by T. E. Woods
“My brother.” Leslie’s voice was ice-cold.
“Yes.” Sydney fought back against the ugliness of the memory of last night’s terrible scene. “Charles saved you, Leslie. His last act of love.”
Leslie said nothing. Sydney wasn’t sure she’d even heard her.
“Is there anyone you want me to call?”
Leslie huffed out a disgusted laugh. “Let’s leave it to the newspapers and television reporters to let the world know the filthy truth about my brother and husband.” She retreated into her world of silence. When she spoke again, her voice was kinder. “I spoke to my mother when I got home last night.”
Sydney tried to imagine the elegant Elaina Fitzgerald getting the late-night phone call informing her that her only son was dead, killed by his brother-in-law, his life of lies and corruption exposed.
“She whimpered, Sydney. Like the last, unselected puppy who’s been left alone in the box.” Leslie’s voice tightened. “Father got on the line then. I told him what happened.” She gave an offended chortle. “He told me to avoid any public statements. He’s sending lawyers and a spokesman.” She imitated her father’s commanding voice. “I’ll take care of Bernard, he said. You know, Sydney, I think that’s the first time I ever heard him call Barney by his given name.”
“Are they coming here? Your parents. Will they be here for you?”
Leslie shrugged. “The lawyers are coming. That’s all I know for sure.”
“What can I do?”
Leslie faced her for the first time since she’d arrived that morning. “You’re already doing it. I’m glad you’re here.”
Sydney squeezed her friend’s hand, then released it. She felt a tsunami of impotence wash over her.
“Where’s Charles now?” she asked Leslie.
“All those sirens. Remember? Did you hear all those sirens?”
Again, Sydney recalled last night’s horror. Leslie lunging toward Charles the instant he pulled the trigger and ended his own life. Leslie cradled him, screaming the most desperate sound Sydney ever heard. It seemed to her the police were instantly there, but she knew that couldn’t have been the case. Rick had told her it was 911 calls from neighbors hearing gunshots that summoned them. By the time Rick and Horst identified themselves, Leslie’s screams had subsided. She cooed and rocked her husband’s lifeless body as the first two officers on the scene stared in disbelief at their chief lying in a pool of blood. More police came. Some uniformed, some in plain clothes. Sydney had answered their questions while keeping her eyes on Leslie, who renewed her screaming when the coroner insisted she allow her to examine the body.
Rick assured the detective in charge that Leslie would be available for questioning.
“Let us take her home,” he’d said. “She’s not going to do anybody any good tonight.”
“I don’t know where he is.” Leslie’s voice was choked now. “Surely he’s still not there in that shelter.”
“I’ll make some calls. Do you have a funeral home preference?”
“Cress, I suppose. I see their places when I drive around.” She looked at Sydney with reddened eyes. “Do you think Charles would like Cress?”
The best Sydney could do was say yes.
Leslie pushed back her chair. On instinct, Sydney stepped forward, ready to catch her if she crumpled. Leslie waved her off.
“I’m not an invalid.” She plodded through the kitchen. Sydney followed, unsure of what might be expected of her, but determined to respond to anything her friend needed.
Leslie shuffled down a parquet hall and turned in to what was obviously a home office. The space was decorated with a decidedly feminine hand. Pale green walls, cream-colored rugs. A striped settee was situated under a tall window. The desk was delicately carved. As Leslie walked directly to pull a notebook from a shelf, Sydney glanced across the hall to the room opposite Leslie’s office. The size of that room was identical to this one, but its walls were painted deepest navy. The desk in that space was heavy oak.
Charles’s office, she assumed. Of course. If they had to work from home, they’d be near each other.
“Here it is.” Leslie set the notebook on her desk.
“What’s this?”
“The How-To Guide for Fitzgerald Funerals.” Leslie’s voice was singsong. “Mother prepared a reference for every activity that might happen in our lives. There’s a notebook describing Fitzgerald holiday traditions, another for dinner parties. Did you know the seating arrangement when hosting religious personnel is vastly different than entertaining business people? Which are both crazily different when hosting figures from the entertainment world. It’s all there. Care to see the Fitzgerald handbook addressing the hiring and management of household staff? Mother’s got a book for everything.” She paused. “I’m sure there’s a duplicate set in Barney’s home.”
“Sounds like your mother was trying to make things easier for her children.”
“Mother always insisted details were important. And apparently Fitzgerald details are so crucial they have to be outlined, cross-referenced, and manualized.”
“May I?”
“Better you than me. At this point I don’t give a damn about the Fitzgerald way of doing things.”
Sydney reached for the notebook. She took it over to the settee and sat, allowing the late-morning sun to illuminate her task. She opened the soft upholstered cover and ran her hand along the side of the first page. Sydney noted how different the very wealthy are from the common folk. Had her own mother put together such a packet, it would have been on lined notebook paper. But Elaina Fitzgerald had handwritten her instructions and lists on thick, creamy vellum.
Something stirred deep inside Sydney.
She read on. First was a four-page list of people to contact should a Fitzgerald find themselves needing to plan a funeral. Phone numbers were provided. Next came a section showing the locations of burial plots, again accompanied by names and phone numbers. The third section was one page. Elaina had handwritten specifications for caskets.
It is to be simple, but of sufficient quality of material to assert authority. Nothing polished or shiny. Simple silver hardware. No brass. No ornate decorations. The lining should be raw silk, off-white. Any embroidery should be the same color, although, if one must, a pale pastel thread would be acceptable, though not preferred.
Sydney’s eyes traced the handwriting a second time. Blue ink. Elegant, fluid penmanship. Large flourishes on capital letters.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Her mind flashed to last night. Charles’s last speech.
Joe had some information on the Fitzgerald family, he’d said. Something that would be sure to destroy them all.
She forced herself to breathe. She laid her hands flat against Elaina Fitzgerald’s notebook and willed them to be steady.
She took two long, deep breaths.
“This notebook…” She was surprised to hear the steadiness in her voice. “Your mother wrote this?”
Leslie nodded. “Fitzgerald lore is too important to be trusted to anyone else.” Her tone was laced with sarcasm. “I wonder if she has a manual for dealing with a traitorous brother who’s betrayed the family to the Chicago mob?”
Sydney ignored her barb. “This paper. It seems quite expensive for what is basically a binder filled with lists.”
“Crane’s Ecruwhite.” Leslie continued with her mocking tone. “Her signature stock. She buys reams of it. Note cards, thank-you cards, letter paper…one always knew a correspondence came from Elaina Fitzgerald’s desk when they saw that Ecruwhite vellum and the blue ink that could only come from a Graf von Faber-Castell pen.”
Sydney’s nod was mechanical. Her mind was no longer in the room. It was in her own home. Sitting on her bed. Pulling a letter from a nightstand drawer. A letter written years before, on
creamy vellum stationery with blue ink rendering a flourished handwriting. A letter delivered by an attorney upon her thirtieth birthday. A letter asking for forgiveness. A letter describing loving parents who conceived a child in love but were forced to walk away to avoid a devastating scandal. A letter accompanying a fifteen-million-dollar check.
A letter from her birth mother.
Charles said Barney told him my father had information that could destroy the Fitzgeralds.
Sydney glanced over to Leslie, who stared out her window at a world in which she found herself suddenly a widow.
“Your mother’s at home now?” Sydney asked. “In Fox Point?”
“I assume so.”
“Let’s call her. Ask her to come to Madison.”
“Good luck with that.” Leslie ran a weary hand through unwashed hair. “If I know Mother, and I do, she’s taken to her bed, sick with worry about how she’ll explain Barney’s activities to the women at the club.”
“She should be here with you.” Sydney heard the detachment in her voice as she stood. She crossed the room and tossed the notebook on Leslie’s desk. “Give me her number. I’ll call.”
Chapter 55
“I’m not accustomed to being summoned, Leslie.” Ted Fitzgerald stormed into his daughter’s home without pausing for pleasant greetings. “We’re all having a trying time. That doesn’t mean respectful behavior isn’t expected.”
Leslie Arbeit looked up from where she sat. She stared at her father, as though trying to place his face with a name.
“It wasn’t Leslie who called,” Sydney explained. “I did. And it wasn’t you I asked to come. It was your wife.”
Ted Fitzgerald ignored her. He strode over to his daughter. “This is a family matter, Leslie. You know better than to give our private phone numbers to strangers. Especially at inopportune times.”
Leslie’s bleary eyes narrowed. “My husband is dead. Your son is dead. My husband declared himself guilty of high crimes, including murder…all at the behest of your son. Inopportune?”
Fitzgerald gripped a tighter hand on his mighty walking stick. “All the reason for more decorum, not less.”
Any response Leslie might have had was eclipsed by the sight of her mother shuffling into the house, escorted by Father Ian Moran. Elaina wore a black cotton sheath with matching jacket. A single lustrous strand of pearls encircled her neck. Her champagne hair was styled and her makeup was subtle yet flawless. It was only the weariness of her step and the trembling of her bone-thin hands that gave away Elaina Fitzgerald’s torment. She motioned for Moran to lead her directly to Sydney, pausing only once to give her daughter a mournful glance.
“I’ll tell you whatever I can,” the older woman whispered after taking Sydney’s hand in hers. “You deserve at least that much.”
“Sit down, Elaina!” Fitzgerald roared before turning to his daughter. “Get yourself dressed. Something suitable. There’s bound to be press. We leave in twenty minutes.” He narrowed his eyes. “Your friend can depart now.”
“Where are we going?” Leslie sounded as though she’d returned to whatever disconnected state she’d been living in since Charles’s suicide.
“Nowhere.” Elaina Fitzgerald stepped away from Moran and turned to face her husband. “You’ve done quite enough damage for several lifetimes, Ted. It’s time for the women to discuss things.”
“You are my wife,” Fitzgerald rumbled. “I’ll not stand for disobedience.”
“Then you’d better sit.” Elaina looked at Moran. “You, too, Father.” Elaina’s voice was firmer than her enfeebled appearance suggested. “This family can bear no more heartache. I pray there’s a morsel of healing to be had.”
Ian Moran, dressed totally in black, save for the white priestly rectangle at his throat, took a seat on Leslie’s sofa. Sydney watched Fitzgerald glare silently at his wife until he, too, stepped away to stand by the stone fireplace.
Elaina once again took hold of Sydney’s hand. “We’re about to learn your capacity for forgiveness.” She nodded toward a sofa sitting parallel to the one on which Moran sat. “Perhaps you’d like to sit.”
Sydney nodded.
“Where would you like me to start?” Elaina asked.
Heavy, invisible hands pressed on Sydney’s shoulders. Her breath came in shallow sips. Her mouth went dry. It seemed several eternities passed while Elaina looked at her, awaiting words Sydney dared not speak.
“You,” she finally whispered. “You’re my mother.”
“What?” Leslie struggled to her feet. “What did you just say?”
“She told me I was her mother,” Elaina replied. Her face was a portrait of supplication.
“That’s absurd!” Leslie craned her neck to look at her father, who stood in stony silence. Then she returned her attention to her mother. “Mother, tell Sydney she’s wrong.”
“You’re wrong.” Elaina’s voice was calm. But she spoke directly to Sydney, not Leslie. “I’m not your mother.”
“Sydney, what in the world gave you the—” Leslie’s question went unfinished as Elaina interrupted.
“I’m your grandmother.” Her voice cracked. “Your sorry, repentant, sad grandmother.”
Sydney heard the words as if they were spoken from a lifetime away.
“Mother, what are you saying?” Leslie demanded. She looked again to her father. “Father, explain this!”
Ted Fitzgerald turned away to face the fireplace, tapping his walking stick against the cold flagstone of the hearth.
“The letter,” Sydney told Elaina. “You wrote it.”
“I did.” Elaina’s voice was low but steady. “Nearly five years ago. It was a few days after I learned of your existence. I had received a letter from my eldest daughter.”
“The nun,” Sydney said. “In Ireland. Leslie told me.”
Elaina nodded. “Cecilia is cloistered. My darling girl spends her life in prayer and worship. She is allowed only three letters per year. I’m fortunate enough to be the recipient of both. But I have no such restriction on my correspondence. I write her several times a month. As I have done ever since she left for boarding school.”
“She was just fourteen,” Leslie said. “I asked Father about her once, when I was six or seven. He told me Cecilia had disappointed him. That I was never to speak her name again.” She turned and spoke to her father’s back. “I grew up fearing that I, too, might be sent away if I so much as dared to leave the house without making my bed.”
“I shopped for a special card for her.” Elaina spoke as though she hadn’t heard Leslie’s revelation. “Cecilia’s forty-fifth birthday was approaching, and I wanted her to have something special…It was so difficult for me to imagine. My eldest was middle-aged. In my mind she was still a child. Tall, all arms and legs, like a baby fawn.”
Sydney’s breath caught in her throat. She had been a young teenager herself when she first met Horst and he’d used that same expression to describe her all those years ago. To this day he called her Kitz, the German word for a baby deer.
“I wasn’t allowed to see her grow,” Elaina continued. “Never heard her voice deepen. Never saw what she might have looked like on her wedding day. And there it was. My little girl was somehow halfway through her life. I found myself overwhelmed with desire to see her as she was. Had she grown matronly? Had the dewy skin I held in my memory gone wrinkled? What did my little girl look like? So, along with the birthday card and the sizeable check I always included as a birthday gift to her convent, I wrote a lengthy letter, pouring my despair onto the page. Begging her to leave the order, come home to us. Come home to me.”
“I never knew any of this,” Leslie gasped.
No one in the room responded.
“Cecilia wrote back,” Elaina went on. “Her letter assured me she was still committed to atonement. She wro
te she would spend the rest of her earthly existence praying for forgiveness. Not only for the sins of the world, but for her own.”
“Am I that sin?” Sydney asked. “Am I the reason a middle school girl was sentenced to a lifetime of isolation?”
Elaina’s face hardened as she looked over to her husband, who stood with his back to them all. She turned back to Sydney.
“You are not a sin, my dear. But, yes. I’m afraid your existence is; indeed, the reason our Cecilia keeps herself closed to us.”
“I don’t understand,” Sydney said.
“Neither did I. All those years ago, I was adamant Cecilia not go to boarding school in Ireland, despite her pleas. Ted sided with her. He told me it would be good for her. Broaden her horizons. She would learn more about her heritage. He promised me there was no need to worry. Cecilia would stay with family members. They’d watch over her. I remember he laughed away my tears, swearing Cecilia would be homesick enough that she’d be back after a semester or two.” Elaina’s voice turned venomous. “What I didn’t know was that she was pregnant. My baby. Sweet. Innocent. My beautiful Cecilia was with child. Ted knew, and he kept it from me. He let me believe for decades that my girl had chosen to live in Ireland. Chosen to enter the convent. Chosen to live away from me and her brother and sister.”
Ted Fitzgerald whirled toward them. “What was I to do? She comes to me. Pregnant! How would that have looked? What would that have done to you? To Barney? To Leslie? Someone had to protect us all from the shame Cecilia had brought to our home.”
“You threw her away!” Elaina snarled. “She was a child! I could have helped her!”
“And lived with the dishonor?” Fitzgerald roared. “The humiliation? I saved you, Elaina. I saved us all.”
Sydney felt the room vibrate with Elaina’s rage. Instinctively, she reached over to take the hand of the woman she now knew to be her grandmother.
“I was weak,” Elaina told Sydney, her eyes revealing her shame. “Once I knew the truth, I should have divorced my husband. Barney and Leslie were well launched by then. Settled in their own lives. I should have told them everything. Gone to Ireland to rescue Cecilia. Left the great Theodore Fitzgerald to live out his wicked life alone.” She paused. “But I didn’t. It pains me to the bone to realize I chose the comfort and status of being Mrs. Fitzgerald rather than take the steps I should have. Instead, I devoted myself to locating you. It didn’t take long. The Draggond Group, our family attorneys, had arranged your adoption. In less than a week I knew who you were and where you lived.”
