Two Graves p-12

by Douglas Preston

  Why was the damn driver waiting? She tried the door, shook it in impatience.

  Leaving her suitcase on the porch, she went back to the car. “There’s no need for you to hang around. You can go now.”

  The driver smiled. “Sorry, Ms. Swanson, I have to see you into the house. If no one’s home, I’m supposed to call for instructions.” He even had his cell phone out.

  Corrie rolled her eyes. This was unbelievable. How was she going to get rid of this guy?

  “Don’t call yet. Let me try again. Maybe he’s asleep.” It was entirely possible the bum was asleep, or maybe just passed out drunk. Then again, even though it was Saturday, he might be at work—if he still had work, that is.

  She went back, tried the door again. The lock was crap and she had her tools in her bag. Blocking the view of the door with her body, she fished out the tools, inserted them into the lock, wiggled them around, and in less time than she expected felt the give of the pins. The door opened.

  She pushed in with her luggage and shut the door behind her. Then, pulling the blinds apart and standing at the window, she waved to the driver, gave him a fake smile and a thumbs-up. The driver responded with a wave of his own, and the black car eased from the curb and went on down the street.

  Corrie looked around. The front door opened directly into a living room that, to her surprise, was neat and clean, if a little shabby. Setting down the suitcase, she flopped onto a ratty sofa and exhaled.

  The depressing nature of her situation just about overwhelmed her. She should never have agreed to this proposal. She hadn’t once seen her father in the fifteen years since he’d walked out. She could forgive him for that—her mother was a psycho—but what she couldn’t forgive was the fact he’d made no effort to keep in touch with her, write her, call her. No birthday or Christmas presents, no card on her graduation from high school, no phone call, not one, during the many times she was in trouble—nothing. It was a mystery why her memories of him were of a warm, funny, kind father who took her fishing—but then she was only six when he skipped town, and any loser bum could seem funny and kind to a needy, unloved kid.

  She looked around. There wasn’t much personality in the place, but at least there were no empty liquor bottles, no trash baskets overflowing with crushed beer cans or old pizza boxes lying about. It just didn’t look like anyone had been there in a while. Where was he? Maybe she should have called.

  This was so fucked up. She almost felt like crying.

  She heaved herself off the sofa, wandered into the bedroom. It was small but tidy, with a single bed and a well-thumbed copy of Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions sitting on the bedside table. The room had two closets. Idly, without much curiosity, she opened one of them. Jeans, chambray work shirts, and a couple of cheap-looking suits hung on wire hangers. Closing the door, she went to the second closet. This was strange: the shelves were full of packages wrapped in brown paper, dozens of them, of all different sizes, carefully, almost lovingly, stacked cheek by jowl with bundles of letters, bright oversize envelopes that could only be holiday or birthday cards, and numerous postcards held together by rubber bands. She peered at a few. They were all addressed to her: Corrie Swanson, 29 Wyndham Parke Estates, Medicine Creek, Kansas. They seemed to be arranged in chronological order, going back more than a dozen years. Every stamp or postmark on every package bore a cancellation sticker, and every single one had been marked with an official-looking message: RETURN TO SENDER.

  Corrie stared at the contents of the closet for a minute, scratching her head. Then she exited the bedroom, went out the front door, and knocked on the duplex next door. More motions of the curtain, then a tight voice.

  “Who is it?”

  “Corrie Swanson.”

  “Who?”

  “Corrie Swanson. I’m Jack Swanson’s daughter. I’m here…” She swallowed. “On a family visit.”

  A muffled noise that could have been a grunt of surprise, then the sound of locks turning. The door opened and a squat, unpleasant-looking woman stood in the doorway, hammy arms folded, face the texture of a Brillo pad. A smell of cigarette smoke exuded from the room behind her. She looked Corrie up and down with a narrow eye that lingered on her streak of purple hair. “Jack Swanson’s daughter? I see.” More scrutiny. “He’s not here.”

  “I know that,” said Corrie, struggling to keep the habitual sarcasm out of her voice. “I’m just wondering where he is.”

  “He left.”

  Corrie swallowed another sharp reply and managed to say, “Do you know where he’s gone and when he might be back?” She bestowed a fake smile on the harridan.

  More scrutiny. Judging by her facial grimaces, the woman seemed to be considering whether or not to tell her something important. “He’s in trouble,” the woman finally said. “Ran out of town.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Stole a car from the dealership he worked at, used it to rob a bank.”

  “He did what?” She felt genuine surprise. She knew her father was a loser, but the impression she had accumulated over the years of him—filtered through the bitterness of her mother’s invective—had been that of a charming rogue who cut corners, slept with too many women, a get-rich-quick schemer who couldn’t hold a real job and whose best moments in life were spent bellied up to the bar, telling jokes and stories to his admiring friends. A criminal he was not.

  Of course, a lot could have changed in the fifteen years he’d been gone.

  As she considered this, she thought that—perhaps—this wasn’t such a bad thing after all. She could live in his house and not have to deal with him. Provided he’d paid his rent. But even if he hadn’t, the rent on a dump like this wouldn’t be much, and Pendergast had given her three thousand dollars.

  “Robbed a bank?” Corrie couldn’t help but give the lady a shit-eating grin. “Wow. Good old Dad. Hope he made away with a bundle.”

  “You may think it’s funny, but I assure you we do not!” And with that the woman pressed her lips together and firmly shut the door.

  Corrie retreated to her half of the house, shut and locked the front door, and once again flopped down on the sofa, kicking up her feet and lying back. To avoid any unpleasantness, she would have to be proactive, inform the cops she was here, contact the landlord, make sure the rent, power, and water were paid up. Once again, she told herself it was better that her loser father was on the lam. This way, she wouldn’t have to deal with his bullshit.

  Still, somewhere deep inside, she felt thwarted. Disappointed. Sad, even. She had to admit that, despite everything, she wanted to see him—if only to ask him straight out why he had abandoned her, why he had left her at the mercy of a mother he knew full well to be a horrible drunken bitch. There had to be an explanation for that—and for all those letters and packages stashed in his closet. Or at least, that’s what she hoped beyond all hope.

  She realized she was thirsty and went into the kitchen, turned on the tap, let the rusty water run until it ceased being lukewarm, filled up a glass and drank it down. So he was on the run. Where would he have gone?

  And even as she asked the question, she realized she knew the answer.

  20

  FELDER HAD NEVER BEEN TO SOUTHPORT, CONNECTICUT, before, and he found himself unexpectedly charmed. It was an attractive, sleepy harbor town in otherwise bustling Fairfield County. As he turned off Pequot Avenue onto Center Street, heading for the historic district, he thought one could do a lot worse than to live in a place like this.

  It had a quintessential New England atmosphere. The houses were mostly Colonials, early twentieth century by the look of them, with white clapboards and picket fences and manicured grounds dense with trees. The town library was impressive as well—a rambling, Romanesque structure of dressed stone with whimsical details. The only blot on the town’s escutcheon seemed to be an old mansion a few doors from the library, a dilapidated Queen Anne pile straight out of The Addams Family, complete with gaping shutters, loose sla
tes, and a weed-choked lawn. The only thing missing, he thought wryly as he drove by, was a grinning Uncle Fester in an upper window.

  His spirits rose again as he entered the village proper. Pulling into a parking space across from the yacht club, he consulted a handwritten note, then—with a spring in his step—crossed the road to a cheery, one-story wooden frame building overlooking the harbor.

  The interior of the Southport Historical Museum smelled pleasantly of old books and furniture polish. It was stocked with a variety of nicely preserved antiques, and appeared deserted save for a well-coifed woman of a certain age—also nicely preserved—who sat in a rocking chair, doing needlepoint.

  “Good afternoon,” she said. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Felder replied. “I was wondering if you could answer a few questions.”

  “I’d be happy to answer what I can. Please have a seat.” The woman indicated a rocking chair across from hers.

  Felder sat down. “I’m doing some research into the painter and illustrator Alexander Wintour. I understand that his family came from this area.”

  The woman nodded. “Yes, that’s true.”

  “I’m interested in his work. Specifically, his sketchbooks. I was wondering if they still exist, and whether you could give me a lead on where I should start searching for them.”

  The woman placed the needlepoint carefully in her lap. “Well, young man, I can tell you with some assurance that they almost certainly do exist. And I know where you can find them.”

  “That’s very good to hear,” Felder said, feeling a little thrill course through him. This was going to be easier than he had hoped.

  “We know quite a bit here about the Wintour family,” the woman went on. “Alexander Wintour never really reached the top shelf, you might say. He was a good illustrator with a fine eye, but not what you would call a real artist. Still, his work is interesting from a historical point of view. But I’m surely telling you what you already know.”

  She smiled brightly.

  “No, no,” Felder hastened to assure her. “Please go on.”

  “As far as the family went, his brother’s son—his nephew—made an excellent match. Married the daughter of a local shipping magnate. Alexander, who never married, moved out of the Wintour family bungalow on Old South Road and into his nephew’s much grander residence nearby.”

  Felder nodded eagerly. “Go on.”

  “This shipping magnate was an avid collector of literary memorabilia—books, manuscripts, the odd lithograph, and in particular epistolary material. It’s said he obtained the complete collection of Albert Bierstadt’s correspondence from his 1882 trip across California, including dozens of sketches. He also managed to procure a series of love letters written by Grover Cleveland to Frances Folsom, before she became his wife—he was the only president ever to have a wedding in the White House, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know,” Felder said, leaning in a little closer.

  “Well! And then there are the letters Henry James sent to his editor at Houghton Mifflin during the writing of The Portrait of a Lady. Really, a most impressive collection.” She folded her hands over the needlepoint. “In any case, Alexander Wintour died young. He never married, and his sister was said to have inherited much of his artistic output, beyond a collection of paintings that were donated to, I believe, the New-York Historical Society. The albums and notebooks must have been passed on to her son. The son and his wealthy wife had only one child of their own—a daughter, Alexander’s grandniece. She’s still alive and living here in Southport. We at the museum have little doubt that Wintour’s sketchbooks are still in her library, along with her grandfather’s collections of letters and manuscripts. Naturally, we would dearly love to have them, but…” The woman smiled.

  Felder practically clasped his hands together in excitement. “This is wonderful news. Tell me where she lives, please, so I can call on her.”

  The woman’s smile faded. “Oh, dear.” She hesitated a moment. “Now, that’s a bit of a problem. I didn’t intend to get your hopes up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The woman hesitated again. “I told you that I knew where you could find the sketchbooks. I didn’t say you’d be able to see them.”

  Felder stared at her. “Why not?”

  “Miss Wintour—well, not to put too fine a point on it, but she’s been an odd one ever since she was a little girl. Never goes out, never has company, never sees anyone. After her parents died, she remained shut up in that house. And that dreadful manservant of hers…” The woman shook her head. “It’s a tragedy, really, her parents were such pillars of the community.”

  “But her library—?” Felder began.

  “Oh, many people have tried to gain access—scholars and the like, you know, the Henry James and Grover Cleveland letters in particular have historical and literary importance—but she’s turned everyone away. Every last one. A delegation from Harvard came down expressly to examine the Bierstadt letters. Offered a tidy sum, so people say. She wouldn’t even let them in the front door.” The woman leaned forward, touched the side of her head with a fingertip. “Batty,” she whispered confidentially.

  “There isn’t… anything I could do? It’s terribly important.”

  “Frankly, it would be a miracle if she let you in. I hate to say it, but I know of quite a few scholars and others who are waiting—” she dropped her voice—“for a time when she won’t be around any longer to block access.”

  Felder stood up.

  “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

  Felder sighed. “I’ve come all the way up from the city. As long as I’m here, I might as well try to see her.”

  A look of pity came over the woman’s face.

  “Can you tell me where I can find her house, please?” he asked. “There’s no harm in knocking on her door, is there?”

  “No harm, but I shouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you.”

  “I won’t. If I could just have the address—” Felder took out his handwritten note, preparing to jot it down.

  “Oh, you won’t need that. You can’t miss it. It’s that big mansion on Center Street, just down from the library.”

  “Not… not the one that’s falling apart?” Felder asked, his spirits sinking farther still.

  “The very one. Dreadful how she’s let the family estate go to rack and ruin. A real eyesore to the community. As I said, quite a few around here are waiting…” Her voice trailed off decorously as she picked up her needlepoint again.

  21

  DR. JOHN FELDER DROVE—SLOWLY, VERY SLOWLY—DOWN Center Street, the dead December leaves skittering and whirling in his wake. He kept his head low, as if not wanting to look much past the dashboard of his Volvo. The dejection he felt seemed quite out of proportion to the disappointment he had just experienced. He realized he’d allowed himself to believe this one trip to Connecticut might already be the end of his quest.

  It was still possible. Anything could happen.

  The houses slid by, one after the other, with their crisply painted fronts and well-tended plantings, mulched and protected for winter. And then the prospect ahead seemed to darken, as if a cloud was passing over the sun… and there it was. Felder winced. He took in the wrought-iron fence, topped with pitted spikes; the dead, frozen weeds covering the front yard; the dreary mansion itself, with its too-heavy gabled roof beetling over the dark and discolored stone of the façade. He half imagined he could make out a huge crack, running, Usher-like, from foundation to roofline; all it would take was a puff of wind from the wrong direction to bring the whole thing shivering down into perdition.

  He pulled over, killed the engine, and got out of the car. As he pushed the gate open with a hollow groan, red grains of rust and chips of black paint came off on his hands. He made his way up the cracked and heaving concrete walkway, trying to think of what to say.

  The problem was, Felder real
ized, that although he was a psychiatrist by profession, he wasn’t any good at manipulating people. He was a terrible liar and easily gulled himself—as recent events had made painfully obvious. Should he continue the academic ruse he’d used at the historical society? No—if old Miss Wintour had turned away a delegation from Harvard, she wouldn’t have anything to do with a lone scholar who’d misplaced his credentials.

  Maybe, then, he should play on her family pride, tell her he wanted to resurrect her great-uncle’s artistic reputation from lonely obscurity. But no—she’d had plenty of opportunity to do that herself already.

  What on earth was he going to say?

  All too soon he reached the front steps. He mounted them, the mortared stones tilting treacherously beneath his feet. A massive black door stood before him, scuffed, the paint crazed and flaking. Set into it was a large brass knocker in the shape of a griffin’s head. It glared at Felder as if it were about to bite him. There was no doorbell. Felder took a deep breath, grasped the knocker gingerly, and gave it a rap.

  He waited. No response.

  He gave the knocker a second rap, a little harder this time. He could hear the echo of it reverberating hollowly through the bowels of the mansion.

  Still nothing.

  He licked his lips, feeling almost relieved. One more try—then he’d leave. Taking firm hold of the knocker, he rapped with severity.

  An indistinct voice sounded within. Felder waited. A minute later, footsteps could be heard echoing across marble. Then came the rattling of chains, the sliding of locks badly in need of oil, and the door cracked open.

  It was very dark inside, and Felder could see nothing. Then his gaze drifted downward and he spotted what appeared to be an eye. Yes, he was sure it was an eye. It looked him up and down, narrowing with suspicion, as if perhaps believing him to be a Jehovah’s Witness or Fuller Brush man.