by Libby Howard
“It’s definitely a possibility. They were very close friends. Their daughters were very close friends. Howard would probably not have thought twice about letting Mabel take an envelope back that held a letter she’d written his wife years ago.”
Normally I would have thought that Mabel would have proceeded to destroy such a letter. Harlen was dead. There was no need for her daughter to find out about her illegitimacy, or to know that the man she’d considered a father had most likely been a murderer. But if she’d destroyed the letter, wanted all of that to fade away into the past, then why haunt a piece of furniture, a family heirloom, for decades following her death?
We switched the conversation to more pleasant topics, discussing Suzette’s continued work on the old farmhouse, whether Harry Peter’s nephew planned to sell his uncle’s house after he’d finished going through everything or move in himself, who might win this year’s regatta, and whether Bob Simmons would add to the dozens of giant holiday inflatables that filled his lawn every year from Thanksgiving until the day after New Years’.
I left the scant remains of the apple crumb cake with Suzette, telling her that I’d see her later tonight at the barbeque, then taking my leave of Daisy as we passed her house. I noticed that Judge Beck’s car wasn’t in the driveway as I headed up the stairs to my front door. He’d had a golf outing this morning, so he’d need to wait to hear what little information I’d gotten from Suzette. Her grandfather had confirmed that Lucille had been murdered, and not committed suicide. And we were no closer to finding the letter Mabel had written than we were last night.
Had she destroyed it? I was sure if it had been among her effects when she’d passed away, then her daughter would have read it, and Matt would have known all about Eleonore’s real father as well as what I suspected about what happened to Silas Albright.
Where was the envelope? I’d pretty much exhausted every research avenue open to me. If the envelope was gone, if it had been inadvertently destroyed, then the secrets died with Mabel. And I wasn’t sure even Olive could get the ghost to tell us what she’d had bottled up all those decades.
Chapter 19
Judge Beck was nearly late to his own party. Daisy and the Larses had already arrived and were helping me cart out food and set up chairs when he came through the back gate, a bag of golf clubs over his shoulder and a folder in his hand.
“I was beginning to wonder if your golf game had gone into overtime,” I teased as he leaned the clubs up against the side of the house.
“I ran by the courthouse and actually braved the dungeon records room just to see what I could dig up on the Albright murder,” he said, handing me the folder.
There was one sheet of paper in the folder—a copy of a faded form.
“What is this?” I’d hoped he would discover who had been charged for Silas Albright’s murder, and if that person had any sort of connection to Harlen Hansen, but this didn’t look like a police report.
“It’s a preliminary filing for divorce proceedings,” he announced. “In February of 1926, Silas Albright filed this paper, and there are several others showing he was continuing to go through with the divorce until his death in March. I wanted to get you copies of those, but the microfiche printer jammed and my law degree didn’t give me the appropriate skills to fix office equipment. I’ll ask Deanna to get me copies on Monday.”
As tragic as this whole story was, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. Mabel had broken up with Silas, gotten engaged to Harlen and tried to make that work, but she was in love. In February, she broke off her engagement to Harlen, and Silas filed for divorce. If he hadn’t been killed, Mabel would no doubt have married him and although Eleonore would have probably been born before the ink was dry on their marriage license, they would have been together.
But Silas had been killed in a park, supposedly during a robbery, and a broken-hearted Mabel thought she might as well marry Harlen. It still didn’t absolve her of potentially trying to pass another man’s child off as Harlen’s, or letting her sister take the blame for her indiscretion with Silas, but at least she hadn’t been cheating on her fiancé.
And I suspected a jealous Harlen had killed his rival. I could have been wrong. People were murdered in robberies, and there was no saying that Silas’s wife might not have had some pretty angry relatives who might have decided to make Silas pay for leaving her, but Harlen was definitely a suspect.
And if he killed Silas, could he have also killed Lucille? Although why? With Silas gone, there was no reason for anyone to want Lucille dead. Except maybe Mabel, and I refused to think that of her. I winced at the thought that both Harlen and Mabel could be murderers. Evie might have worn rose-colored glasses when it came to her friend, but I doubted any sort of cheerful optimism would have disguised the character traits Mabel would need to have to have been a murderer.
Unfortunately, I was at a dead end as far as this investigation went. And I had a party with guests arriving in less than a half an hour. Shooing Judge Beck and his golf clubs into the house, I tucked the folder into my briefcase and pulled my lemon cakes out of the fridge to ice.
The party was in full swing when Matt finally arrived. All the neighbors had come, as well as J. T., and my friends Carson and Maggie. Even Olive had come, bringing her homemade sangria to share. We’d all taken turns at the grill, and Judge Beck was happily in conversation with Suzette when I saw Matt, a long plastic container in his hand.
“I know you said not to bring anything, but I felt weird coming here empty-handed,” Matt confessed, extending a tray of deviled eggs.
“Yum.” I sat them down on a table and promptly popped one in my mouth. They were delicious, creamy with a tang that came from the addition of spicy mustard and a liberal sprinkling of Old Bay Seasoning on top. “Let me introduce you around, but first—beer or wine?”
“Beer, please.”
I led him over to the copper tub and he eyed the selection, picking one out and popping the cap off. We made the rounds, and I was surprised that a few of the neighbors knew Matt from the VFW’s turkey pot pie dinners. I was just getting ready to leave him in Daisy’s capable hands and refill the ice when Judge Beck made his way over to us.
“Matt, this is my roommate. Judge Nathanial Beck,” I said by way of introductions.
“Nate,” the judge said as he extended his hand. “You must be Matt Poffenberger? Kay mentioned you were coming.”
“Your roommate?” Matt seemed to have some trouble wrapping his head around that one. I knew I told him that the barbeque was to introduce my new roommate to the neighborhood. Maybe he’d just assumed I’d meant a female roomie?
“For a couple of years until he buys his own place,” I told Matt, unwilling to go into personal details about the judge’s divorce and custody battle.
“Counting the days already, Kay,” Judge Beck teased. “It’s my taking over your dining room table for a workspace, isn’t it?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, because I host so many formal dinners in there. No, I’m not counting the days. I just figured you’d be thinking about a place of your own as soon as things are settled.”
He turned to Matt with a knowing grin. “Maybe I better start looking. Where’s Carson? I’ll have to ask him to keep an eye out for listings. A few years will be here before I know it.”
It would. And my house would be horribly lonely without Judge Beck and his kids to keep me company.
“There’s a new development going up on the east side of Milford next year,” Matt suggested. “Golf course community. You golf, right?”
“Yes, I do.” Judge Beck looked around the yard with a fond smile, then turned that fond smile on me. “Although I really love it here. I might just wait until something on this street comes up for sale. You wouldn’t mind having me around for a bit longer, would you, Kay? I promise to share the dining room table with you.”
“Stay as long as you like,” I told him. Two years. Five years. A few decades. As long as he liked.
“I think the golf course subdivision would suit you better,” Matt said.
“Maybe, but I’d love it if you bought something here,” I said, then turned to Matt. “I’ve grown very fond of the judge’s children. It would be wonderful if they stayed in the neighborhood.”
“They’re very fond of you too, Kay,” Judge Beck added.
“Do you golf, Matt?” I asked, wondering if I needed to drag my old clubs out of the attic and blow the dust off of them.
“I haven’t in years, but I do coordinate the tournament fund raiser at Oak Grove Links. It’s one of the major money makers for the children’s cancer wing at Milford General.”
“I play in that tournament every year,” Judge Beck chimed in. “A group of us at the courthouse sponsored a hole last year, too.”
“Would you be willing to help me with the fundraiser this year, Kay?” Matt asked, angling his body toward me. “We’re always looking for people to help call businesses to see if they’d sponsor a hole, and try to drum up some additional donated prizes.”
I’d been wanting to find something to keep me busy, something worthwhile that would take my mind off of Eli and get me more involved in the community, allow me to ease back into a more social existence. This would be perfect.
“I’d love to.” Already my mind was whirring with possible prize ideas and places to hit up for donations. “Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I’m off to grab another bag of ice from the kitchen freezer, then mingle.”
I left the pair of them chatting about golf and refilled the ice buckets, taking a turn at the grill, then discussing knitting and crochet with Suzette and Kat. All too soon, people began to drift home, leaving me with far too many leftovers and alcoholic beverages. When I waved the last guest goodbye, I returned to the backyard to find Judge Beck wiping down the tables.
“Thank you,” he told me with a smile. “It feels like it’s been forever since I actually went to a party.”
“Bob Simmons didn’t bore you too much with his ‘history of Locust Point’ speech, did he?” I asked, grabbing the last few bottles of wine.
“Not at all. And your friend, Matt, is very nice. He’s going to join us golfing next week.”
This golfing thing was making me feel a bit left out. Maybe I did need to find my clubs as well as take some much-needed lessons. Or I could let the guys have their fun while Daisy, Kat, Suzette, and I all sat on the porch and knitted and drank wine.
“I’m glad you guys hit it off.” I handed him a bottle of wine and looped my arm in his. “Leave the rest of this and I’ll clean it up later. You’ve got a busy day tomorrow, birthday boy.”
Madison and Henry were to come back here for the week, and the kids had a special meal planned. We walked inside and before I went up to bed, I paused by the dining room, where the ghost still stood. My life was so happy. I’d married the man I loved, and even though I’d lost him too young, I still had friends and family. Even with the grief, there were still moments of sunshine in my life, moments when I felt so happy that I thought my heart would burst.
Mabel had lost so much. And when I thought of her and what she’d gone through, I realized how blessed my life truly was.
Chapter 20
Heather brought the kids over promptly after church on Sunday. They raced through the door, setting their backpacks and bags aside then throwing themselves into their father’s arms with a chorus of “happy birthdays”. Heather stood awkwardly to the side, conveying information about a party Henry had been invited to, then went to leave.
She stopped, her hand on the door, and turned back. “Nate? Happy Birthday.”
He looked up, his eyes cool, his face expressionless. “Thanks.”
With that short word, he pivoted, gathering the kids in his arms once more. Heather eyed them sadly, told Madison and Henry she’d see them next week, then left. My heart ached for her. I knew she was the one who wanted the divorce, but this was obviously hurting her as much as it was Judge Beck. And although I knew he hoped they’d eventually be able to have civil discourse with each other, he still wasn’t ready to forgive and forget.
But this wasn’t the time to dwell on broken marriages. We had a birthday to celebrate, and Madison had a cake to bake.
The kids couldn’t wait to give their father their gifts, and with a stampede of footsteps, they raced upstairs and then back down again, each one clutching brightly wrapped presents.
“This one is from both of us,” Madison announced, plopping a gift in her father’s lap.
I sat down to watch, curious what they’d gotten him. Heather had taken the kids out to shop for gifts a few weeks ago, earning her some serious bonus points in my book. It couldn’t have been easy to fund Madison and Henry’s presents to the man who was soon to be her ex-husband.
Judge Beck tore the wrapping paper off and opened up a box, pulling out a mug that had “I love you, Dad” written on it on either side in each of the kids’ handwriting. Madison had even encircled her words with a red heart.
“Thank you. I love it.” And from the husky note in his voice, I could tell he truly did. I envisioned him drinking his morning coffee from this mug, proudly displaying it in his chambers or even in the courtroom. Were judges allowed to have coffee in the courtroom?
“Look inside.” Henry bounced up and down, pointing to the mug. The judge pulled out a piece of paper and read that he’d been given a membership to a coffee-of-the-month club.
Ooooh. I hoped that membership included enough coffee for me to sample as well.
“This one is from both of us, too,” Henry said, handing his father a smaller package.
It held a hand-written gift certificate for ten car washes, provided by Madison and Henry, as well as another certificate for a “special breakfast-in-bed.”
After another round of hugging, Madison informed her father that he was banned from the kitchen, then turned to me with a smile. “Did you get the ingredients, Miss Kay?”
“I sure did.” I’d not only gotten the supplies for the cake, but had also picked up steaks and sweet potatoes for Henry to grill, with supervision, for his father’s birthday dinner.
Henry shooed his father out into the back yard with a book and a beer while Madison pulled all the ingredients for her cake out of the cabinets.
She’d selected a classic devil’s food cake with fudge icing. When I went in, she had everything neatly lined up on the counter and ready to go—unsweetened cocoa, cake flour, baking soda, butter, superfine sugar, brown sugar, eggs, and vanilla extract. For our first step, I had her cut rounds of wax paper for the bottoms of the cake pans, then butter the pans. Measuring the cocoa into a bowl, she whisked in hot water until it was smooth, then blended in cold water and set it aside as she sifted together her dry ingredients.
“Now cream the butter,” I told her as I got the mixer out. Once it was smooth and light in color, she slowly added the white sugar, then the brown sugar, both one tablespoon at a time.
Then we added the eggs and vanilla, alternating the dry ingredients with the cocoa liquid as the final step. Once the cakes were in the oven, we turned our attention to the custard filling and the icing.
Custard is tricky and I’d wanted Madison to skip this part of the recipe, instead using additional icing between the cake layers, but she’d insisted, so I got out the double boiler and set her to whisking the milk, cream, and chocolate while I prepared the sugar, cornstarch, flour and salt. Then I showed her how to quickly whisk the dry ingredients in, stirring constantly to ensure there were no lumps. Once the filling was the consistency of pudding, I showed her how to temper the yolks so we didn’t end up with scrambled eggs in our custard, then add the mixture back into the filling. When it was done, we added the vanilla, then let the filling cool on the counter before popping it into the refrigerator.
It was time to get dinner going, so I left Madison to make the fudge frosting and went out to find the judge relaxing in a chair, a fond smile on his face as he wat
ched his son work on the entertainment console and chatted about a video game. I fired up the grill and gave Henry instructions on preparing the sweet potatoes and the seasoned steaks.
While the cakes were cooling and the frosting was chilling with the filling in the fridge, we ate our dinner, then while Madison iced the cake, the judge, Henry, and I played a few hands of Go-Fish.
“Cake time!” Madison brought in her masterpiece and I felt my heart swell with pride. This had been a challenging recipe, and she’d done it with very little direction from me. In addition, she’d assembled and iced the cake completely on her own.
“That looks amazing,” Judge Beck said. I’d told him how involved this recipe was, and I knew that he appreciated the effort that had gone into such a creation.
“Let’s use the nice china,” Henry said, scooting back his chair and pulling plates from the cabinet.
“And the good silver,” Madison added. She went over to the sideboard, shivering as she walked through the ghost that was now ever present by the piece of furniture. As she pulled the drawer open, it stuck slightly, and she yanked. It slid free, silverware flying out and the drawer dropping from her hand to the floor where it landed with a crack.
“Miss Kay, I’m so sorry!” Tears glistened in the girl’s eyes. “I broke it. It’s broken.”
I picked up a section of the drawer. “It’s not too bad,” I assured her, even though my heart had sunk as I saw the two pieces. “Nothing a little wood glue won’t fix. See how the sides are joined with this tongue-in-groove fitting instead of nails? We’ll just glue it back, attach the bottom, and it will be as good as new.”
A tear rolled down Madison’s cheek and she sniffed. “It stuck, and I just pulled too hard. I’m so sorry, Miss Kay.”
“It was an accident, Madison. I’m not mad, truly I’m not. I’ll pick this all up and fix it later, because right now I want some of that cake. We’ll just use the kitchen silverware instead.”