by Leslie Meier
“You, too, Lucy.”
Saturday dawned chilly, gray, and rainy. Bill decided to spend the day cleaning the cellar. The girls both had summer jobs, so Lucy was free to continue her research in the morgue. She didn’t mind; flipping through the old papers was interesting and gave her a picture of life in Maine during the war. There were stories about gas rationing and German U-boat sightings, drives to collect metal and paper, and the inevitable reports of local men and women killed overseas. Michael Woods wasn’t among them, though, and Lucy was halfway through the fifties when she finally saw his name in bold black print.
It actually came as a bit of a shock; she’d pretty much given up, distracted by stories about new buildings at Winchester College, plans to build a war memorial on the town green, and a hilariously funny guest editorial by the Methodist pastor warning about the dangers of rock and roll music. She was still chuckling when she turned the brittle page and saw the obituary. “Michael Woods, 36, died unexpectedly Monday evening,” she read. His service in the U.S. Army Air Corps, in North Africa and Italy, was noted, as was a series of jobs as an insurance salesman, encyclopedia salesman, and, finally, automobile salesman. The list of surviving family members was small; there was no mention of a wife or children, but he did leave a sister, Hilda O’Dwyer, and a niece, Margaret O’Dwyer.
Unlike the obituaries she was used to writing, which went into great detail about the deceased’s career, relations, hobbies, and even favorite sports teams, these few inches of print seemed wanting. It wasn’t the custom in the 1950s, she realized, comparing Woods’s obituary to the others on the page, which were also brief. Nevertheless, it struck her as sad that a person’s entire life—loves, successes, failures—came down to nothing more than these few smudged lines. What terrors did Michael Woods face in the war? Did he have nightmares for years afterwards? Was he content with his career in sales or was he bitter that he didn’t achieve more? What did he die of, at the relatively young age of thirty-six? A heart attack? Stroke? Accident? The little notice didn’t say, but it did give her another lead to follow: the O’Dwyer family. But how long would it take to track them down? It had taken her the better part of two days to find any trace of Michael Woods, so how long would it take to find his sister’s family? And would she have time?
On Sunday, Lucy went to Heritage House to cover the 100th birthday party of a resident, Lillian Waters. She always had mixed feelings about these celebrations. Living to the ripe old age of 100 seemed like a good thing, but all too often it really wasn’t. The poor old dears rarely knew what all the fuss was about. Some were blind or deaf or senile, and their frail, misshapen bodies were covered with wrinkles and age spots. Getting old certainly wasn’t for the weak, as Miss Tilley often said.
Lillian Waters was different, however. She hardly looked a year over eighty. Her abundant white hair had been freshly styled, her pink-cheeked face was remarkably smooth, and she was enjoying being the center of attention.
“All for me? You shouldn’t have!” she exclaimed, bouncing into the rec room. It had been decorated with balloons and streamers in her honor, and a HAPPY BIRTHDAY LILLIAN banner was pinned up over the windows. A punch bowl filled with pink liquid was waiting on a side table, along with stacks of plates and glasses.
The celebrants were a mixed bunch that included residents and family members who were making their Sunday visits, and Lucy noticed Izzy Scannell and her mother, Madge, who was in a wheelchair and was getting oxygen through a tube fixed under her nose. Lucy was shocked at the elderly woman’s sudden decline; she looked much older than Lillian, the centenarian.
Felicity Corcoran, the recreation director was calling for attention, tapping a glass with a spoon. “Welcome, everyone! Do take a seat! In honor of our birthday girl, Lillian Waters, we’re going to have a short slide show depicting her amazing life.”
“What about the cake?” demanded one of the party-goers, a bald man who was seated in a wheelchair.
“There will be cake,” promised the director, “but first, the show. Lights, please.”
The lights went out and a photo of an adorable tot in old-fashioned clothes with high-button shoes and a huge bow on her head was projected onto a screen. There were a few oohs from the audience.
The next picture was Lillian’s eighth-grade graduation photo and showed a very pretty girl, on the verge of becoming a woman. That was followed by a wedding photo, the groom looking awkward and uncomfortable in a thick woolen suit with slicked down hair. Lillian looked radiant, swathed in a long lace veil and holding an enormous bouquet. Next, there were pictures of babies, a son in an army uniform, and then more babies, this time identified as grandchildren. The show ended with a group photo of Lillian’s family, who were all revealed to be present when the lights went on.
“Surprise!” they all exclaimed, engulfing Lillian in hugs and kisses.
“Now do we get the cake?” demanded the old fellow again, prompting general laughter.
“Now we have cake!” declared the recreation director.
Lucy got a nice photo of Lillian cutting the cake, and another of her surrounded by her family. Then, duty done, she approached Izzy and her mother.
“Quite a party,” she said. “Can I get you some cake?”
“Mom’s on a restricted diet,” said Izzy. “She can’t have cake.”
Lucy smiled down at the old woman, noticing that her head was drooping to one side and her hand was dangling beside the wheelchair. Grasping the old woman’s arm, she noticed the band on her wrist, which identified her as Margaret O. Scannell.
“I’m sorry to see your mother isn’t feeling better,” said Lucy, struck by the woman’s first name and middle initial. Could it be?
“I’m hoping she’ll rally,” said Izzy, whose cheerful tone belied her anxious expression. “It’s happened before.”
“I’m sure she will,” said Lucy. “Do you mind telling me what the O stands for? I can’t help being curious. I had an aunt Odette. She was my favorite aunt.”
Lucy had crossed her fingers, which meant she wasn’t really telling a fib.
“Nothing as fancy as Odette, I’m afraid,” laughed Izzy. “It’s her maiden name, O’Dwyer.”
Lucy could hardly believe her ears. After days of searching, poring through dusty old newspapers, suddenly, coincidentally, she’d stumbled upon VV’s long-lost daughter, Margaret Saxby Woods O’Dwyer Scannell. At least she thought she had. But looking at the dozing, ill old woman, she wondered if it was too late.
“Could I have a word with you?” asked Lucy, leaning close to Izzy. “Privately?”
Izzy looked startled, then agreed. “Let’s go into the hallway,” she said.
Once they were alone, Lucy began her explanation. “I don’t quite know how to tell you, but I think your mother is actually VV’s long-lost daughter, who she gave up for adoption.”
Izzy didn’t react to the news in the way Lucy expected. Her body stiffened and she became defensive, challenging Lucy. “That’s ridiculous. Whatever gave you that idea? And why are you investigating my family anyway?”
Puzzled at Izzy’s reaction, Lucy hastened to explain herself. “VV asked me to find her daughter, a child she had with her first husband, Michael Woods. She realizes she doesn’t have a lot of time left and she wants to make amends. She gave the child up for adoption, you see. The child was adopted by Michael Woods’s sister, whose married name was Hilda O’Dwyer.” Lucy paused, thinking maybe she had it wrong. “Does any of this ring a bell?” she asked. “Is Hilda O’Dwyer your grandmother?”
“There are a lot of O’Dwyers,” said Izzy.
A vague memory took form in Lucy’s head. “But they were saying something at the Easter pet parade, like she ought to be a millionaire; something like that.”
“These old people say things; they get dreams and reality all mixed up,” said Izzy. “Look, I really need to get back to her.”
Lucy nodded. “Is there any chance she could meet with VV?”
“Okay,” said Lucy, stunned by Izzy’s vehemence.
Chapter Nineteen
Lucy was still mulling over Izzy’s strange reaction on the drive home, and on impulse decided to pay a visit to Miss Tilley.
“I’m not absolutely certain, but I’m pretty sure I’ve found VV’s daughter,” she said, perching on the sofa. The windows were open and the white muslin curtains with their ball fringes were lifting slightly in the muggy breeze; a copper lustre vase filled with orange, red, and yellow zinnias had pride of place in the center of the mantel.
Miss Tilley listened intently, rubbing the swollen arthritic knuckles on one knobby hand with the other, as Lucy explained how she may have stumbled upon the daughter VV gave up for adoption some seventy years before. Mindful of her promise to Izzy, she was careful not to reveal Margaret’s identity.
“And you say she’s living right here in town?” asked Miss Tilley.
“Yes. In fact, she has a bit of a reputation as the child of a millionaire.”
Miss Tilley’s expression was skeptical. “But she’s never approached VV?”
“Maybe her folks never told her exactly who her mother was,” said Lucy. “They might have been reluctant to do that, especially since VV spent at least part of the year right here in town.” She paused, glancing around the cozy room, with its white plastered walls, pine woodwork, and antique furniture. “It might even have been part of the adoption agreement. Remember, adoption was much different back then. People didn’t talk about it and adopted children were not encouraged to know their birth parents. The records were sealed.”
“But they told her that her mother was a millionaire?”
“Maybe she overheard her parents talking. Her mother might have been gossiping to a friend or relation. Maybe it was just a bit of family lore, presented as a tall tale . . .”
Miss Tilley nodded slowly. “Is there any chance of a meeting?”
“The daughter says no. Her mother’s health is very poor.”
“I don’t understand. Wouldn’t you think they’d make an effort, considering all that money?”
“Frankly, I’m flummoxed. I don’t understand it at all.” Lucy didn’t say it, but she couldn’t figure out why Izzy didn’t make her identity known to VV, especially since she was working for the millionaire. Why not arrange a happy family reunion? Especially if it meant a likely bequest in VV’s will?
“It may be that she’s angry and doesn’t want to give VV the satisfaction of apologizing.”
Lucy nodded, amazed once again at her old friend’s perception. “I can see that. Money can’t buy affection, or even forgiveness.”
Miss Tilley folded her hands in her lap and nodded. “Well, there it is. You can’t get everything you want, even if you’re a millionaire. VV didn’t behave very well, if you ask me. I can’t imagine why she married this Woods fellow if she was only going to divorce him a month or two later . . .”
“I imagine she was pregnant,” said Lucy. “That’s probably why they got married.”
Miss Tilley’s jaw dropped. “Of course!”
“It must have seemed a good solution at the time. She gave birth as a respectable married woman, arranged for the child to be adopted by her husband’s family, got divorced, and went on her merry way. Problem solved.”
“She made a mockery of the marriage ceremony—she never meant the promises she made. I believe it goes something like to love, honor, and cherish ’til death do us part.” Miss Tilley’s expression hardened. “I’ve known VV for most of my life, and I’ve always accepted the fact that she’s self-centered, but I never dreamed she would have done anything like this.”
“But perhaps this is why she’s always been so generous to folks in town. Perhaps she was making up for what she did. Maybe she gave gifts to all the children to make amends for abandoning her own infant.”
Miss Tilley scowled. “This is so unlike you, Lucy,” she said, in a disapproving tone. “When did you start thinking well of other people’s motives?”
Lucy couldn’t help laughing, and she was still chuckling to herself when she got in the car and headed for home. What a waste of time, she thought ruefully. She’d been carried away by a sentimental notion and had spent much too much time on research that she couldn’t even use for a story. She was hoping her efforts would lead to a warm and fuzzy family reunion, but instead she’d encountered resentment and anger.
She was just turning into her driveway, where Libby the lab was wagging her tail in greeting, when her cell phone rang, so she remained in the car to take the call. Much to her surprise, it was Fran Martino, the private detective, calling from New York.
“I just wanted to give you a heads-up,” she said. “Juliette’s in the hospital.”
“What happened?” Libby was at the car door, smiling and wiggling in ecstasy.
“She was attacked in the parking garage of her apartment. The super found her this morning, curled up in the back seat of her car, barely alive. She’d apparently crawled there after she was mugged; her purse was gone, and she’d been knocked on the head.” Fran paused. “They think she was there for some time, maybe since Friday. That was the last time the super checked the garage. He had Saturday off. He said that if Juliette wasn’t off on some assignment she usually left town on Friday afternoons. She has a place in Dutchess County where she likes to spend weekends.”
“That’s terrible,” said Lucy, noticing that Libby was losing interest in the greeting business. “Nobody noticed her?”
“It’s a small building, very upscale. At any given time, only a handful of tenants are actually in residence, and hardly anybody’s there on the weekends.”
“Is she going to be all right?” Libby was rooting around in the day lilies.
“They don’t know.” Fran sighed. “Time will tell, that’s what the doctors say.”
“All we can do is hope for the best,” said Lucy, watching as Libby unearthed a very dirty tennis ball.
“I’m doing more than that,” declared Fran. “I’m putting twenty-four-hour protection in place.”
“You don’t think it was a mugging? You think someone tried to kill her?” Libby was back, ball in mouth, tail wagging.
“Let’s just say I’d rather err on the side of caution. Her mother and father were murdered, maybe she’s next in line. Maybe somebody wants to wipe out the whole family.”
Libby was growing impatient, standing on her hind legs, with her face in the open car window. Enough with the phone, she seemed to be saying. Let’s play ball!
Lucy’s mind was divided, trying to handle the dog at the same time she was listening to Fran. She didn’t want the dog to scratch the door so she got out and threw the ball. “But Vicky and Henry are in jail . . .”
“Right. Which means somebody else has it in for Juliette. That’s why I’m calling. I want you to keep an eye out, let me know if you notice anything suspicious.”
Libby was back with the ball; she could play this game for hours. “I will,” promised Lucy, hurling the ball as far as she could throw it.
The dog hightailed across the lawn and Lucy ran up the porch steps, escaping into the house just as the dog bounded back with the ball. Lucy closed the door firmly and Libby settled down on the mat, resting her chin on the ball.
Lucy dropped her phone into her bag and set it down on the table, then went into the powder room to pee. She was washing her hands, staring at her face in the mirror over the sink, thinking about VV’s family tree, which was dropping leaves faster than a silverleaf poplar in August. Vicky was most certainly out of the will by now, which meant Juliette was probably VV’s single heir. If Juliette died before VV, and if Izzy could establi
sh her mother as VV’s daughter, she might have a legitimate claim on VV’s fortune. In fact, she thought, recalling something Bob Goodman had said, she might even think she would automatically inherit, though that was not necessarily the case.
Returning to the kitchen, Lucy opened a bag of potato chips and ate one, then poured herself a glass of white wine. Sitting at the table, she sipped and nibbled and thought about Izzy’s reaction when she had suggested her mother was VV’s daughter. Was it feigned? Did Izzy know all along? Had she been systematically wiping out VV’s heirs in hopes of inheriting the entire Van Vorst fortune?
So much for Miss Tilley’s suggestion that she was starting to think well of people’s motives, thought Lucy, draining her glass. Here she was practically accusing a hardworking gardener and devoted daughter of the most cold-blooded scheme! It was preposterous, and besides, it was highly doubtful that Izzy would leave Tinker’s Cove and travel to New York when her mother’s health was failing and she might die at any moment.
Nevertheless, Lucy couldn’t quite rid herself of that unsettling suspicion—it lingered through the next few days and seemed to follow her like a gray cloud, keeping her from enjoying the beautiful sunny days that arrived, one after another, making this the sunniest and warmest July on record. The girls spent every spare minute at the beach, Bill watered the garden every evening, and Lucy pored through her cookbooks looking for new ways to serve salad for supper.
She was just coming out of the IGA on Thursday afternoon with a bag full of the anchovies, eggs, olives, and tuna she needed for salade niçoise—she’d had a bumper crop of green beans in her garden as well as some late shade-grown lettuce and a few Early Girl tomatoes—when she bumped into Barney. He was out of uniform, but perspiring heavily in a polo shirt and shorts.
“Hi, Lucy,” he said, pulling an enormous white handkerchief out of his pocket and mopping his forehead. “Some weather we’re having.”
“I wish it would rain,” grumbled Lucy. “We need a good soaker.”