by Lois Winston
I continued reading, partly because no matter how bleary-eyed I grew, I couldn’t stop myself. Lyndella’s journals presented a fascinating puzzle. Every so often I’d discover a full name written somewhere within a craft journal page. Just a name. No other reference. Often the name was hidden within the text of the directions. When I cross referenced the start and completion dates of the craft project with the accounts journal, somewhere within the corresponding dates I’d find a client with the same first name.
And sometimes I’d recognize a name. A congressman. A senator. A former cabinet member. Even one sitting Supreme Court justice. I suspected if I were familiar with Georgia politics the last half of the twentieth century, I’d recognize far more names. With all these politicians as clients, was Lyndella’s establishment in some way responsible for Savannah being known as the Hostess City? How ironic would that be?
I jotted down each man’s name as I came across them. Once I read through all the journals, I’d Google each name.
Was it possible Lyndella had been blackmailing some of the former patrons of The Best Little Whorehouse in Savannah, as I’d come to think of The Savannah Club for Discerning Gentlemen? Did one of them hire a hit man to rid himself of a potentially damaging scandal? A plausible theory that contained one huge hole. If Lyndella had been receiving blackmail payments, why did she remain in a shared room at Sunnyside? With all her accumulated crafts and her active sex life, wouldn’t she want a single if she could afford one? She certainly couldn’t have been stashing the cash away for her old age. For that reason, I dismissed the blackmail theory.
Lyndella also made cryptic references to other people and events without actually naming names or places, but I began to see her writings as a breadcrumb trail that if I followed to its end, might reveal the truth of her murder.
I also continued to read because I wanted to wait up until Mama arrived home. She, too, was becoming something of a puzzle lately. Her deliberate sidestepping of all my questions concerning this new mystery man in her life was driving me crazy. Who was this guy? Why didn’t she want me to know? Should I be worried for her?
Three hours later, Mama still hadn’t appeared. Bleary-eyed and knowing I should stop for the night, I made myself a cup of coffee and kept reading.
At one in the morning, Mama waltzed through the front door, but I barely noticed. I had finally hit pay dirt, having discovered a huge clue in unlocking the mystery of Lyndella’s past and quite possibly the name of her killer.
Now what should I do?
I needed to brainstorm with someone, but Zack must have decided to spend the night in D.C. Either that or he’d flown off on some clandestine mission, and his meeting in D.C. had been nothing but a bogus cover story. Photos of siren-sounding lemurs aside, I still didn’t know what to believe and what not to believe when it came to Zachary Barnes, photojournalist/secret agent.
I grabbed the phone to call Cloris, but hung up at the sound of the dial tone. She’d kill me if I woke her up at this hour. Worse, she’d never feed me again. I couldn’t risk starving to death. So I crawled into bed.
Between the late-night coffee and my racing brain, I spent the remainder of the night trying to figure out what to do with the information I’d uncovered.
Going to the police seemed useless. Detective Spader would listen to what I had to say and write me off as a raving lunatic grasping at straws to keep her mother-in-law out of prison. The police dealt with hard evidence, not conjecture and speculation, which was all I really had. But that conjecture and speculation made a hell of a lot of sense to me. Too bad I couldn’t prove any of it.
Or could I?
_____
I never fell asleep. At four in the morning I realized I’d forgotten to download the crafts photos to my computer and email them to Clara. Since I couldn’t sleep, anyway, I dragged myself out of bed and fired up my computer. Then I nuked a cup of milk in an unsuccessful attempt to catch at least a couple of hours of sleep.
The milk didn’t work. At six I rose and padded into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. While it brewed, I took a long, steamy shower, then dressed, walked Mephisto, and ate breakfast, all while Mama and the boys slept.
At seven twenty I was ready to leave the house. Having decided what I needed to do, I was antsy to get under way, but it was too early. The person I wanted to speak with wouldn’t be available until eight thirty. So I caught up on a few chores—throwing in a load of wash, emptying the dishwasher, wiping down the stove and countertops—all of which only ticked off another fifteen minutes.
By that point, I thought I’d jump out of my skin if I didn’t get going. I stared at the clock. Seven thirty-five. I should have scrubbed the bathroom or cleaned Ralph’s cage before showering and dressing. That would have killed sufficient time. Too late now, though.
I grabbed my purse and keys and headed out the door. The muggy heat immediately smacked me in the face and sucked the oxygen from my lungs. Not even eight in the morning and already close to ninety degrees. When would this weather break?
I glanced around at the yard as I headed for my car. Only early July and already every plant and blade of grass had withered and died. By August my yard would look as bleak as a moonscape.
Up and down the street my neighbors’ yards weren’t faring much better, even the ones who had in-ground sprinkler systems and enough money not to worry about their water bills. That made me feel better. At least mine wasn’t the only dead yard on the block.
I slid behind the steering wheel of my Hyundai, cranked down the window, and started the engine. I’d rather cool my heels at Sunnyside. Maybe one of my crafters was an early riser, and I could squeeze in an interview for my article while I waited for Shirley Hallstead.
“Girl, you’re here early,” said April when I entered the building. She’d traded her Jerseylicious T-shirt for one that stated Jersey Girls Do It Down the Shore, written in flowing hot pink glitter script on a black background. “You scheduled to work today?”
“No, I was hoping to catch Shirley before she got busy with her day.”
“She generally arrives around eight fifteen. Grab yourself a cup of coffee at the nurses’ station. You can wait for her in her office.”
I decided to forego tracking down one of my crafters for an unscheduled interview. Being allowed to wait in Shirley’s office meant she’d have to make time to speak with me.
I grabbed some coffee and settled in behind Shirley’s desk to wait for her. Part of me itched to nose through her files, but the sensible side of me figured she wouldn’t dare keep any evidence at Sunnyside. She’d made too much of an effort to conceal the facts to be that careless. Instead, I settled back, sipped my coffee, and watched the second hand journey around the dial of her crystal desk clock.
At precisely eight twenty-one, with Birkin in hand and wearing her double-breasted cherry red power suit and matching stilettos, Shirley Hallstead entered her office. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“April suggested I wait in your office. We need to talk, Shirley.”
“Your mother-in-law is not ready to leave, Mrs. Pollack. I spoke with her doctors yesterday, and they all agreed she needs more time until she’s capable of getting around on her own. You saw that for yourself yesterday when she lost her balance. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like my chair.”
I stood but didn’t move from behind the desk. “That’s not what I came to discuss.”
“Then what? I have a very busy schedule today, and I really wish you’d make an appointment ahead of time when you need to speak with me.”
“Next time I will. For now, though, do the police know that Lyndella Wegner was your grandmother?”
fifteen
Shirley froze; all the color drained from her face and neck. Without saying a word, her body language confirmed my hypothesis. She stared at me for several seconds before regaining a
semblance of composure, Then she closed the door behind her, but held fast to the doorknob. “I don’t know how you found out,” she said, “but if you’re inferring I had something to do with her death, you’re wrong.”
“Why the secrecy?” I asked.
She released the knob and slowly walked across the room to her desk. When I stepped aside, she sat down, clutching her Birkin to her chest as if the pricey bag were a talisman that could ward off evil. I took the seat opposite her.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I suppose if I don’t tell you, you’ll go to the police.”
“Which wouldn’t look very good for you, considering you told me that when murders occur in assisted living facilities and nursing homes, a staff member is usually charged and convicted. Even if you’re innocent, the negative publicity would most likely ruin your career.”
Shirley emitted a sigh of resignation. “How did you find out?”
“Lyndella wrote about you.”
“Wrote about me?” The thought seemed inconceivable to her. “Where?”
“In her journals.”
I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Shirley grew even whiter, and she began to tremble. Her voice came across as panicky. “Wh … what journals?”
“She kept binders of her various crafts projects.”
“I know about those. I told Reggie to toss them with the rest of her crap.” She paused and eyed me for a moment. “She didn’t, did she?”
“No, she gave them to me, along with all of Lyndella’s crafts. The ones you destroyed. Is that why you fired her and told the police you thought she killed Lyndella?”
“I fired Reggie for incompetence and disobedience. She never should have been hired in the first place, but my hands were tied.”
“I heard.”
Shirley raised an eyebrow. “For someone who’s only been here a few days, you seem to know an awful lot about what goes on at Sunnyside.”
“People talk.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear.”
“Like the fact that you deliberately steered the police toward Reggie? You know she didn’t kill Lyndella. That kid is scared of her own shadow.”
“I know no such thing. Reggie fit the profile, an incompetent malcontent with self-esteem issues. The police agreed with me. That’s why they picked her up for questioning. My call to them only sped things up a bit.”
“Is she under arrest?”
“No, they let her go for lack of evidence, but that’s beside the point. You haven’t told me what those binders have to do with these journals you mentioned.”
“They’re one and the same. Lyndella wrote about what was going on in her life during the time she crafted each piece. Little notes scrawled in the margins of each page of directions. I read through them, hoping to find a clue to the identity of her killer.”
“And did you?”
“You tell me.”
“I already did. I didn’t kill her. I tried to help her. If I’d wanted to kill her, why would I wait twenty years?”
“Maybe you finally snapped? She certainly took pleasure in yanking your chain.”
Shirley’s panicked expression grew more panicked. “She wrote that? What did she say?”
“She called you a tight-assed old prude.” Actually, Lyndella had called Shirley far worse, but tears were beginning to well up in the eyes of the woman sitting across from me, and I saw no point in twisting the dagger I’d already plunged into her gut.
“What else?”
“She suspected you of destroying her business.”
Shirley sniffed. “Is that what she called it? Her business? I was trying to protect her.”
“She didn’t see it that way.”
“No.” She took a shaky breath. “So what are you going to do with this newfound information, Mrs. Pollack? Go to the police? Blackmail me?”
“Blackmail?”
“I know you need the money. Why wouldn’t you stoop to blackmail?”
“Because I’m not that kind of person. As for going to the police, they didn’t bother taking the journals as evidence when they had the chance. I suppose they didn’t look closely enough at them when they searched Lyndella’s room. I have the big picture, but why don’t you fill in the details for me? Then I’ll decide what to do.”
Shirley picked up her phone. “April, hold all my calls until further notice.” After she hung up, she closed her eyes, and took several deep breaths, exhaling slowly between each before she finally spoke.
“I was adopted as an infant,” she said, her eyes still closed. “My adoptive parents were wonderful people, but I was always curious about my birth parents. As I grew into adulthood and established my career, I became more and more obsessed with the blank spaces in my life. Gaps that could only be filled by learning more about who I really was, where I came from.”
She opened her eyes and her voice grew strident as she said, “Working in healthcare, I came to realize that everyone should have the right to know about his or her background for medical reasons if nothing else.”
“So you tracked your mother down?”
“No. I tried. Through various channels available to me, but I failed to find anything. The adoption was private, handled by a doctor and lawyer. Both had died, and my parents—my adoptive parents—never knew anything about my birth mother other than she was an unwed mother. They didn’t even have a name.”
Shirley let go of the death grip she’d maintained on her Birkin and placed it on her desk. She stood and began pacing back and forth across the small office as she continued speaking. “A little more than twenty years ago I had a health scare. Knowing my medical history would have helped tremendously at the time. After the crisis passed, I hired a private investigator. I didn’t care how much it cost me; I needed to find my mother.”
“Did you?”
She shook her head. “She died shortly after giving me up for adoption. Drug overdose, according to what the P.I. uncovered. But he did find an address for my maternal grandmother. For Lyndella.”
“I can imagine that came as a bit of a shock.”
Shirley laughed. “Did it ever! The investigator told me she ran a dating service in Savannah, Georgia.”
“Which you took literally, not realizing he’d employed a euphemism?”
She nodded. “I was a lot younger and much more naïve back then. I decided to fly to Georgia to meet her.” Shirley laughed an ironic laugh. “When I rang her doorbell, she thought I was applying for a job. She sized me up in a glance and dismissed me as lacking what she called the je ne sais quoi demanded by her upscale clientele. Can you believe that? The gall of the woman, telling me I wasn’t good enough to be one of her hookers!”
That sounded like the Lyndella I’d come to know from our short acquaintance, her journals, and the other residents’ stories about her. The woman never minced words, always spoke her mind, and didn’t give a flying fig whom she hurt in the process.
“When I told her I was her granddaughter, she didn’t believe me at first, but she finally came around and invited me in.”
“Was this at The Savannah Club for Discerning Gentlemen?”
“You even know the name of the place?”
I nodded.
“No. She lived separate from her bordello. You have to understand, at that point I didn’t know she ran a bordello. I still thought she operated a dating service. I was thinking in terms of a modern-day Dolly Levi.”
“Who?”
You know, like in Hello, Dolly?”
“Right.”
“I had read some people still relied on matchmakers to find them the perfect marriage partner.”
Living in New Jersey with its large Indian population, I knew about matchmakers and arranged marriages. However, I had no idea whether the custom extended to other immigr
ant groups, let alone non-immigrants.
“Anyway, once Lyndella accepted me as her granddaughter, we established a relationship. Every six to eight weeks I’d fly down to Georgia for a weekend. She told me about my mother, how she’d run off as a teenager, got mixed up with the wrong crowd, and gotten herself pregnant. According to Lyndella, my mother didn’t even know who the father was. Lyndella convinced her to give me up for adoption.”
“Because Lyndella knew how hard it was to raise a child as a single parent?”
Shirley shook her head. “She never mentioned that, but I came to suspect it because she never spoke about my mother’s father. I don’t even know if they ever married.”
“I don’t think so. Her journals suggest she became pregnant when she was only fifteen. She made plans for a wedding, but I came across no indication that a ceremony ever took place.”
“I’m not surprised. Anyway, a few weeks after my mother gave me up for adoption, she OD’d. I guess I was lucky.”
“How so?”
“I might otherwise have been raised by Lyndella.”
A valid point. It couldn’t have been easy for Shirley’s mother, growing up in a whorehouse. Maybe Lyndella bore a good deal of the blame for her daughter running off and turning to drugs.
“Eventually, I learned the truth about Lyndella’s business.”
“You didn’t suspect anything by the type of artwork in her home?”
“That trash decorated her business, not her home. I never saw any pornographic artwork or crafts until I moved her to Sunnyside.”
“Then how did you find out about her business?”
“She wanted to groom me to take over for her when she retired.”