Queen Anne's Lace

by Susan Wittig Albert

  But in this case, I was also the witness who had to testify to what I had heard. And as counsel for the defense, I was looking at the physical evidence—the bulletin board, my bulletin board—right in front of me. I was in uncharted territory here, and I couldn’t for the life of me see my way forward.

  I said good-bye to Kelly, then aimed my cell phone at the bulletin board and shot a picture. Then I put the letters back the way they were supposed to be (FALL CLASSES) and took the photo down. I glanced at it again, then picked up my magnifying glass to study it. If the ghost—or something—was using it to communicate with me, I ought to take a better look. Who were these people? When was the photo taken? And why this particular photo, instead of another one?

  A couple, sitting on a wooden swing on what was undeniably my veranda, with my front door visible to the left in the photo and my front windows behind the swing. Husband and wife, I assumed. A baby and a little girl. The man, his rather plain face transformed by a proud smile, was leaning toward the woman. I couldn’t see her face because she was looking down at the baby in her arms, dressed in a lacy white cap and a lace-flounced dress and waving one tiny fist. The woman herself, apparently the baby’s mother, was wearing a white shirtwaist and a dark skirt. Her hair was pinned up on top of her head, Gibson-girl style. The child, who might have been nine or ten, had pretty banana curls and was holding her kitten against her cheek. She was smiling, too.

  A happy family, I thought, wishing I could see the woman’s face. Hoping for some identification, I turned the photograph over. No names, just a penciled date in a spidery hand: June 10, 1890. I felt like an idiot even asking the question, but it followed on my theory of the case. Was this a photo of my ghost?

  I thought for a moment, then took down the framed newspaper article that Jessica Nelson had written about my building, which was once a family’s home—the Duncan family, according to the Historical Society’s plaque beside the front door. I had read the article when it first appeared in the Enterprise, but I didn’t remember the details. I skimmed it quickly.

  And I found something. According to Jessica, the house had been built for his bride by a man named Douglas Duncan. He had also built a wood frame blacksmith shop on the alley behind the house, and a stone stable for his horses. Jessica had included several photographs with the article, but they were all of the building, then and now. No people.

  The photo I was holding: Was it Mr. and Mrs. Douglas Duncan and their children? Was Mrs. Duncan my ghost?

  Objection, Your Honor. Assumes facts not in evidence.

  Sustained. But there she is, the woman in the swing. Or was. Perhaps. How could I know?

  I couldn’t, but maybe Jessica could. She picked up after just two rings.

  “Hey, China,” she said, “I just talked to the chief, at home. She says she’s feeling fine and will be back in the office in a day or two. Does that square with what you know?”

  “Sounds right,” I said. “I saw her this morning, working from home. She seemed fine to me.” I changed the subject quickly. “Say, when you were doing the research on my building, did you happen to see any photographs of the family that built it? People photos, I mean?”

  Jessica took a moment to think. “Maybe one or two. I can have a look in my notes.”

  “Please do,” I said. “Specifically, I’m looking for information about Mrs. Duncan. I’d like to know her name, her age, anything you can find out about her.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Jessica paused. “By the way, your daughter entered the poultry show at the fair last year, didn’t she? Is she doing that again?”

  “Oh, you bet,” I said emphatically. “Dixie Chick and Extra Crispy are already bathed, combed, pedicured, and polished. We’re taking them to the fairgrounds early tomorrow morning.” I paused. “Why are you asking?

  “Because I’m covering the fair, and I wanted to include photos of a kid or two. Caitie is super photogenic, so I was thinking of using her, if it’s okay with you.” She chuckled. “And Extra Crispy and Dixie Chick, of course.”

  “Covering the fair?” I couldn’t resist a tease. “I thought you were the Enterprise crime reporter. Is something going on at the fair that the rest of us don’t know about? Somebody pilfering fair funds, maybe? Criminal connivance at the carnival?”

  “Oh, you are so funny,” Jessica said sarcastically. “The truth is that there hasn’t been a lot of bad stuff happening in Pecan Springs lately, and my boss doesn’t like me to sit on my hands. So I’m covering the fair. I’ll be looking for anything newsworthy. What kind of chicken is Dixie Chick?”

  “She’s a Buff Orpington. Extra Crispy is a Cubalaya rooster. His family immigrated to the U.S. from Cuba around the time of the Second World War. He’s super elegant, with a tail you won’t believe. He’s definitely newsworthy.”

  “‘A tale you won’t believe,’” Jessica muttered. I could hear her computer keyboard clicking. She was making notes. “Why won’t I believe his tale? Is there some sort of mystery about this particular rooster?”

  “That’s t-a-i-l,” I said. “And there’s no mystery. Extra Crispy loves to mug for the camera.”

  “Sounds great,” Jessica said. “How about if I meet you tomorrow and get some quotes and a pic or two of Caitie and her chickens? If one of them wins a ribbon, I’ll follow up with an interview and—”

  There was a voice in the background and Jessica said something I didn’t quite hear. Then she was back on the line. “Hark wants to know if your garden page is going to be late again.”

  “Tell him he can stop being snarky,” I said. Hark Hibler is the editor of the Enterprise, Jessica’s boss. My boss, too, since I write the garden column for the Thursday paper. I trade the articles for advertising for the shop, which is a pretty good deal, and definitely worth the time it takes. “I’m writing about a wildflower that’s blooming along my lane right now,” I added. “Queen Anne’s lace—lots of history as a medicinal herb. The article is all but done, and I’ll have photos. Maybe some recipes, too.”

  I was stretching the truth a little. The article wasn’t anywhere near done, but I was planning on working on it tonight. I went on: “Caitie and I are checking her chickens in about eight in the morning. Want to meet us at the poultry tent?”

  “Perfect,” Jessica said. “See you in the morning.”

  I looked once more at the photograph, then took my purse out from under the counter and slipped the photo into it. I would ask Jessica to take a look. Maybe she would recognize the couple sitting on my porch. And the porch swing in the photo had given me an idea. I’d buy a porch swing and have McQuaid hang it on my new veranda, with a few pots of green herbs along the wall. It would be a nice place for customers to relax.

  * * *

  • • •

  FOR the middle of the week, the shop was busy. Thyme for Tea is a nice alternative to the usual Tex-Mex or fast-food lunches for the women who work on the courthouse square or in the small office park at the other end of Crockett, so we had a steady stream of guests, as Ruby likes to call our customers. On today’s menu, a spinach and carrot quiche, plus a salad and a carrot muffin. There’s nothing quite like Cass’ signature quiches anywhere in Pecan Springs. You can bet our guests were enthusiastic.

  But I had that carton of old photos on my mind. Lori came in just after the lunch crowd finished, so I left Jenna to mind the shop and followed Lori upstairs. Feeling a little silly, I asked her to stand at the storeroom door and hold it open while I went in to get the carton. I was glad when she agreed without asking me why. I’d hate to have to tell her that I was afraid of the dark—or of ghosts.

  I tugged on the chain and the overhead bulb came on. A few steps in, I reached for the carton of photographs that I’d put on the top shelf. But it wasn’t on the shelf, it was on the floor—the same carton, with Corticelli Silk Threads printed on one side, and a picture of a kitten playi
ng with a spool of thread. As I bent over to pick it up, I felt a chill draft on the back of my neck and arms and at that moment the bulb popped and the light went out.

  I stifled a gasp. If Lori hadn’t been holding the door, I would have been left in the dark. I wasn’t going to wait around and see what happened next. I grabbed the carton and scurried out as fast as I could.

  “Funny about that bulb,” Lori said, frowning up at it. “We might want to check the socket. Ruby told me another one burned out when the two of you were cleaning in there a couple of days ago.” She closed the door behind us. “Did you get what you were looking for?”

  “I hope so,” I said breathlessly. I did not want to go back in that storeroom again. I put the carton on the table and took a deep breath to steady myself. “Mostly photographs, I think. But I’m hoping maybe I’ll find some information about the laces.” Trying to act natural, I added, “You drove to Waco last night to talk to your aunt, didn’t you? Did she have any clues to help you in your search?”

  “Oh, yes.” Lori pulled out a chair and sat down, her eyes shining. “China, I may actually have learned my birth mother’s name!”

  “Oh, my gosh.” I sat down, too, and pushed the carton out of the way. “Really? That’s wonderful!”

  “Yes, really.” Lori’s voice was full of excitement. “And would you believe? Aunt Jo—that’s what she asked me to call her—actually knew my birth mother!”

  “Gosh, what a lucky break,” I said. “And a surprise.”

  “Oh, it is! My real mother’s name is Gatley. Laura Anne Gatley. She was young, Aunt Jo said, in her early twenties, and very pretty. She and her mother, Lorene, lived across the street from Aunt Jo in Sherwood, which is a small town outside of Little Rock. Laura Anne, my mother, had to give me up because she was unmarried and couldn’t make a home for me.”

  “That must have been so hard for her,” I said sympathetically.

  “Well, it turned out to be hard for Aunt Jo, too.” Lori picked up a piece of yarn and made a cat’s cradle around her fingers. “When she found out that my birth mother was giving me up, she knew she wanted to adopt me, and she started working through an agency to make that happen. But my parents—my adoptive parents, I mean—heard what she was doing and put in their application, too. And because they were married and Aunt Jo was single, the agency gave me to them.” She looked up at me, shaking her head. “Aunt Jo said, ‘I was never so mad in my life. My sister—my very own sister!—snatched you right out from under my nose.’ I wanted to laugh, but she was deadly serious. In fact, Aunt Jo was so angry that she refused to visit or even speak to my parents all during the years I was growing up. Can you imagine?”

  “A family feud,” I said with a wry chuckle. “Over you. And you never had a clue.”

  “Exactly. So that’s why Aunt Jo knew my birth mother and my parents didn’t. But when she heard about my search, she was more than glad to tell me what she knew. She actually cried.” She bit her lip. “Well, we both did. It was a pretty emotional moment for me, as you can guess. Learning my mother’s name.” She paused and said it again, almost whispering. “Laura Anne. It’s a pretty name, isn’t it? And a lot like my own. I’m Lori Ann, you know.”

  “So now that you have a name, what’s next?” I asked. “Do you have a strategy?”

  “Several,” Lori said. “I started with the Internet, of course. Her last name—Gatley—seems fairly unusual, so I thought I might get lucky right away. But Google didn’t turn up any leads, so I tried the White Pages. No luck there, either, yet. But there are lots more ways to search, and I’ll keep at it. I’m just so happy to have something to go on.”

  “Maybe she got married and took her husband’s name,” I suggested. “That can be a problem.” In my former incarnation as a lawyer, I frequently had to search for witnesses. Searches for women are often complicated by marriage name changes.

  “I thought of that,” Lori said. “Sherwood has a local newspaper, so I’ll start there. Also, now that I know my mother’s name and the town where I was born, I might even be able to locate my original birth certificate. I’m planning to drive up there. When I do, I’ll go to the courthouse and search the records for marriage licenses.”

  “You might check the local death records, too,” I said gently. “She may have died.”

  Lori’s mouth turned down. “You’re right, of course. Or she might have moved away and then got married. And maybe divorced and married again. It could be a long search—but it feels like I’m on the right track at last.”

  I reached for her hand and gave it a hard squeeze. “I wish you all the luck in the world, Lori. I think you’re going to succeed.”

  “Thank you.” She brightened. “Oh, and Aunt Jo gave me a few things she’s been keeping for me. She said she always meant to throw them out, but when she’d start to do that, a little voice would tell her to hang on to them.” Lori bent over and took something out of her tote bag. “She gave me this.” She laid a baby dress on the table in front of her, smoothing out the wrinkles with her hand.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said, fingering the soft ivory material. It looked as if it was very old. The long skirt had an elaborate lacy panel in the front, and lace inserts on the puffy sleeves.

  “A christening gown, Aunt Jo calls it, entirely handmade and handed down in my birthmother’s family. My grandmother Lorene—Laura Anne’s mother, that is—gave it and some other stuff to Aunt Jo, when they thought Aunt Jo was going to adopt me. But then the family feud started, and Aunt Jo was so angry with my adoptive mom that she just stuck everything away on a shelf and never mentioned it. She knew that her sister wasn’t religious anyway, so I wouldn’t have been christened. There was no point in her handing over the dress.”

  “You might show this to Christine,” I said, thinking of what the professor had said about the importance of ritual clothing. In this case, the dress was meant to be worn on a very special occasion: a baby’s welcome—an initiation, really—into a family, a faith, a community. “She might be able to tell you something about the pattern in the lace.”

  “Good idea.” Lori took her cell phone out of her tote. “I’ll send her a photo and see what she says.”

  I stood up and picked up my carton. “Well, I guess I’d better get back downstairs.”

  Lori snapped the cell phone photo. “Aunt Jo also gave me a big brown envelope full of old family pictures. I haven’t had time to look through them yet, but I’m hoping maybe I’ll find some more clues there.” She grinned. “I have the feeling I’m going to be busy for a while.”

  I grinned back, thinking that Lori looked happier than she’d been in quite some time. “Hope you find what you’re looking for,” I said, and took my load downstairs with the intention of sorting the photographs at the counter.

  There was a constant stream of customer traffic in and out of the shop that afternoon—a good thing, really, because more traffic means more sales. But it also meant that I didn’t get to the photos. And since I knew I had to work on my Enterprise article that evening, I decided that there was no point in taking them home with me. Caitie would be home, too, and I wanted to spend time with her. When I closed up at five, I stowed the carton under the counter, next to the box of magnetic letters I used on the bulletin board.

  And as I did, I have to admit that I felt a certain amount of anticipation, of the goose-bumpy variety. If there really was a ghost, and if she really had decided to communicate with me via old photographs, maybe she’d be glad to have this batch to work with. When I stopped to think about it, I felt a certain sympathy with her. It would be pretty frustrating to go through eternity with something important on your mind and no way to express yourself except by humming or ringing a bell or fooling around with magnetic letters and an old photo on a bulletin board. She might welcome a little help.

  Hey, China. It was my lawyerly self again, objecting. Assumes facts not
in evidence. What part of that don’t you get?

  I got that. I got it all. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder. What was it, exactly, that this ghost, if that’s what she was, wanted to tell me? Why now, after all these years? And why me and not Ruby?

  That’s okay. I don’t blame you if you don’t believe it. I didn’t, either—not really.

  But still . . .

  Chapter Eight

  Pecan Springs, Texas

  August–September 1888

  In the few weeks after the storm, Annie was happier than she had been since Douglas died. Adam came often after dark, discreetly, by the path through the hedge. They loved, laughed, and talked together until the early hours of the morning. Her heart overflowed with the forgotten richness of loving and being loved, and she felt physically alive again, her skin tingling with an electric awareness, her senses alert to smell and taste and sound, her whole body singing and eager, anticipating Adam’s arrival, his touch, his kiss. She couldn’t stop thinking about him, loving him, wanting him with a passionate desire that she had not felt since the earliest days of her marriage to Douglas. It was as if she was under the spell of an irresistible power that was now in command of her heart, her body, her mind. She had no choice but to yield, and yield willingly, to anything it demanded.

  Her happiness was not without its price, however. Annie had always thought of herself as a moral person, careful to respect the rights of other people. She tried never to lie and she was scrupulous in her dealings with her merchants and her girls. She would never take anything—not a skein of thread or a pair of scissors or even a needle—that belonged to anyone else.

  But when she was with Adam, Annie’s scruples took wing and flew right out the window. Love made its own rules, she told herself, and loving Adam felt utterly and beautifully right. She simply wouldn’t allow herself to think that it was wrong to love another woman’s husband.