I quickly glanced about. Ellie laughed.
“There's no one here. But my husband's on his way, so you can't stay long. How was your weekend?”
“Lonely.”
“Oh, brother!” she rolled her eyes. “Do you need any more information on the Conleys, sir?”
“Hah hah. No, Ms. Smarty-Pants, I don't. I may have information for you. You'll never guess what I've been doing.”
“What?”
“Reading an old lady's diary. From 1898 to 1903, so far.”
“Quick, someone fetch him a Harris tweed and a plaid bow tie! Whose?”
“Who do you think? Elizabeth Conley Burroughs. Fascinating stuff, too. Oh, and I've seen family photos and the original drawings for her rose garden.”
“Is that so? Where did you get it all?”
“Her son's executor, the guy who placed the online obituary. He came to Sweeney County to take care of legal details pertaining to the land trust. Nice guy. Retired Army Ranger.”
“Well, if I had a medal to give you for research rookie of the year, I would. Good work.”
“Thank you. She was pretty. Very pretty. She designed the rose garden herself, all the way down to the paving bricks. She also drew each one of the sixteen roses she planted there. And she had beautiful handwriting.”
“Woah there, stud. Are you developing a thing for an old lady who's been dead since you were five?”
“No, no. She's not old. She's too young. In her diary, I mean. She just turned eighteen. That's too young for me.”
“That's too young? And what do you think is the right age for a woman? What's a woman's best age?”
“That's easy. A woman's best age is whatever age you are right now. You are the perfect combination of youth and maturity, wisdom and careless fun. You should stay this age as long as you like it.”
She rolled her eyes again, but this time with a smile. “I do love that about you,” she said. “You're such a boy.”
The door opened behind me. Steve must have gotten tired of waiting, I thought.
“Hi, honey,” said a familiar voice.
“Hi, darling!” Ellie greeted her husband.
I froze. In retrospect I should have been surprised and looked behind me to see who had spoken. If she and I had actually been strangers, that's probably what I would have done. I didn't though; I stood still as a post looking dead into Ellie's eyes, fully aware I was exposing myself, us... and unable to do anything about it. Soon they were sharing a light smooch, and I found myself thrust suddenly and rudely into unknown territory: the land of reality.
Reality: Ellie is married, and her husband is a bit of a schlub. The superstar doctor is only slightly taller than she. He is light blonde turning gray and thinning a little. He is clean-shaven, a nice-looking man with even, white teeth and rosy cheeks. He is dressed in khakis and a lime-green polo that practically glows. Reality: he is putting out his hand.
“I'm Greg Hubbard, Eleanor's husband.” His voice was light, almost musical. His hand was softer than Ellie's. I thought instantly of how rough my hands must feel on her skin in comparison to his, then realized he was awaiting a reply. I felt like a shoplifter caught in the act, and I struggled for words.
“I'm Addison Kane... uh, surveyor and... uh... history buff.”
“You called yesterday. I recognize your voice. I hope Eleanor's been of some assistance.” Double entendre, anyone? Remember not to smile when you reply.
“Well,” I replied honestly, “I'm still looking, but she has been quite helpful. I'm trying to locate an heir to the Conley properties.”
“Well, I wish you luck. Honey? Ready to go to dinner?”
“Let me lock up. Mr. Kane, good luck with your research. If I can do anything else for you, just call.”
“Will do, ma'am. Thanks for your help. If you'll excuse me, I think my ride is here. Nice meeting you, sir.”
I was out the door, and just like that, one of my life's weirdest scenes ended. For the first time since Dr. Gregory Hubbard walked in, I took a deep breath. The Mighty Ford idled at the curb, and I made for it. Steve sat behind the wheel waiting, a grin on his face.
“How's your girlfriend?” he asked.
“Married. Drive on.” He did.
“Who was that guy who walked in right before you came out?”
“Her husband.”
“You're shittin' me.”
“Why?”
“I watched him get out of his car and walk in. I don't know why, but from the way he walked and all, I didn't think he liked girls.”
“Really?”
“I mean, it's fine with me, but I'm just sayin'... he walks like a girl, that's all I'm sayin'.”
I grinned. “That's all you're sayin'.”
“And he probably throws like one. But that's all I'm sayin'.”
I chuckled. “You've said enough. Drive on, so I can have one of those beers.”
“Have one now. You're not drivin'. So what do you think?”
“What do I think? About what?”
“You think her husband's gay?”
“Hell, I don't--”
“'Cause there's nothin' wrong with it, you know.”
“So I hear. To the motel, boy. I'm thirsty.”
“Aye aye, Cap'n Addie.”
He turned his eyes to the road, and I grinned. I liked Steve. He deserved to know more than I was telling him, and I made a mental promise that as soon as I knew what the hell was going on, I would let him know. And sure, he probably most deserved to know about the loaded pistol in a Crown Royal bag under his seat, too, but that would have only made him nervous. Sometimes being the boss just means deciding what to say and when. It's why they pay me the big money.
I couldn't get Steve's suggestion out of my mind, though. It might not be true; it might not be probable, but there it was. It would explain why he ignored such a beautiful, highly sexed and delightfully knowledgeable woman. It wouldn't explain why he'd married her, though. Other than its infrequency, Ellie had lodged no complaints with his lovemaking, at least not to me. I considered and weighed various thoughts over a beer and a shot while Steve took the first shower. Surely Ellie would have figured it out by now. Unless she had, and that was the secret to which she had alluded in bed. It was a line of thinking that went nowhere without more evidence.
My phone rang, a call from Tyler.
“Yo,” I answered.
“Open your door.”
I stood up and opened the door. In from the breezeway walked Lawyer Frank, followed by Sergeant-Major Tyler. I offered them the only two chairs at the table, and I sat on my bed.
Tyler opened the meeting. “I met up with Frank yesterday at his house, and he explained everything to me. I'm kind of thick, so it took him a couple of hours, but we went fishing after that, so the day wasn't a total loss. He let me sleep in his driveway, too.” He grinned and gently punched Frank in the arm. “You should have seen his face when he saw the teardrop.”
“It blew my mind, too,” I assured Frank, who was helping himself to a shot of Jamesons.
He nodded and downed it. “He's a great guy, John is. Knows how to cook a bass, too. He says he dropped Mrs. Burroughs' diaries with you. What have you found? Anything?”
“Are you kidding? I've found the most amazing woman, a young lady getting more sophisticated every day. Did you know she planned that rose garden herself, from the paving stones up? And--”
“Yes. I know all that,” Frank smiled. “I've been told, anyway. My father worked for her, remember. Anything else? Any clues to other descendents?”
“Not yet. Dickie Polk asked her to marry him.”
“He did? When?”
“When she turned eighteen.”
“So what happened?”
“That's as far as I've gotten.”
“Did she have a child with him?”
“I don't know. Not yet.”
Tyler took a shot of whiskey while Frank put his elbows on the table and let his hea
d rest on his hands. “Probably nothing we can do now, anyway,” he muttered. “There's no time.”
“No time,” Tyler repeated.
“We have until Friday, guys. Right?”
They both looked at me. Frank shook his head. Tyler said, “Tomorrow is the third anniversary of Ramon's passing. Three years. No heir by tomorrow at midnight, no land trust. It all goes to the bank.”
Certain combinations of words will always knot up your stomach, combinations such as, “your card has been declined,” for instance, or “the test came back positive,” or “there's been an accident.” I felt that knot of dread and impending doom, but I felt something more than that, too, something I could only describe as an overpowering sense of moral outrage upon hearing the words, “it all goes to the bank.”
Frank raised his head. “I talked to Judge Askew, the probate judge for Sweeney County. We-- Tyler and I-- have an appointment on Wednesday morning to sign paperwork.”
“Well, that's Wednesday, isn't it? And this is what, Monday? If no one minds, I'm going to keep reading and keep looking for clues. Who knows, maybe she had a love child with Dickie Polk. Maybe she gave a child up for adoption. I don't know. I know I can't stand Dick Polk, the Turd, so I think I'll keep reading. I mean, what else can we do?”
Tyler and Frank nodded agreement. “It can't hurt,” Frank shrugged. “Keep reading.”
We all went to dinner at a local country style buffet. Ordinarily I linger at such establishments until they kick me out, but that night I couldn't focus on my fried chicken, cathead biscuits or peach cobbler. I wanted to get back to the room. I wanted to get back to Elizabeth.
I fired up the room's mini-coffee pot and got comfortable. There were three diaries in all: the birthday gift diary, the pages of which were approximately the size of old-fashioned stationary, about a hundred pages thick. There was a leather-bound journal of lined paper about eleven inches by fourteen. Inside, the first page was dated March 15th, 1905. A third measured nine by twelve inches and was covered in cloth. Its first page was dated, in Elizabeth's hand, the fifth of June, 1924. I arranged them in order, picked up the first one, and continued reading.
According to her entries, Joseph began writing her letters and sending her picture postcards from all over, and sure enough, glued into a scrapbook were postcards documenting his travels: Mackinac Island, Newfoundland, London, Paris... Joseph's father John was a successful investor and stock broker with powerful friends in New York, Washington, and London, and Joseph therefore had no real need to work, but since returning from Cuba, he had carved out his own niche in his father's business, creating an international division that required much travel to inspect businesses before investing in them: fisheries up north, wineries in France, a hotel in England, and new railroads everywhere.
Dickie hung on, month to month, waiting and watching to see if her father would recover or expire, living for monthly visits during which they go for a ride in his rig, after which she let him steal a kiss but no more. This went on for a year and a half while her stamp and postcard collection grew, and Dickie started getting impatient. She wrote about having to make a decision soon. Joseph, she wrote, had invited her to travel with him and see the world, but he had never mentioned marriage. In October of '04, she promised Dickie that if her father lasted until the new year of 1905, they would announce their engagement then and marry the following June.
Christmas came, and with it came a card from Joseph in New York. He wrote about Christmas decorations in the city and went on and on about the new subway system, but Elizabeth admitted in her diary that she found nothing remotely romantic in it, just the usual invitation to join him in his travels. She recognized that although she would love to “fly like a bird to be with him”, she couldn't bear to abandon her aged grandparents and crippled father. The responsibility she felt to her family overrode her desire for Joseph and the world outside Sweeney County, so at a New Year's Ever party, she and Dickie announced their engagement.
Beginning January first, Elizabeth was in an absolute panic. She didn't want to marry Dickie; she wanted to run off to New York, Paris, London, or wherever Joseph was. She could no longer pretend that it was Joseph kissing her, which made Dickie's kisses almost unbearable. On January thirtieth, she wrote, “I have made a terrible decision I cannot unmake, and I do not know what to do.”
On the seventh of February, Dickie paid her an unexpected visit. After a little stammering and a lot of blushing, he finally got around to the point of his visit. Back in early December, he had gone with his mother to deliver some gifts and cards to the Mortons, another planter family down around Carswell, and he and Madeleine Morton, a very nice girl they had both known since childhood, got to fooling around and wound up making hurried love in the barn. Now Madeleine was pregnant and expecting him to do right by her.
Elizabeth wrote:
“I was aghast at what I was hearing, and I was relieved, and I was equally aghast that I should be so overjoyed, but I would not show it, of course. It would have broken his heart. After a sufficient pause to assure him of my distress at the news, I told him I understand his allure to women. I told him the whole thing was my fault for making a young man wait for so long. He hung his head then and told me that I am the only one he really wanted to be with for the rest of his life and that he has felt this way since he was six. I did not know what to say then. This admission made his position all the more pathetic. I was deeply touched by his honest devotion and his apology for following what I know are only his biological instincts, against which he has no more power than a cat. I wished him the best and asked him if I might be allowed to say I called it off to take care of Papa and Grandpa, instead.
Then he kissed me. It was different from his other kisses, but what was most remarkable is that not only was it not unpleasant, but for once I did not think of Joseph, either. I believe we parted ways as good friends. I will always think of him as such.
I sighed. Dickie's love child wasn't with Elizabeth. So far there was no Ramon, either, which meant there must be more to the story; however, the diary contained only one more page of script. I turned to it and read:
February 13th
I received a card from Joseph today, a post card with a scene from Central Park. He has heard of my engagement from his grandfather, and he sends his congratulations. He also writes that he is leaving in the morning to see to business in Europe, and he wishes me well.
From the pain I am feeling, I must believe that my heart has truly broken
That was the last sentence in the book. It was followed by fifteen blank pages.
I rubbed my sore, tired eyes and placed the book atop the others on the table. I stretched out on the bed, clicked off the lamp overhead, and stared at the ceiling. What a woman!
I heard her crying somewhere behind me, and I turned to look for her.
She was standing in the middle of her rose garden, except the garden was overgrown and several plants were missing. She was holding a rake, looking around, and sobbing. My dreams are so weird.
I was awake, heart pounding. Something must have startled me. I propped up on my elbows and surveyed the silent room. Steve slept quietly on his side. Had I heard something outside? I lay on my back, quiet, listening. Instinctively, my mind drifted to contingency plans in case of emergency... In case of real emergency? Like, bad guys busting into my room? In terms of tactical response, I'd be naked, and not only because I sleep that way, but because I'd left the .38 out in the truck. Eh. If I really needed a weapon in the middle of the night, I would just have to take one away from whomever was closest. Would he like that? Not likely. He'd resist, and blah blah blah. Violence begets violence, and too much is never enough. It's like ice cream.
Thinking about it is no way to sleep. I needed to calm my mind, so I tried thinking about Ellie's face. A vision began forming in the dark, and I concentrated until she came into focus. I slowly took in the details I'd come to love: her deep chestnut hair, her perfectly-formed ey
ebrows, her sparkling eyes and classic beauty. Her mole. Her lips. Her smile. I could see her clearly, and I could see her smiling, holding hands with Dr. Greg, who was also smiling, because who in his position wouldn't? I thought of his house, his pool, his deck, his dining room table... for the first time my mind noted every photo in their house featuring that same smiling face, and I realized he'd been watching us in every room, from every angle. In scuba gear he'd witnessed us on the table; in his wedding tux he'd watched us from atop his dresser.
Rita had watched us, too. Veronica disapproved. My “secret” love affair wasn't so secret.
And just what was this affair, anyway? Ellie could act the part of devoted wife, but I had seen her alone, vulnerable, honest. She had expressed her needs, and I had filled them, hadn't I? This whole thing wasn't some embarrassing mid-life crisis, was it? Was it? I was still awake when five-thirty came.
The Dead Hand of Sweeney County Page 26