The Northbury Papers

by Joanne Dobson

  “Well, this is stupid, I know … But here goes.” Piotrowski nodded in encouragement. “This seems to be a sensation novel—”

  “What’s a sensation novel?”

  “In the nineteenth century that would have been a story about—well, illicit happenings—you know, dark, wicked deeds: adultery, murder, theft, opium fiends, wrongful imprisonment—”

  The policeman snorted. “Reality. A story about reality.”

  “Yeah,” I responded, with a wan smile, “right. It must seem that way to you. And, although I’ve only read a few pages, I’d bet my buttons that this book is about an illicit love affair and an illegitimate child. What they would have called a love child.”

  “So? That stuff’s on the best-seller list all the time. Why would anyone want this manuscript?”

  “Now this is where it gets a little shaky. But—you remember I said this novel might be publishable?”

  “Yeah?”

  “When I talked to Dr. Hart about that, I was thinking of maybe publishing it with a university press, for circulation among scholars and students. Interesting—but no big deal. Very little money in the academic world, you know? But then I got to thinking—”

  “Yeah?”

  “Lieutenant, do you follow publishing at all?”

  “You kidding?” He looked as astonished as if I’d queried him about a passion for exotic orchids.

  I told him about the three recent Alcott publications I’d mentioned to Edith. “I met the editor of one of them once—Earl Wiggett, his name is. He’s always on the lookout for old manuscripts with commercial value. Spends his time poking around in libraries and attics for anything he can edit and sell. And he really hit pay dirt with Alcott’s The Duke’s Daughter. Got a two-million-dollar advance for it. He got me thinking—I mean, thinking about him got me thinking, I mean—well, anyhow—I suppose it’s possible there could be some real money involved.”

  “Two million, huh?” Piotrowski’s eyes widened. “Like I said before, money’s always good. Who would benefit from the sale of this here Northbury manuscript?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the one who’s seen Edith’s will. Who inherits?”

  Piotrowski’s expression shut down abruptly. Then the door flew open, and Sergeant Schultz stood framed in its blocky shadow. “Lieutenant, may I have a word?”

  The front legs of Piotrowski’s chair clattered on the gray tile floor, and he rose with a surprisingly fluid motion for such a large man. “Keep reading, Doctor. I’ll be back.”

  With the lieutenant gone, I settled into the story again. Northbury’s sentiment always gets to me, and she was in rare form here.

  Emmy lingered at the airy summer house, pierced by memory, then, resolutely, she took the trusting little hand and led Lizzie away, toward the great house so far below.

  “Muvver, must you go?” The child’s forlorn words lingered, hung heavy in Emmy’s heart, as the stage wended its route down the treacherous mountain road away from Brookside. There were tears in Emmy’s eyes, tears for the beautiful soul she feign must leave behind. Alas, another long year must pass while she labored in the vineyards of the wide, wide world before the bright face of her dear child would light her pathway once again.

  The flaming beauty of the autumnal country through which the four great horses carried the fragile coach with its human freight of hope and sorrow did nothing to distract the destitute mother’s thoughts, until, passing slowly through a quaint, neat village of the kind so frequently found in our New England countryside, her eyes happened to fall upon a small group of foot-weary, travel-worn wayfarers headed resolutely northward. Emmy’s involuntary exclamation of surprise drew the attention of a tall, stalwart figure in the group, whose dark gaze was drawn magnetically to Emmy’s hopeful stare. A stern look from the black eyes of the wanderer, a near imperceptible negation in the movement of his dark head, and the troubled woman dropped her eyes, retreating into her customary silence, and the stage passed on. But, reader, is this a look of glee we see in—

  Here the page ended, and I looked up, frustrated. Was it glee? I’d bet anything it was. But why? Unless I found the rest of the manuscript, I’d never know. Dammit! Maybe one of the remaining pages would give me some clue. I was reaching for when Sergeant Schultz entered the room and plucked it from my hand, then briskly swept the other pages up from the table in front of me.

  “Okay, Dr. Pelletier. That’s enough for today.”

  “Sergeant, you dragged me all the way down here. The least you could do is let me finish reading this thing.”

  She shook her head. “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not required to give you any reasons.” Her plain face was expressionless.

  “Couldn’t you let me have photocopies?”

  “Nope.”

  “Where’s Piotrowski?” By now, I was furious.

  “Had to rush off. This isn’t our only case, you know.” This woman really knew how to hold a grudge; the chip on her shoulder must have weighed twenty pounds. “And in the lieutenant’s absence, I’m in charge here.”

  Oh, Jeez!

  “And,” she continued, “while I am not free to disclose factors of the case which would make it clear to you why I think it is procedurally inadvisable for you to have further access to this evidence, I do feel it necessary to advise you that, in spite of your—ah, acquaintance—with the lieutenant, you are not free and clear in this investigation.”

  I sputtered, but she overrode my protest. “As a matter of fact, I’m requesting you give us consent to search both your house and office—”

  My exclamation of outrage cut off her words. Impassive as a statue, Schultz loomed over me, clutching the document envelopes. “If for some reason, Dr. Pelletier, you don’t wish to give us permission to search, I can easily request warrants. Just let me know if that’s the case, and I’ll get on my way.” Any minute now, she was going to start tapping her foot like an impatient schoolmarm.

  “Just tell me, Sergeant.” I rose from my chair and stood directly facing her. She squared her shoulders, and I had a sudden impression that my additional height—about two inches above her five six—intimidated her. The sergeant stuck her chest out, displaying to maximum advantage the gun bulge under her green twill jacket. “Just tell me, does Piotrowski know about this?”

  It was the first smile I’d seen from her, and it was smug. “The lieutenant says you are so impassioned,” she paused so the term would have time to sink in, “impassioned about literature, that he couldn’t one-hundred-percent guarantee that if an old manuscript just happened to come your way you wouldn’t for all the best reasons in the world, he said, avail yourself of the opportunity to acquire it. Thus,” she concluded, “tampering with evidence.”

  I groaned. “Sergeant, I’m not stupid; if I was going to do that, I’d never have told you about the manuscript in the first place. And why the hell don’t you search Meadowbrook? You’re much more likely to find it there—where it belongs.”

  “For your information, Dr. Pelletier, no one thinks you’re stupid. Quite the opposite. And we haven’t forgotten Meadowbrook. Now I’d appreciate if you’d sign these,” she picked up two printed consent forms from a small table and waved them at me, “then find yourself something to do until we’ve finished looking through your house and office.” The sergeant’s words were cool, but her cheeks were flushed. It must be awfully difficult to be a cop when you color up so easily.

  “I’ll sign your damn forms.” I snatched them from her hand, and scrawled ferociously with the ballpoint she handed me. “But I have every right to be in my home and office while you’re there, and I absolutely insist—”

  Sergeant Schultz shrugged. “Come along.” Her attitude implied, No skin off my butt.

  “You’re not going to find anything other than stacks of boring scholarly notes, but I want to go on record as protesting this.”

  “Oh, you will, Dr. Pelletier.” She waved the forms in the air,
drying the ink. “Believe me, you will.”

  I spent the afternoon in doorways, raging inwardly, watching with a hawk’s glare as uniformed officers combed through my desk and file cabinets, my dishes and lingerie, for anything that might possibly resemble a missing novel manuscript.

  As they drove away from my house, I watched from the front porch until the cruisers were out of sight. My hand was on the doorknob before I remembered Piotrowski’s questions about Edith Hart’s will. I’d been so engrossed in the problem of the missing manuscript and in my anger about the search, I’d completely forgotten the will. I turned to call to Schultz, but her blue sedan had already backed out of the driveway, and the sergeant’s eyes were on the road ahead of her. I considered jumping into my car and following her, but a wave of exhaustion swamped me. Instead, I sank into a chair at the kitchen table, lowering my head into my hands.

  I have to admit that, after working so closely with Piotrowski when murder had last struck Enfield College, I was more irritated than frightened to find myself on the other end of the lieutenant’s investigative efforts. I knew I had nothing to do with any homicides—and I was certain he knew it, too. But his new partner had it in for me, and she was in a position to make my life miserable.

  Eleven

  The bedside clock read 9:47 A.M. as I awoke and grabbed for the phone. “’Lo?”

  “Am I speaking to Karen Pelletier?” The voice was cultured and familiar—and thick with some indefinable emotion.

  “Yes?”

  “Karen, this is Willis Thorpe. Are you planning on attending the services today?”

  Services? My brain had not yet begun to function.

  He must have sensed my confusion, “Funeral services? For Edith?”

  “I didn’t know about them.” I was conscious enough now to feel my heart suddenly weighted with sorrow. The ceremony made Edith’s death more final.

  “Gerry was supposed—” The elderly doctor clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Oh, well, no matter. I do hope you’ll be able to come? A small funeral …” He said small as if it would make the event more bearable.

  “Of course, I’ll come—”

  “With a few people to the house afterward. It would be nice if there could be one or two Edith actually liked. You’ll come, then? She would be so pleased.” He sounded burdened—with grief, I thought. Poor man; he had truly loved her.

  “Willis, I’m so sorry for your loss. I know how much she meant to—”

  “It’s for the best.” His tone became unexpectedly brusque. “The life ahead of her was not a quality life. She wouldn’t have been able to bear it. Not Edith. Not given who she was, what she needed. Better she go now—with dignity.”

  “But still—it’s so sad. And the police say—”

  “The police don’t know what they’re talking about. I’ll see you at Maguire’s Funeral Home in Eastbrook, then, at two?”

  To my astonishment, a small Enfield College contingent occupied white folding chairs in the funeral parlor chapel. A bank of roses, gladioli, and lilies flanked the open casket where Edith Hart lay. I’m not certain if it was the sight of my new friend lying there so white and still that choked me, or the scent of flowers heavy in the air, but I had to pause in the doorway a second or two before I could bring myself to enter the room. Then, as I passed through the open double doors, my eye was caught by a blaze of vivid color in the muted palette of the congregation. Jill Greenberg? What the heck? And dressed in sober gray, with only the flame of her bright hair to make her usual flamboyant statement? I blinked to clear my vision. Yes, there in the front row, Jill Greenberg sat next to Gerry Novak, who sat alongside Dr. Thorpe. The closest thing Edith had to family, I mused. So sad. But it wasn’t only Jill’s presence that stunned me; if I’d thought about it at all I might have expected to find her there. What really blew my mind was the Brewster family. Directly behind the Novak-Thorpe row sat Thibault, Tibby Two, and Mrs. Brewster, black clad, and as straight and solemn as crows on a fieldstone wall. What in hell were the Brewsters doing at Edith Hart’s funeral?

  As I stared at them speculatively, a strong hand gripped my upper arm. A deep voice murmured, “Karen? What on earth are you doing here?” I jerked around and came face to face with—Avery Mitchell, for God’s sake! The chapel organ began the sonorous tones of “Abide With Me,” and Avery quickly steered me to a seat in the back row. Then, with a practiced twist of the wrist, he flipped open a hymnbook. As his rich baritone boomed out “Aaaa-bide with me-ee, fast falls the e-ven-ti-i-ide,” I struggled to keep my eyes front forward. I was here to pay my last respects to an accomplished and passionate woman, not to gawk at Avery. He poked the hymnbook in my direction; evidently I was supposed to sing too. Oh, God. Taking a tentative grip on a corner of the scarlet book, I was quavering, “Cha-ange and decay, in all around I see-ee,” when Lieutenant Piotrowski slipped quietly into the row ahead of us. Jesus!

  At the sight of Piotrowski, Avery, who had met him during the Enfield incidents, glanced at me questioningly. My shrug was intended to suggest profound existential bafflement. The frown lines between Avery’s eyebrows deepened. He was too smart to assume this cop was simply a member of the family.

  Will Thorpe’s eulogy was short and heartfelt. He’d known Edith for over fifty years, since they’d met in medical school. She was a woman ahead of her time, a committed care-giver whose passion for the deprived had carried her safely through some of the most dangerous decades and neighborhoods of a hazardous time in a hazardous city. “At a time when birth control was illegal in New York,” Will said, “Edith risked her professional credentials to assure that women in her care had access to basic contraception. More than one young family owed its health and well-being to Edith Hart, and in some cases her care went well beyond the medical. A number of the women and children who benefited from her concern have kept in touch with her. Some are here today.”

  Listening to him speak of his old friend with such quiet emotion, I recalled Will’s tender treatment of her during my short visits. I remembered the full-blooded vitality of the youthful Edith in the photograph he had scrutinized so wistfully. Then his half-teasing debate with Edith about ordinary love versus extraordinary love came back to me. Suddenly I grew cold with horror. This subdued but moving eulogy was motivated by a deep passion and abiding love. How far would Will Thorpe have gone to save his beloved old friend from the degradation and humiliation of pain and dependency? How extraordinary was his love?

  My gaze was drawn to the back of Piotrowski’s sturdy neck. Could he be entertaining the same speculations? If he was, the massive spread of gray tweed in front of me kept its own counsel. I sighed; there was no keeping anything from the lieutenant. If I’d thought of it, he had, too.

  My eyes slid back to Avery. He listened attentively to the eulogist, the cool blue gaze clear and thoughtful. I still didn’t know what he was doing at this funeral, but I found this man’s physical proximity all the more alluring in the presence of the hard reality of death. The cold body at the front of the chapel; the warm, lean body so close I could reach out and run a hand down—I yanked my attention back to the funeral rites, clasped my hands demurely in the lap of my dark blue dress, and concentrated fiercely on the service. Some hungry little voice whispered: But life is so very short and the perfume of flowers so rich in this sweet, close air. I ignored it.

  When Gerry Novak rose to give the final eulogy, the small group shifted and murmured. This man was the son Edith Hart had never had, and she had treated him well. What more fitting occasion for him to express his love and gratitude? Gerry’s frizzy blond hair was pulled back into a short ponytail. He was dressed in an old khaki suit. It was the first time I’d seen him wearing anything other than jeans, and he had a sort of shabby dignity as he moved to the lectern.

  “All the bastard world,” Gerry began, “cries out to the child of innocence.”

  Avery’s head jerked; he stared, first at Gerry, then at me, startled by the breach of decorum.


  “He’s a poet,” I muttered.

  Avery’s expression registered instant comprehension. Oh, Christ. He’s a poet. God knows what he’s going to say. I could almost see his Episcopalian soul cringe. I was brought up Catholic; nothing fazes me.

  Gerry placed both hands on the lectern and repeated the first line.

  “All the bastard world cries out to the child of innocence.

  Railroad ties and the long scaffolding of trestles

  Serve baptism, and confirmation waits. Give me my name.”

  He stood braced against the lectern for an excruciating ten seconds after he’d finished declaiming the brief verse, gazing enigmatically at his shocked audience. Then he returned to his seat next to Jill, his pale face impassive.

  The congregation took a unanimous breath, the first since he’d begun speaking.

  As we filed by the flower-flanked coffin to say a final farewell, my attention was caught by Edith’s gold filigree locket. She’d worn it on one of my visits, and I had the same sense then that I had now: This heart-shaped trinket reminded me of something I’d seen somewhere else, but, frustratingly, the memory wouldn’t shake itself loose.

  Since Avery hadn’t been to Meadowbrook before, I rode with him to show the way. Dark gray Volvo sedan, leather interior, CD player, Mozart sonatas: The man had taste as well as money.

  Avery had learned just that morning that Enfield College had received a bequest in Edith Hart’s will. “I’ll get the details later, Karen, maybe even this afternoon, but from what her attorney told me, it’s a sizable sum. I thought it only right for me to attend the services and pay my respects.”

  “Now, why would she leave money to Enfield College?” I wondered aloud. “It must be because of her great-great-grandfather.” Avery cut a mountain curve sharply, and I grabbed hold of the door handle.

  “Sorry.” He favored me with a rueful grin. “And who was her great-great-grandfather?”