hired a reputable psychic to help her with a family matter and it cost a small fortune, something neither you nor I have.”
Arden sighed. “That’s for sure.”
“I guess I’ll just try to get a good night’s sleep and hope the morning brings a bright idea.”
“It often does. Good night, Laura.”
Arden got up from the couch and stretched her arms over her head. A good night’s sleep seemed like a perfect idea for her, as well. But first, she would read a bit from Villette. It always brought her comfort, knowing that Rob had once held the volume, seeing her name in his handwriting, remembering the night he had given it to her.
A huge snort from Falstaff caused Arden to startle, and then, to smile. She was so lucky to have found these three balls of mayhem. And so very, very lucky that her daughter had found her.
Chapter 52
Summer 1984
Even though she was on her family’s property
, Victoria felt a bit scared. Maybe scared wasn’t the right word. Maybe, she thought, she was just nervous. Waiting for Rob always made her feel jumpy, and not in an entirely good way. Always, there was the element of risk, and Victoria had never been comfortable with risk-taking of any sort.
Still, she wouldn’t have said no to meeting Rob this evening, the Fourth of July, for anything. They wouldn’t have long to spend together; Rob was working for the company in charge of the Port George fireworks display and needed to be at his post fifteen minutes before the show was to begin. Victoria hated loud noises, but she would bravely have endured the chaos and commotion just to be near him.
If she had been allowed to attend the town’s celebrations.
Herbert and Florence Aldridge had invited a couple they knew from the country club for drinks at eight. When Victoria had left the house at eight thirty, the four adults were comfortably settled in the living room, a drinks trolley near to hand, Dean Martin crooning softly in the background. Mr. Mitchell’s unpleasant bray of a laugh had caused Victoria to jump as she slipped past the open door of the room on her way out to the far edge of the Aldridge property to meet Rob. She desperately hoped she would be back at the house before any of the adults noticed she was gone.
Victoria sighed. The air felt heavy, oppressive. Though rain wasn’t expected until well after midnight, she felt sure the skies would open before that. Maybe, she hoped, the fireworks would be canceled at the last minute. People would be disappointed and Rob probably wouldn’t get paid—no work, no money—but at least he and the other guys would be safe.
There he was! Victoria felt her heart begin to race. How she ached for his touch! He jogged closer through the waning evening light.
“Rob!” she called.
His face broke out into a broad smile as he caught sight of her. He was wearing a red bandanna around his head. She knew it was to absorb sweat, a thoroughly practical item, but Victoria thought it gave him a rakish air. His T-shirt advertised his love of the band the Police; his jeans were almost completely worn through at the knees.
“I brought you a sparkler,” he said when he had reached her. “Here, let me light it and we’ll have our own celebration.”
“Not yet.” Victoria pulled him close to her and they shared a long and passionate kiss.
“I’m sorry I can’t be at the celebrations with you,” Victoria murmured.
“It’s all right. I’ll be so busy we wouldn’t have had much time together anyway.” Suddenly Rob pulled away. “I wish I could stay here with you all night, but I’ve got to get back. The show starts at nine.”
“Be careful, Rob. I don’t know what I would do if anything happened to you.”
Rob laughed. “You worry too much. What could happen? We take every precaution. Besides, I’ve been helping out with the fireworks for the past three years. I know what I’m doing. Here, let me light the sparkler for you now.”
They shared another kiss before Rob broke away and hurried off through the dark. When he was barely visible, he turned and waved. Victoria waved back. Her heart was brimming with happiness. That one human being could bring so much joy to another was still so new to her. So new, and so wonderful.
All too soon, the sparkler fizzled to an end. It was time to return home.
Rather, to the big old house in which Victoria resided with Mr. and Mrs. Aldridge.
Chapter 53
Laura was not the only one at breakfast that morning. The hostess of the Lilac Inn was run off her feet after the late-night arrival of a family party of two grandparents, a mother and father, their three children under the age of ten or so, and a middle-aged woman who might be an aunt or a cousin or a sister. She was certainly no nanny, as neither she nor any of the other adults bothered to check the antics of the three kids. In fifteen minutes, a sugar bowl had been overturned, a glass of milk spilled, and the flowers in the tiny vase on the neighboring table thrown onto the floor.
Laura finished her breakfast as quickly as she could without inducing indigestion and retreated to her room. She had confessed to Arden the night before that she had no plans for the day, and in spite of a good night’s sleep, she had woken with nothing more on her mind than food. Now, having eaten and drunk two cups of coffee, Laura’s brain began to work, if slowly at first.
A fairly comfortable armchair was in one corner of the room, and Laura sat there now, laptop at hand. Was it possible to review a person’s police record after that person’s death? Would she need to contact the police department to do so? She hadn’t trained as a journalist. She had never thought about this sort of thing before.
But there was no time like the present to start learning. Within minutes Laura discovered that most court information was public record. Not long after, she learned from the Maine State Police, State Bureau of Identification website that Jake Barber, born in Port George in 1956, had quite the record. Petty theft. Involvement in drunken brawls and creating a public nuisance. Driving without a license. Laura merely scanned the rest of the lengthy list. There seemed nothing at all to link Jake Barber to Herbert Aldridge and the sort of misdeeds he might want committed.
Laura didn’t doubt the exactness of this official information, but she did wonder if she might find any interesting editorial comments in the Daily Chronicle from Jake’s most prolific years. She decided to contact Edward Meyer and ask once again for access to his archive.
Mr. Meyer was amenable and Laura set out right away. She had learned from Kathy Murdoch that he was a widower. He and his wife had been married for close to fifty years when she passed away suddenly from a massive stroke. They had been a good couple, Kathy had told her. Popular, too. The funeral had been mobbed.
Laura arrived at Mr. Meyer’s home to find him wearing gardening gloves and wielding a spade. Once settled in the basement, Laura scanned every Crime Beat column published between January 1983 and December 1985. As expected, Jake Barber was frequently mentioned, but as his official record had already shown, not in association with anything particularly outrageous. It just didn’t make sense to Laura that a petty thief with a drug-and-alcohol problem was the sort of person you would hire to perform a murder or a kidnapping or any other major crime that would involve planning or stealth or real intelligence.
After thanking Mr. Meyer for his kind assistance—after which he offered her access to the archives anytime she wanted and asked her to call him Ed—Laura headed back into town where she’d left her car at the Lilac Inn. A long walk was what she needed. Her legs were feeling twitchy after having spent the morning on her butt.
Laura had not gone far along Main Street when she spotted Miss Thompson coming her way. For a second, Laura considered darting into a shop to avoid the former schoolteacher. Laura felt like such a lowlife, lying to this kind older woman, someone who had once loved and believed in young Victoria Aldridge. But Laura was no coward. At least, she tried not to be one.
“Hello, Miss Thompson,” she said with a smile as they drew close. “I hope you’re enjoying this lovely afternoon.”
Miss Thompson returned Laura’s smile. She was wearing a lightweight cardigan over her flowered dress and carried a string bag of groceries. “How is your research going?”
“Fine. I just spent a few hours at Ed Meyer’s house, reading through the newspaper’s archives.”
They exchanged a few further pleasantries, and when Miss Thompson had proceeded on her way, Laura mentally shook off her feelings of guilt and set off for the green square in the center of town, the square she had visited on her very first day in Port George. Her walk could wait. She felt the need to hear her mother’s voice.
Laura found a seat on a bench in the shade of a large maple tree. The sound of birds singing in the branches overhead was soothing.
Arden was pleased to hear from Laura. “So, what have you learned today?”
Laura related her findings regarding Jake Barber. “Nothing at all sounded an alarm.” Laura sighed. “Not that I expected anything to. I ran
into Miss Thompson when I got back to town. She asked how my podcast research was progressing. I felt like such a heel continuing to lie to her.” Laura sighed again. “Clearly, I’m upsetting people. For one, the person who sent me that note. Maybe also that woman who was following me. And how many other people am I hurting by lying and by digging into the past? Innocent people who might suffer from what I might uncover.”
“I know. It all feels so distasteful, what we’re doing. Cruel, almost.”
“But think of what was done to you. Far more cruel and distasteful. I’m going to have to swallow my scruples and carry on.”
“Are you sure? This quest is upsetting you, too, and you’re the most important person here.”
Laura felt tears come to her eyes. “Next to you,” she said feelingly. “I’ll be okay. And I’ll be home tomorrow.”
Only after Laura had ended the call did she realize she had referred to Eliot’s Corner and Arden’s house as home. That felt about right.
Chapter 54
Gordon’s purple picnic table was laden with summer foods—sliced watermelon; potato salad; hot dogs; cupcakes. A few of Gordon’s pals from around town had stopped by earlier, bearing bottles of wine or six-packs of beer. After downing a glass and scarfing a hot dog, they left for another, probably more raucous venue. The only people left at the moment were Gordon, Arden, Laura, Deborah, and Brent and his partner, Kurt Wallace.
“Who remembers what Fourth of July was like when they were a kid?” Brent asked, reaching into one of the coolers set by the table for a beer.
Laura laughed. “I remember dressing up as Betsy Ross for a town parade. I think I was about seven or eight. The mobcap was far too big for my head and kept sliding down over my eyes. Between that and the long skirt I pretty much stumbled my way from one end of Main Street to the other. But I had a blast. I felt so important! What about you, Deborah?”
Deborah shrugged. “I don’t remember my family ever making a big thing out of July Fourth. Some years we did absolutely nothing to mark the occasion. Other years we’d visit my cousins in the next town for a barbecue. My uncle always had a few fireworks on hand, no doubt illegal, and he’d set them off just before we were to head home. Gordon?”
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