by Edie Claire
"Of course," Leigh agreed sadly, looking at the sweet roll on her plate with no trace of appetite. The thought of what her aunt must have gone through was horrifying. First there would have been the slow realization that the man she loved was a criminal, and then the fear of facing motherhood alone—with her baby's father rotting in jail. But there was even more to be afraid of. Lydie could have been charged as an accessory herself, in which case she might actually give birth in jail…
Leigh shuddered.
"I don't need to tell you how impossibly painful the whole incident was for Lydie," Frances continued soberly. "It changed her whole personality. She became almost mechanical—completely dedicated to giving Cara as close to a normal life as she possibly could. I've never seen any woman push herself harder, before or since. She worked two waitressing jobs while I babysat Cara along with you, and then she did some seamstress work on the side. Between your grandparents and Randall and myself, we managed to set her up in the house next door to ours, which was a real godsend. It was cheap because it needed a lot of work, but Lydie did most of it herself—she taught herself as she went. I think hard work simply became therapeutic for her. It helped her to forget."
Frances paused long enough to emit a deep sigh. "I know you think your Aunt Lydie is a fun-loving soul, and she still is. But I often wonder how different she might have turned out if—" she cut herself off. "But I suppose that doesn't matter now." She took a deep breath and turned piercing eyes back on her daughter. "So you see, we have to take these blackmail threats very seriously."
Leigh nodded dumbly. There were too many concerns spiraling in her head to make sense of, but she voiced the most obvious one first. "Do you think—" she paused. The words were hard to say for some reason. "Do you know if the statute of limitations has run out? I mean, Lydie's not really in any legal danger anymore, right?"
Frances shook her head. "I'm sure she's not. Mason always said—I mean, our understanding was that the statute of limitations for armed robbery was only about five years, so that hasn't been an issue for a while. Plus, I'm sure Lydie would stand a good chance of acquittal, with a decent lawyer. That lady lawyer of yours certainly did wonders."
Leigh chose to ignore the reference to her own nefarious past. Something else her mother had said was bothering her, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it.
"Prosecution isn't the issue," Frances continued. "The issue is Lydie's feelings. If this story ever became public knowledge, she'd be absolutely devastated. It's taken her a lifetime to get over the nightmare, and if the story were to suddenly become public—" she stopped with a shudder. "I just don't know what it would do to her. It can't happen, and that's that."
Leigh nodded in agreement, and the two sat quietly for a moment. Finally, Frances said in an exasperated tone, "I'm very surprised Mason has done this, frankly. It doesn't sound like him."
Leigh threw her mother a baffled look. "You're surprised that a man who would rob a bank would stoop to blackmail?
Frances shook her head. "It's the timing. Mason could have blackmailed Lydie any time he wanted. Why torture the poor woman now?"
The conversation she'd had with Gil popped back into Leigh's mind. "Movers and Shakers," she said authoritatively. "Mason's blackmailing Gil, not Lydie—she wouldn't have enough money to bother. As for the timing, we figure he must have seen Gil and Cara on the television show and only then realized he had a rich son-in-law."
Frances eyes clouded over with confusion, and something else that could have been guilt—or maybe just empathy. "But you said that a letter came addressed to Lydie, at her house," she questioned.
Leigh backed up her thoughts, and supposed she hadn't been too clear on that point. Probably because the second blackmail attempt never had made any sense, and as befuddled as the whole situation already was, her brain had chosen not to dwell on it. "We don't think the second letter was from Mason," she explained feebly. "It was written really poorly—grammar and spelling, I mean. It didn't sound like the same man Gil was talking to on the phone; it really seemed as though the threats were independent of each other. That's why we think that the second letter was just a half-hearted bluff. Like Mason shot off his mouth to a buddy about what he was going to do, and the buddy tried to capitalize on it himself. I'm not sure what the PI advised Gil to do about that one."
Frances continued to stare at her daughter with a puckered brow.
"What?" Leigh asked.
"Nothing," Frances said quickly. "I can't quite picture Mason doing this, that's all. I suppose he could be particularly desperate for money, but given the lifestyle he's undoubtedly led for the last thirty years, this can’t possibly be the first time."
The image of Mason beating his fist on the wall of the train station came back to Leigh with a rush. "He looked desperate to me, all right," she said grimly.
Frances cast a searching look on her daughter. "What exactly did you see him do? What did he look like?"
Leigh tried to come up with a colorful description of the man she had labeled as an ordinary schlub—but she didn't think it was too helpful. "I bet he had red hair when he was younger, didn't he?" she asked when she had finished.
Frances nodded, her eyes far away. "Beautiful golden-red hair, a nice thick crop of it." She continued to stare into the distance for a moment, then quickly retrieved her purse from the chair back and stood up. "I'd like to discuss this with Gil before Lydie gets back. Perhaps you can distract Cara for a while this afternoon?"
Leigh nodded and rose. "I'll think of something." She started to pull some money from her wallet, but Frances waved her off.
"Put that away," she said, laying several bills on the check tray.
Leigh looked at her mother gratefully. All told, she had handled this much better than expected. For a pathological worrier, her mother did have a knack at coming through in the major crises. Leigh started to thank her, but got cut off.
"Just remember next time, dear," Frances said patronizingly, crooking one finger in the direction of the untouched sweet roll. "It's wasteful to order food when you don't plan on eating it."
***
By the time Leigh had helped locate Frances's luggage—which during their conversation had been summarily labeled as "unclaimed" and carted off to the airport's nether regions—and driven her home, it was well past noon. She was therefore disappointed, but not surprised, to find her apartment empty.
Empty of other people, that is. Its feline occupant proved delighted to see her, as evidenced by the fact that she bothered to rise from the verboten kitchen tabletop in greeting. "Hi, Mao," Leigh said affectionately, not up to scolding at the moment. "Whatcha lying on?"
Mao Tse had the habit of appropriating any new flat surface as a day bed, so notes left on the kitchen table qualified. Leigh scooped the Persian off a piece of yellow legal paper and read the familiar, overly neat handwriting that had been hidden beneath her.
Got your note—and don't think I don't know you're up to something. This has to do with Cara's moonlight visit, doesn't it? I'll be back around five, but then I have a late dinner. We'll talk before. I'll even make you quesadillas. Be here. Love, W
Leigh smiled. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had quesadillas, but she knew it was before Warren's first campaign signs had gone up. She'd be here, all right. There were just a few more little issues she needed to settle…
Keeping a purring Mao Tse under one arm, she grabbed the portable phone, plopped down on the couch, and dialed. A husky female voice picked up on the second ring.
"Yep?"
"Hey, Maura," Leigh greeted, with as much cheer as she could muster. Thinking of the quesadillas definitely helped. "It's me."
"Koslow!" the voice replied, booming. "How the hell are you guys? I guess it's getting down to the wire for the future prez, huh?"
Leigh smiled, feeling a little guilty. She, Warren, and Maura Polanski had been the three musketeers back in their college days at the University of Pittsburgh. T
he Creative Genius, the future President of the United States, and the Wondercop. It was only in the past year that their harmoniously platonic three-way friendship had been complicated by a marriage. Maura had seemed to take it all in stride, but then you never knew with Maura. Although the six-foot, two-inch, 210-pound detective took most things in stride, Leigh seemed to have a knack at being involved in the exceptions.
"Just two more days now," Leigh answered. "I can't wait till it's all over, frankly. I hardly see the man. How are things with you?"
She listened while Maura gave her a brief update on the health of her mother and aunts, then an even briefer summary of her recent activities with Allegheny County's General Investigations squad. Maura was never one to gush. "So, what's up?"
"Nothing life threatening," Leigh answered, twiddling Mao Tse's tail nervously around her forefinger. It was the truth, literally, but at some level it still felt like a lie. Gil's reluctance to involve the police in his problems with Mason Dublin put her in an awkward position, seeing as how blackmail was right up Maura's alley. Leigh understood his desire to keep Cara out of the fray, but her sixth sense knew good and well that one way or another, Detective Polanski would eventually end up smack in the middle of it. That being the case, Leigh didn't intend to burn any bridges.
"I'm just doing some research for a friend," she began. She could call her cousin-in-law her friend, couldn't she? "And I've run up against a technical question I thought you might be able to answer for me."
There was a short pause, after which Maura uttered a distinctly suspicious-sounding, "Shoot."
Leigh took a breath. "My friend is looking into a bank robbery that happened back in the seventies. An employee was shot and wounded. The police got the shooter, but not the accomplices. He wants to know what the statute of limitations is on that sort of thing. You know, whether the people with the shooter could still get into trouble with the law if their names came out as suspects."
She paused, her heart thumping as she counted the seconds before Maura's response. The longer the wait, the less likely the policewoman was buying.
"Koslow," the husky voice replied sadly, a full five seconds later. "I thought marriage had mellowed you."
Drat. "What do you mean?" Leigh asked as innocently as possible. "It's just a technical question."
The detective sighed. "Nothing with you is ever technical. Now who the hell do you know that's mixed up with recovering bank robbers?"
Leigh exhaled in exasperation. "Please, Maura. Can't you just tell me? Marriage has mellowed me, I swear. Constant contentment. Continual bliss. Why would I go looking for trouble? Besides, do you really think Warren would just stand by and let me get involved with criminals?" The word "again" tried to tack itself onto the end of her sentence, but she squelched it just in time.
Two more seconds passed. "Warren's preoccupied," Maura said simply. "Now tell me the truth."
Leigh groaned mentally. "I did. I have a friend who needs the information. He's trying to protect a relative. He doesn't want to involve the police, and I've got to respect that for obvious reasons."
The next pause seemed endless, but it was fruitful. "I believe the statute on armed robbery is five years," Maura said with resignation. "But that's for the state. If the bank was insured, you're dealing with federal law, too. That, I'd have to check on."
Leigh brightened. "Could you? Pretty please? My friend will be so relieved."
"I'll bet," Maura said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'll get back to you. In the meantime—"
"I know, I know," Leigh said playfully, smiling to herself, "If you see my name on one more police report, you're going to put me under house arrest and sentence me to watch Martha Stewart Living 24/7."
The policewoman chuckled. "I like that."
***
An hour later the Cavalier pulled into Cara's gravel driveway, which the faint autumn sun was doing its best to dry out. Leigh grumbled to herself as she parked and walked toward the farmhouse, then chastised herself for grumbling. She loved babysitting Mathias—really she did. But on this particular instance, she would much rather be at the private investigator's office, going over everything with her parents and Gil. Her presence, however, had not been considered necessary, and since Cara would be at a professional meeting most of the afternoon, it made sense for her to free up Gil while he had the chance to get away.
But still.
She knocked on the back door, and Gil's voice answered from somewhere within. "Come on in," he called, "I'm in the middle of a serious diaper here. Just a minute."
A strong aroma wafted past Leigh's nostrils as she entered, and she couldn't help but grin. Gil the Adonis, buried in toddler poop. It was a satisfying image.
She made her way into the kitchen and was stopped at once by the file that was neatly laid out on the table next to Gil's wallet and car keys. A quick, innocent flip of the front cover told her what she wanted to know. It was the PI's file on Mason Dublin. Throwing any possible guilt to the wind, she immediately sat down and dove in.
The letterhead said Trent Walker, Walker Investigations. She tried again to picture the man she'd seen outside the bus station as a private detective, but he just didn't fit the mold. He had looked more like a history professor, or better yet, an accountant.
She scanned through some legal mumbo jumbo about services and fees, then happened on what was evidently Mason's rap sheet. Insurance fraud in Ohio, tax evasion in Illinois, and several check kiting convictions in California. It appeared that Mason had been in and out of jail at least as often as he had changed states. His sins were relatively petty, however, and his sentences short. The one exception was also the last on the list—a counterfeiting conviction for which he had served some respectable time. He had been released early for good behavior back in 1994, and apparently had not been in trouble since.
Until now.
Leigh started to dig deeper into the file, but was stopped by the corner of a familiar-looking, worn flowered binder that poked out from the back. She turned to it quickly, the sight of it flooding her with a sudden, inexplicable sadness. She ran her finger gently over the cover, whose title had been lovingly embossed with yellow yarn by a pre-adolescent Cara. The last time she had seen this folder had been one of the worst days of Cara's life. It was also the last time, Leigh realized, that her cousin had openly mentioned the name of Mason Dublin.
The memory came back to Leigh in a painful wave as she traced the yarn letters with her eyes closed. My Father. There had been a time in Cara's early teens when she would stop at nothing to find the man who had abandoned her. And unbeknownst to anyone but Leigh, she had once come pretty close.
Chapter 10
Leigh opened the binder and realized she'd been holding her breath. She let it out in a sad sigh and began reading the childish cursive on the opening page.
My father's name is Mason Dublin. He was born sometime in the late 1940s, and in 1970, he married my mother, Lydie Morton Dublin. I was born a year later. My father had to leave before I was born, so we never got to meet each other. This is all that I know about Mason Dublin. The rest I'm working out on my own.
Pages of sketches followed—darn good ones for a girl so young. Cara had drawn Mason very similarly each time: tall and slender, with bushy, strawberry-blond hair and blue-green eyes just like hers. Always, he was smiling. She drew him holding her as a baby, and walking with her hand-in-hand as a child. She drew him flying airplanes, sailing ships, and blasting off to the moon. But it was the last picture that made Leigh's eyes well up with moisture. Mason and Lydie, standing outside a grand castle, with a grownup princess Cara holding both their hands between them.
She flipped on ahead through endless stories of Mason and his exploits, many of which Leigh had written herself, at Cara's request. They always ended the same way—with an explanation and a happy reunion. No matter how outlandish the explanations got, the reunions were always the same. And they lived happily ever after.
The book's scarcity of known facts about Mason Dublin struck Leigh now in a way that it hadn't as a child. She had always been instructed by her mother never to ask Lydie anything about Cara's father, not to bring up the subject at all. "It's too hurtful for your aunt to talk about," Frances would say. "Just leave the past in the past." Cara got little more from her own mother, who would tear up at the mere mention of her past husband, teaching her daughter from a young age that conversation on the subject was off limits.
Though both girls had accepted this silence as the ways things were, looking back now, Leigh found it rather extreme. The red-blond hair and ocean-colored eyes Cara had drawn on her father had come from her own imagination—neither had ever heard a description of his appearance, much less seen a picture of him. The little bit Frances had just told Leigh was the only information she and Cara had ever had about the courtship and breakup, other than Lydie's lie about Mason going off with another woman, to which Cara had very gently been exposed long before she could fully comprehend it.
Couldn't the family have shared just a little more? Perhaps not, Leigh thought ruefully. Lydie's greatest fear had been that Cara would try to locate Mason when she was older, and even the tiniest bit of information could make or break that quest. But Lydie had been waging an unrealistic battle. Cara was intelligent and headstrong, and when she finally did make up her mind to find out more about her father, there was absolutely nothing Lydie could have done to stop her.
