Daughter of Ashes

by Marcia Talley

  ‘Ah,’ Paul sighed and took a sip of his wine. ‘Those were the good old days.’

  ‘Tomorrow I plan to spend some time at the courthouse, but in the library, not the basement. Kim promised me access to Lexis-Nexis where I hope to find out more about those two companies.’

  The following day, Kim was as good as her word. When a search through Lexis-Nexis turned up nothing particularly useful, she directed me to an Internet database called Forbes People Tracker which provided several links, but none that led anywhere. It wasn’t until I logged onto the Dialog database and started trolling through Dun and Bradstreet’s Who Owns Whom that I struck pay dirt.

  Heartland was a real estate development corporation based in Hohokus, New Jersey, but Liberty Land Development – now defunct – had once been an indirect wholly-owned subsidiary of Clifton Farms, a chicken processing plant.

  In CrocTail, which contained information about corporations and their subsidiaries going back year by year, I found Clifton Farms easily enough, categorized under ‘poultry slaughtering and processes’ as well as ‘food and kindred products.’ Its owner was a man named Clifton J Ames. Clifton J Ames had been dead since 1992, but the processing plant he had established was very much alive. I’d bought a package of Clifton Farms boneless thighs at Acme the previous week. They were still in my freezer.

  TEN

  ‘The full truth of this odd matter is what the world has long been looking for, and public curiosity is sure to welcome.’

  Robert Louis Stevenson, The Master of Ballantrae, 1889

  Our Song seemed to be in a state of perpetual makeover; we were living through a real-life episode of HGTV. One day it was Love It, Or List It. The next, House Crashers or Flip or Flop. I expected Jonathan and Drew, the Property Brothers, to pop out of the woodwork at any moment with another problem that required our urgent attention, and that of our checkbook.

  Using sledge hammers, the wall between the kitchen and the living room had come down in a loud and spectacularly pleasing way, opening up the downstairs to space and light. Dwight Heberling assigned his son to clean up the debris in preparation for the new framing while he took a pair of workers up on the roof and got them going on a more careful demolition of the chimney.

  Just when I thought we had everything under control, the water pump stopped working. Dwight pulled the pump out of the well, swore, pointed out a jumper wire some idiot had installed across one set of contacts at the pressure switch, and pronounced the pump D.O.A. A new pump was ordered, but while we waited for it to be delivered via Fedex overnight, we had no water to drink, do the dishes with or flush the toilets. Dwight and his workers improvised, drawing fresh water out of the creek to mix the mortar and clean their tools. Meanwhile, Paul fetched a bucket of water, set it next to the downstairs toilet and we followed island rules: If it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down.

  That’s why I found myself at the Acme supermarket early that morning pushing a grocery cart full of bottled water through the checkout line. I’d heaved the last plastic jug onto the conveyor belt when somebody called my name. Caitlyn Dymond was pushing a similar cart loaded with boxes of juice, granola bars and fruit rollups. She steered the cart into line behind me. ‘Kids in day camp,’ she explained, plopping a super-sized box of goldfish crackers on the conveyor belt just behind the plastic bar that separated her groceries from my water jugs.

  ‘Been there, done that, Caitlyn, and I remember it well.’ I eyed the piles of snack foods in her basket and asked, ‘Just how many kids do you have?’

  ‘Three. Two boys and a girl, but the boys are going through a growth spurt right now. They’re eating me out of house and home. Speaking of houses,’ she continued, dumping a twelve-pack of potato chips in assorted flavors on the belt. ‘Any news on Baby Ella?’

  I shook my head. ‘Sheriff Hubbard said it might be a while.’

  Caitlyn’s face fell. ‘Oh. I thought maybe by now …’

  ‘Sorry, no.’

  ‘Has the investigation held up the renovations on your house?’ she continued.

  I shook my head. ‘Not really. The sheriff sent a crime-scene technician to have another look at the smoke shelf in case any clues to the child’s identity had been left behind but they didn’t find anything, so Dwight’s crew has been able to move forward.

  ‘They’ve finished knocking down the wall between the kitchen and living-room areas,’ I told her as I swiped my credit card through the checkout machine and signed the tiny screen as the automated voice instructed. ‘You wouldn’t believe how much bigger the place looks. Dwight tells me he plans to finish with the fireplace tomorrow. Sadly, the whole thing needs to come down, but he thinks he can save some of the interior brick and use it when he rebuilds.’

  While I bagged my purchases and transferred the water jugs from the conveyor belt back into my cart, Caitlyn finished checking out. ‘Before I forget! Don’t plan anything for the fifth of July.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s the annual Barfield and Williams picnic. Kendall throws one every year for the agency’s clients and other local big wigs. I just mailed the invitations today.’

  I frowned. ‘I think I have to pedicure the cat.’

  Caitlyn chuckled at my lame attempt at humor. ‘Oh, you’ll definitely want to cancel that. Every mover and shaker in the county will be there, Hannah. Food, music, fireworks. It’s actually quite fun.’

  ‘Fran Lawson mentioned something about a picnic the other day while we were mucking about in the courthouse basement,’ I said, softening my tone. We parked our carts near the customer service desk while I told Caitlyn about the discovery in the courthouse storage room and what our plans were for the records. ‘You have to attend the picnic, I suppose, since you work with Kendall and all,’ I continued, ‘but I certainly don’t have to go. I’m not sure I could stand to look at the woman after the way she screwed us over.’

  ‘Don’t come for her, Hannah, come for me. It’ll look bad for me if my clients don’t show. Besides, there’ll be door prizes.’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s worth it to give up a whole day on the off chance of winning a travel alarm.’

  Caitlyn laughed. ‘Prepare yourself for a surprise, then. Last year, Kendall gave everyone at the party a flat-screen TV.’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’ I stared at the agent for a moment, dumbfounded. ‘So that’s where all her commission money goes?’

  ‘You’d think, but no. Kendall was rolling in dough even before she started selling real estate. You know MB and T?’

  ‘The bank?’

  Caitlyn nodded. ‘I always thought the “B” stood for “bank,” but no. It stands for Barfield, Kendall’s grandfather.’

  I whistled.

  Caitlyn grinned. ‘Exactly. After granddad sold to Bank of America in the mid-eighties, he bought into real estate big-time and rode the housing bubble into the stratosphere.’

  ‘Dwight Heberling married well, then?’

  ‘You know about that, huh?’

  ‘Dwight mentioned it,’ I said. ‘I wonder what happened?’

  Caitlyn puffed air out through her lips. ‘Poor Dwight. I think they were married for about two and a half minutes. Kendall was on the rebound after Dan Frye dumped her. He was captain of the football team. Dwight followed Kendall around like a lost puppy all through high school. Nearly passed out when she asked him to take her to the senior prom. The rest is …’ She paused. ‘Well, not exactly history, but Dwight junior ensued. Kendall stuck it out for a few years, then dumped both her husband and the baby so she could go off to college. Dwight was granted full custody, so Kendall spent a good bit of time gallivanting until Daddy had a heart attack and called his little girl home. She’s been running the family business ever since.’

  ‘Did Kendall ever remarry?’

  ‘Just a series of affairs,’ Caitlyn sniffed.

  ‘How about Dwight?’ I asked as we pushed our carts through the automatic doors, out of the ai
r conditioning and into the warm summer sun.

  ‘He did. Almost immediately. To a girl as sweet as her name: Grace.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve met her.’

  ‘Unless you’ve visited the local humane society, probably not. She volunteers there on spay and neuter days, otherwise …’ Caitlyn shrugged. ‘Grace was a stay-at-home mom. Dwight couldn’t have done better choosing a stepmom for his son. Grace loves that boy like he’s her own, but then she’s been raising him since he was a toddler.’

  ‘I don’t suppose the Heberlings will be at the party?’

  ‘Should be. Kendall bends over backwards to show everyone what super-duper friends she is with wife number two. Grace is too much of a lady to say anything against Kendall, but I know it drives her bonkers whenever Kendall calls the house on the pretense of asking for a recipe or something. Early on in the marriage, Kendall would telephone and ask to speak with Dwight. “Oh, Dwight,”’ Caitlyn simpered in imitation of Kendall. ‘“My hot water heater’s on the fritz. Could you pop over for a moment and have a look at it, pleeeeze?” She ruined Grace’s birthday party one year by calling Dwight repeatedly, claiming she had a stalker. Grace finally put her foot down,’ Caitlyn chuckled. ‘Poor Kendall has to hire her own handymen now.’

  I looked both ways and eased my shopping cart into the crosswalk. Caitlyn followed close behind. When we reached my car I popped the trunk and said, ‘What does one wear to this shindig? My party clothes are still back in my closet in Annapolis.’

  ‘You’ve got two weeks to get it together,’ Caitlyn grinned. ‘Slacks with a colorful top would be good. Me? I’m wearing a sundress.’

  I closed the trunk over the last jug of bottled water, turned to Caitlyn and said, ‘Well, you’ve convinced me that my mythical cat can wait. Food, fun, fireworks. Sign us up.’

  ‘And if we’re lucky,’ Caitlyn said with a cheerful wave, ‘all the fireworks might not be confined to the sky.’

  ELEVEN

  ‘I SAW in dreams a mighty multitude,— Gather’d, they seem’d, from North, South, East, and West, And in their looks such horror was exprest As must forever words of mine elude.’

  Philip Bourke Marston, Wind Voices, ‘No Death,’ 1883

  Back at Our Song, Rusty Heberling helped me unload the water jugs from the trunk of my car – one for the kitchen counter, one for the fridge and the rest stacked neatly next to the washer on the floor in the laundry room – then returned to the task of shoveling debris out the living-room window where it slid down a chute and into a wheelbarrow.

  I had moved the car around to the side of the house where it wouldn’t interfere with the comings and goings of Heberling, Son and miscellaneous subcontractors, when I caught a flash of white out on the main road. Please, please, please, I chanted, fingers quite literally crossed, willing the Fedex Express delivery truck to turn, and so it did, beginning the bumpy ride down the lane that led to Our Song. I met it at the gate, greeting the delivery man like a long-lost brother as he wrestled the carton carrying my new water pump out of the truck and onto the driveway.

  Dwight signed for the delivery, took charge of the pump, unpacked it, confirmed it was the right model, then headed to the kitchen for a glass of ice water, saying he’d fetch Rusty and go off to study the manual.

  While the Heberlings boned up on water pump installation in the side yard, I pulled weeds from the flower bed bordering the fence, daydreaming about soaking the dirt out from under my fingernails during a long, hot bath later that evening. I was tugging at a clump of stubborn crab grass, swearing under my breath, when the crunch of gravel on the drive announced the arrival of another visitor, driving the vision of lavender bubbles clear out of my head.

  I looked up and swiped sweat off my forehead using the back of my hand.

  A statuesque middle-aged woman and a young man were climbing out of a bright blue Chevy Volt. The woman, who had been driving, carried a notebook; the young man opened the trunk, leaned in and came out holding a shoulder-rigged Steadicam.

  Reporters. Damn. Somebody had a big mouth.

  ‘Mrs Ives?’

  I admitted that I was.

  ‘Madison Powers, Washington Post. We’re here to ask you a few questions about the body of the baby found in your home the other day. Do you have a minute?’

  Although I was certain it would take more than a minute, I agreed.

  The cameraman shouldered his camera, but before he got it rolling, I asked, ‘We read the Post, so I’m familiar with your byline. Didn’t you write that exposé on the chicken farming runoff that’s polluting the Bay? Won a Pulitzer or something?’

  ‘Guilty,’ she said. She pulled a business card out of her handbag and handed it to me. ‘I wish the article had resulted in some sensible regulation, but when forty percent of Maryland’s agricultural money comes from Big Chicken, it’s hard to get politicians to pay attention.’ She looped a wayward strand of dark brown hair behind an ear. ‘I won’t keep you long, as I can see you’re busy …’

  I gestured toward the house with the trowel I’d been holding. ‘I imagine you want to see the fireplace?’

  ‘May I?’

  As I led Madison into the house, followed by the cameraman, I told her about the discovery, and about my observations as to the child’s age and sex. ‘We named her Baby Ella,’ I said as I pointed out what remained of the fireplace.

  ‘Who made the actual discovery?’ Madison asked, entirely for the benefit of her viewers as she already knew the answer.

  ‘It was our contractor, Dwight Heberling,’ I told her.

  Madison turned to the cameraman and made a cutting motion with her hand. ‘Where might I find Mr Heberling?’ she inquired.

  ‘He’s probably out by the garage.’ I explained about the broken water pump. ‘Follow me.’

  We found Dwight sitting in a lawn chair in the shade of an oak tree, hunched over a schematic diagram spread open on his knees. Rusty leaned against the tree trunk, punching buttons on his iPhone. Both snapped to attention when we appeared.

  I made the introductions.

  As the camera rolled, the Heberlings gave their version of the gruesome discovery. ‘It looked like one of those Egyptian mummies you see in museums,’ Dwight concluded.

  ‘Like King Tut,’ Rusty added, grimacing into the camera.

  ‘How long do you estimate the baby had been in the chimney, Mr Heberling?’

  ‘It was wrapped in newspapers from the 1950s …’ Dwight began before his son interrupted again.

  ‘But ya know, Pops, I’ve been thinking. People leave newspapers lying around, ya know, so the body could have been a lot older than 1951, or even younger.’

  Rusty was right. I hadn’t thought about the possibility that a more modern-day someone had wrapped a dead child up in old newspaper. Or that someone, upon discovering the little mummy in a suitcase in the attic or somewhere, had panicked and wrapped it up in a recent newspaper and hidden it in our chimney rather than contacting the authorities.

  Madison Powers turned to face the cameraman. ‘County police are waiting on test results from the state medical examiner. Until then, exactly what happened to little Baby Ella and who placed her in the chimney of this eastern shore cottage, and when, remains a mystery.’

  Although her cameraman perked up at my invitation, Madison refused a glass of iced tea on behalf of the both of them. ‘I’ve got to get going,’ she said as I walked them back toward her car. ‘Do you know who owned this house before you?’

  I did, back to day one, but I’d worked hard for that information and decided I wasn’t about to do her research for her. She could get her own staffers on it. ‘The house dates back to pre-Revolutionary War times,’ I told the reporter. ‘From the style of construction, we know that the chimney was built sometime around 1770 …’ I paused to do the math. ‘That’s two hundred and fifty years, give or take.’

  ‘So, until we hear back from the medical examiner …’

  ‘All bets are off
,’ I concluded.

  We’d reached the front gate. I was holding it open, waiting for the cameraman to catch up when a black sedan, traveling a lot faster than was prudent on such a poorly surfaced road – if you valued your shock absorbers – ground to a halt in a spray of gravel just behind the Volt. A preppy, college-aged dude slid out of the driver’s seat of the Acura and wrenched a rear door open.

  ‘Someone important, I gather?’ I murmured in an aside to Madison.

  ‘In his own mind, at least,’ she replied as we watched the kid’s passenger unfold a pair of long, chino-covered legs and emerge from the car smiling toothily, already in full meet-and-greet mode. ‘That’s Jack Ames, Tilghman County Council president,’ Madison said. ‘He’s running for U.S. Congress in November. Watched two full episodes of The West Wing and thinks it qualifies him to run the government.’

  I didn’t need Madison to tell me who the guy was. I’d seen his face – and that of his beautiful wife, two point five adorable children and pedigreed chocolate lab – plastered all over a billboard at the intersection of Routes 13 and 113. SHARE THE FUTURE, it proclaimed in letters three feet high.

  ‘What the hell is he doing here?’ I asked.

  Madison shrugged. ‘Same as me, I guess. You gotta admit it’s not every day you find the body of a baby hidden in a chimney.’

  The cameraman had moved to put the Steadicam back in the trunk, but with a barely perceptible nod from Madison he shouldered the camera again, this time pointing it at the politician as he rapidly closed the gap between us.

  ‘Madison.’ Ames grinned. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’ A sudden gust of wind lifted a lock of his perfectly coifed, evenly colored chestnut hair.

  Madison snorted. ‘Surprise, surprise, surprise.’ She turned to me. ‘Hannah Ives, meet Councilman Jack Ames. He’s stopped by to sweet talk you out of your vote.’