“A present!” Truman dropped to his knees and started rummaging around the gifts.
“Careful,” I sang.
“But there’s nothing for me,” he whined.
Oh, yikes! How do other mothers handle that level of rudeness?
But I was barely finished murmuring an apology, when the kid redeemed himself. He popped out from under the tree and held up a box. “It’s for Notz, Momma Cass!”
“Keep looking,” Lindsey told him, and he dived back down.
“And Charlie!” he said and pulled out another box.
I glanced at Lindsey. “Food dishes,” she told me.
“Lindsey made them,” Fanny added, and although the old lady had never seen any of Lindsey Luke’s pottery, she assured me the pet dishes were beautiful.
“I’m sure they are,” I agreed.
Lindsey shrugged modestly, but the woman is definitely the most artistic person in Hanahan County. When she’s not with Fanny, she’s at her potter’s wheel creating amazing things, some of which sell for a small fortune at a posh gallery down in Boston.
“What do you say?” I asked Truman.
“Thank you.” He carefully deposited the boxes in my lap and gave Lindsey a hug. Then he ran over to Fanny to hug her. “Guess what?” he shouted in the poor woman’s unsuspecting ear. “We’re looking for Mr. X’s loved ones!”
In a much quieter tone, Fanny told us she had heard that news. “Dear Lindsey was kind enough to read me Maxine’s column this morning.”
“Did you see my name in the article, Ms. Luke?”
Lindsey smiled, and Fanny, the retired kindergarten teacher, asked just the right question. “How many times was your name mentioned?”
“Seven,” Truman answered, and doing a terrific job as my sleuthing sidekick, he asked her if she knew any of Mr. X’s loved ones.
What a shocker, she did not. “But I imagine your Momma Cass needs to talk to me about grown up things,” she said.
“But I want to help.”
Lindsey stood up. “How about helping me instead?” she asked. “I haven’t seen Rose and Ruby in ages.”
“Me, neither. They don’t visit people when there’s snow.”
“So let’s visit them, instead,” Lindsey suggested. “Maybe Mr. Poquette needs help milking—”
Truman was already at the door.
Chapter 31
“Have you spoken to Cornelius?” Fanny asked me the minute the door closed. “Any word on Mr. X? Any theories? My goodness, Cassie, you must have theories.”
“Well. Yeah. But before we get to my theories, let’s start with the facts,” I said, and she chuckled.
“That answers my first question,” she said. “Clearly, you have spoken to Cornelius.”
“He told me some interesting facts.”
“Cornelius is always so helpful.”
“Facts about Olivia DeMuir,” I said, and my blind old friend jumped so high I felt guilty. I reached for her hand. “You have heard of her,” I said. “She really was real?”
“Of course she was real. Otherwise Cornelius wouldn’t have mentioned her.”
So, that meant—
I looked up. “I have a few theories about Olivia DeMuir, Fanny.”
“Go on.”
I sat forward. “Cockamamie Theory A,” I began. “I think Nate Wylie was with Olivia DeMuir the night he was killed.”
Fanny turned her blind gaze to the fire. “Go on,” she said, but I told her I needed help with Theories B and C.
“And I think you can help me,” I said. “Because you’ve always lived next door to the Fox Cove, and you like children, and—”
“Children?” she squeaked. She shook herself and cleared her throat. “Go on,” she said in a steadier voice.
I took a deep breath. “I think Olivia DeMuir had a child,” I said. “I think she had a son.”
The old lady closed her blind eyes. “Go on,” she said.
“I think Olivia DeMuir had a son with Nate Wylie.” I squeezed her hand. “And I think that son’s name was Oliver.”
***
Dead. Silence.
“You mean, I’m right!?” I dropped Fanny’s hand, stood up, and started pacing. “I didn’t think I could possibly be right. But Cornelius told me to think about the name, and I have been thinking about it. Olivia-Oliver? Oliver-Olivia?”
I turned at the Christmas tree. “So, for whatever reason Olivia couldn’t, or wouldn’t, give the boy Nate’s last name, and I’m guessing Earle was her own, real, last name. And so Oliver Earle is—” I stopped. “—Oliver is Olivia’s DeMuir’s son!” I twirled again. “No wonder he’s been so snippety every time I mention—”
Fanny waved to get my attention.
“Yes?”
“You’re getting a bit ahead of yourself, dear.” She suggested I think about the chronology. “Do the math, please.”
“My mother was the math teacher,” I said, but I sat back down to do some vague arithmetic in my head. “Oliver’s a good ten years younger than Joe,” I said.
“Go on,” Fanny prompted.
“And so, Olivia DeMuir was—Oliver Earle’s grandmother?”
Fanny nodded. “Although I won’t tell you I’m one hundred percent certain of that.”
“And so Nate Wylie was Oliver Earle’s grandfather?”
Another nod, but also another warning that she wasn’t quite sure.
Let’s just say, I only had about a million questions, but I began with the name. “You’re sure Olivia had a son named Oliver?” I said.
“I am,” Fanny said. “And I am sure I felt sorry for the child. What a place to grow up.”
I thought about it. “Were you his teacher, Fanny? Did Oliver DeMuir attend the Lake School?”
Yes, he did, and Fanny had been his teacher from K through third grade. “I tried not to speculate on where the child was when his mother was—working,” she said. “But I brought him to school with me every day.” She nodded. “Any child who arrived with me was not going to be bullied. I made sure of that.”
I kept thinking. “How old was he when Nate died?” I asked.
“Twelve or thirteen,” Fanny answered. Which meant that, like all Elizabethan children, he had moved on to the schools in Hilleville.
I stared at Fanny’s Christmas tree and let it all sink in. “Nate Wylie led a double life,” I said. He had second family right here. Right here in teeny-tiny Lake Bess.”
Fanny sighed. “I think so. However, if we consider the simple arithmetic, Olivia and her son were Nate’s first family.”
“And Joe’s mother and Joe came afterwards.” I stared at the Christmas tree again and wondered out loud why Nate had never married Olivia. “Although if he had, Joe wouldn’t even exist.”
“So many ifs,” Fanny agreed, and we, or at least I, continued staring at her tree.
I asked what happened to Olivia and her son Oliver after Nate got killed, and Fanny told me they had left town almost immediately.
“For Boston, I believe.” But she warned me things got “a bit hazy” after that. “If I can’t be sure Oliver DeMuir was indeed Nathan Wylie’s son, I certainly can’t claim that the Oliver Earle, who showed up in town a decade or so later, with his own wife and son, was that same Oliver.”
“That’s when Oliver Earle—Senior—bought the Lake Store?”
“That’s right.”
“But you still had your eyesight,” I said. “Didn’t you recognize him, Fanny?”
She shrugged again. “I will not say for certain. This is all conjecture.”
“But you think so,” I persisted, and my old friend nodded.
“I think so,” she said.
Holy. Moly.
I let that sink in also “How in the world has this story completely slipped everyone’s mind?” I asked. “I mean, of all the legends, and lore, and rumors, and innuendo about Lake Bess, I’ve never heard any of this. Not before yesterday.”
She shrugged yet again. “It
was all so long ago, Cassie. Very few people hereabouts remember that far back.”
“So no one but you has ever suspected the truth?” I was incredulous, but Fanny insisted anyone old enough to remember the Olivia DeMuir story tended to keep it to themselves.
“For Oliver’s sake—Oliver Earle Junior’s sake—that is.” She shrugged. “And of course not everyone is as clever as you, Cassie. Not everyone would put two and two together like you have.”
I shook my head. “Arlene Pearson was right.”
“Arlene?” Now Fanny sounded incredulous, but I told her Arlene was angry that all the Fox Cove Inn legends and rumors focused almost solely on the Pearson clan.
“To the exclusion of anyone else but Nate.” I shook my head again. “But how about Oliver?” I asked. “Our Oliver—Oliver Junior—that is. Does he know who his grandparents were?”
“I’m quite sure he knows who his grandmother was,” Fanny said, and considering how snippety he had been with me the past few days, I was quite sure of that also.
“How about his grandfather?” I asked. “Does Oliver know Nate Wylie was his grandfather?”
Fanny shook her head. “I’m quite sure he does not.”
And I was quite sure Joe didn’t know about that family connection, either.
“It’s getting a bit chilly, Cassie dear.”
It was. I got up to add a few more logs to the fire. “Sooo, Nate was Joe’s father, and Oliver’s grandfather,” I said as I poked around the embers to get a blaze going. I stood up and turned. “So that means Joe is Oliver’s—uncle?”
“I think so.” Fanny thanked me for the fire but also gave me a warning about how all of this was mere speculation. “Cornelius would scold me for so much conjecturing.” She scowled. “I’m sorry, dear, but how does this relate to Mr. X?”
“Fanny,” I said slowly. “We’ve only covered Cockamamie Theories A and B thus far.”
The old lady smiled. “But you are Cassie Baxter. Of course you have a Theory C.”
“I do.” I sat back down. “And it just may be the cockamamiest of all.”
***
Believe it or not, eventually we did exhaust all my theories. And in the process, I totally exhausted Fanny. Nevertheless, she insisted on walking me out, and stood in her open doorway as I donned my snowshoes.
I stated the obvious. “It’s cold out here. You should go inside.”
She shook her head and stood her ground, and insisted she was too cooped up in the winter months. “I enjoy a breath of fresh air every few hours, no matter how cold,” she told me, and to prove her point, she inhaled a deep breath.
“More snow is on the way.” She literally sniffed the air. “Tomorrow evening, if I had to predict.”
I blinked at the clear blue sky. “Let me guess,” I said. “Now that you’re blind, you can predict the weather?”
The old lady offered an impish smile worthy of Truman Tripp-Baxter. “I don’t like to brag,” she said, “but Lindsey claims I’m far more accurate than the Channel 9 weather forecast on TV.”
“Snow on Christmas eve.” I stood up and stomped my snowshoes. “Truman will love that.”
“I trust Santa Claus has her sleigh packed and ready?”
“Well then, you trust me too much,” I said. “I have no idea what to get the little guy.”
Fanny scowled. “Surely the child wrote a letter to Santa?”
I told her the problem—the Winter Carnival which I never attended, the mystery letter to Santa that I never saw, and the mystery mailbox to the North Pole that might as well have landed somewhere in the Hollow Galaxy for all the good it was doing me.
“I never saw the letter, and I can’t find the letter.” I sighed. “And no one knows who helped Truman write the letter.” Another sigh. “Santa Claus is doomed.”
Fanny shook her head. “And here I always thought you were so clever.”
“What’s that?”
“Cassie, dear,” she said. “Of course someone knows who helped Truman write his letter to Santa.”
I perked up. “Really? Who?”
“Truman, of course.”
Truman.
Earth to Cassie Baxter. Truman, of course.
Chapter 32
Of course Truman was having a jolly good time when I showed up at Oden’s barn. I thanked the grown ups and goats for watching my son, and after wishing everyone a Merry Christmas, we were on our way.
The little guy, by the way, seemed to have forgotten the original purpose of our outing, and happily jabbered on and on about Rose and Ruby. At some point, he noticed the bag I held.
“Those are homemade presents for Notz and Charlie,” he said.
“I’m sure they’re very special,” I said. “Ms. Luke is a true artist.”
He slowed down, and the big blue eyes looked up at me. “Do you like homemade presents? Even if they’re not made by a true artist?”
“They’re the best!” I said, and Truman offered one of his most adorable grins. I crossed my fingers inside my mitten. “Speaking of gifts,” I said. “I hope Santa Claus remembers everything on your list.”
“He will. He’s Santa.”
“And of course, he has your letter,” I said. “That will be helpful.”
The pom-pom on the toque bobbed up and down, and I continued, “I bet Santa’s up in the North Pole right now, wondering about that letter you wrote him.”
The kid stopped in his tracks. “Doesn’t he like my letter?”
“Oh, I’m sure he does! But I bet he’s wondering who helped you write it.”
“Ryan.”
I blinked. “Ryan, as in Ryan Webb?”
“That’s right.”
Oh, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! I knew Ryan as in Ryan Webb! The Webbs were Truman’s neighbors in Hilleville before he came to live with me and Dad. I would just call Ryan, and he would remember Truman’s letter, and—
“The Webbs are like Mr. Osgood and Miss Rusty.”
I blinked again. “Excuse me? I don’t understand, Sweetie.”
“The Webbs go away for Christmas, just like Mr. Osgood goes away.”
Perfect. Just, perfect.
I forced a smile and asked, all jolly-like, where the Webbs were going.
“To Fayla.”
I frowned. “Come on, Truman. Fayla’s pretend.”
“No really, Momma Cass. It’s just like Fayla. Mrs. Webb showed me pictures once.”
Okay, so I’m sure I whimpered out loud. “They go someplace warm, with a beach?” I asked.
“That’s right. But the Caribin doesn’t have purple polka dot sand. That’s just Fayla.”
“The Caribbean,” I clarified. I crossed my fingers and asked when exactly the Webbs were leaving for vacation.
“They’re gone. They always leave right after Ryan gets out of school.”
Perfect. Just perfect.
“And school ended yesterda-aaay!” The kid threw his hands in the air and started running. “Let’s race!” he called over his shoulder.
Okay, so I raced. And while I was running, I thought about getting in touch with the Webbs. Impossible, I decided. Even if I did have their cell phone numbers, or e-mail addresses, I didn’t know them well enough to interrupt their family vacation.
So, of course Truman was right. Ryan Webb might as well have been vacationing on Fayla.
***
As we scampered up the slippery bank from the lake, I caught a glimpse of a patrol car in our drive, and sure enough, Jason Sterling was sitting with my father when Truman and I arrived inside.
And sure enough, Truman started off with a bang. “Did you put him back together again?” he asked Mr. State Trooper.
“Excuse me?”
“He means the skeleton,” I said.
“Like Humpty Dumpty,” Truman said cheerfully. He dropped his jacket at my feet and continued talking. “Guess where we were. We were looking for Mr. X’s loved ones.”
What a shocker, my father was givi
ng me one of those looks, but Jason seemed uncharacteristically confused. He pointed to the bag I was still holding. “It looks like you were shopping.”
“From Fanny Baumgarten,” I said. “We had quite the conversa—”
“We asked her about Mr. X’s loved ones.” Truman swept past me to grab the bag, and while I hung up the coats, he carefully positioned the gifts under the tree. Who knows how, but the pets seemed mighty interested.
Meanwhile, Jason was mighty interested to hear about our little excursion, and call me brilliant, but I decided he could probably use a few pencils. I pointed Truman toward the stairs. “Pencils,” I told him. “Go way up to my turret and check the table next to the purple rocking chair. Charlie and Notz will help you. Take your time.”
My son, in case you haven’t quite caught on, is not stupid. “You want to talk to Captain Jason without me,” he said.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” I said, and with only a minimal pout, the child stomped up the stairs. Charlie and Notz followed, and I grabbed a rocking chair with the grown ups.
***
Although why, I do not know. My father was still giving me one of those looks, and Jason didn’t look all that pleased with me either. “Did you really go sleuthing with a kindergartener in tow?” he asked, and my annoying father reminded me I always get in trouble with Fanny Baumgarten.
I rolled my eyes. “Truman was with Rose and Ruby the whole time,” I insisted. “The only hazard he faced was getting the buttons eaten off his jacket, and since it has a zip—”
Something dropped overhead, and then a lot of running.
“What’s he doing up there?” Jason asked.
I had no idea. But I predicted we would be safe from five year old ears for a while and reached for a stack of papers on the coffee table. “What’s all this?”
“The closing documents from when I bought our house,” Dad said. “Captain Sterling wanted to see the paperwork, even though I keep telling him the skull was undisclosed at the time of purchase.”
“And I keep telling your father, I’m well-aware of that fact.”
I pretended to read the financial mumbo jumbo on the top sheet. “Not nearly as fascinating as Maxine’s Lake Bess Lore column,” I muttered.
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