by A W Hartoin
Stevie belched, loud and juicy. “No, we didn’t.”
Chuck and I looked at him, but the goofball didn’t elaborate. He started licking his plate. His mother would have had a heart attack. Olivia didn’t approve of any kind of licking. How that prim woman gave birth to Stevie was a mystery and made me wonder if I should remain the last egg in the family basket. If I did breed and came up with someone like Stevie, it wouldn’t be worth it.
“Okay,” said Chuck. “I can’t stand it. We didn’t what?”
“Huh?” asked Stevie, peeking over the rim of his plate.
“You said we didn’t do something. What didn’t we do?”
“Oh, yeah. We didn’t look in there.” He pointed to the sofa table. Of course. The sofa table wasn’t a table at all. It was a tool chest, made by Pop Pop’s grandfather. Pop Pop didn’t have much use for tools, so he made it into a sofa table. We cleared off all the rubbish. Pop Pop did like his sports magazines. He had everything from Sports Illustrated to Golf Digest. We made stacks next to the chest and then examined its padlock.
“I can pick it,” said Chuck.
“And relock it?” The padlock was an old brass job with a large keyhole. If we needed the key to relock it, covering up our snooping would be a lot harder.
Chuck examined the lock. “Maybe not. Let’s look for the key.”
We searched the house for a half hour and came up empty. It was pick the lock or give up.
“I say you pick it,” said Stevie.
“You would,” I said.
“You want to know what’s in there, you gotta be bad.” He grinned. “They’ll get over it. They always do.”
“That’s your parents.”
“You’re their only grandbaby. What’re they gonna do? Take away your birthday?”
“Fine. Go for it, Chuck,” I said.
“Music to my ears.” He waggled his eyebrows at me.
“Will you never learn?”
More waggling. “Probably not, but I’m hoping you will.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Learn what?” asked Stevie.
“Never mind.”
Chuck got his picks and had the lock off in two minutes flat. The chest opened with a loud creak. It was filled with photo albums, old ones with crumbling paper pages and black and white photos held on with little black triangles on the corners. We carefully lifted out each one and went through the pages. The oldest album was from the 1920s and it was filled with family pictures of a car trip out to the Grand Canyon.
“One more,” said Stevie.
I leaned over and looked, gripping the side of the trunk. “That’s it.”
Stevie and Chuck scooted over on either side of me and all three of us gazed down at the last album in the bottom of the trunk. It was large and square with an embossed cover that said, ‘Our Friends.’
“How do you know?” asked Stevie.
“It’s identical to the scrapbook Florence Bled kept on Stella Bled Lawrence during the war,” I said.
“There’s a scrapbook on Stella?” asked Chuck as he lifted the album out and put it into my lap.
“There’s probably lots of books like that,” said Stevie.
“No way. It’s exactly the same. Look at this clasp and the border. The Bleds don’t buy things at Walmart. Stella’s book was specially made. This is hand stitching.”
“What does Stella’s book say on the front?’ asked Chuck.
“Tarragon,” I said.
“Like the spice?”
“I guess.”
“Open it. Let’s see what we’ve got,” said Chuck.
I opened the cover and found a large portrait of a couple under a sign that said ‘Happy 40th Anniversary.’ The man was thin and studious-looking with thick glasses and thinning grey hair. His wife was a buxom blond.
“Hey. She looks like you, Mercy. Not so Marilyn though. Who is it?” asked Stevie.
“Amelie and Paul. They’re my great-great-great-grandparents.”
I turned the page and found pictures of the party. There were tons of people. Amelie and Paul must’ve been pretty popular.
“What year is it? The hair is weird,” said Stevie.
“Has to be the thirties.” I carefully pulled a photo out of its triangles and read the back. It was dated September 24, 1938 and had a bunch of names identifying the people in the photo. I didn’t recognize any of them.
“Are there any Bleds?” asked Chuck. “I only know a few.”
I thought back to all the portraits in the Bled mansion and in Prie Dieu, the family seat. I did know Bleds, but there were a lot of them. I’d only recognize the ones closest to Myrtle and Millicent, their father, uncles, and close cousins like Stella. There was a certain look to the Bleds, a self-assurance that great wealth brought. I didn’t see that in the photos.
I leafed through the pages and the photos changed from the party to what I assumed was Amelie and Paul’s anniversary trip. They took a huge ocean liner called The Destiny and went to Europe. No Bleds in any of the shipboard photos or on their Grand Tour around Europe. They landed in Liverpool and toured England, then Italy, Greece, Austria, and Germany (a questionable idea in 1938). I was about to give up when I got to the last country, France. Gorgeous pictures of a happy couple still in love after thirty years decorated the pages as they traveled through Burgundy and the Loire Valley. There were lots of laughing shots and a few where Paul was grinning in a bad boy sort of way and Amelie’s eyes were narrowed, shades of my parents. Chuck leaned in and slid his arm around my waist. He was smiling down at my ancestors and I didn’t stop him. I didn’t want him to stop.
“Maybe it’s not there. The album could be a coincidence,” he said.
“It could be, but it’s not. I know it’s not. I have a feeling.”
“Then by all means, flip the page,” he said, his breath warm on my ear.
And I did. Amelie and Paul were in Paris in1938. They went to all the usual spots. Notre Dame. The Eiffel Tower. Then I was on the third to last page, scanning the faded photos and there they were, sitting at a table in a little café overlooking the Seine. Stella Bled Lawrence and Nicky Lawrence. They were squashed together to fit in the frame with Amelie and Paul. I couldn’t breathe. We’d found it. The connection in black and white.
“Is that…” Chuck squeezed me.
“It is.”
“Check the back.”
I gingerly slid the picture out. The back was blank. I put it back and stared at the faces. Amelie and Paul were much as they’d been throughout the entire album. Happy. Perhaps a bit tired. Stella and Nicky were smiling, but happy wasn’t in their eyes. I remembered that they’d gotten married in 1938 and went on their wedding trip through Europe, a trip the entire family tried to talk them out of. There was a photo of Stella and Nicky in Venice, sitting in a place of honor in the Bled mansion. It was my favorite of the family pictures. They stood in front of a gondola being amazingly gorgeous, set for a big adventure which they had in World War Two. That picture was taken…what did Millicent tell me?
“What are you trying to remember?” asked Chuck.
“When the photo of Nicky and Stella was taken, the one at Myrtle and Millicent’s, it was their honeymoon, but I think they’d already been to France. There was some story about Stella buying a whole new wardrobe in Paris at the beginning of the trip. Her mother was furious. Her original honeymoon clothes are in the attic at Prie Dieu. She had them sent back. I don’t think they would’ve gone to Paris twice on the same trip. Look at their faces. They were blooming in Venice, but in this picture they look like they’ve lost twenty pounds at least.”
We flipped through the rest of the photos. Stella and Nicky didn’t appear again. The next shots were of Marseille and then of another ship, not the one they’d taken over.
“Stevie, can you run up and get Nana’s magnifying glass? It’s on a pole next to her bed for stitching.”
He got the magnifying glass and I went back to the picture with
Stella and Nicky. I held it over the photo. It was easy to see with magnification. Stella was wearing heavy makeup in an attempt to conceal a split lip and some faded bruises. Nicky’s hands had something wrong with them. He held them in his lap like he was in pain. The clothes were brand new and off the rack, nice, but the fit wasn’t quite right. Stella’s clothes were always custom as were Nicky’s suits. He was a very tall man with broad shoulders and the suit he had on pinched and bunched.
“You see the bruises, right?” asked Chuck.
“Oh, yeah,” I said.
“What do you think happened?”
“No clue, but it was something serious. The clothes aren’t right. There’s the weight loss and bruising. Look at the rings under their eyes. They wouldn’t have gone to Paris twice. That’s not how the grand tours worked.”
“It looks like Paul and Amelie were only with them a short time.”
“Long enough to bind my family to the Bleds for life.”
“For generations.”
“Well, we know when Paul and Amelie left for Liverpool,” said Chuck. “So we can figure out the date or at least get damn close.”
“From the way they’re all dressed, I’d say November.”
“That’s one long anniversary trip,” said Stevie. “Are we done?”
“Not quite,” I said.
I got out my phone and took multiple shots of the Stella and Nicky photo, and then documented the ship names and the countries Paul and Amelie visited to pin down a date. Then I sent it all to Spidermonkey.
He texted back, “Paydirt.”
“You know,” said Chuck, “when I said I’d help, it was just for you.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“But now I have to know. Amelie and Paul spent an afternoon with Stella and Nicky in Paris and fifty years later Millicent and Myrtle give your parents a house. Why? It’s going to drive me crazy. What could possibly have happened on that one day that would make you a Bled godchild and your parents so important?”
I smiled. “We’ll just have to find out.”
“I like that we.”
Me, too.
“First, there’s a little matter of rape, murder, poisoning.”
Chuck snorted and smiled. “Are you still on that? We’re talking history here. Major stuff.”
“I think Donatella considers the poisoning of her children pretty major. Get dressed. We’ve a school to visit and crimes to solve.”
Chuck didn’t move. “Are you going to Fike me?”
Stevie laughed. “She is so gonna Fike you.”
“Actually, I’m not. You two are clearly not leaving and the longer you’re here, the better chance I have of waking up to a Costilla banging on the door. Let’s finish this and get Stevie home.”
Chuck stuck out his hand. “Agreed.”
We shook on it and I meant to keep my word. Mostly.
Chapter Twenty-Three
BY THE TIME we got out of the house, the sun had turned the previous day’s rain into a weighty humidity that made my hair curl into corkscrews by the time we walked by Lafitte’s Blacksmith shop. Chuck and I went straight on St. Phillip and Stevie juked to the right.
“Not so fast.” Chuck shot out a long arm and snagged Stevie by the collar as he tried to make a break for it.
“Come on, man. I’m no detective. I’ve got business to attend to,” said Stevie.
Chuck let go and patted his sidearm. He’d decided to go professional in the clothes department and wore a blue blazer over his shirt and tie in order to look more cop-like and conceal his shoulder holster. I thought the jeans and snakeskin boots made him look like a TV cop instead of a real one, but he said that’s what people want cops to look like and he never got any complaints. The way he said it, made me think it was the ladies who weren’t complaining.
“What business?” asked Chuck.
“I gotta see a guy about a thing.”
“What guy? What thing?”
Stevie smiled his goofy, oddly winning smile and I was about to say, “Let him go.”
“Knock it off, dipshit,” said Chuck. “I’m not a chick.”
Stevie continued to smile. The idiot couldn’t help it. He was genuinely happy most of the time. “You know, I got to see about my next move. Can’t stand still. I gotta—”
“I’m going to stop you right there. If you think you’re selling those stereos, you’re out of your damn mind. Those are evidence of a crime. After we wrap this Donatella thing up, I’m bringing you to Big Steve and we’re reporting those stereos to the locals.”
“Man, I got to get some cash.”
“You want to die?”
“The Costillas haven’t found me yet.”
“You’ve been lucky. I would’ve left you at the house, if I could trust you, but you’ve got that look in your eye,” said Chuck.
Stevie squashed up his face. “What look?”
I didn’t know what the look was either. Stevie only had two expressions, goofy and dumb.
Chuck patted his side arm again. “The look like you’re going to take off and get killed. Come on. You’re with us for the duration. I promised your dad I’d keep you alive.”
Stevie shrugged, resigned to the situation. I took his arm and we stayed on St. Phillip until we arrived at the school. It was quiet, but humming with life the way schools do.
“You two stay out here,” I said. “I’ll get the scoop on Mrs. Schwartz’s phone call to the school.”
Chuck’s left eyebrow shot up. “You wouldn’t be trying to Fike me, would you?”
“No. I’ve already been here. They like me.”
“Are they women?”
I clenched my jaw. “Yes.”
“Then they’ll like me better.”
“Hoy-day, what a sweep of vanity comes this way,” I said with a sneer.
“You don’t think I know where that’s from,” he said.
He didn’t. Not because he was stupid or uneducated, but because he didn’t have Mr. Sheridan for AP Lit. Mr. Sheridan loved Shakespeare and was a nightmare grader. Only my ability to memorize quotes kept me from getting the dreaded C in his class. That and I agreed to wear hose and those weird puffy shorts for the Bard’s birthday.
“What’s it from then?” I asked.
The door of the school opened and Kathy Brun, the principal, came out with a student. “Miss Watts, you’re back. Good news, I hope,” she called down the stairs.
“Not exactly.” I turned to Chuck. “Saved by the teacher.”
“Shakespeare. Timon of Athens.” He grinned at me.
“What the?”
“I helped you study for that final. As I recall you still owe me a kiss.” He started up the stairs and turned his smile on Kathy, who was momentarily stunned.
“I didn’t get an A,” I whispered and then said, “Hi, Kathy. Do you have a minute?”
She shooed her student off to a waiting car. “Yes, of course. Is it about Donatella? We’ve had no news.”
“Abrielle and Colton are better, but they won’t be released any time soon.”
I introduced Chuck, and Kathy blushed. The woman actually blushed. I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling her that behind that body and face was a true pain in the ass. But I needed her to like Chuck and, honestly, I doubt it would’ve made any difference from the way she looked at him. He wasn’t that good-looking. Get a grip, woman.
Then I introduced Stevie, not as easy. I said he was my assistant and Kathy didn’t buy that for a second. She looked like she wanted to register him for special ed.
After the introductions, we settled into her office and I told her about the phone call. She shook her head. “I don’t remember any call about Donatella. Do you think it’s important?”
“Possibly,” said Chuck and he went on to dazzle her with why. It was boring and I stopped listening after the second sentence. Stevie was biting his nails and I itched to get a move on. I had a weird feeling that moving was important and that dazzling a pri
ncipal wasn’t.
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted the love fest. “The call came in late, like at three-thirty. Were you still here?”
“Absolutely. We have after-school activities and I always stay.”
Chuck sat back in his chair and watched me. I’d never had anyone watch me interview before. Well, nobody like Chuck anyway. He was a pro and suddenly I was self-conscious.
“Go on,” he said.
“Um…so are you sure you were in the office at that time?” I asked.
Kathy thought about it. “I did have to go down and handle a fight in the courtyard. Boys. You know how they are.”
“How long were you gone?”
“Twenty minutes at most.”
“Someone answered the phone. Who else was in the building?”
She named six teachers and a custodian. “There may have been some parents, but I don’t think they’d answer the phone.”
“Can you ask if anyone took that call?” I asked.
Kathy called each teacher in their classroom and got six negative answers. The custodian, Mr. Hobbs, came into the office and said he never answered phones. Too busy for that nonsense. The man turned to leave and I called after him. “Wait. Did you see any other teachers here that day?”
“Other than those six?” asked Mr. Hobbs.
“Yes.”
“I think Mr. Donnelly came in for a bit. He said he forgot some papers.”
Mr. Donnelly. Perfect.
“I’ll go see him.” I waved everyone back into their seats. “I know the way. Mr. Donnelly and I have a great rapport.”
I left with the weight of Chuck’s frown on my back and trotted down the hall to the science classroom. The door was open and kids were shouting answers. It sounded like some sort of chemistry bingo game was going on. I popped my head in and waved. Mr. Donnelly turned and his jovial face got serious in an instant. “Miss Watts, you’re back.”
“I have a quick question, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Joey, you’re in charge.”
Joey, a gangly boy of about twelve, ran up to the front of the room, knocking into three girls in the process and eliciting screams of protest. Mr. Donnelly suppressed a smile as he came out into the hall.
