The Last of the Stanfields

by Levy, Marc

  “Great,” I sighed. “Except I don’t see one article written by my mum.”

  “Are you sure she was involved in the writing? I mean, you don’t have to be a doctor to run a health clinic, right?”

  “Right, I suppose,” I replied, lost amid all these riddles. I went back through the issue and took pictures of each page with my phone, hoping to read every last word of the newspaper in the calm of my hotel room. A strange sensation had come over me, as though my mother’s reassuring presence was there, as though she were giving her blessing to keep digging.

  “So? What do we do now?” asked George-Harrison.

  “I have no idea, not yet. But at least we’ve got proof the Independent was real. We’ll have to roll up our sleeves and do some more digging. We’re on the hunt for any lead, however flimsy, on people who knew them, maybe an employee of the paper, something like that.”

  “How can we identify anybody if none of the articles are signed?”

  A twisted idea leapt to mind, which happened so often that I didn’t think entertaining one more would do any harm. From even the most cursory reading of the Independent, it was easy to see a clear and consistent editorial line. It was a paper built on investigative journalism.

  I called over the assistant—who I noticed had the same pallid complexion as the microfiches and really needed to get more sun, but that was neither here nor there—and requested all issues of the Baltimore Sun from October 12 to 19 of that year.

  “What are you up to?” asked George-Harrison.

  “Are you familiar with the saying ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do’?” I asked.

  I knew from personal experience, if you’re writing a feature, you have to get out in the field. So, I put myself in the shoes of the Independent’s staff. Where would they have gone for a scoop on the local bigwigs—politicians, socialites, professors, or any other high-society types? Certainly where those sorts of people were most likely to be found: official ceremonies, high-society gatherings, events like that. I figured the society pages of the Baltimore Sun from that period would be full of articles with photos of such events. With a little luck, maybe I could find the right photo with the right caption, and maybe I could identify attendees who were actually there as reporters. After all, that was exactly what I would have done.

  24

  MICHEL AND VERA

  October 2016, Croydon

  Vera opened the fridge door and peered inside. Everything was in its place: vegetables in the drawers, dairy on top, and a thin strip of netting covering the middle shelf. She sighed as she caught sight of her own reflection on the microwave door, and decided to let down her hair and take off her glasses. Stepping into the living room, she found Michel laying a tablecloth, his eyes glued to the TV, avoiding Vera’s.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, but received no response. She came closer, sitting on the armrest of a chair and letting out another sigh. “Michel. Why give just one letter and keep the rest?”

  “To do my part. To help, without betraying Mum.”

  “Fine. But why now?” she asked. “I know you had something specific in mind. You never leave anything to chance.”

  “Ah, that is because I’ve never found substantial proof that chance really exists. I wanted to give my sister hope so she would continue her quest. I am quite certain Maggie would have tried to dissuade her. Despite Elby’s claims to the contrary, our younger sister exerts a special level of influence over her.”

  “Wouldn’t it just have been simpler to tell her everything?”

  “Perhaps, but that would not be a logical choice. Imagine I did find a way to get around my promise, which in and of itself would be by chance . . . if I could move forward for that one reason . . . Even so, anything I could tell her would be biased.”

  “I don’t see why that would be the case,” Vera protested.

  “When I’m doing research and I question the veracity of any of the facts, I seek out other sources to back them up. That way the story becomes my own, in a way. But if I hear the same story with a personal perspective that includes the intonations and feelings of the narrator, then the story becomes someone else’s interpretation, not my own. No matter how accurate that account may be, in such cases the story will never be my own. Elby must find her own truth and not simply have my truth handed to her. I want to give her every possible chance to discover it on her own. And this sort of thing takes time to accept. Letting my sister chart her own course to the truth increases the likelihood that she will achieve that level of acceptance.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “It’s not so easy, accepting that you’ve been lied to all your life.”

  “But you’ve moved on and learned to forgive, haven’t you?”

  “No. I have simply learned to accept. It’s not the same thing.”

  25

  ELEANOR-RIGBY

  October 2016, Baltimore

  We ended up spending all day at the library. The next day, I took a break from all the research to buy a book of papers released by the estate of Edgar Allan Poe, a gift which I was sure would make my editor in chief overjoyed.

  Back at the library, George-Harrison and I went through every last article in those eight issues of the Baltimore Sun with a fine-tooth comb. We were on the hunt for even the slightest clue that would help push our investigation forward. I found one article on the mayor’s development plans, which described an initiative to revitalize the waterfront district. He hoped to convert parts of it into a holiday resort that would attract more tourists. The new convention center, which had opened a few months earlier, had already attracted droves of business visitors. I read another story about what to watch for in the upcoming presidential debate scheduled for the twenty-first. The Sun also described a confrontation between Baltimore’s mayor and the owner of the Colts. The team owner was enraged by the lack of funding for repairs to the stadium, which was clearly in a state of neglect. He even threatened to move his franchise elsewhere. I moved on to another article describing a fire on the seventeenth of the month that had ravaged portions of Old Town, including a college campus and a Presbyterian church.

  The Culture pages featured some great photos of the Who (or “the Sub-Beatles,” as my father called them) performing at a local concert venue. At the time, Baltimore’s punk, hard rock, and metal music scene was thriving. I wished I had been around in those days, just to breathe in all that freedom.

  Just then, something caught my eye. “Hold on a minute,” I told George-Harrison. “Go back, just a bit . . .”

  George-Harrison used the wheel to scroll back through the microfiche until we reached the page in question. An enormous photo of a masquerade ball took up half the page, of guests decked out in elaborate costumes. But it was the caption that caught my attention.

  All the stars turned out looking their very best for an extravagant party celebrating Edward Stanfield’s engagement.

  “Stanfield,” I said, eyes fixing on the name. “There was something about them in the Independent as well.”

  “You’re right, that does ring a bell,” said George-Harrison, with a deep yawn. “But I can’t remember what the story was about.”

  The assistant was nowhere to be found, and we couldn’t get our hands on the Independent microfiche again without his help. Luckily, I had taken photos of the pages so I could reread the entire issue later. George-Harrison rubbed his tired eyes, both of us exhausted from staring at that screen for hours on end.

  The night before, we had gone out to eat at a quaint little place overlooking the harbor, and I got to learn more about George-Harrison. He told me all about his carpentry studio and his ability to “age” furniture—which was a total scam, no matter what he said—but he became very reserved when I asked about his mother.

  Several times I thought he might be coming on to me. Not only did he hang on my every word, laughing—or at least cracking a smile—at all my jokes, but he seemed to get a real kick out of heari
ng about my family, and he even said he’d love to meet them one day. No one would say something like that without implying something more. But he was wasting his time. First off, he wasn’t my type. Second, I had resolved to heed my sister’s advice.

  The way the night ended only proved that my instincts had been totally spot-on.

  George-Harrison

  I was totally down in the dumps and didn’t want to hear another word about her damn family. I made the mistake of asking her about herself, just to be polite and to reciprocate after enduring her own getting-to-know-you game of twenty questions. I wasn’t going to fall into her trap by acting self-centered and confirming her negative stereotype of men. In hindsight, it would have been worth the risk, because once she started talking, she didn’t stop.

  I learned all about her diabetic father with his crummy old jalopy and his Beatles obsession . . . Then the sister she always fought with, and her sister’s boyfriend, who ran a gastropub . . . Her brother’s crush on a fellow librarian . . . I had already wasted all day reading old newspapers only to now be trapped listening to an endless monologue about her family.

  “I must be boring you,” she said, after an eternity.

  “Are you kidding? Not at all,” I replied, courteous as could be. “It sounds like there’s never a dull moment with you guys. I bet it would be a real blast meeting a family like yours. Or better yet, have you ever considered renting them out?”

  “I know I’m blabbing on and on. I just miss them.”

  “By all means, go ahead, don’t stop on my account.”

  “If you ever come to England, I can introduce you to them.”

  Whoa. Was she actually coming on to me? No one would propose such a thing, really, without implying something more.

  “Sounds like a plan,” I replied. “Who knows where the investigation might lead?”

  “I imagine it’ll lead to Canada sooner or later, since that’s where all the anonymous letters came from.”

  “The first ones, sure. But the second one I received had a Baltimore postmark.”

  “Why would the poison-pen go to all that trouble? He could have just sent them from the same place.”

  “Maybe to cover his tracks? Or maybe he just likes to travel.”

  “You think he’s here in Baltimore right now, as we speak? There’s something extremely unsettling about that, don’t you think?”

  “Nope, not at all. We have no idea what his intentions are, so why should we be scared?”

  “Because . . . we have no idea what his intentions are.”

  She had a point. I took another stab at it.

  “Okay. Intentions. The poison-pen wanted us to end up together, and here we are.”

  “Sure, for starters. He also wanted us to learn that our mothers knew each other, and here we are. He also wanted you to search for your long-lost father, and here you are,” Eleanor-Rigby said, rattling off points that were hard to deny.

  “Well, I’ve always wanted to find my father, letter or no letter.”

  “Yeah, but receiving the letter was the catalyst, the whole reason you’re here right now. But that’s not the real issue. The real issue is: Why did he orchestrate all this? To what end?”

  “Are you actually asking me? Or do you already know the answer?”

  She leaned across the table, coming closer, and looked deep into my eyes. That was it—she was definitely coming on to me, no doubt about it. I hadn’t been with anyone since Melanie, and lord knows I’m not exactly a master of seduction, but I found something off-putting about a woman being so forward.

  “Money,” she said coolly. “The poison-pen wants us to find the money our mothers stole.”

  “Who said it was money they stole?”

  “Are you actually asking me? Or do you already know the answer?”

  “How could I know the answer to that?”

  “I don’t know, you tell me!”

  “So, you still don’t trust me?”

  “Come on, honestly? You must have at least thought it might be me who wrote the letter. The idea never even crossed your mind?”

  “No, it didn’t. I guess my mind’s not quite that twisted. I’m going to bed. If you’re still suspicious of me tomorrow morning, if you still think I might be a big enough bastard to pull something like this off—well, then we’ll have to go our separate ways and start investigating on our own.”

  “Great idea,” she shot back, rising to her feet before I could.

  Well, that settled that. She definitely hadn’t been coming on to me. I paid the bill and walked straight out.

  Back in my hotel room, I fell asleep feeling exhausted, irritated, and generally gloomy. I figured a good night’s sleep would clear my head. Once more, I figured wrong.

  Eleanor-Rigby

  Not only was he an absolute swine with an abysmal sense of humor, but he had the nerve to walk out on me! Granted, he did treat me to dinner, which was classy on his part. And maybe I had gone a little bit too far . . . but that didn’t make him any less infuriating. Maggie would have told me that the only time a guy runs away like a thief in the night is if he has something to hide. And, might I add, he wasn’t doing himself any favors in the honesty department with the whole furniture-aging scheme. Or maybe I had it backwards. Maybe he truly had been offended by my insinuations, which might be because he was innocent.

  I returned to the hotel, thinking a good night’s sleep might clear my head. After emailing the photos of the microfiches to myself, I opened them on my laptop and sat cross-legged on the bed to read the newspaper pages. Just then, I remembered the note I had jotted down about that photo of the masquerade ball. I looked over the scrap of paper, found the article, and started reading.

  The Stanfields, headed by matriarch Hanna Stanfield, are one of Baltimore’s most powerful families. Hanna’s husband, Robert, a war hero who served in World War II, owes the family’s success to his wife, who is credited with making the Stanfields one of the country’s leading art dealers.

  In a few days’ time, the Stanfields will hold an exclusive auction for the upper echelon of the art world, presenting masterpieces by La Tour (estimated at $600,000), Degas (estimated at $450,000) and Vermeer (estimated at $1,000,000) to buyers from all over the world.

  Robert Stanfield met Hanna Goldstein in 1944, while the war was still raging, in her native France. Robert returned to the States with Hanna, and having fallen out of grace with his father, the couple first settled in New York.

  In 1948, the Hanna Stanfield Gallery opened its doors on the prestigious Madison Avenue. Hanna started building the business with a number of pieces that she had inherited, which helped the burgeoning gallery break into the art market and prosper for years to come. Hanna Stanfield was no stranger to the art world. Her father, Sam Goldstein, was a renowned art dealer, with a clientele that included the Rockefellers and the Wildensteins, before he became a victim of the Nazi regime.

  The Hanna Stanfield Gallery quickly rose to prominence. After the tragic loss of Robert’s parents in a car accident, Robert and Hanna settled the family’s debts and made the move to Baltimore in 1950. Hanna set her sights on buying back the family estate, acquiring mortgages that had been seized by local banks.

  The sales continued rolling in and the Stanfield empire grew considerably. In 1951, the gallery opened a second location in Washington, DC, followed by a third in Boston in 1952. The Stanfield fortune continued to grow as the family branched out from the art world into real estate. They played a vital role in constructing one of Baltimore’s top golf courses. Hanna made a donation to help renovate the Greater Baltimore Medical Center, a sum so generous that the hospital named a wing after her father, Sam Goldstein. The family is also heavily invested in the large-scale renovation of the waterfront district, working hand in glove with City Hall. The Stanfields have also contributed to the construction of the new convention center, one of the city’s current flagship projects.

  However, since the private lives and m
oral fiber of public figures are of great importance to our readers, we believe that Robert Stanfield’s upcoming run for governor warrants a second look at this prestigious family’s background. Many questions remain regarding Robert Stanfield’s acts of heroism during wartime, none of which have ever been confirmed by the Department of Military Affairs. Equally important are the mysterious circumstances under which Hanna inherited her father’s vaunted art collection.

  The true story of how these precious works of art made it to the US has never fully been brought to light. Questions remain regarding the exact location where Sam Goldstein hid his collection during the dark days of the war, as well as how the precious bounty was kept out of enemy hands. Many Jewish families were systematically robbed by Nazi forces during this period. Who hid the paintings away? What middlemen helped the Goldsteins? How did the paintings end up in Hanna Stanfield’s possession? These secrets have been safely guarded for years, and their answers are still shrouded in mystery as the family seeks to exert influence beyond the city limits and gain a foothold in state government.

  —S

  While I didn’t know who the author was, my professional instincts left little doubt: it was a hit job, written with express intent to harm the subjects. Although the allegations and innuendoes might not have caused a great stir today, I imagined that it might have been different for that kind of family in the early eighties. I did some digging online and found a press release about Robert Stanfield withdrawing his candidacy for governor following a terrible accident—a tragedy that had befallen his family. The rest of the paper provided no more details. I knew I needed to find out more about what this tragedy was.

  26

  ROBERT STANFIELD

  June 1944

  Early morning, before dawn, with the dark of night fading bit by bit, two Resistance fighters struggled to stay awake as they kept watch outside the hunting lodge. The surrounding woods were quiet, and there was not a soul in sight.