The Inheritance

by Savage, Tom

  “Most of these things happened before I arrived, but I certainly heard about them. I myself once witnessed an incident in the mess—the dining hall. A fight, more like a rumble, that she started when she called one of the other inmates a name. Let’s just say it’s a name I’ve been called, too. I had to bring in state assistance, and there was a forty-eight-hour general lockdown, so you can imagine what the other women thought of her. She was put in solitary several times, for one reason or another. She was an angry, violent woman, and I was relieved to see the back of her.”

  Holly stared. “But you did see the back of her.”

  “Oh, yes. Eventually.” Mrs. Jackson smiled grimly. “Her last three or four years here were—different. She seemed to change a bit, for the better. She calmed down, I guess, and she volunteered for extra work. She even made a couple of friends, one in particular. It took her some fifteen years, but she actually began to adjust to the life.”

  Holly leaned forward again. “Extra work—what does that mean?”

  “Oh, well, the women here have certain routines, certain duties. The kitchen and the laundry and the general cleaning are rotated, so everyone does a bit of everything. This is in addition to classes and voluntary counseling and various sports activities. Some of the more ambitious ones—the ones who are looking to get out early—can volunteer for certain duties. A couple of the secretaries you passed on your way in here are actually inmates. Or they can help the counselors or the chaplain or the medical staff. Like that.”

  Now Holly was watching the woman closely. At last, she felt, we’re getting somewhere. “And what—what did my mother volunteer for?”

  Mrs. Jackson smiled at her. “During her last couple of years here, Connie worked in the infirmary. She helped Dr. Roth with the medical records.”

  Holly opened the folder on her lap and picked up the dental X rays. “Medical records like this?”

  “Exactly. She was his file clerk.”

  “I don’t understand it,” Lena said to the desk clerk as she came into the motel’s front office. “That’s the second day in a row. What’s going on in Fourteen, anyway?”

  “Don’t bring that thing in here,” the desk clerk, Ron, told her. He pointed at her cleaning cart. “Mr. Jaffrey will have a cow if he sees that in the office!”

  Lena rolled her eyes as she pushed the cart back outside. “Yeah, right. But what’s with Fourteen? The DO NOT DISTURB sign has been hanging on the door for two days now. I couldn’t go in yesterday, and I can’t go in today, either. And something smells kind of funny down at that end. I want to clean the room.”

  Ron shrugged. “I guess Mr.”—he glanced down at the registry—“Edwards doesn’t want to be disturbed. Maybe he’s sleeping one off. Maybe he’s got a woman in there. Who knows?”

  “I just want to do the room!” Lena insisted.

  “What room?” asked a voice behind her.

  The two turned to see that the owner of the Kismet, Mr. Jaffrey, had joined them.

  “Fourteen, sir,” Lena said. “The guy in there hasn’t come out for two days.”

  Mr. Jaffrey looked over at Ron. “Did he pay for a second night?”

  “Uh, no, sir,” Ron mumbled, blushing.

  The owner frowned at him and turned back to the maid. “Go knock on the door, Lena.”

  “But, what if he’s asleep or something?”

  “Then wake him up. Send him down here to me. And clean the room.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pushing the cleaning cart before her, she trudged off down the walk. The funny smell became more pronounced as she neared Fourteen. She stopped the cart, planted herself before the door, and rapped on it.

  “Housekeeping,” she called.

  She waited, but there was no response. She knocked and called again, louder this time. Nothing. Finally, in exasperation, she pulled the key ring from her pocket, unlocked the door, and went inside.

  The room was pitch dark. All the curtains were drawn, and the smell was now much stronger, overwhelming. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, Lena reached over and switched on the light.

  Her scream brought the others running.

  The two women in the prison’s administrative office sipped their coffee in silence. After a while, Holly looked up at the superintendent.

  “Tell me about her friends,” she said. “You said my mother made some friends in her final years here, one in particular. Who was that?”

  Mrs. Jackson gazed off at the Christmas tree, apparently remembering. “Jane Dee. A sad case if there ever was one—and there have been plenty here. But Jane’s history was particularly tragic. She’d been found on a church doorstep in Brooklyn, and some imaginative type called her Jane Doe, which was later altered slightly. She was brought up in a series of orphanages and foster homes. Then came the usual: drugs, shoplifting, juvey halls. More drugs. Arrests for prostitution. Several abortions, I think. A boyfriend for a while, an ex-con who got her to steal for him. A couple of years in prison, during which the boyfriend disappeared. And on and on.

  “She came here for armed robbery, shortly after I took over. Very quiet, cried a lot. But later she shared a cell with Connie, who took her under her wing. And Jane changed overnight: I swear, that woman was absolutely devoted to your mother. Connie got her into rehab, even taught her to read—”

  “Excuse me,” Holly said. “This woman, Jane—what did she look like?”

  Mrs. Jackson shrugged. “Tall, blond, blue-eyed. Nordic—I think that’s the word. Very pretty.”

  “In other words,” Holly murmured, “she looked a lot like my mother.”

  “Why, yes, come to think of it, I guess she did. Anyway, she and Connie were inseparable, and I think she had a lot to do with Connie’s attitude improvement.”

  “I’d like to meet her,” Holly said. “Is she still here?”

  Mrs. Jackson blinked. “Oh, no. She was released a few years ago, and I’m glad to say she hasn’t been back. Well, not here, at any rate.”

  Holly was watching the woman again. “When was she released?”

  “I don’t know, about five years ago. About a year after your mother left, I’d say.”

  “Do you know if they ever saw each other again?”

  Mrs. Jackson shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t. We don’t keep tabs on them once they’re—wait a minute! April Fools’ Day, that was the day your mother …” She trailed off, clearly embarrassed.

  “Yes,” Holly said. “That’s when she committed suicide. Five years ago.”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Jackson leaned forward, nodding. “I remember now. Jane was released just a few days before that. I remember her leaving, and then, just a few days later, I saw the news about Connie. Boy, the irony! Poor Jane Dee, left all alone again.” She settled back in her chair, shaking her head. “I wonder where Jane is now.…”

  Holly wasn’t wondering about any such thing. She was thinking of the newspaper photographs in Ichabod’s scrapbook. The seaside bungalow, charred and smoking. The body on the stretcher, covered with a sheet, burned beyond recognition. So badly burned that it had to be identified from—

  She looked down at the folder in her lap.

  —dental records.…

  It took a few moments, but at last she became aware that Mrs. Jackson was speaking again. The woman’s lips were moving, at any rate, but the sound was not registering. Holly blinked. “I beg your pardon, what did you say?”

  Mrs. Jackson was smiling again. “I said, I’m glad I was able to tell you something positive about your mother. Teaching Jane how to read. That was Connie’s one big passion, you know, reading. She was always buried in a book. She said her passion came from her mother, who was reading in the hospital when she was pregnant. The day she gave birth she was reading Lady Chatterley’s Lover, so she named the child Constance, after the heroine in the book. Well, Connie took after her mother, all right. She read everything: fiction, nonfiction, new, old, whatever. But she always went back to her favorite books.
…”

  “What were her favorite books?” Holly heard herself ask. She didn’t care, but she had to say something. She was trying mightily to focus on the conversation.

  Mrs. Jackson chuckled. “Jacqueline Susann, I’m afraid.” Then she thought of something else, and her smile faded. “And Wuthering Heights. Dear Lord, she must have read Wuthering Heights about a hundred times!”

  Holly was silent for a while, adding this information to everything else she’d learned in the last few minutes. Then she stood up and placed the folder on the desk.

  “Well, thank you, Mrs. Jackson,” she said. “I’m grateful to you for being so helpful. And I’m glad to learn that my—my mother had some positive qualities. I’m glad she had at least one friend, considering that her family and the Randalls would have nothing to do with her.…”

  Mrs. Jackson, who had risen and come around the desk to say good-bye, inadvertently delivered a final surprise. Her eyes widened in obvious confusion, even as she was reaching out to shake Holly’s hand.

  “Nothing to do with her?” she asked, clearly confused. “What on earth makes you say that?”

  Pete Helmer seemed to fall in love about once every three days, ever since the divorce. Today he was in love with the police station’s new receptionist, Debbie Dobson.

  She was a thirtyish redhead, tall, pretty, divorced, no kids. She was also an outrageous flirt. In the two weeks she’d been here, since Mrs. Proctor had quit to take care of her ailing sister, Debbie had made the station house a much more exciting place to be. She was not as beautiful as Holly Randall, whom he still saw around the village occasionally, but she was more in his league, that was certain. And she was available: she’d made that very clear to him. She always smiled rather provocatively at him whenever the two of them were alone in the office together, as they were now.

  He was therefore surprised when she answered the ringing phone, listened a moment, and turned to him wearing a distinct frown.

  “Bad news,” she said.

  And it was. He grabbed the phone from her and listened to the shrill voice of Mr. Jaffrey, the owner of the Kismet Motel. Then he threw down the receiver, grabbed his coat, and headed for the door.

  “Call the Two Stooges and get them over to the Kismet now,” he shouted back to her as he ran to his car.

  “Ten-four,” she called after him.

  Pete rolled his eyes and chuckled grimly to himself, thinking, Ten-four. Oh, well, she’s new, he thought as he pulled out of the lot and raced off toward the highway. She’ll get over that “ten-four” nonsense real fast.

  He was amazed to see that his deputies, Hank and Buddy, were already there when he pulled into the Kismet lot. Mr. Jaffrey and a chubby young man stood near the official cars, tending to a young woman in a pink maid’s uniform who sat on the ground between them, sobbing. Buddy was speaking into his handset, probably calling the hospital and the M.E.’s office in Greenwich, and Hank was keeping the other guests out of the way. The Two Stooges were improving.

  The first thing Pete noticed as he approached Room Fourteen was the red Infiniti parked in front of it. He strode past it and into the room, thinking, Now, where have I seen that car before …?

  When he saw the stiff on the bed, he remembered.

  Holly would never be able to remember saying good-bye to Mrs. Jackson, or being led back the way she’d come by the friendly woman officer, or making her way across the vast parking field to her car. She had obviously been able to find all the correct roads leading back to the highway on the other side of town again, but she didn’t recall that, either. Her next clear memory was of crossing the state line back into Connecticut, some ninety minutes later.

  “She was his file clerk.”

  She almost missed the turnoff to Randall, so deep was her concentration. The words and phrases from the interview jangled in her head as she drove toward town. As they had done all the way from Kingston.

  “In other words, she looked a lot like my mother.”

  “Why, yes, come to think of it.…”

  She heard sirens in the distance, from the highway behind her. But the sound didn’t really register: she was listening to the voice of Mrs. Jackson.

  “April Fools’ Day … Jane was released just a few days before that.”

  She passed through Randall, not seeing it. She passed Toby and Tonto, who were walking along the verge toward the estate. The boy waved, the dog barked. She waved distractedly to them as she drove by, not thinking to stop and offer them a lift. She continued toward the point, toward Randall House, remembering the prison superintendent’s final disclosure.

  At least four times a year, every year she was in prison, Constance had received one visitor. That visitor was John Randall.

  John Randall, she thought.

  Constance.…

  When Holly reached the entrance to Randall House, she pulled the blue BMW over to the side of the road and stopped. She sat there with the engine idling, staring through the wrought iron gates at the mansion in the distance.

  “The day she gave birth she was reading Lady Chatterley’s Lover, so she named the child Constance, after the heroine in the book.”

  Constance, she thought again. Her mother had named her Constance for Constance Chatterley, the unhappy wife who found fulfillment with another man.

  “And Wuthering Heights. Dear Lord, she must have read Wuthering Heights about a hundred times!”

  The sky was gray, overcast. There would be snow again. She slipped the car in gear and drove through the gates into the estate. She parked the car in its space in the garage and got out. She would walk the rest of the way. She felt like walking. She felt a sudden urge to walk forever, until she couldn’t walk anymore. But she knew she couldn’t do that. She had to go home. And that house on the hill before her, Randall House, was now her home.

  Wuthering Heights, she thought: Catherine Earnshaw.

  Catherine.

  Slowly at first, then with growing resolve, Holly walked up the curving drive and went into the house.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Happy Birthday

  Good King Wenceslas looked out

  On the Feast of Stephen,

  Where the snow lay round about,

  Deep and crisp and even.

  Brightly shone the moon that night.…

  The big double doors of the music room stood open, and the lovely singing of the children wafted out into the Great Hall. Mildred Jessel paused a moment, her arms laden with freshly laundered linen napkins, listening. The children were rehearsing for their performance at the party tonight. Yes, she thought as she listened. Beautiful.

  She looked around the big room, nodding in satisfaction. A woman and a man were on A-frame ladders beside the twelve-foot blue spruce tree, hanging ornaments from the upper branches. They had already strung it with tiny white lights, and next would come tinsel and candy canes. On the balcony above her, several people were draping garlands of holly around the marble balustrade, being watched over and instructed by a rather excitable man in a blue denim jumpsuit. Other workers were placing holly wreaths with big red bows on doors and in windows. One industrious young woman had the sole job of setting holly-bedecked red candle centerpieces in strategic places throughout the house.

  And that was just the decorating team. Madge Alden, the caterer, had arrived early this afternoon with a team of people in a big van. Out of that van had come some three dozen enormous platters for the buffet: a wide variety of hors d’oeuvres, turkey, ham, roast beef, chicken, vegetables, several pasta and potato dishes, three desserts, and what looked to be enough green salad to feed the entire town of Randall.

  Ms. Alden’s people had been followed by the drinks people in another van, who proceeded to unload case after case of Dom Pérignon champagne, red and white wines, fruit punch and apple cider, mixers, soft drinks, Perrier water, and every upscale brand of liquor on the market. Then the bakery truck had come with the huge, three-tiered birthday cake.

 
; Mrs. Ramirez was in her domain, calmly but firmly issuing orders to the army of caterers, cooks, waiters, and bartenders who had descended on her. Even the usually implacable Ms. Alden seemed to be a bit in awe of her, and that, Mildred thought with satisfaction, was as it should be. Nina Ramirez was, among other things, a cordon bleu chef, and she ran her kitchen as a four-star general commands an army base. Mildred liked to think that Randall House had the best domestic staff in Connecticut, and she knew she wasn’t far from wrong.

  This made her think of Raymond Wheatley, the only member of the staff who actually remembered the famous Randall Christmas parties of old. Mildred had assisted her mother-in-law on a couple of those parties when she’d first arrived here, but that was near the end of the annual tradition, and the parties she’d witnessed were not nearly as elaborate as the earlier ones she’d heard about.

  Mr. Wheatley was outside somewhere with Zeke and Dave, and the three of them were instructing the local boys who had been recruited to help with the parking. Three hours from now there would be a gleaming assortment of expensive cars lining the drive from the gatehouse all the way to the chapel. The field beyond the cemetery would also be full. They were expecting at least seventy cars, probably closer to a hundred, and Mr. Wheatley would be sure that the boys were ready for them, and that they took the utmost care with them.

  The orchestra from New York had just arrived, and the seven musicians were currently using two of the guest bedrooms to change into formal clothes. Their instruments and music stands were piled in a corner of the Great Hall, waiting for them. The children in the music room were the glee club from the Randall grammar school, identically clothed in red choir gowns and white pinafores embroidered with holly borders.