“Well, I was. And now I’m not. You killed it, Paul.”
“I don’t propose we jump right back to where we used to be, Rachel.”
“We aren’t jumping anywhere. And anyway, this is starting to sound like a bad soap opera.”
Paul gave me a sheepish grin. “I know.”
Mary buzzed me on the intercom. “Rachel, it’s that guy from the dictionary publisher again. He says he has some news on Canaan, Massachusetts.”
“Okay, I’ll take it.” I looked at Paul. “This will take just a sec.” I lifted the receiver and said hello.
“Miss Gold, this is Ralph Pinchley from American Language.”
“How’s it going, Ralph?”
“I’m really quite excited, Miss Gold. I think we’ve finally solved this Canaan mystery.”
“Oh?”
“It appears that our 1928 edition did contain an entry for Canaan quite similar to the one you read me. However, it was an erroneous entry. I’m pleased to report to you that the error was caught before the revised edition went to press in 1942. There was no Canaan, Massachusetts, Miss Gold. Our research files for the 1942 edition confirm that.”
“How?”
“Oh. Well, there is a note in the file. Quite, uh, succinct, I might add.”
“What does it say?” I asked.
“Well, it says: ‘Checked sources; no such place.’”
“What about the 1928 files?”
“I beg your pardon.”
I sighed. “Ralph, if there’s no such place, then how did it get into the 1928 edition? What’s in those files?”
“Oh, dear. I’m afraid those files are gone. They were destroyed in a fire back in 1931.”
“Rats.”
Undaunted, Pinchley launched into another sales pitch. I listened silently, thanked him again, and hung up.
“Canaan, Massachusetts?” Paul Mason asked.
I shrugged. “An imaginary Puritan village.”
“Not necessarily imaginary.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s a good story.”
“Wait a minute. How do you know anything about Canaan, Massachusetts?”
Paul smiled. “I went to Barrett College. Anyone who went to Barrett College between about 1950 and 1980 has probably heard of Canaan. One of the professors used to give a famous lecture on it each year.”
“There really was a Canaan, Massachusetts?”
“Apparently so.”
“How come I couldn’t find anything on it?”
“It’s not in the standard history texts. It was just one of dozens of little towns and villages that failed back in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. But some Colonial historians know about it. And there’s been at least one book written about it.”
“What book?”
“I’m sure I have a copy of it somewhere. I’ll drop it off.”
“What’s so special about Canaan, Massachusetts?” I asked.
Paul shook his head, grinning. “Read the book first. It’s real short. I don’t want to spoil the fun. I’ll bring it by your place this afternoon. I won’t be around tonight, but we can talk about it tomorrow.”
I shook my head, smiling despite myself. “This all sounds like a sneaky way to extort another meeting with me.”
Paul parodied shock, his hand on his heart. “Me an extortionist? Never.”
“All right. Drop off the book and we’ll see.”
Paul sat back in his seat and studied me with a wry expression. “Does this Canaan thing have anything to do with your work on Graham Marshall’s estate?”
I stared at him. “How do you know about my involvement with Marshall’s estate?”
Paul chuckled. “Elementary, my dear Gold. You are talking to America’s foremost authority on detective fiction. It starts to rub off after a while.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Paul. How did you find out?”
He shrugged. “Your friend Kent Charles told me you were working on the estate.” He gestured toward his gym bag, “I played handball with him over the lunch hour.”
Back when Paul and I were together, I had dragged him to a few bar association functions. He had met Kent Charles at one of the events, and the two hit it off immediately. We had even double-dated a few times. Paul and Kent played handball together twice a week at the Union League Club.
“What did Kent say?” I asked.
“Not much. He mentioned that he saw you Monday at the firm. And that you looked as gorgeous as ever. An understatement, I might add. He said you were helping the firm on something to do with Marshall’s estate. I assume it has to do with that codicil on your desk.”
I glanced at my desk and saw the codicil lying faceup on the edge near Paul. The word Canaan appeared several times in capital letters on the first page. The caption had Marshall’s full name in bold-face type.
“You’re getting to be a real snoop,” I said.
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t help noticing it while you were on the phone with that guy.”
“Well, it’s supposed to be confidential, Paul. So I’d appreciate it if you keep your mouth shut. Understand?”
He raised his right hand. “I promise.”
I glanced at my watch. I was supposed to meet Kent Charles at the Yacht Club in less than an hour.
Paul saw my glance and stood up. “I have to get going,” he said. “I’ll drop off that book later.” He lifted his gym bag and then paused.
“What?” I said.
Paul winked as he unzipped the bag. “I brought back a present from California.”
I rolled my eyes. “Paul.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not for you.” He handed me a gift-wrapped package. “Tell Ozzie I miss him.”
I smiled. “That’s sweet. Thanks.”
“Tell him it’s what all the dogs are into out on the Coast.”
After Paul left I unwrapped the gift. Inside was a pair of dog sunglasses—the wraparound Terminator style—and a small package of all-natural dog biscuits from some outfit in Marin County called The Organic Hound.
I sat back in my chair and smiled. Maybe he really had changed.
***
I met Kent Charles for drinks on the sundeck at the Yacht Club. He got there before me and was flipping through advance sheets when I arrived. His suit jacket was hanging on the back of his chair and he was wearing sunglasses. Just like Ozzie’s.
Pausing at the doorway to the sundeck, I had to marvel again at how smoothly Kent Charles had adapted to his present life-style. The fourth son of an East Joliet bricklayer, Kent had been the first and only member of his family to enter college—an achievement made possible through the munificence of the athletic department of the University of Illinois. A four-year football scholarship carried him to a B.A. in economics. A three-year academic scholarship carried him to a J.D. from the University of Illinois College of Law. A combination of hard work, good looks, aggressive smarts, chameleonic adaptability, and a London tailor carried him to junior partnership at Abbott & Windsor—the first graduate of the University of Illinois College of Law to survive that perilous swim upstream. More than one client of Abbott & Windsor had asked Kent where he had prepped. To his credit, he answered truthfully, albeit with a touch of arrogance: East Joliet High.
“Glad you could join me, Rachel,” he said, removing his sunglasses and setting them on the table next to his drink.
A waiter in a white jacket arrived just as I sat down.
“I’ll have another gin and tonic, John,” Kent said. “How ‘bout you, Rachel?”
“Bud Light,” I said. After the waiter left I gestured toward the harbor. “Is your boat out there?”
Kent pointed. “It’s the fourth one on the left, over there.”
“I remember going out on it when I was
a summer clerk.”
Kent smiled. “Yes. You wore a white one-piece, and your boyfriend got seasick as soon as we left the harbor.”
“He threw up down in your bathroom.” I shook my head. “At least I still have the swimsuit.”
“How’s your practice?”
“I’m busy,” I said.
“Any regrets?”
“None. I guess I’m just not cut out for the big firm culture. I enjoy being on my own.”
The waiter arrived with our drinks and a bowl of peanuts.
Kent took a sip of his drink. “Cal and I would like to get you back into Bottles and Cans.”
I drank some of my beer. “As I said, I enjoy being on my own.”
“And you would be. We have a potential conflict with one of the bottling companies. We’d like you to represent them. It would be easy work, Rachel. We could start you off on one or two of the defendants’ subcommittees. Cal is chairing one on pre-1970 market-share surveys. I’m handling the predatory pricing claims, along with a guy from Cravath. It would mean a committee meeting each month, some work with expert witnesses, some drafting work, and attending some of the depositions. The next round of deps starts soon. I can make sure you get some choice assignments. Better yet, your fees are paid out of the joint defense fund. I’m on that subcommittee too.” Kent smiled. “We pay all attorneys’ bills within thirty days, no questions asked.”
I mulled it over. It would mean an easy thousand dollars a month, probably for years to come. Bottles & Cans was an annuity for every lawyer involved. “What’s the catch?” I finally asked.
Kent laughed. “No strings attached. Honest, Rachel, we could use the help. And if you don’t take the client, we’ll just have to refer it to someone else.”
“God, I just hate the thought of getting back into that case.”
“Might as well get on the gravy train, Rachel. It’s an easy fifteen grand a year.”
“Who’s the client?”
“Mound City Bottling Company.”
“In St. Louis?” I asked.
“Right. You’re from down there, aren’t you?”
“You’re making it tempting.” I smiled.
“Terrific.”
“Wait. I haven’t said yes yet. Do you have a file on Mound City Bottling?”
“Sure. I’ll have my girl send it over tomorrow.”
“Your what?”
“Sorry.” Kent laughed. “My secretary.”
“That’s better, boy.”
I asked Kent a few questions about Mound City Bottling, and then we discussed the current status of Bottles & Cans.
Kent pointed to my empty glass. “Another?”
“No, thanks. I have to get back to the office.”
Kent checked his watch. “I have a meeting at six. A board meeting of the Shedd Aquarium. It ought to be over by seven. Do you have dinner plans?”
“I do. Thanks, anyway.”
Kent smiled. “Maybe some other time.”
“Sure. If I decide to represent Mound City, you and Cal can buy me dinner and fill me in on the case.” Might as well keep the relationship professional from the start.
“Can I drop you off at your office?” Kent asked as we both stood up.
“No, thanks. In rush hour traffic I can get there quicker on foot. I could use the exercise, anyway.”
“You look in great shape to me,” Kent said as we passed through the dining area toward the exit.
Outside the Yacht Club one of the car hoppers had pulled Kent’s red Mercedes convertible to the front. He handed the keys to Kent.
“I had lunch with Harlan Dodson today,” Kent told me. “Harlan said there was a mystery involving Graham Marshall’s estate. Is that what they’ve got you on?”
“Just a loose end they want me to tie up,” I said, keeping it vague.
Kent moved close. “Well, Harlan seems really bent out of shape about Ishmael bringing you into the case. He probably drafted the will, and he’s hypersensitive about anyone else trying to second-guess him on those things.” Kent smiled. “Just a friendly tip.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.”
He placed his hand gently around my waist. I could smell his musky cologne. “Listen, if you have trouble tying up that loose end, I’ll be happy to tell you whatever I know about Graham. We spent literally hundreds of hours together on out-of-town trips. I probably know more about that man than anyone but his wife. If I can help, give me a buzz.”
I almost asked him about Canaan right there, but decided to hold off. I had already told Benny, and I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. “Thanks. I’ll give you a call if I have any questions.”
***
Mary had typed my notes of the four newspaper articles listed in code on the computer printout. I read them on the el ride to my apartment.
I got off at the Morse stop in Rogers Park, still mentally shuffling the articles: a beauty pageant, a fatal plane crash, an embarrassing typographical error, and a hidden treasure in a discarded cabinet. I was beginning to sense a pattern somewhere out there on the horizon of my mind, but it was still eluding me.
I knocked on my landlord’s door. No one home. It was seven o’clock. Linda probably had taken the kids and Ozzie out for a walk. I left a note on her door and walked upstairs to my apartment.
It was stuffy inside, so I opened a few windows. I put a head of romaine lettuce under the kitchen faucet and went to my bedroom to change. I owed my parents a letter. I’d write them tonight.
I was cutting up a salad when Linda knocked on the door. She had Ozzie with her.
Linda came into the kitchen. “You’ll never guess who dropped by an hour ago,” she said.
“Who?”
“Mr. Wonderful himself. Professor Mason.” She rolled her eyes heavenward. “He was as polite as a boy scout.”
“I saw him downtown at the office today.”
“Oh?”
“He wants us to give it another try.”
“And?”
“I don’t know,” I said, cutting a tomato into the salad. “He came awful close to begging. And that about killed it for me.” I cranked open a can of tuna, pressed the lid to squeeze the water into the sink, and scooped half the tuna on top of the salad.
“Well, he might not be that bad, you know,” Linda said. “Look at it from his end. If he really has grown up, then he must feel terrible about what he did.”
“I’ll see.”
“It’ll be good for you, Rachel. Just be careful.”
“Don’t worry.”
“Well, Paul dropped this off for you,” she said as she handed me a large manila envelope. “He said you’d know what it was all about.”
Chapter Fourteen
After I finished dinner and the dishes, I opened the manila envelope and pulled out a slender sheaf of photocopied papers stapled at the upper-left corner. There was a note from Paul Mason paperclipped to the first page:
Dear Rachel:
Here’s that Canaan booklet I told you about. It’s a Xerox from the rare books collection of the Barrett College library. I’ll be having breakfast at the Main Street Cafe tomorrow at 8 if you want to talk about it. I’ll be out most of the rest of the day—faculty meetings.
It was great seeing you today!
Your friend,
Paul
Faculty meetings? Were they in the same category as his student “conferences”?
I slipped off the note and flipped through the booklet. Thirty-one pages, copied two pages per photocopy. The Lottery of Canaan, by Ambrose Springer. Copyrighted 1903 by the Springer Trust. Springer had dedicated his little book to his sister, “As a slight token of the generous sympathy which has cheered me at each stage of this arduous undertaking.”
I walked into my bedroom, pulled down the be
dspread, and propped up the pillows. Clicking on the reading lamp on my nightstand, I got comfortable on the bed.
In his two-page introduction Springer complained of the difficulties which “bedevil the foolhardy soul who embarks on a mission to rescue from the crypt of time a long-forgotten tale of Colonial America.” His mission had taken him “into musty attics in search of old diaries, into the dank storage rooms of old churches in search of the recordations of daily life long ago, and into old burying grounds for a glimpse at faded epitaphs engraved on crumbling tombstones o’ergrown with weeds.”
I turned to the first page and began reading:
Perhaps no tale from the earliest days of our young republic is more curious than the brief history of Canaan, Massachusetts. Those in possession of maps of the Commonwealth will search in vain among the cartographer’s markings for a sign of that little village. Canaan existed for but a mere quarter of the 17th century, and all references to it were expunged from the Commonwealth’s record in 1699 by unanimous vote of the Congregational ministers. All that survives are a handful of sermons and diary entries by Canaan’s young minister; a tattered remnant of a hand-printed advertisement; and the faded and besmudged records of that small village’s church. This pitiful and tantalizingly incomplete record was rescued from oblivion by your humble author after a fire nearly destroyed the South Hadley home of Jonathan Frye, who claims to trace his ancestry back to Mr. Joseph Frye of Canaan.
Our tale commences in 1675, one year after young Winthrop Marvell graduated from Harvard College with a degree in ministry. Of his youth we know little. He was born in Boston in 1655, the sixth son of Richard and Anne Marvell, who had made the perilous pilgrimage to the New World in 1649.
Young Reverend Marvell settled in Cambridge Village after his graduation from Harvard College. In 1679, some of the inhabitants of that fair village, complaining of the lack of adequate land, announced their desire to leave the banks of the River Charles to set forth to investigate new territory in the wilds of western Massachusetts. Young Marvell consented to accompany them and serve as their minister.
On the morning of May 10, 1679, 119 hardy men and women assembled on the Cambridge common with all their possessions, including seventy head of cattle. After solemn prayer led by their fervent young minister, they set forth to the beating of the drum which hitherto had summoned them to church. Following ancient Indian trails through the deep forests, they made their way slowly west, driving their cattle before them.
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