A Quiet Death

by Marcia Talley

  ‘Is anything missing?’ the older of the two officers wanted to know.

  ‘Nothing that I see in the dining room.’ Together we wandered into the living room where the decorative pillows had been tossed aside and the sofa cushions upended, but thankfully nothing appeared to be missing, not even our expensive hi-def TV.

  We have three bedrooms upstairs, and they’d all been tossed. Drawers yawning open. Mattresses hauled off the box springs. Bedding in untidy heaps.

  ‘My jewelry!’ I cried. I rushed to the dresser and opened the teakwood box that contained all my treasures. I pawed through the box and was relieved to find that everything appeared to be there, including the sterling silver sweetheart bracelet my late mother had given me on my sixteenth birthday. I clutched it to my chest, tears of relief hazing my vision.

  My closet, however, was a mess. Clothes had been ripped from their hangers and tossed unceremoniously on the floor. Shoe boxes which I’d labeled and neatly arranged on the upper shelf now yawned open on the bedroom floor; wedges, flats and dressy heels lay strewn about in a jumble. It was all too much. I perched on the foot of the bed and began to weep.

  By the time the police had finished their investigation, handed us a copy of their report and promised to check back with us, I’d gotten my act together. ‘This is worse than when the FBI trashed the joint back in 2005,’ I complained, picking up a heap of blouses, still on their hangers and returning them to the closet.

  Paul stood, hands on hips, surveying the wreckage of our bedroom. ‘Looks like a hurricane blew through. And we have some experience with hurricanes.’

  ‘And equally fruitless,’ I sniffed. ‘Lilith’s letters are locked in the trunk of my car.’

  ‘Is that what they were looking for?’ Paul gave me a look.

  ‘What else?’ I returned the little French chair that I’d found at an antique store in Galesville to its normal and upright position next to my dresser and sat down in it. ‘But who’d go to all this trouble just for a bunch of old photos and love letters?’

  ‘My guess? Your friend, Skip. Or his “legal representative.”’ Paul made quote marks in the air.

  ‘If Skip survived the crash, and that’s a very big if in my opinion, all he has to do is contact me, prove he has a right to these papers, and I’ll happily arrange to give them back.’

  ‘Do you think that Jim Hoffner is actually working for Skip, or for somebody else?’

  I thought back to my conversation with the lawyer. ‘He didn’t say, did he? But Hoffner had to have gotten my contact information from the hospital, right? So why not come out and say that he’s working on Skip Whatchamacallit’s behalf?’

  ‘Maybe the guy you know as Skip doesn’t want you to know who he really is. Think about it, Hannah. You said he confessed to killing someone. Remember? If he survived, perhaps he’s thinking better of his deathbed confession.’ The lines deepened between my husband’s brows. ‘Shit, Hannah. You could be in danger!’

  I stood up, waded through the piles of bedding, and gave my husband a hug. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ve told a lot of people about Skip, and I’ll make sure that even more people know about him.’

  Paul pressed his lips against the top of my head. ‘Lucky you had the letters in the car, then. Why was that, Hannah?’

  ‘I intended to photocopy some of the envelopes and a couple of the photographs. Just in case.’

  ‘In case of what?’

  I swept an arm. ‘Exhibit A.’

  ‘I wonder if they’re still together?’ Paul said after a moment of silence.

  ‘Who? Lilith and Zan? A love like that? It would be nice to think so, wouldn’t it? Anthony and Cleopatra, Troilus and Cressida, Romeo and Juliet, Heloise and Abelard . . .’

  Paul made a ‘T’ with his hands. ‘Time out! Didn’t all of those relationships end badly?’

  I felt my face redden. ‘Guess you’re right. And now that I think about it, Heloise’s uncle had Abelard castrated.’ I shivered. ‘Bad example.’

  ‘So what is Skip’s relation to the letters?’

  ‘At first, I figured that Lilith was his mother. Now, I’m not so sure. Zan mentions his daughters from time to time, but he never mentions a son. Perhaps Lilith married somebody else after her relationship with Zan ended. Maybe that’s where Skip came from. I know one person who could clear this all up in a flash, though.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lilith Chaloux. If only I can find her.’

  ‘Miracles happen,’ my husband said.

  SEVENTEEN

  Early the following afternoon I’d finished returning the house to its usual state of gracious clutter and was scrubbing spaghetti sauce off the inside of the microwave – lunch leftovers had gone volcanic – when the miracle happened.

  The telephone rang. ‘Hannah, this is Elspeth Simon. In New York.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m so glad you called.’

  ‘Claire was sorting through some old Christmas cards the other day and you’ll never guess what she found!’

  ‘A Christmas card from Lilith?’ I guessed, my heart pounding.

  ‘The next best thing. A postcard from the dear girl.’

  ‘That’s wonderful!’

  ‘There’s no return address on it, unfortunately, but there’s a picture of a deer on the front.’ Elspeth paused for a moment. ‘I’m looking at it now. A Sika deer, it says. Never heard of Sika deer, have you?’

  ‘Actually, I have. We have them here in Maryland. They’re not native, of course. They originally came from Japan.’

  ‘Well, this postcard came from Maryland, too. A place called the Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge.’

  I sat down on a kitchen chair and tried to catch my breath. Lilith had moved to Maryland? How could I be so lucky? The Blackwater refuge was on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, just south of Cambridge. I’d visited it often, sometimes taking the grandchildren along for wildlife drives, bird walks and the annual eagle festival. What would be the chances that Lilith was still there?

  ‘Is there a date?’

  ‘The postmark is faded, but it looks like it could be 1988.’

  ‘What does Lilith say on the postcard?’

  ‘I’ll read it to you.’ Elspeth gave a ladylike cough and began. ‘“Elspeth and Claire, Darlings.” She always called us that – darlings. “You will be surprised to hear that your big city girl is loving country life. Today, while I was painting, a doe stuck her nose right through the open cottage door! Give Pedro a cuddle for me! Love” – then she writes “X O X O X” – and an “L.”’

  ‘Elspeth, could you do me a big favor? Could you fax me a copy of the postcard?’

  ‘We don’t have a fax machine, dear.’

  Of course they wouldn’t have a fax machine. The sisters had to be in their eighties. What was I thinking?

  ‘But,’ Elspeth continued, ‘I’ll be happy to scan it for you. What’s your email address?’

  I had to laugh. ‘Elspeth, you are a gem.’

  ‘That’s what all my boyfriends tell me.’

  Elspeth Simon was as good as her word. Two days later, an email arrived from TwoOldBiddies@nyc.rr.com, with two attachments, PDF versions of the front and back of Lilith’s postcard. I printed them out, but they didn’t tell me anything I hadn’t already learned from talking to Elspeth Simon on the telephone.

  All I knew now was that approximately twenty-two years ago, in 1988, a young woman, then in her middle thirties, had settled down in a cottage, most likely in Dorchester County, Maryland, intending to paint.

  Even after the Chesapeake Bay Bridge had connected the western shore of the Chesapeake Bay to Kent Island and beyond to Delaware, Virginia and the Atlantic Ocean beaches, Dorchester County had remained rural. With the exception of a ghastly commercial stretch paralleling Route 50 that had seen the recent addition of the Hyatt Regency Chesapeake Bay Golf Resort, Spa and Marina – say that three times fast – bucolic rusticity still pretty much ruled the day.

  I popped out t
o the car, found my Rand McNally and spread it open on the kitchen table. Cambridge – population 12,000 – was always a possibility, but the word cottage suggested a more pastoral setting, so I decided to start with the smaller communities and work my way up.

  And I really wanted a partner in crime.

  I picked up the phone and called my sister. ‘Ruth, what are you doing today?’

  Shouting over the roar of a vacuum cleaner, she said, ‘Hutch and I are working on our routine for the Dancesport Festival at College Park in November, but he just called to say he’s got a deposition to prepare, so I guess I’m free.’

  ‘You’re not working at the store?’

  ‘Neelie’s got the con at Mother Earth today.’

  ‘Good! You don’t want to spend the day cleaning house, do you?’

  Ruth switched off the vac. ‘So, what’s up, Nancy Drew?’ she wondered aloud.

  ‘You know me too well. I have a good lead on Lilith Chaloux. There’s evidence she may have settled down in Dorchester County and I’d like company while I go poke around over there.’

  ‘Dorchester County’s a big place, Hannah.’

  ‘From a postcard Lilith sent to the Simon sisters, I think she might have bought a cottage in the vicinity of the Blackwater Preserve, near Cambridge.’

  ‘Oh, well, that really narrows it down!’

  ‘I know, but I’d like to give it a shot. Come with me, please. It’s a gorgeous day. The worse thing that will happen is that we’ll have a lovely drive, stop for a lunch somewhere, and swing by one of the farm stands on Route 50 to buy some of the last tomatoes of the season. Vine-ripened.’

  ‘You drive a hard bargain, Hannah. I was teetering on the fence until you mentioned the tomatoes. I’ll be over in about an hour.’

  As we drove over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, my sister and I discussed strategy.

  ‘What do you plan to do if you find her?’ Ruth wanted to know. She flipped down the mirror on the sun visor and began fluffing up her gray hair with her fingers.

  ‘I’ve got her letters in the trunk. I plan to return them.’

  ‘I hate to burst your balloon, Hannah, but my theory is that she’s passed away.’

  ‘What? Lilith is young, only fifty-eight.’

  ‘If she’s still alive,’ Ruth argued, ‘why is this Skip person carrying her letters around with him?’

  ‘Well, if Lilith is Skip’s mother, or aunt – related to her, anyway – perhaps she asked him to have them scanned, to preserve them for the family archives or something.’

  ‘Would you ask Emily to help you scan love letters from Paul?’

  I thought about the letters Paul had written when we were separated one summer – both the letters and the summer sizzled – and said, ‘No way.’

  ‘OK. So do we agree? If Lilith is still alive, Skip probably stole them.’

  ‘That’s my working theory, too. Especially since somebody broke into our house looking for them.’

  Ruth gasped, offended. ‘When? You didn’t tell me that!’

  After I shared the gory details, Ruth said, ‘That creeps me out! You must feel so violated.’

  ‘I do. We’d been putting off installing a security system, but this pushed us over the edge. A consultant’s coming to talk to us about it this weekend.’

  Ruth and Hutch had installed a security system in their Conduit Street home, so Ruth educated me on the finer points of ADT until we reached Kent Narrows, at which point she suddenly switched horses to ask, ‘So, what’s your plan, Hannah?’

  I pointed to a six-by-nine manila envelope propped up on the console between us. ‘I made copies of two of the photographs of Lilith. I plan to show them around and ask if anybody’s seen her.’

  Ruth hooked a thumb through the chest strap on her seatbelt, tugging it out a couple of inches so she could turn in the passenger seat to face me. ‘And what street corner are you planning to stand on, pray tell?’

  ‘Think about it, Ruth,’ I said as I took the exit toward Cambridge at the 50/301 split. ‘If Lilith is still living around here, she has to buy groceries somewhere. Send and receive mail. Get her car serviced.’ I shrugged. ‘It’s worth a shot, anyway. And if that doesn’t pan out, I’ll ask at some of the local art galleries. Lilith was an artist, remember.’

  ‘Well, frankly, I think it’s a long shot, Hannah. I’m just along because you promised me lunch. And the tomatoes, of course. Where are we going for the aforementioned lunch, by the way?’

  ‘Portside in Cambridge.’

  ‘That place right on the water?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ruth clapped her hands like a four-year-old. ‘Goody, goody.’

  An hour later, we crossed the bridge that took us over the Choptank River, turned right into Cambridge, and pulled into the parking lot at Portside. Soon, Ruth and I were sharing an order of the restaurant’s award-winning hot crab dip, followed by fish and chips for me and spinach salad for Ruth.

  On the off chance that Lilith might have dined at Portside, I showed her picture to the waitress when she came to refill our glasses with iced tea.

  The waitress held the picture by the corner between a French-manicured thumb and forefinger, studied it briefly, then glanced back at me. ‘You a private detective or something?’

  ‘She’s Nancy Drew,’ said my sister.

  The waitress grinned, displaying a full set of pearly whites. ‘Get out!’ She looked at the photo again. ‘Wish I could help you, but I can’t. Don’t think I’ve ever seen this girl before, and I’ve worked here pretty much every day since the place opened.’ She handed the photo back.

  ‘Thanks anyway,’ I said, tucking the photo into its envelope.

  Ocean Gateway. Sunburst Highway. Route 50 to you and me. A strip of unrelenting concrete, bordered on both sides by gas stations, fast food restaurants, cut-rate motels, and big-box drug stores. From the CVS you could hit the Rite Aid with a well-aimed prescription bottle.

  No surprise, then, that I decided to avoid Route 50 altogether and head out into the countryside the back way. I drove Ruth across the Market Street bridge, then took a slow loop through the historic colonial town before heading south on Race Street. We were driving through farmland in no time. Where Church Creek Road intersected with Golden Hill Road at the Church Creek community proper, I pulled into the parking lot in front of the tiny post office and stuck my nose in.

  When the postmistress finished with a customer, I approached the counter, trotted out my high school reunion story, and showed her Lilith’s picture. ‘Her name is Lilith Chaloux, at least it was when I knew her.’

  The postmistress shook her head. ‘She doesn’t keep a box here. If she did, I’d certainly know about it.’ She handed the picture back. ‘You might try Woolford.’ She pointed west. ‘Continue on that way. From this point on, it’s Taylor’s Island Road. Winds around a bit, but in about two miles you’ll get to the Country Store. It’s on the right. If your friend lives anywhere around there, that’s where she’ll do business.’

  I thanked the woman and headed back to the car.

  Five minutes later, Ruth and I pulled into the parking lot of the Woolford Country Store, a three-story, white-frame structure with dark chocolate trim. I recognized the post office by the American flag flying from a pole out front, otherwise I might have missed it. The single-story building was attached to one side of the store like an afterthought, which it probably was.

  While Ruth popped into the store to see if she could hook up with an Eskimo Pie, I ducked in to the post office.

  The woman on duty behind the counter looked up from a form she was filling out and asked if she could help me.

  ‘I’m trying to find this woman,’ I said, handing her Lilith’s picture.

  The postmistress studied it for a moment, then said, ‘She’s older now, of course, but this looks a lot like Lilith Chaloux.’ She pronounced the name Shall-locks. ‘She’s such a pretty girl, isn’t she? Absolutely enchanting.’

 
; My heart flip-flopped inside my chest. ‘How long has Lilith lived here?’

  ‘Oh, quite a while.’ She handed the picture back across the counter. ‘More than twenty years, I’d say. Isn’t that right, Penny?’

  The postmistress was addressing a woman standing at a chest-high table near the window, patiently peeling stamps out of a booklet and applying them with scientific exactness to the upper right-hand corner of a pile of bright orange envelopes. In the bad old days, her tongue would have been heavy with glue, and she wouldn’t have been able to answer so quickly. ‘Lilith? The artist? Oh, I say twenty years at least!’

  ‘Can you tell me where I might find her?’

  The postmistress frowned, but not in an unfriendly way. ‘It would be against federal regulations for me to tell you any more than that, now wouldn’t it?’ She brightened. ‘But you could write her a letter and I could slip it into her post office box. You’ll need to stamp it, of course.’

  ‘Well,’ Penny interrupted, mashing her fist down on top of one of her stamps like a hammer. ‘I certainly don’t operate under federal government regulations. Why are you looking for Lilith? Do you mind telling me?’

  ‘We went to the same high school, but we’ve lost track of one another. I’m trying to find her for our fortieth reunion.’ With one eye still on the helpful postmistress, I added, ‘I’d love to talk to her in person, of course. It’s been too long.’

  Penny pushed her stamped envelopes through the Outgoing Mail slot, then said, ‘Lilith keeps pretty much to herself, always did, but when she comes to town, she’s friendly enough. She lives off Deep Point Road, in a cottage that looks out over Fishing Creek. Woods all around. Very isolated. Haven’t seen her recently, though.’

  ‘Have you ever been to the cottage? Is it easy to find?’

  Penny managed a crooked grin. ‘It’s up the road just a bit. Keep looking for Deep Point. It’ll turn off to the right. You can’t miss it. There’s a green street sign. The cottage, now, it’s on a dirt lane that turns off to the left between two fields. If you get to Deep Water Road, you’ve gone too far.’ She whirled her index finger in the air. ‘Just turn around and come back.’