“So someone could have just reached out to keep her from stumbling on a curb and caused those bruises.”
“Or someone could have grabbed her and tossed her over the railing.”
Sean stabs his salad with his fork. “When I first talked to friends about Loretta’s state of mind, no one was willing to mention how anxious she was about the trouble Crawford was in. None of her high society friends wanted to be the first breach in the wall of silence. But once I did a second round of interviews and made it clear I already knew about Crawford, the floodgates opened up.”
Sean waves his loaded fork and some lettuce hits the floor. Ethel sniffs and walks away in disappointment. “People told me Frederic was tired of Crawford dragging the Bostwick family name through the dirt. The drunk driving, the cheating in college, the rehab. Frederic said his son was a bad seed and should be cut off without a cent.
“Then the scandal with the girl broke. The thought that his son might now be labeled a sex offender for life was driving Frederic around the bend, and the two of them argued constantly. Loretta confided in some of her friends that she was afraid her husband might actually hurt Crawford, and she tried to keep them physically separated while she figured out what to do.”
“That explains why Crawford was looking for a place to stay,” I say. “With his mother gone, things must’ve been really tense with the old man. And now, Frederic won’t even give him money for a decent lawyer. So far, this sounds like a motive for Crawford to kill his father, not his mother.”
“You been talking to my boss? That’s what he says.” Sean massages his temples. “I’m sure Loretta’s death has something to do with Crawford needing money to bail him out of his scandals, but I can’t connect all the dots.”
“Why kill Loretta? She was the one with all the money. Couldn’t she simply have written a check for whatever Crawford needed?”
Sean points his fork at me. “That’s where it gets complicated. I found out Loretta’s father decided the best way to preserve the family fortune was to protect it from rogue relatives. Apparently, his younger brother was a black sheep, like Crawford. Loretta’s father took the Scour-Brite business public—turned it into SB Enterprises so it would be governed by a board of directors. The family were majority shareholders, but they couldn’t skim money out of the company. Then he put a wad of money in a family charitable foundation—”
“The one that gives money to the Rosa Parks Center,” I interrupt.
Sean nods. “—and he tied up the rest of the cash in a bunch of complex trust funds.”
“So Loretta, Frederic, and Crawford have never had unlimited access to the Scour-Brite Enterprises fortune?”
“Correct. But they still had plenty of cash to keep that giant house running and live the lush life.”
“So Loretta couldn’t skim some bucks off her allowance to rescue Crawford? Was she afraid of her husband? Is he actually a violent person?”
Sean offers a rueful smile. “All men are violent, Audrey. Some are just more easily triggered than others.”
“So you think Frederic abused Loretta?”
“Define abuse. I think he’s a demanding person used to getting his own way. Does he hit women? Maybe not. But there are other ways to make your wife miserable.” Sean lines up the salt and pepper shakers with the sugar bowl. “Remember, Loretta wasn’t a rebel. She wanted to keep peace with her husband. She wanted to make her son happy and comfortable. It was hard to do both.”
“So she had to resort to scheming?”
“My mother once told my dad that we weren’t having meat for dinner for a week because of a salmonella outbreak. Then she used the money she saved to buy Deirdre the Lord and Taylor prom dress she had her heart set on.” Sean lifts his hands skywards. “It’s what mothers do.”
“You’re seriously telling me that Loretta Bostwick, one of the richest women in New Jersey, was scrounging for money like an Irish housewife, and that somehow got her killed?”
Sean raises his eyebrows to give me the full effect of his baby blues. “That’s what I think. So now you know why no one at the office is willing to listen to me anymore.”
Chapter 38
DAY TWO OF THE TATE sale feels subdued.
The crowd outside is smaller although still substantial. But inside, we workers have been thrown off our game by Levi’s suicide. We mark down prices and rearrange the items left, but it feels like we’re wading through molasses as we work.
Henry, in particular, looks shell-shocked. “I can’t believe he killed himself. A man his age oughta know there’s no trouble that can’t be got through with the help of the Lord.”
Ty also looks worried. “I wanna know what’s up with Dennis,” Ty mutters to me when we’re alone in the back parlor. “I’ve been texting him and he won’t answer.”
“You think he has those photos? It’s weird that the photos and Dennis are both MIA.”
Ty doesn’t answer, but he has a strange look in his eyes as he helps me move two tables into the front parlor. I keep pressing him. “Ty, is it possible Dennis is the person who hit you and locked you in the secret room?”
Ty flinches like a kid burned while playing with matches. “Why would he do me like that? I mean, we’re not close friends, but we’ve known each other a while. And he’s the one always goin’ on about black men needing to back each other up.”
“So we were totally wrong to suspect your father?”
“Guess so. He’s livin’ in a halfway house in Dover, tryin’ to stay away from his old crew. Charmaine says he got a job in a warehouse.”
I set up some portable lights so customers can see the items still for sale. “That’s a relief.” But Ty still looks worried.
He drags a chair out of a dark corner. “And then there’s the van.”
“The van?” I’ve finally gotten the van back from the Newark police, who didn’t find any useful prints inside. “You think Dennis had something to do with the carjacking?”
Ty shrugs. “I don’t wanna believe it. But I keep thinkin’ about the smack he was talkin’ that day. It was like he was trying to get me pissed off to like, distract me.”
“Distract you from what?”
Ty looks me in the eye. “I think he was trying to see inside the van.”
“Inside? But the cargo area doesn’t have windows.”
“The front seat. What was in the front?”
My eyes open wide. “The ledger! The ledger that I moved inside my house that night.”
“But he musta thought we still had it in the van.” Ty shakes himself as if a bug landed on him. “I can’t believe Dennis, of all people, would use a kid from the ‘hood like that. What if Dennis’s scheme got that kid arrested?”
I gaze around the half-empty front parlor. “There’s something about this house, something about the inheritance, that’s causing Dennis to take enormous risks. And whatever it is, I think Crawford Bostwick might be after it too. Why else would he come here?”
Ty marches toward the front hall. “Let’s open the doors and get this sale over with. I’ve had enough of this house.”
The sale passes in a blur. Bargain hunters snap up the remaining antiques. Curious souvenir-seekers buy a surprising quantity of small odds and ends. Henry’s men load his truck with junk for the dump: the sad, worn out chairs where Maybelle and Vareena spent their days reading, the old radio, the thin aluminum pots.
The Tate sale is over.
I should be elated, but I’m gripped by a strange uneasiness. Has all our work been for nothing? Is the Parks Center in danger of losing this inheritance? Is there some information in that ledger or in the secret room that’s going to upend the windfall that should save the Center? Is my dad going to lose the funding for his dream project?
I sit in my car after the others have left and gaze up at the empty Tate Mansion. Are Vareena and Maybelle’s secrets now lost to me?
On the drive home, a deer bounds across the road ten feet from my car. I sl
am on my brakes, and when I do, I see something gold-colored peeking up between the passenger door and the seat.
Birdie’s trophy.
My Honda is almost as messy as the van. It must’ve slid up from the back when I braked.
I guess I could drop it off on George’s front porch tomorrow.
Or....
I cradle the trophy in my hands. I could take it over to Birdie at the nursing home after I detour to my office and pick up the family tree I saved. And while I’m there, ask her about the erased box on the family tree and the photo she buried in the box.
The photo that Loretta gave her.
There’s a link here, and I’m going to figure it out.
BIRDIE ARMENTROUT RESIDES in “Vistas Memory Community” of an upscale assisted living complex called The Palisades. That’s a lovely name for a locked down ward with security to rival Guantanamo Bay. I announce myself through a speakerphone and stand in front of a security camera. After a few moments, a middle-aged attendant comes to let me in, securely locking the door behind my back. In the main part of The Palisades, the carpets are plush and the furniture elegant. Here, the floors are easily mopped wood-pattern laminate, and all the furniture is covered in Pleather. An old gentleman wanders by, his eyes fixed on something only he can see. A woman sits on a sofa calling out softly, pleasantly, “Son of a bitch. You go to hell.”
“She’s the wife of a Methodist minister,” the aid explains. “Alzheimer’s causes a lack of inhibitions.”
I shiver and follow my escort to the main desk. When I ask for Birdie, the woman sighs. “I’m afraid she’s not having a good day today, but you can try. Are you her niece?”
“No, I’m an old family friend,” I lie smoothly. “Her brother George told me she probably wouldn’t recognize me, but he says she enjoys visitors anyway. And I found something she might enjoy.” I hold up the trophy.
“Yes, some days she does enjoy visitors. But often she doesn’t recognize her friends and relatives. Last week she complained that there was a strange man bothering her and asked us to get rid of him. Naturally, that upset her nephew.”
George’s sons live in Boston and Denver. Was one of them visiting? I saw a picture of them at Birdie’s place. They look like younger versions of their dad, short and mournful.
“A short guy with dark hair?” I ask.
“No, tall.” The supervisor purses her lips as she ponders. “He had kind of an unusual name. He played the piano beautifully. The other residents enjoyed his visit even if Birdie didn’t.”
Crawford Bostwick! I don’t see him as an angel of mercy, visiting the infirm. He must’ve been digging for information on that photo, just like me.
“Oh, I’ll leave if she doesn’t want to see me,” I reassure the supervisor.
“On the other hand, her garden club friend came to visit and Birdie looked straight at her and said, ‘Hello, Louise. How are your clematis?’ So you never know.” She points me down the hall. “Birdie’s in the Solarium. It’s her favorite spot.”
The first time I toured the house with George, there were still plenty of photos of Birdie, so I’m fairly confident I’ll recognize her. When I enter the solarium, I see several very old, frail people and one healthy woman in her mid-sixties. She’s hovering over a huge geranium in the window, carefully plucking off yellow leaves and spent blooms. She’s thinner than in her pictures, but unmistakably Birdie.
I approach her cautiously. “That’s a beautiful flower. Is it a geranium?”
“Yes.” Birdie barely acknowledges me as she continues her work.
“I didn’t know they could grow so big indoors. I thought they had to be outside.”
She pauses and peers at me as if I’m not too bright. “Full sun. Not too much fertilizer. Careful pruning.”
“Ah—that’s the secret.” I stay by her side as she moves to the next plant. “What’s this one called?”
“Oxalis. Cut it back to encourage new growth from the tubers.”
We continue in this manner all around the solarium. Birdie tends each plant, remembering their names, sometimes even giving them in Latin. Another resident says hello to her and Birdie nods. Then she stage-whispers to me, “I don’t know when she joined the garden club. Too many new members!”
“Yes, I agree.” Birdie seems to have accepted me as a garden club member in good standing. So far, so good.
We reach a tree-like plant in a large pot. Birdie sticks her finger in the dirt and determines it needs water, but when she tilts her watering can, nothing comes out. She holds the empty can looking perplexed. Her hand tightens on the handle and her face grows agitated. Clearly, she can’t remember how to get more water.
“Can I refill that for you?” I touch the can gently.
She releases it and stands lost amid the plants as I hurry to a small sink in the corner and refill the can. When I return it to her, Birdie’s hand trembles under the new weight. But she seems relieved when the water flows onto the soil in the big pot.
Crisis averted.
“Have you done any more work on your family tree?” I ask casually as we trim some dead fronds off a hanging fern.
“Oh, yes. I work on it every day.”
This seems unlikely, but I consider it a good sign that she remembers the family tree. “I think your family is related to Julius Crawford—is that right?”
“Yes. Is he a friend of yours?”
Julius died eighty years before I was born, but I’ll play along. “I’ve never met him, but I’ve heard a lot about him. He invented Scour-Brite, right?”
“Oh, yes. He’s clever. Very clever.”
“And does Julius have children?”
She gives the fern some water. “Three.”
Every biography of Julius Crawford says he had two sons. Who is this third child? Will Birdie remember?
Birdie hums under her breath and speaks to the fern. “What’s causing these brown tips, hmm? Too much heat for you?” Her brow furrows as she takes stock of the fern’s location.
I want to bring her attention back to the family tree, but I don’t want to upset her or put ideas in her head. Can I get her to sit down so I can show her the erasure on the old pencil-drawn copy of the family tree?
Birdie reaches up to try to remove the heavy hanging pot from its hook, swaying with the effort.
“Whoa.” I put out my hand to restrain her. “Maybe we’d better not move that.”
She pushes my hand away. “Yes! It has to come down. It’s too close to the heat vent.”
I glance around for an aide. What will be worse—Birdie bringing a fern pot down on her head or Birdie pitching a fit? The nearest staff person is halfway down the hall. “Okay, let me do it. I’m taller than you.”
Birdie sizes me up and steps back. With her hands on her hips, she commands, “Put it on that table.”
The table in question has an abandoned game of solitaire spread across it. I’m pretty sure no one wants a big, shaggy fern there, but I figure I can apologize to the staff later. The damn pot must weight forty pounds, but I manage to reposition it to Birdie’s satisfaction.
“Much better,” she says.
I sit down on a nearby loveseat and pat the cushion next to me. “The fern does look better there. Come and sit down. I’d like to show you something.”
I guess I’ve earned Birdie’s trust because she sits next to me without hesitation. I pull the folder from my tote bag and unfold the family tree across both our laps.
Birdie’s eyes light up. “There’s my great-great-great grandfather Lucius Armentrout. “ She points to a box on the tree. Any worry that she might question why I have her family tree is vanquished. “And there’s Barton Armentrout—he was a real scoundrel.”
So far, she’s gotten everything right. The drawing must be tapping into the same deep well of memory that contains her horticultural knowledge. I nudge her along. “And who are these folks here?”
“Those are our third cousins once and twice removed
—Loretta Bostwick and her son, Crawford. The Armentrouts are related to the Bostwicks through Loretta’s paternal line.” She taps a branch of the tree.
I trace the line back. “So Loretta is the great-granddaughter of Julius Crawford. Her grandfather was Julius’s younger son. And who is this line to this empty box beside the two sons of Julius where you erased a name?
Birdie giggles and covers her smile with her hand. She leans closer and whispers in my ear. “It’s a family scandal. Very naughty.”
“Oh? What happened?”
Birdie leans back and folds her hands primly. “It’s a secret.”
“A secret that you figured out?”
She nods, pleased with herself.
“Will you tell me if I guess right?”
Birdie giggles again, enjoying herself.
I whisper back to her, “I think Julius had another child. And maybe his wife wasn’t the mother.”
She nods and claps her hands.
“How did you discover that?” I ask her.
“Not me. Loretta. She found a picture at her grandfather’s house...well, it’s her father’s house now. And she remembered some things her grandfather told her when he got old.”
“And she showed the picture to you?”
Birdie nods. “She wasn’t sure what it meant...the adoption...the payments. I told her it was very common in those days. It upset her....” Birdie gestures as if shooing a bug off her roses. “Too sensitive.”
“The baby was adopted? By whom?” I reach for my phone so I can show her the photo of the photo and see what she says.
Birdie taps the screen, totally accepting of the fact that I have this picture. “This man worked for Julius. He was Portuguese.”
Portuguese? Soares. Vareena Tate’s maiden name was Soares. “Was the baby—”
“What in the world?” An aide comes bustling into the solarium. “Birdie, did you move that fern? Didn’t I tell you to leave it be?” She heaves the fern pot off the table.
Birdie leaps up to intervene. A tussle ensues. More aides arrive.
My visit has ended.
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