A Familiar Tail

by Delia James

Manny was a little round man with leather brown skin and black hair slicked back under a black flatcap. He also had big hands, a genial smile and the thickest old-school New Hampshire accent I’d ever heard.

  “What’s on the fire today?” Frank leaned both elbows on the counter and inhaled the fragrant steam.

  “Oh, let’s see heyah. We got the clam chowdah, as always, and we got a lobstah bisque, mighty good. Get’cha a taste?” he asked me.

  “That’d be great,” I answered.

  Manny produced a couple of small white cups filled with delicate pink broth and a chunk of sweet lobster floating in each. I sipped. The bisque was light and savory and sweet. In short, perfect.

  Frank was watching me and grinning. “I think that’ll be two, Manny. And some of Marisol’s bread, okay?”

  “Comin’ right up.” Manny started carefully ladling soup into disposable bowls and wrapping bread in brown paper.

  “Marisol?” I said to Frank. “The housekeeper at the Maitlands’?”

  “You’ve met Marisol?” Frank asked.

  “Elizabeth Maitland invited me over for tea yesterday.”

  “Did she?” Frank did not sound very happy about this coincidence. Considering his opinion of Ellis Maitland, I guess I should not have been surprised. “What for?”

  Before I could answer, Manny put two white paper sacks down in front of us. I reached for my purse, but Frank waved me back.

  “Let me.”

  “Oh, no. You got the coffee last time. This is mine.”

  Frank made a face. “You’re working for me, remember? Boss buys bisque.”

  I made a face of my own but relented. Frank paid, and we headed out, each carrying a paper bag. Frank winced at the noise from the tiki bar. “Maybe we should walk a ways?” He gestured up the river. “There’s a park by the North Mill Pond, just across the bridge there.”

  “Sounds good.”

  The park turned out to be a lovely green space around a big irregular sidewater of the Piscataqua. Dragonflies chased midges across the water’s dark surface. We found a lopsided picnic table to sit at and flattened the bags to use as place mats for the chunks of crusty bread. Unlike some people (Martine), Frank Hawthorne did not get all judgey when I dumped an entire packet of oyster crackers into the satin-smooth bisque. Seagulls clustered on the rocks, a feathered mafia waiting for their chance to make a move on our turf, and our dinner.

  “So.” Frank dunked bread into bisque. “Have you had a chance to look around the house yet?”

  It was not exactly a subtle lead-in, but I’d been ready for something like it. “A little,” I told him. “In fact, I noticed the furniture’s there, but Dorothy’s personal papers aren’t. The old bills and checks and stuff like that. Have you got them?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Have you been through them?”

  He cocked his head toward me. “Not thoroughly.”

  I stirred soup and oyster crackers and said nothing. Frank made a sour face. “And you are wondering why I haven’t gotten off my duff and really dug into them?”

  “I have never said the word ‘duff’ in my life.”

  “It was one of Aunt Dot’s favorites.” He sighed. “I did look. I had to get the records together for probate and everything, but it all seemed . . . normal. I mean, I already knew that Dorothy was up-to-date on all her payments, and the mortgages were both fixed rate, really conservative and straightforward.”

  A strange feeling of disappointment surged through me. If there wasn’t any money trouble, that shot down several of my best theories about Dorothy’s murder.

  Unless, of course, the reason she didn’t have money trouble was that she’d been bringing in some extra money on the side. I bit my lip.

  Frank, of course, saw this, and he pounced. “You have found something. What is it?”

  I found out your aunt is a blackmailer. Unless it’s Brad Thompson. Unless it’s you.

  I did not say this. Frank, it turned out, was not in a mood to let a good silence stretch out.

  “Is it something to do with what you and Brad Thompson were arguing about at the restaurant the other day?”

  “I should have known you’d find out about that.”

  Frank smiled, but it was not a happy expression. “Yeah, you really should have.”

  I dipped my spoon into the bisque and turned it over. “Seems like Brad was fighting with a lot of people,” I said. “Including you.”

  Frank winced. “You’ve been talking to Laurie, haven’t you?”

  “I’m supposed to be figuring things out, remember?” I sipped a spoonful of bisque. “And as it happens, I’m putting her in touch with a friend of mine who might be able to sell some of her watercolors.”

  Frank wasn’t looking at me. He was spooning up soup and struggling with something hard inside. “That was nice of you,” he said, and he meant it. I remembered how he’d tried to protect Brad when he thought Brad was about to get into trouble with his boss.

  “Were you and Brad good friends?” I asked.

  Frank nodded. “He was older than me, so we didn’t exactly grow up together, but you know how it is in a small town; there are just some people who are always . . . around. Our families knew each other, and I didn’t have siblings, and Brad, he kind of took over the part of my big brother. He looked out for me when I got into high school. Made sure I made it home okay when I’d gone to a party or two I maybe shouldn’t have.” He turned over his bread a couple of times like he was looking for something in the crumbs. “I accused him a couple times of ratting me out to Aunt Dot when he probably didn’t.” Frank yanked off a chunk of bread and pitched it at the gulls, who set up a massive ruckus as they all dove after it. “Brad was one of those straight-arrow guys we were all supposed to imitate. Studied hard, ran track and field, got into a good college, got out with a good business degree. Came home, married Laurie, bought a nice house, had nice kids. Everything by the book, everything smooth. Until all of a sudden it wasn’t.”

  “What happened?”

  Frank shrugged. “Life. He got downsized at work, and then his dad got sick and the insurance wasn’t covering half of what they needed, and . . . it all just melted away: savings, house, everything. We were all hoping things would get better for them when he got the job with Ellis Maitland, and for a while they did. But now . . .” Frank tore off another hunk of bread to pitch toward the gulls. “Something’s gone wrong again. It’s probably nothing, really. He’s probably just scared it’ll all fall apart again.”

  Except that wasn’t all there was to it. But how much could I, or should I, tell Frank about what I knew? I thought about Brad’s search for the “copies.” I thought about how Frank had just told me he had all Dorothy’s personal papers. I thought about how frightened Brad had been when he realized I might be working with Frank.

  I thought about how Dorothy had left her clue in a room she’d made darn sure her nephew would have trouble getting into.

  Her nephew, or anybody else.

  “I should have told you before,” I said slowly. “When I . . . was in Dorothy’s house the first time, the person Alistair and I chased out was Brad Thompson.”

  Frank made no answer, at least not right away, but his whole body tensed. A whole lot of something was going on inside his head, and none of it was taking him to his happy place.

  “You’re sure?”

  “We got a very good look at each other.”

  He sighed and tossed the spoon into the empty bowl. “You know, when you described the guy, I thought, jeez that sounds like Brad, but I told myself it couldn’t be.”

  “Why not?” I asked, and when I saw the glare he turned on me, I almost wished I hadn’t. Almost.

  “Because it’s not the kind of thing he’d do! Brad’s a good guy, a good, regular guy. Maybe we’re on the outs, but that’s onl
y because he cared about Dorothy almost as much as I did!”

  “Then, they were close? Laurie told me Dorothy and Brad had been spending a lot of time together.”

  Frank didn’t answer. He got up and paced over to the pond and stared at the busy dragonflies.

  “You asked me to help find out how your aunt died,” I reminded him. “You said you wanted to know, no matter what turned up. Well, this is what’s turning up.”

  “You’ve got to understand; Aunt Dot . . . she was all I had,” Frank said softly. “My mother died when I was a kid. My dad . . . he was, is, always off somewhere chasing the next big thing. Aunt Dot raised me, and Brad looked out for me. And this is what I’m supposed to go tearing apart?” He stopped. “I know. I’m a journalist. I’m supposed to go after the truth, whatever it is. But how can I do that when it might hurt the people I care about? Or ruin my memory of them?”

  Which is why you asked someone else to look for you. I swallowed and nodded. You had to know, but you weren’t sure you could follow through on your own. Julia had said something like this too, about the pain of finding out people you’d known your whole life might not be what you thought.

  My purse, with the wand inside, was beside me on the picnic bench. I laid my hand on it, and I watched Frank as he stared across the pond. I tried to study him like I was going to paint his portrait—breaking his face down into its component shapes and shadows, seeing through skin to the lines of the bones and the shape of the person.

  I felt my palm prickle, and this time I understood at once. I was looking at someone who was lonely. Really, truly lonely, and he had no idea what to do about it.

  “Brad’s missing,” I said.

  “What?” Frank whirled around.

  “Colin said he didn’t turn up at work today, and Laurie’s worried.”

  Now Frank did swear. Journalists have a large vocabulary, and he used it all. “Why didn’t you tell me? I have to . . .” He yanked his phone out of his pocket, hit a number and waited while it rang. “Hi, Laurie, it’s . . .” I heard the sound of shouting from the other end. “Yeah, yeah, okay, I know, but is Brad . . .” More shouting. “Okay, I’m sorry.” He hung up.

  Worry dug into me. “He’s not home yet, is he?”

  Frank shook his head, and he shoved his phone into his pocket. “And she’s still mad at me. Doesn’t matter.” He took a deep breath. “I’m going to go check a couple of spots. Last time . . . well, Brad can drink too much when he gets depressed, and . . .” He stopped. “Somebody needs to find him.”

  I nodded. “Go on. I’ll clean up here.”

  “Thanks.” Frank squeezed my hand briefly, turned on his heel and took off back toward downtown at a good fast clip.

  I gathered up bowls and bags and spoons and stuffed them into the trash can. My head was spinning. I didn’t know what to think or whom to believe. Every time I thought I had the people around me figured out, they showed me an entirely new side and sent all my theories into a tailspin.

  “Merowp?”

  “Speaking of tailspins.” I turned my head, completely unsurprised to see Alistair sitting on the picnic table with his tail curled around his toes.

  “I know what you’re here to tell me,” I said. “If we’re going to send Frank looking through the old financial documents, it’s about time I got off my duff and really went through Dorothy’s attic, isn’t it?”

  “Merow,” answered Alistair.

  Well, who was I to argue with that kind of logic?

  34

  THE ATTIC WAS warm and stuffy. The windows were sticky from disuse, but I eventually got a couple of them open to let in the breeze. It was still hot, but at least it wasn’t so close. I needed to get a fan up here. Another thing for the shopping list.

  I faced the bookshelf. The books faced me. Alistair, in true cat fashion, came over to rub his face on the corner of the case.

  I thought about Frank Hawthorne and how he’d been unable to answer all his own questions about Dorothy and Brad because he was afraid of what those answers might be. Standing in front of the journals, I could really sympathize. Whom would I find in here? The kind, laughing woman in the picture Julia had given me? Or the bitter, heartless woman reduced to blackmail and revenge who Elizabeth Maitland said was all that remained of her friend?

  “So, where do we start?” I whispered to Alistair.

  “Merowp.” Alistair rubbed his face against the corner of a battered black journal that stuck out of the end of the shelf. It was labeled 1954.

  “Begin at the beginning.” I pulled the book out and carried it over to the chair. Alistair was in my lap as soon as I sat down, so I balanced the book on the chair arm and started to read.

  • • •

  TWO HOURS LATER, I had a crick in my neck, itchy eyes and dry fingers. Stacks of journals and binders teetered on the floor and the footstool. The sun had set, so I’d turned on all the lamps.

  I also had a picture of a life that had nothing to do with blackmail.

  I’d skimmed years of clipped articles detailing all the small-town triumphs. There were pieces about school plays, bake-offs, scholarships, high school graduations, town hall meetings, candidate lunches, successful fund-raisers for local causes. The library opened; it expanded; it struggled for funding; it had a successful casino night and raffle. The high school teams went to the National Spelling Bee and to the state championships for ice skating and hockey. People met and married and raised families. There were articles about the opening of Midnight Reads, and the ad for Didi’s business, the Cleaning Fairy Housekeeping Services (It’s magical!).

  If an article showed that some hoped-for event had come to pass, Dorothy decorated it with underlinings and exclamations, and lists of related magical ceremonies were jotted down in the margins. Smiley faces too. Dorothy Hawthorne was a deep believer in the smiley face, not to mention the heart and exclamation point. No wonder she and Grandma B.B. had been friends.

  Between the articles were pages of handwritten notes. These were the details of Dorothy’s magical life. The phases of the moon were faithfully recorded. There were descriptions of the coven ceremonies Dorothy attended or created, along with their blessings and wishings and workings.

  I read about blessings and incantations for clarity of mind before acting and for attracting luck, prosperity and, yes, love. Dorothy was all about bringing people together, or bringing in the good and banishing the negative.

  “That was her specialty, wasn’t it?” I said to Alistair as I scratched his ears. “Attraction, connection.” I paused. “Summoning.”

  “Merow,” Alistair agreed.

  I read about meditations for calm, for acceptance and for forgiveness. I read about cleansing before rituals and closing the circle afterward, and how some spells had to be tended for days if not weeks before they could come to full strength.

  There was a lot about the garden as well. Dorothy listed her various cuttings and plantings. She made notes about the weather and clipped yet more articles about natural methods to fight pests, from aphids to green flies. She listed which herbs were good for cleansing and healing and which were best for mundane uses, like marinara sauce or soothing teas.

  There were pages about her students, too. Names and photographs were pasted on pages like a handmade yearbook. There were years’ worth of letters, going from handwritten to typed, and finally printed e-mails. They discussed the philosophy of magic, sometimes curious, sometimes angry or confused, but always trying to move closer to an understanding of the world and themselves. There were letters of thanks sent as students moved away, looking for their own paths.

  I found a picture of Val, looking sullen and unfamiliar as she stared out from under a set of long, slanting punk-rock bangs. I found another of Kenisha, who looked at the camera like it was pronouncing a life sentence.

  I found Frank. Not that it was difficult
. Dorothy had detailed his life with maternal pride. There were photos of birthday parties, of Frank in his peewee hockey gear, and of him hugging a very patient Alistair around the neck. Teenage Frank held up the keys to an epically battered Ford Mustang. He wore a fast-food uniform and waved a paycheck over his head. He stood in his graduation cap and gown beside a gray-haired man who must have been his father. Neither one of them had an arm around the other. In the last journal, Frank stood in the doorway of the Seacoast News. He held up the keys to the office with the same triumphant pride with which the boy had held up the first paycheck or the keys to the first car.

  But where was the hard, petty woman Elizabeth Maitland had described to me? I closed the journal and laid my hands over it. She wasn’t in here. Everything in here was cheerful, loving. Oh, there were obituaries, but nothing cantankerous, let alone bitter.

  “It makes no sense,” I said to Alistair. He was lying on the rug beside the bookshelf, playing with a loose thread. “Why would Mrs. Maitland tell a lie that I could disprove so easily?”

  Alistair rolled over on his back and looked at me upside down.

  “Unless I’m missing something.” I frowned at the shelf. “What’s not here?”

  Alistair vanished.

  I jumped. I may have also made a slightly undignified sound that could have been mistaken for a scream by the uninitiated.

  “Meow?”

  Alistair reappeared on top of the bookcase, blinking at me. What’s your problem, human?

  “Don’t do that!” I pressed my hand over my heart, which was now going a mile a minute. “When I said what’s missing, I didn’t mean you!”

  Alistair leapt from the bookcase to the floor, slid between two crooked stacks of journals and vanished again.

  “Fine, stay gone. Be missing . . .” I stopped. “Missing,” I said again.

  I scrabbled through the piles, yanked out some older journals from the sixties, and started flipping through pages.

  This time I saw it.

  A number of the pages had blank spaces. Scraps of yellowing Scotch tape were still stuck on the corners, showing where photos or articles had been attached but then removed.