FORGET ME NOT (Mark Kane Mysteries Book One)

by John Hemmings

  “She had a magic touch,” he said, “as with so many other things. As long as I remain here I shall keep it just as she left it. I once tried to move the credenza but it left everything looking unbalanced.” He laughed. “I don’t mean to make a museum of it in Gloria’s memory. Heaven knows I have a wealth of memories of our life together, enough to fill a dozen museums. It just feels, you know, comfortable like this, familiar and reassuring in an ever-changing world.”

  He cleared his throat self-consciously. “It’s ridiculous, of course. The house is far too big for me now but I’m set in my ways. And you know, I can still feel her here. It’s comforting in a way.”

  It was mid-morning. Philips offered me a drink which I would have loved but politely refused. I said that a coffee would be fine and he led me into the oversized and superbly equipped kitchen. Every kind of accoutrement designed to take the strain out of the preparation of food was on display atop the pristinely clean and polished granite worktops. The granite had been cut meticulously so that the veins in the marble matched seamlessly at the miters. The refrigerator probably could have stored sufficient food and provisions to enable Philips to see out a moderately long incarceration in the event of a nuclear war, and the substantial yet understated wine-cooling cabinet would no doubt have engendered the envy and admiration of any wine connoisseur. We chatted about nothing in particular whilst he prepared and carried the freshly-brewed coffee back into the living room and invited me to sit on the chesterfield sofa. He put the tray with the coffee, cream and sugar on the table between us and sat opposite me in a straight-backed, beautifully upholstered matching armchair.

  “I hope you had no difficulty finding me,” he said. I assured him that I didn’t. “This house has been in the family since the middle of last century you know. It was designed and built by Gloria’s grandfather who apparently made his fortune during Prohibition.” He tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. “Although the manner in which he made that fortune is a family secret I’m afraid.” He smiled broadly, and I realized that it was the first real smile that I’d seen him muster. I sensed that he was someone who only felt comfortable enough to moderate his demeanor in relative privacy. We were in his fortress of solitude now, surrounded by pictures and paraphernalia that documented a formerly contented if rather ordinary family life.

  “Tell me a little about yourself, will you Mr. Kane.”

  “Personally or professionally? Personally most people simply call me Kane. I don’t really know why, I have a first name like everybody else, but I’ve got used to it by now. I had a girlfriend when I was at high school who used to think it hilarious to call me ‘sugar’.” This wasn’t in fact true but I thought it might lighten things up a bit. He smiled again so I suppose it did the trick.

  “Well then I’ll call you Kane as well if that’s okay.”

  “Professionally I’ve been an investigator for most of my adult life. I did graduate from police training school back in the day and spent a short time as a cop. Then I thought I’d become a lawyer, but decided before I sat the exams that I’d rather investigate than represent villains, so that’s what I’ve been doing for the past fifteen years. That sounds more exciting than it is in real life; much of my day-today work is actually rather mundane. Still, I’m my own boss and it gets me out and about, and I like the challenges it brings; mental challenges, mainly. I’m a bit of a loner by nature, which is probably why the idea of marriage has never appealed to me, so I have plenty of time to think things through.”

  The real reason for my chosen occupation was actually a good deal more complex than that, but it was also personal. This was neither the time nor the place to go into that. It was a secret that only a very few people knew about. My brother Duncan, Lucy and a few others who may or may not still be in the land of the living.

  “Oh,” said Greg, “I thought perhaps the young lady you were with at the club…”

  “That was Lucy,” I said, slightly taken off-guard. “She’s my secretary. She’s a sort of girl Friday and is sometimes able to assist me with research and stuff like that. Brad insisted I took her along – you know Brad.”

  Greg’s head moved upwards almost imperceptivity in a half nod, and he permitted himself a thin smile in acknowledgement, but his eyes told me that his thoughts were somewhere else. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something more, but instead he stroked his chin with his thumb and index finger and remained silent.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “it’s a living, although it’s not going to make me wealthy. And I enjoy it, mostly. There must be a hell of a lot of people in the world stuck in jobs they don’t like. I think my fees are moderate by the standards of my profession, but because I undertake only one case at a time I will need to charge a retainer. I think that’s fairer for both parties. After we have discussed the matter in more depth I’ll be able to work out something that I hope will be mutually agreeable.”

  Greg nodded his understanding. “Actually your fees sound very reasonable. Less than I expected.”

  I was relieved that Lucy wasn’t there to hear that remark.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what kind of cases – is that the right word − or should I say assignments – do you generally undertake? I’m just being nosey really. I don’t suppose it’s much like the movies.”

  “Well, it has its moments, but there’s a lot of the run of the mill stuff which would send a movie audience to sleep I’m afraid. I do quite a bit of tracing – trying to locate people who are running away from something: debts, crime, unsympathetic parents. But over the years I’ve investigated pretty much every kind of case that you could think of. A degree of personal risk inevitably comes with the territory sometimes, but I prefer to use my wits, and that’s usually good enough. Much of my work involves thinking rather than doing. But I guess the main way that it differs from TV or the movies is that a lot of my investigations don’t end in a satisfactory resolution, I’m afraid, and some clients expect more than I can deliver; but I do my best. After all, for every murder, robbery and burglary the police manage to crack there are thousands that remain unsolved.”

  My honesty had got the better of me. I’m sure he would have preferred to have me recount tales of personal derring-do, triumphing in the face of impossible odds; perhaps spiced up with anecdotes about sexual encounters along the way. But it was apparently good enough for Greg.

  “It all makes my working life seem a bit dull, I’m afraid,” he said. “I worked for a trading company which Gloria’s grandfather set up many years ago. Not trading in stocks and shares, but in everything from foodstuffs to electronics. I’m retired now and the company mainly trades on the internet so there wouldn’t have been much for me to do anyway.”

  “The internet and other technical innovations have changed the way people like me operate too,” I said. “Saves a lot of time, but it does rather cut you off from your fellow man.”

  I was on the verge of boring myself into a coma.

  “Well I don’t expect the earth, Kane. My concerns may not even be well-founded, but I owe it to my family to investigate certain matters. Incidentally, I hope you don’t think my curiosity about your job was an attempt to check your credentials. Brad recommends you highly and that’s good enough for me.”

  Happily Greg didn’t mention the ‘secret weapon’ epithet, which was a relief.

  “Your fees are acceptable, so perhaps we should get down to business,” he said. “Now then, where do you want me to start?”

  “I think I’d better leave that up to you. Perhaps you can tell me the name of your wife’s daughter and whether you’ve ever met her.”

  “Her name is Susan, Susan Granger. I don’t know whether Susan is the name Gloria gave her at birth or whether it was chosen by her adoptive parents; it doesn’t really matter. Susan Granger. And yes, I have met her several times since she got in touch with Gloria about a year or so ago. Maybe a bit less than a year, I can’t be certain. Anyway, I didn’t speak w
ith her much really. After all, she came to see Gloria and I let them alone. Partly because I felt it was none of my business and partly because I could tell that Gloria felt rather uncomfortable about the whole thing.”

  “Why was that, do you think?”

  “Oh there are many reasons that I can think of. It was part of her life that I wasn’t a party to, and I’m sure she felt awkward, especially since Susan was her only natural child.”

  “But you have children of your own,” I said.

  “Our children were adopted. It’s ironic isn’t it? I must have been responsible − obviously Gloria was able to conceive, but it didn’t happen for us. I was never medically examined, or anything like that, it was just one of those things. I know that Gloria felt that maybe she was being punished for giving her own child up for adoption, but of course that’s silly. Still, I think Gloria felt that she was responsible in some way. Not that it mattered in the grand scheme of things; our children were always treated the same as if they were our blood. But…”

  There was a long pause while he thought about how to phrase what he wanted to say. I waited patiently. Eventually he sighed deeply and said, “But we never told the boys about Susan.”

  “Until when?”

  “The boys were never told that their mother had an illegitimate daughter who was adopted. I mean it isn’t something that’s easy to deal with. It’s easy to be wise after the event, but there never seemed any need to tell them. I’m sure that as the years passed it never occurred to Gloria that she would ever hear from her adopted daughter; it certainly never occurred to me. It was a chapter in their mother’s life which was closed the day that Gloria agreed to marry me.”

  Greg leaned forward, picked up his coffee and took a sip. He sat back in his chair, his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He arched his hands, placing his finger and thumb tips together.

  “As the adoptive father of two boys you’ll be well aware of the problems associated with closed adoptions,” I said. “As you know the original birth certificate is sealed by the court and the amended certificate doesn’t reveal the names of the natural parents.”

  “I know about the limitations imposed by the legislature on disclosing the original birth mother and father, yes. Fortunately no problems arose in relation to our children because their birth mother and father had already passed away before their adoption. I don’t need to go into the details. Suffice to say that both boys knew from an early age who their birth parents were, and they never had any reason to want to see documentation to prove it.”

  “What it means in this case is that it may be difficult to find a probative genetic link between Susan and Gloria,” I said, “and it would be unreasonable to ask Susan to prove it because she won’t be able to. Assuming she has a copy of the amended birth certificate that will establish where and when she was born, of course. Do you happen to know where Gloria gave birth to her illegitimate daughter?”

  “I know she was living on the West Coast before she met me, but we never discussed where the birth had taken place. Let me tell you the story; I’ll try to keep it as brief as possible.”

  I sat back on the sofa and studied his face as he framed the account in his mind so as to keep it relevant and succinct. He tilted his head back and briefly closed his eyes, journeying back in time, before continuing.

  “I met Gloria in Vermont in the early seventies. She was living with her parents then. We were both in our early twenties and both single. About a year after I met Gloria I asked her to marry me. It was then that she told me about her daughter. She told me she simply couldn’t accept my proposal without my knowing the truth. Her daughter had been born about three years before that. She had planned to marry the father, but he went missing in action. She couldn’t cope by herself and believed that the child would have a better life if she was adopted. She went through the usual court proceedings I suppose, but she never told me where the birth had taken place, nor the exact date. She didn’t tell me who the adoptive parents were either. I didn’t ask her for any of these details because it was the fact of the birth, not the details, that was important. I know her daughter’s date of birth now, though; it’s mentioned in Gloria’s will.”

  I nodded to show that I was still alive but didn’t say anything to interrupt him.

  “For my part I assured Gloria that it made no difference to my feelings for her and I said that as far as I was concerned the matter would never be mentioned again. It never was.”

  “But after Susan made contact…”

  “Even then our children were not told. They were no longer living with us; they had their own lives. Perhaps if Gloria hadn’t become ill when she did we might have needed to say something eventually. Of course when I saw the will I had no choice. It was probably the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do.” He paused. “No, it wasn’t as bad as watching Gloria slipping into oblivion. Nothing could have been worse than that.”

  “So they now know about Susan and presumably about the will as well.”

  “Yes, they know now. Actually we haven’t spoken much since I told them. They were shocked, of course. It was almost as if I was responsible in some way. To put it bluntly, it didn’t go down at all well. Nothing’s been easy in the last couple of years.”

  Greg stood up and walked over to the glass doors and peered down the yard to the distant trees. He suggested that we took a short break before continuing our discussion. Through the sliding glass doors I had a view of the grounds. It looked like a municipal park kept pristine for the tourists. After a few hundred feet of level ground, the velvety lawn sloped gently down to an arboretum, about five or six hundred feet away. Greg opened the doors which slid silently and effortlessly on their bearings. We went outside and strolled to the bottom of the lawn. On either side of the lawn there were beds of neatly tended flowers and shrubs, but their scent was lost in the smell of newly cut grass. There was no boundary fence, but the lot appeared to finish where the trees began. Amongst the lightly shaded spaces between the trees was a breathtaking carpet of blooms. Though the principal colors were pink, purple and light blue, the range of hues were too numerous to count. The bright yellow centers of the flowers lent a homogeny to the varicolored display and the overall effect was one of beauty and tranquility as the stems moved gently and silently in the slight breeze.

  “Magnificent, aren’t they?” Greg said. “I planted them in the spring and the location suits them perfectly. You know what they’re called?”

  “Forget Me Nots,” I said.

  “Gloria’s favorite flower, and mine too now. They have a particular significance for me, obviously. The land extends through the trees to a brook. The arboretum was planted by Gloria’s grandfather with trees imported from the four corners of the earth. There probably isn’t another woodland like it in Massachusetts. Nothing much has changed since we moved here. I look after it myself. There’s more than seven acres including the woods. The grounds are largely as they have been since we moved into the house, and since it’s mostly grass and woodlands it’s not difficult to look after.”

  We stopped by a fringe of trees which rose out of some rough grass at the end of the lawn. A black-backed woodpecker stopped it’s tapping momentarily and studied us with apparent curiosity, bobbing its yellow crown on one side, before resuming. The sunlight made dappled patterns on the ground, seeming to dance as the leaves moved lazily in the slight breeze. I reflected momentarily on how sunlight could travel ninety three million miles and then have its progress halted by a tiny leaf.

  “Of course, the boys used to help me before, but I’m retired now and physically fit. My doctor tells me that yard work is the very best exercise you can have; it works pretty much every muscle in the body. Sometimes I spend all day outside. Being alone out here doesn’t make me feel as isolated as being alone in the house.”

  We stood enjoying the sun and the silence, the only sounds coming from the gentle rustling of leaves and the occasional chir
rup of the birds. We walked back up the sloping lawn and Philips suggested that we sat outside on the deck which ran the full width of the house. It was a hardwood deck, silky with the oil that had been applied to keep the moisture out. There was a small dark-green wrought iron table and four matching chairs, under a slightly darker green canvas umbrella. He persuaded me, with no difficulty at all, to share a bottle of pinot grigio with him. Although I’m not usually a wine drinker it was a bit like asking a dog if it wants to go for a walk. He wasn’t much of a drinker at all, he told me, and never drank alone, so it was an opportunity for him to ‘enjoy the grape’ as he put it. He fetched a couple of glasses from the kitchen, and wine from the cooling-cabinet. He poured the wine into the two glasses and then placed the bottle in an ice bucket and deftly wrapped a white linen napkin around the neck of the bottle. It was done with all the aplomb of an accomplished wine waiter and I forgot where I was for a moment or two; it was like being on a rather pleasant vacation. I decided to broach the subject of my visit again.

  “What you said about Susan on Sunday was somewhat cryptic,” I said. “Perhaps you would elaborate for me.”

  He swirled the wine in his glass, tasted and then swallowed it and grunted his approval.

  “I’m not entirely convinced that Susan is who she says she is.”

  “Is there any particular reason for your doubt?”

  “There’s nothing tangible, nothing concrete. I was here when she first appeared a year or so ago. There was no physical likeness between them. Of course I know that doesn’t really mean anything. In fact curiously enough when our boys were small people often said how alike we were, although of course we were not in fact related at all. Perhaps that’s just something people say to be kind. And then of course Susan was already past forty, she’d had a different diet, different environment; plus Gloria was always so well turned out. She didn’t dress ostentatiously; she just had that innate ability to always know what to wear, what went with what, whereas Susan’s dress was rather…drab. So perhaps that was another reason that they looked so different from one another.