Pia shook her head. “She’s been working on Mom for years. I’ve caught snippets of arguments about it.” A tear slipped down Pia’s cheek. “I feel horrible. Claudia is gone. She was the most fun grandmother you could ever imagine. But I feel so guilty. As soon as the doctor came into the waiting room with the bad news, the first thing I thought was, now I’ll never know who my father was.”
I gave Pia a firm hug. “It’s not the same at all, but I don’t even know if my dad is on this earth still, or not.”
It was true. I gave Pia the brief synopsis of my dad leaving in the dead of night with a note for our mother. Rachel and I were so astounded and bitter at his voluntary disappearance that when we later entertained the question of whether he was alive or not, we both found we didn’t care. “It is a bit different, though. I still know who he was.” I felt my face twist into a frown. “Or rather, who he wanted us to think he was.”
My cell blared out a text from Becca, happy to receive Miri’s items. I bid Pia goodbye after she helped me load the baby wares into the Butterscotch Monster.
“Thanks again, Mallory.”
As I drove off, I pondered the range of emotions I’d witnessed in Pia. She was right to be angry with June that she’d withheld knowledge of Pia’s paternity.
Angry enough to string her up to the ceiling?
I was disgusted with my mind’s train of thought. Pia couldn’t hurt a fly.
Or could she?
An icy bath, or possible awareness, danced down my spine. What if Claudia wasn’t killed on the reenactment field over some tiff? What if Pia killed her because she’d backed down from revealing a much-promised secret?
I chased those thoughts away and hightailed it to Becca and Keith’s house.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The shocking structure of the McMansion that Becca and Keith had commissioned never ceased to amaze me. Cubes and right angles in maroon brick jutted off each other like a modernist cliffside. The blinding summer sun reflected off of slim and wide slices of dark glass embedded in the least likely places. The copper roof of the structure had finally gotten a bit of minty patina, seeming to cap off the whole strange Rubik’s Cube of a house with an incongruous fuzzy green cap.
I loaded up Miri’s things into a Radio Flyer wagon Pia had also given me and pulled the haul up to the lacquered front door. I was more used to the inside, a retro 1980s throwback homage to peach and cream and gold, this part of the house designed entirely by Helene.
But the nursery had Becca written all over it. “Ta-da!” Becca ushered me into the room, where Keith was looking surprisingly paternal. He bounced baby Miri on his knee, the little girl dissolving into a fit of giggles. I hadn’t seen Keith so joyful and at ease, well, ever.
“Thank you for bringing some of Miri’s things.” Keith included me in his warm smile before he turned his attention back to the baby. I got a closer look at the room, a calm oasis of sage green, taupe, and silver. Little gray triangles provided a subtle pattern on one accent wall. The baby furniture was sleek Scandinavian beech, the carpet below my feet soft and perfect for tummy time.
“This was meant to be.” Becca’s eyes were shining as she took the infant from Keith. “I’m so sorry we had to find June in that state. But at least you and Rachel were able to save her. But I have to believe I ran into you guys for a reason, too. For this little girl, right here.”
I hoped the judge and case workers agreed. I’d hate for Becca and Keith to become so attached to Miri, only for her stay to be brief.
“Nonsense. This is only a temporary affair.” Helene loomed in the doorway like a bad omen come to roost.
Helene must have wrangled a spare key back from Keith. She entered the nursery, her spine ramrod straight. Her coral lips were pressed into an impossibly thin line.
“Keith, Becca, I just dropped in to give you these.” She tossed two large folders onto the top of Miri’s changing table. “An all-expenses-paid cruise around the Mediterranean. Your tickets, airfare voucher codes, and itinerary are all there. I thought I’d surprise you. You leave next week.”
Huh?
Becca’s eyes narrowed. “We can’t go on a cruise, Helene.” Her face turned sweet again as she cuddled Miri. “I mean, I’m sure some moms do, but I’m not comfortable enough at the thought of a big international trip with my baby just yet.” Keith gave wordless support to his wife, standing behind her and placing his hand on her shoulder.
“You are not her mother, and she is not your baby!” Helene’s voice was shrill enough to alarm Miri, even if she didn’t quite understand the content of the message, which if she did, would undoubtedly make her cry as well. “Keith, I wasn’t kidding. If you and Becca adopt Miri, your inheritance is gone.”
I couldn’t decide whether to string a score of invectives Helene’s way, or pull her from the house.
But Keith for once decided to stand up to his mother. “I’ll have you know I’m doing everything in my power to make Miri a Pierce.”
His utterance of his famed last name made Helene flinch.
“I’ve hired a fleet of the best attorneys. Becca and I are taking foster and adoption classes. I’ll show the court and caseworker we’re the best option for this little girl.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” Helene’s face was wrought with threads of fear woven through her rage. “This baby,” she spat, “won’t be carrying on the lineage of being a descendant of Ebenezer Quincy!”
I’d had enough. “Oh please, Helene. Who gives a hoot? The founder of this town by all accounts was a lush who dipped into the contents of his own distillery too much. You want to keep associating with that?” A tiny trickle of an idea came to me. I recalled Pia’s use of a genealogy DNA service. “You know, Helene, there are quite a few rumors around town that you’re not even related to Ebenezer Quincy, as unimportant as that even is. Why don’t you take a DNA test to prove it?”
A flash of real fear skittered across Helene’s face, this time unmistakable. “I don’t need to, Mallory,” she finally sniveled. “My genealogical pedigree is impeccable. I’m the current president of the DAR. No one doubts anything.”
Becca snorted. “Pedigrees are for dogs, Helene.”
Ouch. Well played.
“I’ll end this right now, Mother.” Keith turned to me. “That’s a great idea, Mallory. I’ll take a DNA test. Then you can stop nattering on about the legend of Ebenezer Quincy coursing through your veins.”
Helene was utterly quiet as she stared at her son in absolute incredulity. Then she did her best Rumpelstiltskin impression, stamping the pretty, soft carpet, the floor muting her rage. She stomped out of the house, and hopefully right out of Keith and Becca and Miri’s lives.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I’d nearly forgotten about my moved-up wedding. But time was moving on at a rapid pace. It would soon be July, and the town of Port Quincy would be able to come together to celebrate again, hopefully sans weapons and accidents this time. The Founder’s Day festivities and dance were almost upon us. The mayor of Port Quincy had tripled security for the event in light of what had happened at Cordials and Cannonballs. I just hoped the denizens of Port Quincy wouldn’t be too spooked to attend, and that when they did, they had a safe and fun celebration.
And the day would soon be here when I’d wed Garrett, whether I was ready for it or not. Fortunately, Rachel had taken my plea to heart and she and Pia were running the whole thing. The ceremony would be short and sweet, and the guest list for the reception very small.
Bev and Jesse’s wedding was another matter. Right after Jesse’s shooting, I’d emailed each invitee to their wedding and reception to tell them the nuptials were on hold pending Jesse’s recovery. And although Jesse had been home with Bev last week, and had even made the trek to the construction-turned-archaeology site that was to be the location of my new cottage, it looked like Garrett and I would actually beat them down the aisle.
I left Bev’s store with a spring in my step. She’d had the
ethereal sundress steamed and pressed, and the garment looked good as new. I completed my next task as well, picking up the wedding rings at Fournier’s jewelry shop. My left ring finger still felt a bit funny without the antique piece I’d been wearing since New Year’s Day, but there would be a new band to take its place after the wedding.
I swung the small jewelry bag in my hand as I started to walk back to Thistle Park in the radiant sunshine. I wouldn’t be able to put the jewelry in my destroyed safe, but it was no matter. All that mattered was that things were finally looking up. Becca and Keith were making progress convincing the caseworkers and the judge in charge of Miri’s case that they should be her forever parents. June was home from the hospital, and Jesse couldn’t wait to wrap up the issue with the distillery and commence work on the cottage. All would be well. That is if we could all stay out of trouble, and stay alive, until July.
“Mallory!” A familiar voice called out behind me on the sidewalk. It was Horace Overright, the Smithsonian archivist.
What is he still doing here?
I’d last seen the little man the day he’d inadvertently revealed the location of the safe and the Betsy Ross veil to Helene. He seemed to have read my thoughts, or at least the quizzical look I’m sure was on my face.
“I’ve been enjoying the charms of Port Quincy so much that I decided to stay an extra week. I even convinced the Smithsonian that the veil might turn up.” His cheerful face fell into a frown. “But that’s not looking likely, is it?”
I shook my head and we fell into a pleasant walk together.
“Where are you headed?” We’d reached the end of downtown, and were staring down a giant hill paved with yellow bricks. It was time to part with the pleasant, if enigmatic, man.
“Well,” he began a bit sheepishly, “I was actually hoping to tag along. If you’re headed to Thistle Park, that is.” He rushed on. “I heard that your builders discovered some distillery equipment that was possibly owned by Ebenezer Quincy. I must confess I’m dying to see it!”
Horace leapt lightly on the balls of his feet, his worn Vans bouncing on the pavement. I winced at the choice of his words, confess and dying. But I had no reason to deny his request. He was a consummate history geek, much like Tabitha and my stepdad. This would be fun.
“Well, sure. There are a lot of people digging, under the supervision of the archaeologist, and the police are there, too. I’m sure they’d be happy to have your expertise.”
We settled into our walk in amiable silence again. Especially the part that featured the upswing of the valley, which peaked at Thistle Park. We were both huffing and puffing a bit as we ascended to the top.
“Being here in Port Quincy has dredged up a lot of memories,” Horace began in a confessional tone. “I was in town when Richard Pierce was in that accident, you know.”
Come again?!
“And I just remembered something that the police maybe should hear all these years later.”
I nearly stopped on the sidewalk, frozen with a weird mix of excitement and trepidation.
“I was in town to re-authenticate the Betsy Ross veil. There had been some rumblings that the veil was a fake, and that the one purchased by the Pierces in the 1950s from Sotheby’s had been swapped out. I came up to authenticate it again, and leave. I didn’t even know Richard was in an accident until I returned to the Smithsonian. I left for D.C. that day, you see. But before I left, I saw the most peculiar sight. A young woman, a child basically, covered in blood.”
Oh. My. God.
He was referencing a young Tabitha. I had no doubt. Still, I willed my beating heart to calm down. I remembered my evidence class back in law school. Most people struggled with the most basic and distinctive details when recalling a suspect. Tall people became short, while portly suspects became slim, and the old become young again. What were the chances Horace could accurately describe a blood-covered Tabitha?
“That’s very interesting.” I kept my voice level. “I’m sure Truman would like to hear it. Although he is very busy, and that case is twenty-five years old. Why, it was an accident, right? So I guess that strange sight you saw was something else.” I gulped and waded in. “Do you remember what the girl looked like? Shoot, this was twenty-five years ago. Could it have even been an older person, or a male?”
Horace shook his head. “Oh, no. I vividly remember. This girl was tall, but you could tell she was youngish somehow, too. I think she had on a jean skirt? And though it was an accident, if she was there at the scene, she could probably shed light on what happened. I know Helene would want to know.”
Drat.
His details were matching Tabitha’s exactly.
“And the girl had blond hair,” he continued.
I let out a relieved sigh. Tabitha had always had red hair, whether natural or dyed.
“Or maybe a bit reddish? That part I can’t remember.”
My recent relief dissipated again. I began to construct a crazy plan. I’d just keep Horace away from Truman so he couldn’t tell him of the specter of a girl he’d seen covered in blood the day Richard was murdered. Easy-peasy.
Yeah, right.
If Truman ascertained that Horace was talking about Tabitha, it would be all over. Truman’s current distrust of Tabitha would color his judgment of her split-second decision when she was just a teen, a decision she’d made to conceal that she’d been at the crime scene. Truman might conflate the whole thing and charge Tabitha with the murder of Richard Pierce. It wouldn’t be a fair assessment, that much I knew, and I was determined not to let it happen.
We finally reached Thistle Park, and grabbed some Gatorade before we made the second leg of the journey wending our way through the gardens and paths into the woods. We made it through a cloud of mosquitoes to the little glen of trees that had been cleared for construction, the site now a busy hive of activity.
“This is fantastic!” Horace rubbed his hands together. “I’m supposed to check out of my hotel tonight. Do you mind if I stay at your B and B for the next few days?”
I shrugged, then turned my mouth up in a smile. “Of course, Horace. I’d be happy to have you.”
All the better to keep my eye out to make sure you’re not talking to Truman.
“Check out my finds!” Summer abandoned her work with a little chisel and toothbrush to show me a tiny piece of metal. I marveled at her patience to sift through the earth on a volunteer basis, when I spotted another enticing draw for her. Preston appeared at her side, and the two teens talked animatedly about what the archaeologists had taught them about digging. Horace engaged the two in an animated conversation, and I walked around the cordoned-off plot of earth for a closer look.
Ten minutes in, a Quincy College anthropology major made quite the find. “What the heck is this?” The tall, freckled kid started pushing at a large metal pot.
“Hold up, Hudson.” The chief archeologist rushed over to snap photos of the find. She finally got the metal receptacle out of the earth and tore off the intact lid with a flourish. And gave a gasp. A plastic rectangle was within the metal pot.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but that shouldn’t be there, right?” I watched in awe as the archaeologist continued her work documenting the unearthing of the object. She held it up triumphantly, if not a bit dejectedly. It was a cassette tape, the kind that hadn’t been used much at all since the advent of CDs and MP3 technology.
“It looks like a mixtape,” the woman said with a combination of disappointment and wonder. “Alanis Morissette, Live, P. Diddy.”
An artifact maybe from the late 1990s?
“Now that’s a biscuit of a different bonnet.” Jesse ambled over, his movements labored and slow. I was happy to hear his malaprops, if it meant he was truly on the mend. And he seemed happy that once this site was fully unearthed, there was a chance he could commence building the new cottage.
Summer wrinkled her elfin nose. “What’s a mixtape?” I felt a motherly wave of love wash over me. She was get
ting a bit of a tan, the rest of her face catching up to her freckles. I found myself wanting to deliver a nagging reminder about sunscreen, reminiscent of my mother, Carole.
Preston jumped in. “It’s like the playlist I made for you.”
Summer turned all swoony. I was glad Garrett was at work. If he’d just witnessed his daughter’s heightened crush on Preston, he’d probably want to die and be buried right there under the distillery equipment.
I felt protective and bittersweet toward Summer’s getting older, too. I knew I would never replace Adrienne, Summer’s mom, with whom Summer now had a renewed and blossoming relationship. But I couldn’t wait to form an official family unit in a mere few days.
“This is now officially a crime scene.” Truman popped the bubble of my warm and fuzzy reverie. He gestured to the lurid yellow-and-black tape announcing it as so.
“What do you mean?”
Truman explained. “The archaeologists are making the tentative determination that the distillery equipment was moved and interred as recently as twenty or so years ago.”
This was both good and bad news. The good was that this land wasn’t the original site of the distillery, and when the dig wrapped up, Jesse could build the house. The bad was that this was now a place where someone had moved and stashed the distillery, and Truman and Faith would need to find out why.
“I’m beginning to think this place is something of a landfill.” I pointed to an edge of fabric peeking out from the earth just beyond my toe. It appeared to be a dirty, moldy cream. Truman called the archaeologist over again, and in minutes, she’d freed up an ancient Chanel wallet. Well, not ancient ancient, but circa 1980s or 1990s.
I was one of the lucky few, along with Horace and Truman, who got to see the archaeologist gently tease open the wallet and peer within. Truman donned gloves and took over when we saw there was a stash of plastic cards, and even some moldering cash within. The chief carefully shimmied out a slim Pennsylvania driver’s license covered in grime.
Veiled in Death Page 21
