by Gayle Hayes
The Scrimshaw Set
Books 1 & 2
By
Gayle Hayes
Amazon Kindle Edition
The Scrimshaw Set
Books 1 & 2
Published by Gayle Hayes on Amazon Kindle
© 2012 by Gayle Hayes
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, brands, media, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products that are referenced in this work of fiction and have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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The cover photograph and graphic design are the creations of the author and protected by the above copyright.
DEDICATION
This novel is dedicated to two of my readers, JANIS and SHERYL, who enjoyed my original novel, The Scrimshaw Set, and convinced me to write a sequel. Without their enthusiasm and encouragement, I would not have written Book 2. I thank them and all the readers who give me a reason to do what I love doing.
NOTE TO READERS
When I wrote THE SCRIMSHAW SET, I intended it to be a short novel. It was only after two of my readers encouraged me to write a sequel that I began Book 2.
At first, I thought I would simply publish another short novel. However, I decided to combine the original book and sequel into one novel. This will enable readers of the original book to refresh their memories without having to consult a different book. New readers will have both books in one novel.
Upon publication of this novel, I will unpublish THE SCRIMSHAW SET. The reason for this is that I revised the book before combining it with the sequel. I have made corrections and additions to enhance the material. I also eliminated some chapters by including the material under another chapter.
The original novel appears first under BOOK ONE. The sequel appears under BOOK TWO.
Table of Contents
BOOK ONE: DISCOVERY
PREFACE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
BOOK TWO: DILEMMA
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
ABOUT GAYLE HAYES, AUTHOR
BOOK ONE: DISCOVERY
PREFACE
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT
OF
FRANCES C. FAVAGER
I, FRANCES CULLEN FAVAGER, of New York, New York do declare this to be my Last Will and Testament, hereby revoking all wills and codicils at any time heretofore made by me.
ARTICLE ONE
I direct there will be no funeral or memorial service for me and that my ashes will be scattered over the Chinese Wall in the State of Montana.
I direct my personal representative to pay from the residue of my estate those of my debts that may be legally due and owing at the time of my death, cost of cremation, expenses connected with the dissemination of my ashes, and expenses of administration in accordance with the law.
ARTICLE TWO
I give all my tangible personal property located in my New York City apartment to my dear friend Marilyn Tucker, New York, New York with the exception of the set of scrimshaw, which has belonged to the Cullen family for four generations. I give the scrimshaw set to my granddaughter, Emma Lou Favager or to her issue. If Emma Lou Favager should predecease me and leave no issue, I give the scrimshaw set to The Massachusetts Historical Society.
I have left a memorandum stipulating the conditions under which the remainder of my assets will be disposed. It has been sent to Harold B. Lowe, Attorney-at-Law. Said memorandum is the statement of my wishes and shall not create a binding obligation and shall not be probated as part of this will.
ARTICLE THREE
I nominate and appoint Atticus Finch Theroux, Attorney-at-Law, New York, New York, as my personal representative of this will. If he is unable or unwilling to serve, I nominate and appoint Marilyn Tucker. Further, I direct that my personal representative shall serve without bond.
ARTICLE FOUR
I, FRANCES CULLEN FAVAGER, the Testatrix, sign my name to this instrument this 23rd day of January, 2012 and being first duly sworn, do hereby declare to the undersigned authority that I sign and execute this instrument as my Last Will and that I sign it willingly, that I execute it as my free and voluntary act for the purposes therein expressed, and that I am eighteen (18) years of age or older, of sound mind, and under no constraint or undue influence.
Frances C. Favager
Frances C. Favager
CHAPTER ONE
Frances Favager found a recycled plastic bag with handles, inserted the parcel wrapped in brown paper and addressed to Harold B. Lowe, Attorney-at-Law, and grabbed her purse before leaving her apartment. In a hurry, she buttoned her camel knee-length coat with the fingers and thumb of her right hand while heading to the elevator. She'd signed her will that morning. Once the parcel was mailed, her affairs would be in order, and she'd turn her attention to the chemotherapy.
The elevator was crowded, and Frances was forced to stan
d with her nose in close proximity to the man who had followed her onto the elevator and then elbowed his way into the front row. She thought he smelled of Mexican food. The stale food odor was strong and infused his clothes and hair. Frances smiled inwardly as she imagined herself describing the man to her bridge club. She knew the man's mother recently moved to the building from California after her sister, Carmen Sandoval, fell and broke a hip. Carmen's nephew was unemployed. Frances thought he was lazy. She fancied herself quite tolerant of the less fortunate and not at all bigoted. Even so, she'd decided not to welcome Carmen's sister to the building. There was no need to do so, and her friends would not have approved.
Frances arrived at the front door to the apartment building at the same time as Carmen's nephew. She was surprised when he held the front door for her. She tightened her grip on the plastic bag with the parcel in it, nodded without smiling, and hurried down the street. As she waited for the light to change, Carmen's nephew sidled up beside Frances and struck up a conversation. The man was obviously new to New York City. The other pedestrians waited at the light while looking straight ahead, texting, or talking on a cell phone. No one talked to strangers.
With the cacophony created by trucks, busses, people hailing cabs, and an airliner heading toward LaGuardia, Frances strained to hear Carmen's nephew and loosened her grip on the bag with the parcel in it. The other pedestrians were halfway across the street when Frances extricated herself from the conversation with Carmen's nephew. He headed in the direction she had sent him. Frances noted the flashing warning on the opposite side of the street and hurried through the crosswalk.
An elderly woman stood at the window of her apartment above the street while listening to the mournful Meditation by Massenet. She was riveted by what she saw.
Frances was pushed violently, regained her footing, and saw someone running across the street with her parcel. She realized the scrimshaw set, treasured by four generations of Cullens, was snatched from her care. She instantly gave chase, hollering for someone to help her stop the thief. The other pedestrians were either oblivious to her predicament or did not want to become involved.
Distracted as she was in trying to keep the thief within sight, Frances did not see the delivery truck. As she waved her arm and shouted for someone to stop the thief, the light changed from red to green. The driver for Bronx Seafood, Inc. accelerated his delivery truck and slammed into Frances Favager. He did not see her until her body flew through the air, landing near the curb. A crowd gathered. Someone called 9-1-1 and tried to find a pulse. Frances Favager expired.
The elderly woman in the window saw the crowd gather around Frances Favager and then watched the thief throw the parcel into the alley next to the post office before he unzipped his jacket and tossed it and his stocking cap into a trash bin. The man hurried down the street, turned the corner, and dropped out of sight. A businessman exited the office building across the street and walked in the direction of the post office. He saw the parcel, inspected it, and took it into the post office.
A postal clerk held the parcel for three days before returning it to Frances Favager's address. Carmen Sandoval's sister took the parcel back to the post office. She paid the postage due with money given to her by Marilyn Tucker who had hired the woman to help her dispose of the items in Frances Favager's apartment.
CHAPTER TWO
Phyllis Carle and Carole Wylie sat in the foyer of Billy's Balsamroot Café tucked between two art galleries on Main Street in Buffalo Jump, Montana and waited for their usual table. They'd come from the post office and each was reading the personal letter written by Marilyn Tucker concerning the death of Frances Favager.
Carole Wylie wiped a tear from her cheek with the tissue in her right hand and rested her left hand, with the open letter, in her lap. She felt cold and worked her bare arms into the sleeves of the sweater that had been tied around her shoulders. Then she blew her nose, and read the letter a second time. Carole was five years younger than Frances and had recently retired after working as a secretary to three different superintendents of the local school district for most of the last forty years. Carole was still a natural blonde with a telltale strand of gray here and there. She had hastily done her hair up in a messy bun and only took the time for a dab of mascara on her lashes. Hers were the type of features that did not seem to age. More than one woman asked her in a whisper, while promising complete confidence, "Who did the work for you?" Even when she assured people her full lips and wrinkle-free face were not the result of Botox injections, she was rarely believed.
Billy McGill picked up two menus and snapped her fingers at Carole Wylie. Carole, in turn, nudged Phyllis, and they followed Billy to their table. Billy had reached the rank of sergeant in the Army and never quite got over being in charge. She bought the building and restaurant equipment at a sheriff's auction and turned the failed Buffalo Jump diner into a profitable local café and destination restaurant for anyone who read about the must-see attractions in this part of Montana. The sign on the rustic exterior was graced with large, bright yellow flowers growing from the green arrow leaf base of a balsamroot, a wildflower in Montana. The café was bright, clean, and inviting. In the summer, diners enjoyed ingredients direct from Billy's own garden. No one made huckleberry pies to compare with Billy's. Although she featured a variety of country and western music as background, Billy was partial to Chet Atkins. As Carole and Phyllis considered the luncheon special, Carole hummed along with I'll See You in My Dreams.
Billy had named the menu selections after counties in Montana. Carole and Phyllis ordered the Ravalli Reuben and sipped on iced tea. Carole had been waiting for Phyllis to say something about the letter from Marilyn Tucker. Finally, she could wait no longer.
"Well, what do you make of it?" Carole asked.
"Make of what?" Phyllis was annoyed because Marilyn Tucker's letter reminded her that Frances had snubbed her in favor of Carole twenty years before.
"The letter from Marilyn Tucker, of course."
"What's to make of it?" Phyllis asked.
Carole should have been used to Phyllis' habit of mocking her, but she was feeling especially sensitive after hearing about Frances.
"The accident. The way she died," Carole said.
"She lived in the middle of New York City for chrissake! There's probably a fifty-fifty chance of getting hit by a truck while you're crossing the street. She wasn't murdered, you know," Phyllis said.
"But it was so violent. We were close once."
"She didn't feel a thing. It was more humane than colon cancer," Phyllis said.
"Are you surprised she didn't leave us anything?" Carole asked.
"Why should she? We haven't seen her in twenty years."
"I wonder if Babe got a letter, too," Carole said.
"Babe will take it hard. We should drop by the office when we finish here," Phyllis said.
The waitress delivered their Ravalli Reubens. The sandwiches were crowded to the edge of the plate by heaps of sweet potato fries, still sizzling with freshness from the deep fryer. Carole cut half of her sandwich in half and then nibbled on a length of potato. Phyllis clamped down on half of the Reuben and shoved a potato fry into her mouth with it. No news was bad enough to affect Phyllis' appetite, including the news of Frances Favager's untimely death.
Phyllis had been a nurse at the Sun River County Medical Center near Buffalo Jump before retiring. Wiry strands of gray hair refused to blend with her dark hair. Her blue eyes were her best feature, and their long, upswept lashes did not require mascara. Her dark brows met in the space over her nose. Her chin was square, and the flesh of her neck did not sag like it does on so many women her age. She had been told more than once that she was built like a tank, which served her well when dealing with male patients at the hospital. Phyllis was wrong about as often as she was right, but if you were smart, you'd not point it out to her. Perhaps that alone explained why she and Frances Favager had parted company. They were too much alike and neithe
r one was phased by the assumed authority of the other.
Carol gave Phyllis her share of the tab and then struck up a conversation with a neighbor waiting for a table at Billy's. Phyllis paid the cashier. The two women stopped to window shop on the way to Harold Lowe's office.
Harold was at the office every day except Sunday, saying it was a mandatory day of rest. Whether or not he actually believed Sunday was meant for resting, saying so got him off the hook more than once. As the only attorney for miles, handling the affairs of the good citizens of Buffalo Jump could easily have taken seven days instead of the six he allotted.
Although he was almost seventy-six, Harold's face was wrinkle-free and supple. His high cheekbones, prominent brow, small nose, and full mouth gave his features a chiseled appearance. The brilliance of his blue eyes had faded over the years. He struggled with his weight, but his height and bearing helped to conceal the extra pounds. He always wore a dress shirt and tie to the office. On Saturdays when he would not be appearing in court, Harold wore jeans and a sport jacket. Today the jacket was a darker green than that in his shirt and tie.
Harold's feet were on his desk, and he was finishing the last bite of a hard-boiled egg when Phyllis and Carole walked into his office. The brass bell affixed to the top of it roused him from his reverie.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in!" Harold said. He pushed his chair back, lifted his feet off the desk, and stood up. For a moment, he felt light-headed and braced himself by placing his left hand on the desk.
Carole walked up to Harold and put her left arm around his back, giving him a gentle hug. He put his right arm around her shoulders and drew her closer to him. Phyllis plopped into one of the chairs in front of Harold's desk and pointed to the remaining hard-boiled egg.
