Abby wished there was someone she could ask. Ellie understood, in her own way, but Abby couldn’t consult an eight-year-old. And Ellie was busy with a new school year and a kitten and a recuperating father, and might not want to be dragged back into this thing. Abby didn’t have the right to ask her to stay involved. Leslie certainly wouldn’t approve, and Abby wanted to stay on Leslie’s good side as a way of keeping in contact with her daughter.
She looked at the scribbled notes spread around the table. She had collected a few more names, but no way was she going to go chasing all of them all over the country. She had to narrow the field somehow. All right: Isabel Flagg had married a local banker named Bailey Whitman. They had had four children, and the eldest one, Bailey Junior, had died in the war. That left three: a son and two daughters. From what she had found, Abby thought the daughters, Eleanore and Victoria, had married and moved out of state, with different surnames, and it would be a lot of work to track them down. That left the second son, Franklin, who had remained in Massachusetts. The last piece of information she had found from local newspapers was that he had had at least one son, and in Franklin Whitman’s local obituary, a couple of sons were listed, living in the same area. Therefore she should follow the Whitman name in eastern Massachusetts.
Yet even Abby had to recognize that anyone living and breathing now was unlikely to know anything about a person, relative or not, that they had never known, three or four generations back. Unless she was lucky enough to run into another manic genealogist, but she couldn’t count on that. Otherwise, they were unlikely to welcome a crazy woman asking about those long-gone relatives. Give it up, Abby, she told herself. It’s a wild-goose chase.
No. Something inside her wouldn’t let her, not yet. All right, she was going to make one last stab at this. She even had the perfect cover story: she had a painting by a local artist who had been moderately famous in his day, and whose paintings were still selling, even online. She had reason to believe that her family had had some connection to the artist, and she wanted to know more about it. The painting had come down through her family, and she wondered if maybe her great-great-whatever had actually known the artist? That kind of question would be nonthreatening, wouldn’t it? And luckily the surname Whitman was uncommon enough that the list wouldn’t be too long. She would leave it up to the gods—or Olivia?—to help her in finding whatever it was she was looking for. Or hinder her. Maybe there were some secrets that should die with their owners. But in any case, if there were no Whitmans within a reasonable distance from where she sat, she would put the problem to bed once and for all.
Abby started searching for Whitmans in Massachusetts, starting with Lynn and Waltham and Cape Cod. She decided, rather arbitrarily, that she should cut off her research at the midpoint of the state, the Connecticut River Valley. Anywhere east of there was fair game. In a couple of hours she had collected a list of maybe twenty-five names. With a sigh she started calling. For those where a human voice answered, it took longer with each call than she had hoped, although she shouldn’t have been surprised: with each caller she had to identify herself and explain why she was calling, and as she had feared, there were many people who couldn’t even give specifics about their grandparents, never mind someone who had died in the late nineteenth century. Some people were interested, and a percentage of them asked if there was any money in it for them. When Abby told them no, they quickly lost interest. Others hung up on her.
She had saved the likeliest for last. After a few more calls where nobody human answered the phone, she tried a number in Osterville. A woman answered, sounding peeved even before Abby started her spiel. “Yeah, right, I’m Brenda Whitman. You calling about the yard sale? Because it doesn’t start until tomorrow. No early birds.”
“Can you give me directions?”
The woman spat out a couple of street names, and finally said, exasperated, “Look it up, lady. I’m busy.” She hung up.
Well, okay, that was rude, Abby thought. But if the woman was getting ready for a yard sale, she was probably harried. It was the beginning of the Labor Day weekend, and there should be a lot of traffic. Didn’t people always show up at yard sales looking for bargains? Abby looked down at her list: everything was crossed off. All right, she’d go to the yard sale at the Whitman residence tomorrow. And maybe she’d swing by the house in West Falmouth and say good-bye to Olivia one more time, and then leave in time to beat the rotary traffic. She started to gather up her papers into neat stacks. But before she shut down her computer, she checked to see where Osterville was: only a few miles beyond West Falmouth, along the coast. All she would have to do was to follow Route 28.
When Ned arrived home, Abby was happily chopping vegetables. “Looks good—what is it?” he asked.
“I think it’s pasta primavera, although maybe it should be pasta estate, since this is summer, not spring. Anyway, I thought I should use the vegetables while they were still fresh. Next year I’ll try to plant herbs, if I remember. I don’t know if I’m ambitious enough to do a vegetable garden.”
“We have plenty of time,” Ned said, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing the back of her neck.
“How soon do you want to eat dinner?” Abby said breathlessly.
“I’m in no hurry.”
“Good.”
An hour later Abby dumped a boiling pot of pasta into a strainer, then poured her improvised sauce over them and mixed the whole mess with a large pair of forks. Then she transferred the result into two broad bowls, and set one at each of their places. “There. Mangia.”
“Have you been to Italy?”
“Only the high points—Rome, Florence, Venice—right after college. And what I could see from a train. You?”
Ned shook his head. “We should go sometime.”
“Hey, you want to plan vacations, I can give you a long shopping list.”
“What?” he asked, smiling. “In this country? In Europe? Somewhere else?”
She kept forgetting that Ned had money. “London, Paris, Dublin. Hadrian’s Wall. The great cathedrals. How about Australia? The Sydney Opera House?”
“What, no beaches on tropical islands?”
“I like to go places to do things, not to lie in the sun and beg for skin cancer. Do you have a wish list?”
“Pretty much the same as yours. I just haven’t wanted to take that kind of vacation by myself.”
Abby smiled: she understood how he felt. It was much more fun to share experiences like that. “Well, now you’ve got me for companionship. I am a very good tourist: I like everything. The food, the scenery, the art. It’s all good.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” He forked up some spaghetti and chewed. “Any breakthroughs today?”
“Well, I decided when I’m cutting this off. I tried to follow the descendants of the adopted daughter Isabel Flagg to the present day, but it got too complicated, especially for the ones who left the state, and the records aren’t as easily available as the older ones. I found a few people with the right surname who lived in this part of Massachusetts, so I started calling them. It occurred to me that I have a great story in Thomas Clarkson, since he was sort of a public figure as an artist. Plus, I have the picture, and that gives me a great excuse to talk about him and his family, and ask if any of the Whitmans knew anything about him. It’s easier than trying to explain the genealogy over the phone. I got a lot of no answers, and some hang-ups, and a few people who didn’t know anything. I thought I’d hit another dead end, but there’s one Whitman family on the Cape that might be promising. Even if they aren’t related, they’re having a yard sale tomorrow, and I really need to get out of the house.”
“Well, happy hunting on both fronts. Just remember the weekend traffic.”
“I just hope the trip is worth it.”
Chapter 23
“Are you taking much cash with you?” Ned asked as he dressed the next morning.
“I’m not there to buy, just to pump people for infor
mation.”
“What if it turns out they have a family Bible going back to 1683 and think it’s just a musty old book?”
Did that really ever happen? “Fine, I’ll take cash. At least the place should be easy to find. Are you going into the office this weekend?” The long holiday weekend. Well, he had taken a couple of days off to spend with Ellie and her on the Cape. But still.
“I don’t know yet—depends on how much I get done today.”
“You know, you are the boss. You can cut yourself some slack, can’t you?”
“I am endeavoring to set a good example for the rest of my faithful staff. But I won’t stay late, I promise.”
“Hey, before you go—how should I handle contacting Ellie?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, now that we don’t have any regular schedule for seeing each other, I kind of miss her. And I want to know how school’s going, and how Olivia is settling in, but I don’t feel that I can just call, or if I do, maybe I should ration myself?”
Ned sat on the bed to lace up his shoes. “Are you worried about how Leslie will feel about that?”
“Maybe. I’m not trying to take anything away from her relationship with Ellie, and I know she’s being pulled in six directions at the moment, with George, and work, and getting the kids back on some sort of schedule. I don’t want to add to that.”
“I understand, and I’m betting that Leslie will too, when things settle down. Give it some time.”
“I’ll try. But it’s hard.” Abby stood up. “So, you, get going. I want to get to this thing early, and there will be traffic.”
Ned stood as well. “Yes, there will be. Good luck!”
“Thank you. I need some. Now, shoo!”
As soon as Ned had cleared the driveway, Abby gulped down some toast, filled a travel mug with coffee, and headed out. She knew the way to the Cape now, and traffic wasn’t bad until she got to within a few miles of the bridge. At least she’d been prepared for it and was resigned to moving like a snail for a few miles. Once past the rotary beyond the bridge, the road opened up, and she found the exit for Osterville without any trouble. The town itself was small, and there were few turns involved in finding the house she was looking for. In fact, she probably could have found it without a map, given the number of cars already parked near it, despite the early hour.
She parked in the shade of a tree and started walking slowly, looking at the neighborhood. Mostly post–World War Two houses, nice-sized lots, well maintained. Not an affluent neighborhood, at least when it was built, but she didn’t want to think how much it would cost now to buy one of these. She thought she could see the ocean at the far end of the block. The house she was looking for—the one with tables and piles of stuff in the front yard—turned out to be in the middle of the block. No one there could claim an ocean view, unless you stood on the roof. There was a “For Sale” sign planted in the grass in front. A semicircular driveway led from the street to the front of the house, and the grass within it was crammed with articles for sale. A sign with a large arrow pointed around the side of the house: it said simply “MORE.”
Even though it was barely ten, the place was crowded. She wandered around, trying to identify someone who looked like they were in charge, and finally lighted on a rangy woman of about forty, who looked frazzled, running from one place to another and fielding questions as she went. It wasn’t going to be easy to hold a conversation with her about her ancestor Isabel, or more accurately, her father-in-law Franklin. On the other hand, if the place was for sale, she might not get another chance. She had to try.
Abby approached the woman briskly and said, “Is this your house?”
“Yeah. Want to buy it?” the woman said, counting out change for someone else.
“Are you Brenda Whitman?”
The woman stopped and glared at Abby. “Yeah. So?”
“I’m looking for Franklin Whitman,” Abby told her.
The woman pushed her hair out of her face. “He’s dead. My father-in-law. I’m married to his son Steven. Look, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of busy here. You want to give me a bill or serve notice or something? Or you’re welcome to buy whatever you like. Other than that, I’ve got stuff to do.”
“Was your husband’s great-grandmother Isabel Flagg?” Abby said desperately.
The woman fixed her with a glare that would have shattered glass. “What’s it to you? I told you, I’m busy. You want to talk about the past, it’s her you want.” The woman pointed to an older woman, seated in the shade of the garage, watching the melee in the yard. “My mother-in-law. I don’t care about old stories—I just want to get this place cleared out so I can get out of here.”
“Thank you for your help,” Abby said to her retreating back. She made her way over to the older woman, who was seated in a flimsy aluminum-and-strap yard chair that looked ready to collapse. “Excuse me—your, uh, daughter-in-law said you might know something about the Whitman family history?”
The woman looked to be in her seventies, but her eyes were sharp. “And why might you want to know?”
“I’m looking for information about Isabel Flagg, who married Bailey Whitman in Waltham. She was the adopted daughter of my great-great-great-grandfather William.”
The woman studied her face for a moment, then smiled. “Isabel wasn’t adopted, dear. She was William’s own child. Let’s go around back where it’s quieter. We need to talk.”
The woman stood up with relative ease, and Abby, struck dumb, followed her around to the back of the building. There were people rummaging through more piles of items, but it was less crazy than the front yard. The woman pointed toward a pair of white wooden Adirondack chairs tucked into a corner of the patio. “Sit, please.” Abby sat.
“We’d better start with introductions, I assume. I am Edna Whitman—Whitman was my married name. My late husband, Franklin, named for his father, and I bought this house when we married, and brought up our kids here. When my husband died I turned it over to my son Steven—that one’s husband”—Edna nodded toward the front—“and now they’re moving away. He’s taken a new job in Baltimore. They’ve got an offer on the house, which is why they’re dumping all this stuff in such a hurry. I don’t have room for it, where I am now—it’s a retirement community. Nice enough, but the apartments are small, and there’s not much storage. I just wanted to see it all one last time.”
“I’m Abigail Kimball—Abby. I’m descended from William Flagg and his wife, Elizabeth Reed, but I only found out last year, so I’m just starting out, putting the pieces together.”
Edna nodded, once. “I’ve got Reed ancestors too. Have you met William?”
Abby stared at her, stunned. “You mean William Flagg? The one who died in 1914?”
“That’s the only William in the family. He never had a son, you know.”
Abby swallowed. Might as well tell the truth. “Yes, I met him in Waltham, last fall.”
Edna smiled. “I thought so. You’re descended from Olivia. So you know that Isabel was a good bit younger than she was?”
“Yes, I noticed that. You’re saying she was William’s own child?”
“Nobody ever did the DNA stuff, but that was the story that came down through the family. How much do you know about William?”
“He sounds like an interesting person, someone I’d like to know.”
“He was that. Hardworking, determined. He dabbled in a lot of things, and some worked out better than others. He was smart—when he made a chunk of money, before 1900, he tied it up in a trust for the two girls. That’s where Olivia’s money came from. Not from her husband.” Edna sniffed.
“You don’t like Samuel?”
“Not much. He was kind of a parasite. And a whiner.”
Abby smiled. “I don’t like him either. But the money didn’t last long. Why do you know so much about all this?”
Edna shrugged. “When I was younger, women didn’t work so much, especially afte
r the children came. Once they were out of the house I got kind of bored. You can’t read all the time, and I didn’t like to join women’s clubs and such, so I got interested in the family history. I’ve been working on it, oh, twenty years now—mine and my husband’s. Computers have been a big help.”
“That they have, which is how I ended up here. When’s the move happening?”
“Next week—anything that doesn’t sell today will go to the dump or a church jumble sale or something. You’re lucky you found us when you did. If it was luck.”
“You mean Olivia sent me here?”
“Maybe. Do I sound like a crazy old lady?”
“Only if that makes me a crazy young lady. I’ve found a few others, too. It seems to run in families. Like the Reeds.”
“You’re lucky. In all my years, I’ve only connected with a couple of others, and we could never really talk about it. Sad, isn’t it? Like ignoring the color purple just because other people can’t see it.”
“I know what you mean.”
“So, what brings you here today, Abby?” Edna asked.
Abby glanced around quickly, to be sure no one was likely to overhear what promised to be a very strange conversation. The coast was clear, since everyone was absorbed with trying to find treasures among the junk on the tables. “I just found out that Olivia owned a house in West Falmouth, toward the end of her life. By accident I ended up spending a few nights there, without even knowing it had been hers. While I was there, I saw her, during that big storm last week. She was sitting outside in the rain and crying. I wanted to know why—why she owned that house, what she was doing there, and mostly, why she was so sad.”
“They get under your skin, don’t they?” Edna said softly. “But I think I’m one of the few people in the world who can help you answer that. Come with me.”
Watch for the Dead (Relatively Dead Book 4) Page 18
