Nolan cleared his throat. “I can see how that would upset you. You never got answers about what frightened you as a child—and what you thought frightened your grandmother. And you probably felt responsible in some way.”
“I did.” Gravel in Min’s voice cluttered her tone. “Whatever the documents were, I’m sure my grandmother destroyed them, and they carried on from there. Helmi and Charles moved back into the little red house and lived there until they both passed.”
“I’m so sorry you’ve carried that around all your life.” Jillian reached into the bag she’d brought with her on this excursion. “I have some papers that might answer some of the questions you never got to ask when you were a child. Before we get to the trunk, maybe you’d like to see them.”
“Of course,” Min said.
“I made copies of the parts of the trial transcript that were most illuminating of events,” Jillian said. “You can actually read the words spoken by Carrick and Ela and Helmi when they testified. I’ve also made a list of all the names I found in the Pinkerton’s archives referring to operatives working undercover on cases like this one that I think are actually pseudonyms for Carrick and Helmi.”
Nolan chuckled. “I have a feeling this list will be similar to what was on your office walls a couple of weeks ago.”
Jillian’s lips turned up on one side as she passed the list to Min.
Carey Meade. Will Meade. William Meade. Caroline Meade. Liam Carey. Willie Meade. William Meade. Carey Willis. Kip Willis. Kiplan Carey. Kip Meade. Caroline Wills. Caroline Willis. Carey Kipling. C. W. Krispin. C. M. Kaplan. Cara Willis. Cara Williams. Carolyne Mead. Cara Charles. William Charles.
Drew stood reading over his aunt’s shoulder. “They really did borrow each other’s names. My grandmother had that part right! The transformation from Wilhelmina to William to Liam is particularly inventive.”
Jillian nodded. Inventive, yet still in the realm of playfully nodding to each other as the twins must have done when they were children.
“If I may ask,” Jillian said, “what were their full legal names?”
“Carrick Meade Kyp,” Min said, “and Wilhelmina Caroline Kyp—then Lewis, after she married Uncle Charles.”
“But what about Ela?” Michelle asked. “Mom, you always said she was always just Ela Kyp. She never even used a middle initial, but now we know she was Lynnelle Bendeure.”
“Dad,” Jillian said, “it’s time for the Bible.”
Nolan got up and carefully opened Lynnelle’s steamer trunk, which stood in Min’s living room. Once Jillian had established a connection to Lynnelle’s descendants, the museum curator in Denver had been happy to cede possession to the rightful heirs. Nolan handed the Bible to Jillian, who gingerly opened it to the pages of family births and deaths and turned the volume for the others to see.
“Lynnelle was born Lynnelle Elaine Bendeure. When I first started looking for name variants that might surface, I explored variations of her unusual first name—dropping an l, Lynne E., Lynn with no middle initial, changing Lynnelle to Lynnette, and so on.”
“Another long list on your whiteboard,” Nolan said.
Jillian nodded.
“But the one you circled was Ela Bends,” Nolan said.
“She shortened Elaine,” Michelle said, “and simplified her last name.”
“And I found a marriage record for Ela Bends and C. M. Kyp,” Jillian said. “Carrick Meade Kyp, I now know. That’s what led to my very rude intrusion onto your peaceful and stunning ranch a few weeks ago, when I thought someone had taken over her identity and used it for illegal gain to buy a large piece of land shortly after Lynnelle Bendeure disappeared. Then I saw that photo on Drew’s mantel and realized I might have the whole thing wrong. This ending to the story may still have mystery, but it’s so much happier.”
She caught Drew’s eye. His cheek dimpled.
“In the trial transcript,” Jillian said, “someone asked Lynnelle why she changed her name. They were trying to establish the need for keeping her safe until she testified, I think. In the course of the back-and-forth, they asked how she chose the name she did. She said she’d never particularly liked her whole middle name, but it had come from her mother’s family, so she chose to preserve a piece of it that she did like the sound of.”
Min wiped the corner of one eye, and Michelle handed her a tissue.
“Would you like to see what else is in the trunk?” Nolan asked.
Heads bobbed, and he dragged the small rug on which it sat toward the center of the room.
“I’ve seen it,” Drew said. “It’s remarkable. Josie—our great-great-grandmother’s clothes. It’s like a time capsule.”
Someday, Jillian wondered, would she have the chance to tell Drew about the time capsule of her own trunk?
“Go ahead,” Jillian said, “open the drawers.” There was no need for the white gloves now. The trunk was home. She could suggest the gloves later if the family wanted to take particular care, but in this moment, they should touch and feel the past however they wished.
“Mom,” Michelle said, “you should go first.”
As everyone who encountered the steamer seemed to do, Min stroked its canvas fibers before reaching into the shelf above the hanging clothes.
“The brush set,” Min said.
“You know it?” Jillian asked.
“Not directly. My grandmother told me about it a couple of times. When I was little, she used to braid my hair and we talked.” Min lifted the brush and hand mirror. “This is remarkable. This is exactly what she said it looked like, right down to the way the brush and the mirror had the same shape, just in different sizes, and the same trim on the back. She said she wished she still had it, because she would love to give it to me.”
“What a sweet memory.” Jillian had held the items in the trunk looking for clues, never shifting to the possibility that someone related to Lynnelle might have sentimental connections to belongings they’d never seen.
“That was over seventy years ago,” Min said. “I haven’t thought about it in decades. My sister and I used to play with an old wicker case she had for our dress-up clothes. I don’t know what became of it. We wore it out.”
“You did get her brooch,” Michelle said, “the one you gave me on my wedding day.”
Min nodded. “And now this. Her Bible. Her clothes. Her things.”
“And photos,” Jillian said. “Look in the next drawer.”
Josie extracted the photos that had been sheltered from light for more than a century, flipping through them before handing them to Min.
“You said your grandmother said her brother had died,” Jillian said, “and her widow had separated from the family. There they are.”
The family passed the photos around in reverent awe.
“Did you figure out what happened?” Min asked.
Jillian glanced at Drew. “Do you want to tell her?”
He nodded. “Using the names from the DNA site, I tracked down some of the distant cousins it said I had on Facebook and Twitter and reached out. I got some responses—and answers.”
“Well, out with it,” Min said.
“When Ela’s brother’s widow remarried, her husband adopted her sons and changed their last name. But they still inherited the Bendeure company when they were older. Their biological grandfather made sure they knew who they were. The distant cousins that showed up when I spit in a tube really are related to Ela—and all of us—through these little boys.”
“The missing nephews,” Min whispered.
“Like most American families, the descendants are scattered over multiple states,” Jillian said, “but a couple of them have been really friendly and curious—and very helpful in filling in the family tree. So I have one more surprise for you.”
Drew helped clear off the coffee table, and Nolan took one end of the roll Jillian had prepared and unfurled it while she held down the other end. A family tree beginning with Lynnelle Bendeure, a.k.a. Ela
Bends, and Carrick Meade Kyp unwound, running to the sixth generation. Beneath it, in parallel fashion, were the descendants of Lynnelle’s brother and his wife through their two sons.
“I’m sure it’s not complete,” Jillian said. “Six generations is a lot to fill in, and most people don’t even know all the names of their cousins’ kids if they’re from large families, much less their cousins’ grandchildren. But it’s only been a week, and with some time, I’m sure we’ll fill in the rest. What Lynnelle lost will be found again.”
Min no longer tried to wipe the moisture overflowing her tear ducts. “I’ll have to call Ronald—my little brother. He’ll want to know about this. I wish your grandmother were still alive, Drew.”
Nolan stood with his hands in his pockets. “I’m so pleased that the steamer has come to where it belongs at last. I hope your family enjoys it for generations to come.”
“Actually,” Drew said, “I have a thought about that.”
Jillian blinked, confused.
“This is my proposal,” Drew said. “We keep many of the things in the trunk—the photos, the Bible, the hairbrush, the Bendeure business papers, the Pinkerton’s correspondence. But we let the steamer trunk and clothes live in Canyon Mines, at the Heritage Society, where it can remind other families not to let anything get in the way of what matters most. It can be on indefinite loan with a small plaque that tells our story.”
Jillian’s throat thickened. The room went silent.
“It’s a lovely idea.” Min’s voice rasped. “We can visit it any time we like when we go through Canyon Mines, which I’m sure will be often now. Particularly Drew.”
Heat climbed across Jillian’s neck. Drew snatched her glance with his own.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Three boxes ought to be enough. The time capsule would never fit in a box anyway, with its awkward tubular shape. The heavy wool coat would need its own box. She’d taken the items she wanted and placed them downstairs already. The remaining items were most of the dishes and the heirloom christening gown. For now, Jillian would leave the boxes in the attic until she decided where in the house to incorporate the belongings. The immediate concern was to transport the trunk itself down the steep steps and then another flight to the main floor. For as long as she’d lived in this house, since she was two years old, the trunk had been in the attic. When she was little and explored its contents under her mother’s supervision, it had been in the attic. She had no memory of move-in day and how the trunk had gotten up to the attic, but today she would sort out how to get it down.
Jillian folded the flaps of the last box and tucked them into each other.
“Dad!” she called down the stairs.
“What is it, Jilly?”
“I need your help up here.”
Nolan’s footsteps came up the steps. Jillian was already dragging the trunk on a blanket across the rough attic floor.
“What are we doing, Silly Jilly?” Nolan asked.
“Drew had a great idea.” Jillian gave the blanket another tug. “I already talked to Marilyn. She’s thrilled with the idea of having both trunks.”
Nolan put his hand on the trunk. “Are you sure about this?”
“Absolutely. But I can’t get it down the stairs by myself.”
“You’re sure you’re not avoiding something by giving the trunk away?”
“I’m sorry, Dad. I should have asked you how you would feel about this. It was Mom’s trunk.” Jillian sat down and hung her elbows over her knees.
Nolan shook his head. “That’s not it. She always wanted you to have the trunk, so it’s yours now. It’s you I want to be sure about.”
“You can be sure, Dad. The trunk would be on loan. I could have it back anytime I want. If I want to put any of the items on display with it, I can—and then have them back if I want them. This is not one of those decisions that has to be forever.”
“You’ve thought about this.”
“All night.”
“Discussed it with Drew?”
She looked away. “Might have.”
“Your two trunks together in the same exhibit.”
“Dad. Don’t read more into it than is there.” Jillian stood again and started dragging. “Are you going to help me or what?”
“Of course.”
The task took negotiating, false starts, trying again, and stopping on the upstairs landing to catch their breath, but they got the trunk down to the first floor. At the foot of the stairs they paused again, and Nolan wiped his brow with his handkerchief.
“I see you added some new photos to the piano,” he said.
Jillian nodded. “I found the silver frames at Veronica’s shop. They seemed fitting.”
“I think your mother would have been pleased.”
“I made sure to digitize the images too. If anything happens to the originals, they are in the cloud. I always want to know they’re safe.”
“She’d like that too. The plate and cup are a nice touch from Grandma Marta’s side.”
“I’m going to get Marilyn’s advice about the christening gown. Maybe there’s a way to preserve it for posterity that’s better than a musty attic.”
Nolan nodded. “I’m sure she’ll know.”
“I made one last decision,” Jillian said.
“Please don’t tell me you want to take this trunk back up two flights of stairs. I’m not as young as I was the first time I did it twenty-six years ago.”
“Nope. I’m going to spit.”
His eyebrows went up. “In a tube?”
“Yep. I’m a genealogist. It’s inexcusable that I’ve never done it before now.”
“That may be a little harsh.”
“I read other people’s results all the time,” Jillian said, “but I’ve never done my own.”
“You know plenty about the Duffy side of your genes,” Nolan said.
“That’s true. And I don’t have any first cousins on the Parisi side. Neither did Grandpa Steve. But I bet if I spit in a tube I’ll find fourth and fifth cousins, just like Drew did, and maybe they’ll have answers to questions I thought I missed my chance to ask.”
“Maybe.”
“A genealogist should have done this a long time ago.”
“Then let the story continue.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
On my mantel are several family photos of people whose names I don’t know. The full story is those photos come from my husband’s side of the family, and we came into possession when we went through a box of his mother’s things. The photos are unlabeled, and my husband is just not certain anymore. In one photo, the family includes a little girl. Another photo of a young woman looks like it might be the same little girl grown up.
I’m not sure. I’m not very good at looking at old photos and saying definitively it’s the same person.
But based on the wardrobe and hairstyles—and mustache style on the man—I know the images are quite old. And I know my husband is related to them, which means my children are too. I don’t know if I’ll ever know their names.
Also from my mother-in-law we have a large book about the Holy Land that her aunt was awarded in 1910, around the time of this story, as third prize in a Sunday school competition, the pipe my mother-in-law’s father smoked, a tiny, tiny child’s ring still in a cardboard jeweler’s box, and baby shoes my husband wore nearly seventy years ago.
And of course I have other items that have come from my side of the family. Some of my favorites are the passports my parents traveled back and forth with when my dad first immigrated to the US, then they decided to return and live in Brazil after they married, then they decided to settle permanently in the US, now with a toddler in tow. The last passport in the stack is the last one my father used the final time he traveled to visit his family a few years before his death. Last year one of my brothers unearthed a copy of my father’s citizenship naturalization record. I remember the day my dad came home, having taken the oath that made him an America
n citizen. I was six and went running out of the house to congratulate him. Those documents tell a story of our family.
What do you have around your house that tells your family’s story but lose some of the details with each generation? My hope with a story like When I Meet You is that you will value those items, ask the questions of people who know the answers while you still can, and add to the flow of the narrative with your own items and the reasons they are meaningful for the next generation.
Writing historical fiction always means taking some liberties. Pinkerton’s Great Detective: The Amazing Life and Times of James McParland by Beau Riffenburg is a thorough telling of the colorful career of James McParland and the high-profile cases he investigated—not always without bias—particularly in the mining industry in western states. My story is set in the waning years of his career, but at its height, he was a powerful figure, and the western region he oversaw for Pinkerton’s was essentially half the country. Archives at the University of Boulder include trial transcripts for high-profile cases McParland was involved with. To his consternation, they did not always turn out his way. I borrowed the idea of transcripts and placed them at the Denver Public Library, where they do not exist. The particular case and the trial I write about are completely fictitious.
The American Bankers Association’s reliance on Pinkerton’s for many years to track with their operatives the swindlers and fraud operations between banks around the country is true. That became a substantial inspiration for placing most of the historical thread of this story on trains, where it was not uncommon for confidence schemes to occur as seemingly harmless fellow passengers struck up friendly conversations. The pattern of con men (and women) to operate under strings of false identities also influenced developing story threads around sorting out what might have been foul play over a hundred years ago—or other less nefarious reasons for name changes. (Even James McParland’s surname spelling morphed for reasons no one is sure of.) The reports Pinkerton’s made annually to the American Bankers Association detailed who they investigated, what names the individuals had operated under, which banks they had used to transact fraudulent business through spurious accounts, and so on.
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