~
When she got back to her own house, Olympia made coffee and dragged Jim out onto her little deck where they could sit in the fresh air. Speaking in a low voice so as not to be overheard, she recounted everything that had happened that morning. To that she added her rapidly growing concerns about the house and the woman next door and the emerging and uncomfortable parallels to the Parker situation. When she finally ran out of steam and information, Jim suggested that she go and have a talk with Dory and her daughter and see if she could determine exactly how much pressure William Bateson was putting on Dory to sell and exactly what terms he was proposing.
“You might also check into Bateson’s background and see what you can find out about him. Nowadays, it’s easier and easier to find things like that on line.”
Olympia shook her head. “I’m still at the bottom of the learning curve on that stuff, Jim. Remember, you’re looking at someone who just learned how to answer her cell phone before it stops ringing. I can do e-mail, and I can write sermons on the computer, but beyond that it’s still a struggle. I’m getting there, but …”
“OK, let me do that. Besides, here in New England the fact that I’m a priest opens some doors and loosens some tongues that a lay person might not be able to manage.”
Olympia shot him a menacing look.
“Look, girlfriend, don’t go all feminist indignant on me. The truth is, like it or not, some people are still getting used to the idea of women clergy. You don’t even wear a collar, so how would anyone know to give you special preference or attention?”
“Sometimes I do, wear a collar, that is.”
Jim shook his head. “You’re off the point, Olympia. Look, I’ll do some computer research, and you find out what you can on foot, so to speak. Start with Mrs. West and her daughter. When I get back to Boston, I’ll nose around the Boston police files and do a computer search on real estate scams and the elderly. It’s entirely possible I might find something useful.”
“Meanwhile, what about Mrs. Parker?”
“Why don’t you call some of the local clergy and ask if they’ve run into anything like this in their churches? Clergy usually have a pretty effective underground network, and with this place being so small, they probably know some of the people involved.”
“Now that you mention it, there’s an Island Clergy Association meeting sometime this week. Deb, the church administrator, left me a note about it in my mailbox. But I don’t really know any of them well enough to just call out of the blue and ask about a possible murder in one of their churches. See what I mean?”
Jim nodded. “OK, maybe not now, but if you get the chance. Meanwhile,” he shut his eyes and wiggled his fingers in front of Olympia’s eyes, “I am a fortune teller. You are going on a journey. You are sitting at a table. I see wine glasses.”
Olympia laughed. “I guess you’re hungry? All this amateur sleuthing makes me hungry, too.”
“Anything makes you hungry, Olympia. What are you offering?”
“That you take me out to lunch at a restaurant I couldn’t otherwise afford.”
“Didn’t I hear that the island was dry?
“Edgartown and Oak Bluffs are wet, and both towns have some very nice restaurants. I’ll drive.”
“You know how to get there?”
Olympia harrumphed. “More important than knowing how to get there, Jim, I know which ones have parking. It’s high season, and parking places are rare commodities.” She made a face. “It’s one of the downsides of the place they don’t mention in the brochures. Just give me a minute to get my things.”
Olympia checked the cats’ food and water, ran a wet wash cloth over her face and neck, and announced she was ready.
“By the way, Jim. In all this kerfuffle over real estate deals and misdeals, house floods and shady characters, I haven’t told you about the meeting with my daughter. But I’ll save it for when I have the glass of elegant wine you are going to choose for me.”
It was Jim’s turn to make a face, but it was a fond smile in Olympia’s direction.
“Lead the way, Reverend Doctor Brown.”
Twenty-Three
June 19, 1861
I have a whole new respect for growing things these days. Both my garden and my son are flourishing, and between the two my days at home are most agreeably full. And once the townsfolk stopped wagging their heads and their tongues, many of the women came forth to offer advice and to admire little Jonathan. Already he is turning himself over and reaching for Sammy, the little orange tiger cat that will not leave his side. And yet despite all this great abundance, my heart is ever heavy with my secret. This darling child will never know the man who fathered him—nor I the fleeting love we only chanced upon. Alas, I cannot dwell upon such sorrowing. I’m told it will sour my milk.
But son and cat and garden, fulfilling as they be, will not be enough for me ere long. Before his birth I wanted to study for the ministry. That door is likely closed to me, at least for now … but if not that, then what? My mind is restless and I long for more. It has ever been thus. My father used to say I should have been born a man. It is believed by many that women are only fit for a quiet domestic life inside the home. I repeat, I am restless and I long for more, and one day, I will find a way.
More anon, LFW
While Olympia and Jim were considering where to have their pricey lunch, Frederick was taking a break from number three on the list of house-tasks that he and Olympia had written out before she left for Martha’s Vineyard. This called for a beer. It was well after midday, and as far as he was concerned, in keeping with tradition, the English can drink any time. Frederick did draw the line at beer with cornflakes.
Today’s task was replacing a loose tread on the narrow twisting staircase that led from the great room in the two-hundred-plus year antique house up to the second floor. The old tread lay on the kitchen table in front of him, and he was examining it as he savored his cold beer. The blanket of humidity that lay over the island where Olympia was currently living had extended itself over the water and up the coast to Brookfield. Frederick was trying to alleviate his discomfort with the contents of the can in his hand. He didn’t like beer in cans. Beer belonged in glasses, and it was supposed to be room temperature; but he was in the States now, and mercifully, no one in the homeland of his dear Queen could see how far he had fallen.
He was hot, he was tired, and he was lonely. Not a good combination for concentration, but not even a hot, tired, lonely Englishman could fail to see the way an old but well-constructed stair tread should look and compare it to the stair tread that had come loose in Olympia’s landlady’s house. There was no doubt in his mind now that someone had worked it loose. And that someone is on the island with my Olympia!
“My Olympia?” he said aloud to the table before him and then slapped the table top with his fist for emphasis. He had brought his mother’s engagement ring along with him to offer her as a token of his affection and, more specifically, as an invitation to become his wife. But every time he got even close to asking, she would switch gears and dodge the subject. That was about to change starting right now.
Frederick swallowed the last of his beer, tossed the can in the direction of the recycling box, and got up from where he was sitting. Despite his concerns and his desire for haste, he would delay long enough to have a shower and make himself a bit more presentable. Then he would put the box containing the ring in his pocket, climb into Olympia’s van, and at what passed for breakneck speed, get himself to the ferry terminal at Woods Hole.
~
In Somerville Laura Wilstrom was sitting in a rocking chair, looking out the second floor window at the tree-lined street below. She was thinking about her two mothers. There was the one who had raised her and loved her enough to encourage her to try and locate her birth mother. And there was that other mother, the one she had planned to despise for abandoning her at birth, Olympia Brown, whom she had just met. She didn’t despise her anymore an
d given time, she might even grow to like her, really like her. At first she had been nervous, but that was understandable, and once they both relaxed Olympia seemed nice enough. Laura was of two minds. With respect to the growing life within her, she needed to know her genetic heritage, and only one person could tell her this. But can a daughter be loyal to two mothers? Can, or should, I try? And if I do, will I run the risk of hurting them both?
There was no question in her mind that she would see Olympia again. She wanted to know more about her as a person, as another woman really, and know how she lived her life from the time she’d been born until now. Too, she needed to know more about her father. I know I’m half Jewish, and he came from Oregon, and he went to Northeastern. That’s a start. But would there ever be any more than that?
At least Olympia had taken the first step in reconnecting with her. In their short time together Laura had already noted some similarities of gesture and speech inflection. So the real questions were, when would she see Olympia Brown again, and how much of what happened after that would or should she share with the mother who had raised her? Her curiosity about her birth mother was enormous, but her loyalty to her adoptive mother was even greater than that.
The children on the sidewalk below were playing jump rope and chanting the same sing-songs she had when she was a little girl, when life at home was cornflakes in the morning and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch, and homework had to be done before she could go out to play. Laura rested her two hands on her belly. As if on cue, the baby moved within her. She pressed her hands against the movement, and as she did, she wondered what kind of a world this child would come into. Motherhood and its incipient reality was beginning to take on a whole new dimension for Laura, Baby Girl (Faith) Brown, Wilstrom.
~
In his frantic determination not to miss the boat, Frederick took a running leap and made it over the two feet of water and onto the freight deck of the ferry as it began to pull out of the slip. He skidded to a stop to the cheers and applause of the crew and did his best to appear unfazed by brushing a bit of dust off the cuff of his shirt and checking his watch. He had left Olympia’s car in the parking lot and taken the shuttle bus along with several vacationers who had boarded only moments before in peace and stately tranquility; but Frederick was ‘bursting for a pee,’ as he would later say, and damn near missed the boat because of the detour.
When he stopped hyperventilating and had collected what dignity he could salvage, he walked up the stairs to the snack bar on the top deck and ordered a cup of tea. No matter what the weather, the latest political scandal or the state of the world economy, “a nice cup of tea” is the Englishman’s cure for everything from hemorrhoids to a broken heart. As he sat sipping the steaming liquid he thought about how and where he would corner Olympia to press his suit and give her the ring he’d prudently buttoned into his shirt pocket. Then he laughed at the ridiculous incongruity of it all. The last thing his darling Olympia would likely ever do was press a suit, his or anyone else’s, and Frederick, wise fool that he was, already knew better than ever to suggest it.
~
William Bateson circled the block a second time to make sure Olympia’s car was nowhere in sight before parking a block away and approaching Dory’s empty house through the back yard of the house next door. He let himself in through the kitchen door and wrinkled his nose. The fetid smell of dampness and mold, enhanced by the overpowering humidity, was just what the doctor ordered. The worse it looked and smelled, the better it was for making it look like a hopeless insurance case. He looked around the kitchen, remembering the day of the flood, and allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. It was all working out so well. All he had to do now was to wait until the daughter got the hell out of there, and they were home free. Still, it never hurt to keep up the pressure.
~
Dory West and her daughter Jessica were sitting with Julia Scott-Norton in the comfortable living room of Julia’s West Chop home. The three were discussing the pros and cons of restoring Dory’s house as opposed to declaring it a loss and moving Dory to a more manageable place, possibly nearer her daughter. Dory was adamant in wanting to restore the house and get back into it as soon as possible, while Julia was tactfully trying to point out the benefits of considering the possibilities of a smaller and more manageable home on Martha’s Vineyard—or maybe even an independent living situation nearer her daughter.
Jessica, strategically seated between the two, was trying to help her mother see the advantages of all her options, but the thrust of her chin and the fact that she was leaning back in the wicker rocker with both her arms and her ankles crossed made it obvious that she was having none of it. Dory wanted one thing only and that was to go back home.
Julia tried a different tack.
“Dory, if you are determined to go back to your house, let’s look at exactly what that’s going to involve. You know you can stay here for as long as you want. I’ve got the room, and I truly enjoy your company; but it does mean that you will be here for at least four to six months. We simply cannot get a carpenter to do anything in the high season. You’ve lived here long enough to know that. So it will likely be after Christmas when you get moved back in, and that’s being optimistic.”
“You could come and stay with me for some of that time,” offered Jessica, “but I’m away on tour a lot, so you’d be alone. So maybe that’s not such a good idea.”
Dory shook her head and turned toward Julia. “I don’t know anyone in California. This is home, and this is where I belong.” She uncrossed her arms and looked at Jessica. “If I could stay here for the summer, come September I can get a winter rental within walking distance of the house. That way, I’ll be on my own and still be able to supervise the repairs.”
Jessica rolled her eyes and shook her head. “OK, Mum, but let’s not make any decisions until we get the final figures from the insurance adjuster. Then maybe we can get someone to come and look at the place and give us a rough estimate of what is going to be needed and how long it’s going to take. I’d feel a whole lot better with some numbers and a time line before we go any further.”
Dory re-crossed her arms. “Your father always said, ‘there’s nothing been broke that can’t be fixed.’ Well, girl, my house is broke, but I’m going to get it fixed, and that’s that.”
Julia, in her compassionate wisdom, moved into the impasse. “Dory, you just gave us the first plan of action. You’ll stay with me for the summer, and we’ll look into a winter rental in September. That will buy us some time to make the right decision, which I do believe we need more than anything else. Isn’t that so, Jessica?”
Both Jessica and Dory nodded.
“There,” said Julia, getting up off the sofa and stepping over the ever-present dog. “With the business at hand out of the way, I think we are in need of food and drink. Would anyone like a cup of tea?”
“I think I’d like a small glass of sherry,” said Dory, uncrossing her arms and her ankles and reaching down to pat the dog.
“I’d like a large sherry,” said Jessica, “and no ice.”
~
William Bateson, Alden Francis, Mike Barnes, and Mary Beth Lessing, were seated around a table in the back office of Gingerbread Men Associates. Despite the best efforts of the window AC unit, the heat and debilitating humidity were affecting the patience and tempers of all present. William Bateson was speaking.
“I really thought the daughter was going to be the problem, but I’m getting the impression that she wants the old lady to sell. It’s the minister that’s turning out to be the sticking point. If we can get her to butt out, I think we’re home free.”
Mary Beth was fanning herself with a real estate magazine. “And how do you propose we accomplish that little detail? From what you’ve said, she’s pretty tenacious.”
“We can’t afford to take any more foolish chances,” said Al.
Bateson fired a dark look across the table.
�
��We’re going to wait her out. How risky is that? She’s only here for a couple more weeks, and then she’s gone. Our trusty insurance adjuster here will drag his feet and cook the books while he’s at it. Once the daughter goes back to wherever she goes back to, dear little Dory is ours for the plucking.”
“We may not have that much time. Mary Parker’s son Dan left me a message on my answering machine, says he has some questions about his mother’s estate. Of course, I didn’t return the call, but it’s getting a little tight even for me.”
“The West package is a big one,” said Barnes. “Who here wants to pass on a deal worth between two and three million dollars when all we have to do is wait?”
“And if minister-lady doesn’t go away?”
William Bateson ran a damp finger around the inside of his collar and looked sideways at the doubtful Al Francis.
“She’ll go,” he said.
~
Olympia turned the old Volvo into the parking lot behind the Harborview Hotel in Edgartown and, on top of that, managed to find a shady spot. The hotel restaurant was a favorite of many of her parishioners, and she was looking forward to trying it herself. They would have a nice meal, enjoy a fantastic view, and say what they needed to say without being overheard. After ordering a glass of expensive wine each, plus a gourmet salad with roasted vegetables and goat cheese for Olympia and a roast beef panini with horseradish cream for Jim, Olympia began with her most pressing story. She told him about Dory and the unclear questions surrounding the flood, the suspiciously loose stair tread, and the pressure on Dory to sell the house. Then she went over the questions surrounding the death of Dan Parker’s mother and the suspicious parallels between that situation and what was happening with her landlady. She saw no need to tell him about Jack Winter’s cancer but did speak briefly about the meeting with her own daughter. These last two were concerns of hers but nothing that Jim could affect.
A Despicable Mission (Olympia Brown Mysteries) Page 14