by Laini Giles
“Thanks. Russ and Janet and I had some great conversations, and they convinced me that I should just bite the bullet and do it. Janet’s actually my academic advisor, in addition to being one of my good friends. That’s why I was there today. I always got As in school and felt like I was selling myself short, I guess. I was running the café and liked it, but I needed something new.”
“That place has been there a long time, hasn’t it?”
“It’s been there forever. And the plumbing is proof!” she laughed. “This lady started it back around 1909—they called it Birdie’s back then. Her picture’s on the wall in the dining room. With all that history behind the place, I just felt this responsibility to keep it going. It’s hard to describe. But Samantha, my sister, is doing just fine running it. She’s hired some great staff, and it’s been a good learning experience for her.”
They finished their pasta and then split a tiramisu. He picked up the check and then drove Linda back to her car, still parked at Russ’s.
“Thanks for a great time,” she said, handing him her number. “Let me know if you need more help.”
“That’d be great.” He leaned down for a chaste, somewhat awkward peck on the cheek, which Linda returned. Linda had been fun. Serious, but cute at the same time. He wasn’t sure which he might enjoy more—solving the mystery of Libbie, or getting to know Linda.
Chapter Six
Frank’s next order of business was to contact Olive Rumsey Kingman, Libbie’s friend, assuming she was still alive. The next morning, after waiting for several hours to make sure he wasn’t dragging anyone out of bed, he got right on that.
Grateful that his restraint the night before had left him with a curious lack of a hangover, he settled down at his desk with a cup of his standard swill, two creams, and two sugars. He pulled out the notes he’d taken the previous day and called the number he’d found in the directory at the library. He unwrapped his breakfast sandwich from some fast-food joint while he waited for an answer.
“Hello,” an older woman’s voice murmured.
Praying for someone who wasn’t hard of hearing, senile, or dying, Frank forged ahead with the spiel he had devised.
“Hello, I was trying to reach Olive Rumsey Kingman.”
A cautious pause followed. Then: “This is Olive.”
“Mrs. Kingman, this is Senior Investigator Frank Conley of the New York State Police.”
Frank heard a slight gasp at the other end of the line and continued. “We have reason to believe that we have found the remains of your friend, Elizabeth Morgan. I’d like to come speak to you a bit more about the case, if I may.”
“Oh Libbie…” Olive whispered, her voice fading off. “Mr. Conley, I suppose I came to terms with Libbie being dead years ago. It’s just a shock to hear it said outright like that.”
“I understand. May I come to Watkins Glen and talk to you?”
“Of course. Today, then?”
“Perfect. I had hoped that this afternoon might be good for you. Say, one o’clock?”
“That’s fine. I just made an apple cake. You can come share some with me.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” He set the phone down and finished his breakfast, then penciled in his visit to Watkins Glen on his desk calendar.
After meandering down the scenic yet unending drive west then south on 79, Frank was already tired by the time he got to town. The charming little burg of Watkins Glen sat at the south end of Seneca Lake. Popular among visitors for its quaintness, it was now more famous for its speedway and the surrounding wineries than for the incredible slice of nature in its own backyard. The actual glen after which it was named was a breathtaking fantasyland of gorges and cascades, crisscrossed by manmade bridges that had been constructed in the 1930s. There was no more beautiful spot in the state. Frank had liked it so much that he’d proposed to Allison there years ago, near the Cavern Cascade.
The little houses stair-stepped down steep hills in and around downtown, and Mrs. Kingman’s home was no exception. It had been a cheerful place once. The white clapboard was typical for the area, but the shutters were painted bright blue and pots of violas were still tended with care. A manicured boxwood hedge framed the front. A marmalade tabby on the sidewalk lolled around, enjoying the sun until Frank approached. The cat pussyfooted up to Frank with a plaintive mew, probably craving some Tender Vittles. Frank was not fond of cats. He supposed his visit would be full of the things, if it was anything like going to his mother’s before her hospital admission. Wasn’t that what old ladies did? Collect cats? His mother had lost one or two the last year or so. Walter was the last of her menagerie.
A tiny woman with delicate cottony hair opened the door at his knock, smiling after he showed her his badge. Her eyes still carried a bit of the snap she must have had as a young woman. They were warm and kind, the color of a dark honey, with an atlas’s worth of creases in the corners. She wore a lavender-sprigged housedress and little athletic-styled orthopedic shoes. Holding the door open, she invited him in.
“Hello, Inspector…I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Investigator,” he corrected her. “Conley,” he clarified, “but call me Frank.”
“That’s right,” she said. “Forgive me. Frank it is. And you must call me Olive.” Then, after a moment, she put the pieces together.
“Frank Conley? Are you one of Maude’s boys?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, I’ll be. It certainly is a small world, isn’t it? I adored your mother. How is she these days?”
Afraid he might not be able to confess the truth for fear of breaking down, Frank said she was just fine, albeit with a lump in his throat.
She gestured to a dining chair and took a seat opposite. The dining room was an extension of the living room, compact and small.
“Let me get you a piece of cake,” she said. “Would you like some coffee? I just brewed a new pot.”
“I would love some,” he replied. “May I help you?”
“Of course not,” she said, obviously proud of her independence at her age. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”
She shuffled off to the kitchen in the back of the house, leaving him to get a feel for her. The house seemed full of love and comfort. A huge 1940s-style dark green davenport dominated the north wall, and a pair of green tweed chairs of a lighter shade sat across from it. A hand-knitted afghan in multiple shades of green was slung over a sofa arm. Several occasional tables showing years of wear sat next to the sofa and appeared to have been climbed on by several generations of children and grandchildren. Cabbage roses decorated the draperies on the living room windows, now open to welcome the afternoon sun. A 1970s picture of a cat dangling from a tree branch encouraged, “Hang in there baby, Friday’s coming!” And a framed, cross-stitched version of The Lord’s Prayer hung nearby.
The mantelpiece was full of pictures. An old black-and-white wedding photograph from about nineteen twenty took center stage. The bride was a stunning younger version of the face in front of him, her hair a beautiful pale blond held back with an elaborate headband. Her dress was one of those vintage creations, and she held a huge bouquet of fancy flowers like lily of the valley. Her groom resembled many of the 1930s character actors he’d seen on the late late show, with dark hair, a strong jaw, and eyes of an undistinguishable color.
Near the wedding portrait were photos of children and grandchildren in baby pictures and group shots, in mismatched frames. It was obvious that they were much cherished.
Returning from the kitchen with two small plates of cake, she took a seat at the table. “My husband Arthur died in nineteen seventy-four,” she said in a voice tinged with sadness.
“How many children do you have?” he asked, pointing to one of the photographs that had caught his eye. “You have a
very attractive family.”
“Thank you,” she said, smiling. “Five. William, Calvin, Miles, Terry, and Elizabeth. One daughter. I named her after my best friend.”
Frank nodded and returned to the dining chair.
“May I ask who found her?” she said. “Where was she all this time?” She gazed at him with searching eyes.
“A hiker at Buttermilk Falls State Park discovered her. She was buried in a shallow grave near a hollow log.” He paused for a moment, realizing how difficult it had to be to hear that. “Only bones now, you understand.”
“Of course,” she replied. Her voice faded off, and he watched her face as her mind wandered.
“Frank,” she said, then paused. “Is it possible to tell what happened to her?”
“I’m afraid not,” he said. “It’s been too long. For some cases, such as gunshot wounds, we can sometimes perform ballistic analysis, but I’m afraid we may never know what happened to Libbie. You can try to help me find out as much as we can, though. Who knows what we might discover.”
She thought a moment.
“Libbie was an amazing girl. Everyone in town was in love with her. She was beautiful and she was intelligent, but that said, she could be a terrible spoiled brat at times. She was impetuous, but I loved her all the same. We grew up with each other, and we were good friends. We had planned to go to William Smith’s and study to be nurses together. The war was heating up. Everyone knew we’d be in it before long, despite what President Wilson said.
“Instead, I ended up going to nursing school alone and becoming a nurse during the war and the influenza. I missed her so much during all that. We’d been pals since primary school. Frankly, she wasn’t as enthusiastic about nursing as I was. I think she thought it would make her parents happy.”
“Your father was a professor at Cornell, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, of biology.”
“And what do you remember of my grandparents?”
“Oh, they were wonderful people. I adored them like my own mother and father. They treated me like a daughter too.” She thought a moment. “Frank, do you know where your grandparents lived? The old Morgan house was on Seneca Street—the large gray-blue one near the corner of Seneca and Stewart. That was Libbie’s house when she disappeared. I heard that place cost her father a fortune to build, even back then.”
“I do know it. Wow. Mom never told us that’s where she grew up. That’s an amazing house.”
“Well, your grandfather was quite a man. He supported Libbie and your mother and grandmother in style. Worked his fingers to the bone at the law firm, or so everyone said. He was so respected around town. And he was intent on her marrying well, like another lawyer or a doctor. But then she disappeared, and everything changed.” She paused for a moment, and he pulled out his notebook to make copious notes. “After Libbie disappeared, your grandmother was inconsolable. She became this shell of herself, and I saw it happen. Broke her heart, it did. After she died, your grandfather went off the deep end, drinking more and more. His law partner had to buy out his half of the practice before it went under altogether. It closed for good when Mr. LaBarr died years later.”
“And what about my mother?”
“Your poor mother was a saint. Thrust into the very unfortunate position of having to play babysitter to her father, I’m afraid. And she always looked so sad when I saw her then.”
Frank nodded. He’d heard this part before.
“Now, I know it’s got to be a sore subject, and it’s been covered a lot in the last sixty years or so, but humor me here, as the new guy on the case,” he said.
“You want to know why I lied for her,” Olive said, nodding her head.
“What happened?”
“Well, I had done it before. September seventeenth was a Sunday. I remember the date because there was a big church picnic in Newfield that lots of folks were going to. When she told me she needed to make some plans and her parents couldn’t know, I had one thought.”
“What was that?”
“She had been seeing a couple of fellows. One was very distinguished and oh-so-handsome, the son of her father’s law partner. They were pushing him at her, but she wasn’t sure what to think, she said. We both found him frightfully boring.”
Frank continued his frantic scribbling. As he scrawled more notes, Olive continued.
“But the other was originally from a farm in Newfield. You can imagine how that went over with your grandparents.”
“Not well, I assume.”
“You assume right. Your grandmother met him, but Libbie said she was not impressed. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I covered for her several times. When I asked her why, she wouldn’t tell me. Once, she said they wanted to go to the nickelodeon. You younger folks just call it the movies these days. But back then, we only paid a nickel to get in!”
Frank chuckled for a moment as Olive continued.
“But why did she need me to lie if that’s all it was? She told me we were best friends and that was what friends did for each other. She said that if anyone asked, I was to say she’d been with me. And I’m sure that each of those times, she was with Tom Estabrook.”
“What was he like?”
“He seemed like a nice enough fellow. I mean, I liked him, and he was handsome, but boys like him just didn’t court girls from the Hill like us. He worked in a factory, and we’d been raised to want more than a man with grease on his hands. It wasn’t done. He was very polite and also a bit self-conscious. He didn’t seem to know how good-looking he was. He seemed interested in reading and travel. He made some kind of joke about the weather once, saying he wanted to visit Texas, but he didn’t think he could ever live someplace like that. Too hot. Libbie had him read many of her favorite books, but I think she was disappointed in his scholarship. He was more interested in comics and adventure stories than fine literature.”
“How many times did you have to lie for her?”
“I don’t even know,” she admitted, shaking her head. “Lots. We claimed we were going to meetings about nursing at the college or that we were going shopping or to the nickelodeon. You have no idea how much I regret what I did, Frank. Maybe if I’d been brave enough to stand up to her, she might still be alive. But Libbie had a very strong personality. You simply couldn’t say no to her.” She sighed, obviously tired after telling Frank all this. Her fork shook as she ate her cake.
“Do you know how serious it was with this other boy?” Frank asked, pen poised.
“I can guess. As I said, Libbie could be very impetuous, and I think it got her in a lot of trouble. I saw the sparks. After all, I was with her when she met him.”
Chapter Seven
Ithaca, New York
June 1916
“Itell you, trying to decide how much to bale when the hay comes in… I’m not one for math, and having to take the number of bales and multiply it by their average weight…it’s a challenge. It’s never been my strong suit, averages. Pa says that we can bring in a good haul if we just…”
The voice faded away as if Hiram wasn’t even talking. The first time that Tom Estabrook saw Libbie Morgan, he was struck dumb. Right there on State Street. It was the darnedest thing. She was strolling with a friend down the sidewalk, her pleated white shirtwaist a startling contrast to her silky black curls and extraordinary blue eyes. A bright blue sash topped an ankle-length navy lawn skirt. And her hat was adorned with an assemblage of ribbons and flowers in various hues of blue.
Tom had met up with his friends Hiram Gordon and Jimmy Devenport, who were in Ithaca buying some farm implements and leather goods at Hedden’s. Or what had been Hedden’s. Old Aaron Hedden had moved to Idaho years ago but had sold his business on State Street. It still offered bridles and harnesses for sale. Until the last year, it had also been a busy livery stable, but that busin
ess had been falling off.
As she exited the milliners around the corner on Cayuga Street, the girl seemed very pleased with her new purchase. Not a little vainly, she cocked her head to and fro, trying to catch her jaunty reflection in the surrounding shop windows. She and her friend giggled over a joke, and her eyes flirted with half the boys as she walked.
“And the bumper crop of berries we’ve got now. You wouldn’t believe it! Pa thinks we can fetch a pretty penny at market for these doozies,” Hi said.
Hi and Jimmy were oblivious to the thunderbolt that had struck their friend. They ambled along, thumbs tucked into suspender straps.
After a moment or two, Hi and Jimmy realized that Tom had not kept pace with them. They turned to find him standing dazed on the sidewalk in front of Smith’s Bakery, a tentative smile spreading across his earnest features.
Hi followed the direction of Tom’s gaze and discovered it had locked on the girl with the hat full of blue flowers. Tom wasn’t alone. The girl had turned heads up and down State Street, that was for sure.
She and her friend whispered confidences and shared a laugh, enjoying the sunshine and the light June breeze. The girls stopped in front of Birdie’s Café, and the boys knew it was time for a bite. They knew right where they were going.
“Let’s get some lunch,” Tom said, right on cue.
Hi smiled and followed Tom to the restaurant, but Jimmy stopped for a moment.
“Aw, hell,” he remarked, smacking his forehead. “Ma wanted me to check on some other stuff and I plum forgot. A bridle, and she wanted me to price a new saddle. Let me see how long this will take me. I’ll catch up with you.”
They were aware that Jimmy dreaded the pricing and having to find out if he could buy on credit, but there wasn’t much help for it. The Devenports were broke.
Hi and Tom entered the little restaurant, the tiny bell letting out a cheery jingle as the door shut behind them. Hi and Tom and Jimmy had been best friends since birth, eighteen years ago in Newfield, southwest of town. The boys had always been together—playing or working, it was just understood. Tom’s father and mother had died within months of each other during a typhoid outbreak two years earlier. Tom’s older sister Della had already married, but their place was too small to take in her brother, since she had just given birth to twin baby girls. Tom was in a bad spot until Hi’s parents, affectionately called Aunt Mary and Uncle Zeke, had taken him in. Their clapboard farmhouse in the area of Newfield called Trumbull’s Corners had become home to him for a year and a half. When he was old enough, he had moved to Ithaca to make a life for himself, finding a job at the clockworks. Tom visited Aunt Mary and Uncle Zeke as often as he could nowadays, and Hi and Jimmy made the trip to Ithaca when time permitted, but chores could be prohibitive. Most often the milking. “Twice a day for the rest of your life,” as the joke went.