by Laini Giles
Libbie couldn’t help herself. She let out a stifled giggle and felt the furious glares of her mother and sister on her. Feigning contrition, she lowered her head in false prayer once again as the reverend continued.
“In James 1:14, we are told, ‘Each one is tempted when, by his own evil desire, he is dragged away and enticed. Then, after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death’!” he shouted to the rafters. “God is the way and the life, and all it takes is one misstep for the devil to distract us from living a Christian existence. The marriage bed is the truest consummation of God’s love that exists. By making the act about physical sensations and animal need, we lose the special qualities of the sacrament that make marriage the blessed union that it is. I implore you all to keep your eyes to the true path of the Lord and keep him alone in your hearts. If you lust for anyone, lust for God. Lust for his benediction and his good favor. It will come back to you one-hundredfold when St. Peter greets you at the Pearly Gates. The true Christian path is available to you all if you will take it and avoid the sins of the flesh. Lust for everlasting life!”
Libbie’s mind wandered once again and she shifted in her seat. All this talk about sex was not leading her closer to God. All it was doing was causing the vivid thought of nights at the falls to preoccupy her even more. Last night, Tom had taken her for what seemed like hours. And she had craved every minute of it. If that made her a bad Christian, she supposed she could live with that. It felt too good to stop.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ithaca, New York
July 1986
After a few phone calls, Frank managed to find Stephen LaBarr’s number in Buffalo. His name was still listed, and Frank was surprised the old man and his wife Mabel were both still alive. Speaking to their daughter Charlotte, he explained the investigation into Libbie Morgan’s disappearance and death. She warned him that they were frail and might not be very helpful, but he’d gone ahead and booked a commuter flight from Ithaca to Buffalo. Although he was leery about going, he knew the information that could be revealed was important. Diana promised to call him at the slightest change in their mother’s condition.
Linda gave him a ride to the airport, and they shared kisses tinged with Earl Grey tea at the snack bar. She had introduced him to it, and it had become his new favorite beverage. The heady scent of bergamot that emanated from a fresh teabag could never replace the effects of bourbon, but it had helped him develop an appreciation for something besides booze. Especially when Linda joined him in a relaxing cup of the stuff. Even with all the drama and sadness he was experiencing right now, she provided a calming presence. He promised to call her when he arrived home, still pinching himself that someone who seemed to have herself so together could be interested in him.
Buffalo, New York
July 1986
After grabbing a rental car at the airport, he checked in at an Economy Inn in the suburb of Amherst so he could avoid as much of the local Buffalo traffic as possible. Then he found a restaurant nearby for some beef-on-weck.
The next morning, he headed for the local greasy spoon for a breakfast of eggs, sausage, and toast. After Mavis, his helpful waitress, gave him directions to the neighborhood he needed, he headed into town. He knew he could find the house from there. He hadn’t been to Buffalo since he and Allison had visited her relatives in Cheektowaga years before.
Shannon now kept him informed on the state of the ex-in-laws. He hadn’t minded them one bit. It was the being married to their daughter that was the hard part. Not even that. Being married to their daughter had been great. Being married to her as a screwed-up drunk was another matter. He consulted his map as often as he deemed safe in the traffic and aimed for Delaware Avenue, the Millionaire’s Row of Buffalo. On Barker Street, half a block away, he pulled up in front of one of the most impressive Tudors he’d ever seen. A lush lawn out front was the unnatural bright green of pool table felt, and every piece of shrubbery looked like it had been trimmed with manicure scissors. Closer to the front door, elegant, sculpted flowerbeds exploded in a riot of bright colors. A lawn guy in olive green work clothes zipped by him on a riding mower and waved.
Every square inch of the place oozed money and class. Of course it did. The guy had been a senator for decades. Always cynical of politicians, Frank wondered how many greased palms it had taken to secure this little crib. If LaBarr or any of his brood could give him some clues, he’d be willing to overlook the crooked part for his mother’s sake. He’d always imagined what these places looked like on the inside. Now he’d get a glimpse at last.
A stunning blonde of about thirty with beautiful hazel eyes answered the door. Her scoop-neck white T-shirt, pressed khaki slacks, and sandals made her look like a model in a Gap ad. Frank wondered if he had the right house.
“You must be Investigator Conley,” she said. “I’m Mr. LaBarr’s granddaughter, Cassie. You spoke to my mother, Charlotte, on the phone. Won’t you come in?” She shook his hand, then led him into the front hall.
“Very nice to meet you,” Frank said, trying not to gape at the luxury.
A hall table held a flower arrangement full of calla lilies, bird of paradise, and other exotic flowers that must have cost a fortune. The marble floors echoed every sound. He felt like he was in a church. The entire front vestibule was open to the second floor, and a balcony overlooked the entry. The foyer led to a dramatic stairway with an elaborate curved balustrade.
On the landing one level up hung a massive oil portrait of whom Frank assumed were the LaBarrs as a younger couple. He estimated from the clothes that it must have been during Stephen’s senate days around the late 1930s. The man wore a double-breasted gray suit, tie, and spats. The woman wore an elegant bias-cut gown in emerald green, and her hair was bobbed and marcelled. The man sat in an upholstered green velvet chair, and the woman stood behind him with a hand on his shoulder. Class and old money shoring up Buffalo’s social structure.
Frank followed Cassie through the cold, sterile living room, crammed full of antiques, and then into a warm, welcoming sunroom. A golden glow entered through one whole wall of wide picture windows. Cheerful paintings by French masters hung around the room. Frank was too intimidated to ask if they were real.
“Grandfather likes this room quite a bit. He never wants us to move him anymore, it seems. Investigator Frank Conley, this is my mother, Charlotte Seagrove.”
Cassie presented a petite, elegant woman with frosted hair, small diamonds in her ears, and a salmon-colored pantsuit that must have cost a fortune. Raw silk, Frank thought his ex-wife had called it. Her green eyes glowed with guarded warmth, and she clutched a Virginia Slim. He couldn’t help but notice the fingers trembling.
“Pleased to meet you, Investigator Conley,” Mrs. Seagrove said, standing and shaking his hand.
Although it wasn’t even noon yet, he saw she was already working on a lowball of what looked to be whiskey. He wondered what that was about. And then she told him.
“Now, we’ve agreed to meet with you, although I’m not sure how much help we might be. My parents are a bit frail, as I told you. Father is eighty-eight, and mother is eighty-four. She’s still very sharp, but his mind wanders a lot. And many times, he’s not all there. We’re fortunate that we can keep a nurse here so they can stay in their own home. I live just a few blocks away, and Cassie is also close. I just want to prepare you for his condition.”
“I appreciate that, Mrs. Seagrove.”
“Please, call me Charlotte. Mrs. Seagrove is my mother-in-law,” she said with a chuckle.
“Can I pour you some tea, Investigator Conley?” Cassie asked. A sterling silver tea set sat on a nearby antique cabinet surrounded by delicate china cups.
“I’d love some, thank you,” Frank said.
Cassie brought him the cup of tea with cream and sugar as he requ
ested, and also several delicate wafer cookies.
“Sweetheart, why don’t you help Darlene bring Mom and Dad down now,” Charlotte said, nudging her daughter.
Cassie nodded and pressed a button in the nearby wall. A wide elevator door, camouflaged to match the expensive wood paneling, slid open. The door slid closed, and she disappeared for a moment. Charlotte and Frank waited, while Frank marveled at the fact that they had their own elevator.
“We had this place retrofitted a few years ago so they could still move around the house as much as they wanted,” she said. “But Lord how the Historical Preservation people gave us a hassle! We had to agree to do it just so to avoid any desecration of the home itself. All the mechanics had to be hidden very well. This whole district is historical landmarks, you see.”
“Yeah, that must have been hell,” he said, without emotion. It really must be true what they said about the rich being different.
After a few moments, a small chime sounded, and the elevator leveled off. Cassie pushed her grandmother, Mabel, and the nurse pushed Stephen LaBarr into the room. Mrs. LaBarr observed him from her wheelchair. Her eyes were the most noticeable thing about her—an intense pale green in a desiccated face that looked as delicate as tissue paper. Age had faded her until she no longer resembled the beautiful debutante in the oil painting on the stairs. But the eyes were the same intensity they had always been. The nurse had dressed her in a green sweater and cream-colored slacks, but the clothes seemed to be wearing her. Her tiny body was so insubstantial as to be almost nonexistent. Frank returned her tentative smile.
Stephen LaBarr was as distinguished in appearance as any eighty-eight-year-old man could be. His longish white hair was swept back from a receding hairline, and an aristocratic Roman nose dominated a face coated in liver spots. He was dressed in a maroon smoking jacket over dark trousers, but for all the effect of his aristocratic wardrobe, his eyes wandered the room as if he did not know where he was.
“Mother, Father,” Charlotte said, her voice almost a shout. The old man turned at the sound. “This is a state policeman—Investigator Conley from Ithaca. Could you speak to him, do you think?”
“What does he want?!” Mr. LaBarr bellowed.
“He wants to speak to you about a lady you once knew!” she replied, voice still at high volume for his benefit.
Pointing his finger at Cassie, LaBarr relived an old case in his fractured mind. “Lady? This lady is not guilty!! Gentlemen of the jury, she did not murder her husband, and we, the defense, are going to prove it!” he thundered.
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said. “As I mentioned, he does this sometimes.”
“I think I know who it is,” Mabel said in a small reedy voice. “You mean the girl who disappeared, right?”
Frank sat down directly across from her so he could hear her soft voice more clearly. Then he pulled out his notebook.
“Yes, ma’am, I do. Can you remember your husband saying anything about her?”
“I remember he was very bitter when we met. I didn’t know right away, of course, but I found out later. I was a debutante but very naïve about things like that.”
Frank took a sip as he listened. “Things like what, ma’am?”
“Why, sex, Investigator Conley.”
Frank almost choked on his tea, so unprepared was he for the frank statement from this little old lady. He smiled and recovered in a fraction of a second. “Um….in what context do you mean, Mrs. LaBarr?”
“I now pronounce you Mr. and Mrs. Stephen LaBarr!” the old man announced. He glanced around, looking for approval.
Charlotte patted his hand and took a deep swig of her drink as her father broke into a joyful smile. This wasn’t going well at all.
Returning his attention to Mabel LaBarr, Frank put pen to paper, ready to take more notes.
“He caught them together, you know,” she said.
Frank, Charlotte, and Cassie all looked at each other in shock.
“Oh, he didn’t tell anyone, of course,” she continued. “But he found them going at it in the back of a car somewhere. She and whomever else she was seeing. Seeing isn’t really the correct word, but you get my meaning. I think he said it was out near Buttermilk Falls somewhere. He had to come up with a fake reason not to marry her. It’s how he wound up in Manhattan courting me, you see. He was nursing a grudge when I met him.” She splayed the fingers of her left hand and looked down at the pear-cut diamond on the third finger. “I daresay this was intended for her before he gave it to me. As I understood it, she was very beautiful. But quite a…what do you call it nowadays? Slut. Or to be more polite…easy. That’s it.”
“Gentlemen, it will be very easy to balance the state budget this year! It will require a tightening of our belts and a good deal of assiduous work at managing tax revenue versus expenditures!” Stephen proclaimed.
Charlotte shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Conley. I had hoped he might be a bit more lucid for your visit. I’m afraid it’s not one of his better days. But Mother has given you a bit of information on Libbie Morgan. I hope that helped somewhat.”
Suddenly, the old man reared back in his wheelchair like an out-of-control stallion being confined with lead ropes. His face contorted, and he snapped to perfect consciousness in an instant. For now, he knew just what he was talking about.
“Libbie Morgan? Did you say ‘Libbie Morgan?’ Libbie Morgan was a whore! A common whore! A trollop! Faithless strumpet!”
Daughter, granddaughter, and nurse jumped into action at calming him, and Frank backed out of the room quietly. His eyes met Charlotte’s.
“I’m so sorry,” he mouthed. He’d unleashed a tornado of spite and poison from the splinters still populating the old man’s brain. It would probably be days before Charlotte and Cassie and the nurse would get him lucid again. Even headed down the front walkway toward the rent car, Frank could hear him inside the house. He tried to imagine what Stephen LaBarr must have seen seventy years ago to provoke such a reaction, even now. But one impression stayed with him. His last glance into the sunroom before he left had told him Charlotte’s glass was now empty.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Devenport Farm, Newfield, New York
August 1916
Jimmy Devenport sat at the old dining table nursing a glass of rotgut. It was all he could afford, and their neighbor, Mr. Aitken, distilled his own and gave him a deal if Jimmy helped with the farm chores. Scraping the very last leavings of tobacco out of his pouch, he rolled a cigarette and lit it from the meager candle flame.
In front of Jimmy sat a stack of bills. He also had a few crumpled IOUs in his pocket that he had written to the madam at the bawdy house at the edge of Ithaca. He had worked off several of his debts there by repairing furniture or other odd jobs. Now he was talking real money. And it had to come from somewhere. The candle flickered with a menacing glimmer as he contemplated complete financial disaster. He was not much of a farmer, and it became more obvious after the death of his no-good father. He had no idea how he was going to continue to support his mother and sisters. If he couldn’t pull himself together pretty soon, his sisters were going to have to join Miss Rosie’s girls themselves. Their home was mortgaged to the hilt, and they had no vehicle other than the buckboard and their nag, Old Blue. Everyone else was buying Tin Lizzies and zipping around town like they didn’t have a worry in the world. But Jimmy would never be able to afford even the oldest model. If he did manage to eke out any crops from the rocky soil around Newfield, he had to drive them to town in the buckboard.
He gazed down at the table to the one valuable item he still possessed; the one item his mother had gotten from her side of the family. His grandfather had spent a small fortune on his silver pocket watch, and Jimmy often sat and rubbed it for good luck when he was feeling low. The bit of tarnish and comforting ticking helped him feel con
nected to his maternal side. They’d been decent, God-fearing Methodists, not like the drunken Gaelic sots from his father’s line. His grandfather had been a devout Pennsylvania Dutch farmer. He had become prosperous in the area around Waverly in Tioga County, and as the single child of this marriage, Marian had been expected to marry a neighboring farmer and keep their land adjoining. It was to be willed into one large parcel to be split among any children she would have.
But upon Marian’s marriage to the Irish blacksmith whose relatives were all die-hard papists, her father disowned her. He had cried when his daughter married Alfred Devenport. All the land, the dowry, everything she would have received from Johann Geisle was withdrawn, and she was alone, with no relatives to help her. After Alfred’s death, she threw herself on her mother’s mercy, but the old woman had turned her back on her daughter and all her grandchildren and left everything to a nephew. Except this watch.
It was the last thing Jimmy had to remember his grandfather, even if he wasn’t sure he wanted to. In spite of himself, he respected these dour Teutons. Angry at his mother for denying herself and all her children the birthright she deserved, he couldn’t help but respect his grandparents and their code of honor. The pocket watch was a mellowed silver, engraved with an elaborate Germanic G for Geisle, and had seen his grandfather through some tough times. His mother had proudly related its history.
He flicked open the lid and felt its reassuring ticking, comforting him almost like a mother’s heartbeat to a kitten. He hated even considering hocking the watch, but the situation was impossible.
He often succumbed to despair at times like these. Most often it was when he drank, which made him even more disgusted at himself. He wanted so much to be different than his father, but he was becoming more and more like him every day. The only time the sorrow would lift was when he thought about visiting Miss Rosie’s place. Her girls were a talented lot.