by Liz Bradbury
Judith and Cora had missed the neighborhood meeting at Amanda’s, so first I filled them in on what had happened.
“Wouldn’t the descendants of the departed be unlikely to support cementing up their family crypts? Was there anyone who supported Gabriel Carbondale’s plan?” asked Judith.
Jessie grunted. Judith looked from her to Farrel. Farrel shrugged. “Jessie doesn’t like Gabe.”
“He has that lovely big dog,” said Judith and Amanda, nearly in unison.
“We were friends with Suzanne and when she left Gabe we tried to be supportive to him, but... well...” Farrel trailed off.
Jessie grunted again.
“Why did Suzanne Carbondale leave?” asked Amanda.
“Because Gabriel Carbondale is an arrogant jerk,” said Jessie flatly.
“Such strong language, dahling!” said Cora with surprise. “You know it takes two people to end a relationship, just like it takes two people to start one. But tell about the ghosts.”
“We heard a noise and found toppled headstones. The vandals who pushed them over must have run. Then we saw The Lost Bride in a shaft of moonlight. She was ghostly. We doubled back to the entrance but didn’t see anybody. I’ll go back in the daylight to look around.”
“For clues?” asked Kathryn, partly teasing. “The Lost Bride sounds like it must have a romantic Victorian story,” said Kathryn as she passed a bowl of homemade apple sauce.
“The story of The Lost Bride is indeed quite a romantic one, Kathryn,” said Amanda in a professorial voice. “Before Judith retired, she and I taught a course on the history of Washington Mews Cemetery. A trifle late in the 19th century for me, but the Victorian memorials were right up Judith’s street. You know the Carbondales wrote a book on Fenchester history that covered all the local figures. You may have encountered it: Fenchester — A History of Love, Loss, and Generosity from the Civil War to the Roaring Twenties, by Gabriel and Suzanne Carbondale? Maggie, you and Kathryn really must read it.”
Jessie grunted and got up to clear some of the dishes. She muttered, “Suzanne wrote the book.”
“We have a copy of it here; you can borrow it,” said Farrel.
“Evangeline Lavender Fen was the great-great-niece of Elias Fen, for whom Fenchester is named. She was also a direct descendent of the founder of Irwin College, Walter Irwin, and the College’s first President, James Clymer. All these old families had close ties,” Amanda explained.
“Evangeline was betrothed to General Merganser Hunterdon. He was a decorated Civil War hero. Hunterdon was a coarse, self-made man who may have been the wealthiest in the State. He was a ruthless capitalist, yet he ultimately balanced his wicked ways by becoming a generous philanthropist.”
“Evangeline Lavender?” I said. “This may sound silly but, I think I smelled lavender in the cemetery when I saw The Lost Bride.”
“Not silly at all, Maggie. I believe General Hunterdon had lavender planted all over the Mews, and even the dried-out winter plants have a noticeable fragrance when disturbed,” said Amanda. “Evangeline was quite educated for a woman of her time. She studied art at Irwin College. She traveled to Europe and lived in Rome in the late 1860s and early ’70s, but she returned to Fenchester and moved into her mother’s home,” said Amanda.
“Her engagement to Hunterdon was perhaps a strategic move, don’t you think, Amanda?” said Judith taking up the yarn. “You see, her father died fairly young and her mother was quite destitute, having lost their money in the Panic of 1873, when major banks collapsed and thousands of businesses failed. There were also two younger sisters who would not have been aptly described as comely, and a young brother. Really quite like a Jane Austen plot. Evangeline’s only hope was a good match.”
Amanda agreed. “It’s all in the Carbondales’ book. As a matter of fact, Evangeline and her family lived in the house Gabriel rents, and I think Suzanne Carbondale was distantly related to Evangeline, though the house belongs to the college now. It’s just two doors south of my house. Those were tradesmen’s tiny homes overlooking the Mews stables in the 1860s. Not quite suited for Fen family lineage, but it was all they could afford. The smell of the... uh... horses... must have been very unpleasant.”
“Luckily,” went on Judith, “Evangeline was quite beautiful, though in her late twenties. There are several daguerreotypes of her in the Fenchester Historical Collection. One of them is reproduced in the Carbondales’ book, I believe.”
“The photographs of General Merganser Hunterdon are not so flattering. Rather an unfortunate-looking man,” said Amanda.
“Yes, quite,” said Judith.
“Maybe that’s why they named him after a duck,” said Jessie quietly.
Judith continued, “They were engaged in the 1870s for quite a few years. But... she died.”
“How sad,” said Kathryn. “What happened?”
“She was riding her horse in the foothills and fell.”
“They found Evangeline’s body in a ravine. General Hunterdon was distraught. How did you say it in the lecture, Judith? He became a professional mourner?”
“Merganser Hunterdon donated a great deal of his money to community projects. He also committed a significant part of his fortune to building monuments in Evangeline’s honor. They were commissioned to an important sculptor of the day—surprisingly a woman, Victoria Willomere Snow. She came to Fenchester just a few years before Evangeline died to do a commission for the College.”
“The Lost Bride sculpture and many other commissioned pieces were paid for by General Hunterdon at a retainer rate of twenty dollars a day for life. Snow created five Evangeline works for the cemetery alone. She lived into her nineties in Fenchester and so did Hunterdon. The commission turned out to be a record sum,” said Judith. “Very little is known about Victoria Snow other than the quality of her work, because she was quite reclusive. Not unlike Emily Dickenson.”
I’d avidly studied women sculptors of the 19th century when I was in college. Victoria Willomere Snow was a favorite. She had sometimes used found objects in her sculpture, which was considered very avant-garde for the day. She’d studied in Rome with Harriet Hosmer and was probably part of Charlotte Cushman’s circle. Cushman was a famous actor who was notorious for her Lesbian affairs, but little was known about Victoria Snow’s personal life.
Amanda was saying, “As time went on, General Hunterdon became a bit of a roué; dueling, womanizing, although his grief for Evangeline was apparently genuine. Hunterdon eventually ran for State Senate, but after he won the primary he withdrew, insisting that his grief for Evangeline kept him from going on. He lived austerely because his money all went to civic projects—bridges, parks, the original library downtown, which is now the art museum. He had the Mews park designed and built as a gift to the city. His money set up some foundations to support widows and orphans. It all was dedicated to Evangeline. He established a scholarship fund for women at Irwin.”
“You mean the Fen Scholarships? Those are named for Evangeline Fen?” asked Kathryn.
Amanda nodded. “Yes, I was granted some money from the fund when I was a young professor, to finish my doctorate. Of course that was years ago. I’ve heard the fund is rather low now.”
Kathryn mused, “And there are five statues of Evangeline in the cemetery. That’s interesting.”
“I think it’s about to get more interesting,” said Farrel. “Tell everyone about our buys today, Kathryn.”
“Well, Farrel was buying Cora’s dog in a booth set up in the field behind the main antique mall. I’m sure that field is packed with booths in the summer, but it was frigid tundra out there today. Only a few people bothered to set up,” Kathryn said, as she lifted a canvas bag from the floor and reached inside.
She put several objects wrapped in paper on the table. Kathryn pushed back the wrapping on the largest object, revealing a lyrical clay figure of a woman reclining on cushions with her hair swirling around her shoulders. The area between her legs was covered, but full breasts and the p
erfect angle of hip and thigh were fully exposed.
“Well, I would have bought that! May I see it?” I asked.
Kathryn handed it over as Farrel unwrapped a similar figure she had bought and set it on the table.
I carefully turned the sculpture over in my hands until I spied a small stylized VWS within an impressed snowflake design. “It’s by Victoria Willomere Snow; here’s her mark,” I said in a hushed voice.
“Really? There’s a signature? I didn’t even see it. I just recognized the other pieces and hoped,” said Kathryn.
“Either it’s a Snow or a very good fake,” said Farrel frankly. “Show them the others.”
Kathryn unwrapped ten small ceramic faces each decorated with sea shells. “I knew she perfected a mold process that helped her make faces like this. I’d never seen any with shell decoration before, though,” said Kathryn.
“I’ve seen some of her found object faces. But I’ve never seen any full figure nudes, and believe me I would have remembered. But I’ve seen this woman before,” I said looking at the face. And very recently.
Farrel moved around the table staring at the statues.
I said, “You see it, don’t you?”
“Yes. Yes, it’s Evangeline Fen,” said Farrel. “The same face as The Lost Bride.”
Judith Levi asked, “Did the two women even know each other? Perhaps Victoria Snow studied death masks to create these accurate features?”
Ew, I thought. I’d seen dead bodies when I was on the Fenchester Police Force, but there was something about making a mold of a dead person’s face that was not only divorced from art but downright creepy.
“We don’t even know whether they’re really by Snow,” I said.
“Perhaps you should take them to the Fenchester Museum tomorrow,” said Amanda. “The woman who came to the meeting last night is cataloging the museum’s holdings, including an important collection of Victoria Willomere Snow’s work. Perhaps she could authenticate these.”
“Yes, Amanda, we should do that. Maggie, shall we see the statue of The Lost Bride in the cemetery after brunch?” said Kathryn with an aesthetic urgency that shone in her steel-blue eyes.
“Sure, I want to see The Lost Bride again in the daylight. Besides, it’ll give me a chance to look for clues.”
Kathryn’s smile was so erotically charged, I barely noticed what anyone was saying until Jessie brought a luscious black raspberry compote to the table and handed out small plates.
Conversation quieted until Cora Martin said, “Well this isn’t nearly as exciting as Kathryn’s luck at the market, but dahlings, I went into the city for an auction at Sotheby’s.”
“Sotheby’s? The prices must have been terrifically high! Did you purchase anything?” asked Amanda, who was unaware of Cora’s frequent dealings with the international auction house.
Cora winked and said, “I was selling, dahling, and I did very well! But guess who I saw in the subway. I always take the subway. I’m a New Yorker originally.”
Farrel snorted faintly because Cora’s New York accent was thick enough to stop a rhino.
Judith said, “Yes, dear, we know that,” without a hint of sarcasm.
“Well, I got off the Lex and transferred to the Shuttle. And I saw that actress... married to that Kevin, who is always at sixty degrees?”
Judith and Amanda both looked blank.
Farrel leaned over to explain who we were talking about as Jessie rushed back to the table.
“Did you talk to her?” Jessie asked in an animated voice.
“Well, as a matter of fact...” Cora paused for effect, “she got up and gave me her seat. Ha! It’s good to be old!”
So the Sunday morning game of Brush With Fame was afoot.
“The theme this time is Transportation,” said Farrel.
To herald the beginning of the game, twin black cats appeared in the dining room doorway. Griswold and Wagner wove their way around all our ankles.
Griswold said, “Merf.”
Wagner said, “Ow.”
We moved to more comfortable chairs in the living room and I added wood to the fire. Jessie took out her knitting and Griswold and Wagner draped their lithe black bodies over her feet. They began to snore like people. Kathryn sat on the couch and patted the place next to her for me.
We went around the room and each woman told a Brush With Fame story. The older women spun the best yarns because they’d had longer to gather these chance encounters. Farrel had invented this game to entice her dear friend Judith to tell some of her best stories.
Judith began with, “Well, I have to tell you something later, Farrel. Remind me.”
“What?” asked Farrel.
“Later, dear. It’s my turn for a story now. Let me see... Oh yes, did I ever tell you about the writer I met on the ship coming back from France just after I was in college?” Judith unfolded a story about meeting a young Truman Capote just before he wrote Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
He’d asked her to explain the New York bus and subway system. She ended with, “But when we finally got off the ship, I saw him simply hailing a cab. I suppose it had all been too much for him.”
When she was finished, I saw Farrel lean over to her, and they had a short conversation the rest of us couldn’t hear. Farrel exclaimed, “Judith!” at one point, then shook her head in dismay.
This happened as Amanda recounted a chance encounter on a waterbus with a legendary movie star whom everyone in the world knew. “I was a graduate student at Accademia di Belle Arti of Venice,” she said, “and he decided I should go out to dinner with him.” I took a moment to consider that in her youth Amanda was probably quite a babe and that she was censoring that part of the story.
I told a story about giving a ticket to a well-known senator, when I’d been on highway patrol.
Jessie passed; she often did after she’d given us a big brunch.
Kathryn told about sitting next to a recently knighted English pop star on a red-eye from LA. “He didn’t wake during the entire flight,” she laughed. “I considered taking a picture of us together with my phone... What does your sister Sara call those photos, Maggie? A monkey arm? But I didn’t have the nerve.”
“I have a subway story!” said Farrel, who had recovered from the shock of Judith’s earlier tussle with criminals. “Years ago I was taking a course at the New York Glass Studio and staying with a friend uptown. One day I got on the subway; the car was pretty empty, so I sat down. At the next stop, Larry Storch and a blonde woman got on. Larry Storch, the actor. He was on that 1960s show F-Troop. It reruns on TVland now and then, an odd little slapstick sitcom about an army fort in Indian Territory just after the Civil War?”
“White hat?” I said.
“Yes!” Farrel laughed. “That’s right! He did a lot of work; movies, cartoon voices. When I saw him on the train, he was doing a play on Broadway...”
“He was the voice of Phineas J. Whoopee on Tennessee Tuxedo!” I added.
“I can’t believe you know that,” said Kathryn incredulously.
“I pride myself on my ability to retain useless knowledge.”
“You and Farrel should start a club,” said Jessie.
“Wait, there’s more,” Farrel said. “Larry Storch and his lady friend sat down and we started to move. Minutes later a staggering drunk pushed his way in from the previous car.”
“The drunk began shuffling up to people and yelling that the Bible said they were whores or sinners or whatever. He staggered over to Larry Storch and his girlfriend and shouted they were fornicating slaves of the devil.
“Suddenly the door between the cars burst open again and a big man in a bright Hawaiian shirt carrying a steel drum made his way to the center of the car. He dropped a coffee can on the floor that was already filled with folding money and used his mallets to wail out a beautiful and loud ringing melody.
“The music drowned out the Bible spouter, who staggered back into a seat and stared at the steel drummer angr
ily. Everyone in the car was so relieved they focused on the drummer with pure admiration. The drunk man finally hauled himself to his feet and swayed through the doors toward the front of the train.”
“What happened then?” asked Amanda thoughtfully.
“Well, we all tossed money into the drummer’s can. I did, Larry Storch did... everybody. After a few minutes, the steel drummer stopped playing and went into the next car. He was a musical hero!”
Chapter 3
It was nearly noon by the time we’d said our goodbyes. Farrel lent me their copy of the Carbondales’ local history book and I put it in my bag. Kathryn carried it as I lifted the bag of sculpture onto my other shoulder, and we made our way to the door.
Before we left, Amanda took me aside and said, “I have a feeling that I cannot explain that you should read Suzanne and Gabriel Carbondale’s book as soon as possible, Maggie.” I said I would and made a mental note to do so in the next day or two.
Outside Kathryn said, “You should have dinner with Farrel and Jessie.”
“I’m full of brunch! I won’t be able to fight crime if I can’t fit into my superhero costume. And tonight I’ll be busy missing you.”
“It does my ego a great deal of good to see you crestfallen about not spending the rest of the day together.” She faced me. “I know we haven’t... uh... mmm... since we got back from the beach. And I’m aching to be with you, but,” her voice dropped an octave, “I swear I’ll make it up to you.”
This erotic promise stirred my desire.
“How?” I asked provocatively.
“Use your imagination,” she said, giving me one of those looks that could melt the snow off the roof.
“Do you guarantee satisfaction?” I was about to suggest we go straight back to the king-sized bed in the loft but we both heard her phone playing Beethoven.
“That’s a department ring; maybe the retreat is canceled.” She pulled her cell from her bag. “Yes, I know, Bolton... I hope it’s a good idea; this retreat has become quite a pain in the... OK, I’ll see you there.”
“One of my fellow department members who was cryptically telling me that he had some kind of plan,” she said to me.