When I Meet You

by Olivia Newport

  “Yes, that. The magical stuff you do. What time are the O’Reillys coming?”

  “Six o’clock.”

  “Kris?”

  “Yes.”

  “See you then.” Nolan squirted dish soap in his burned saucepan and grabbed a scrubbing pad. “Two hundred meals.”

  By the time Jillian opened the front door to welcome Luke, Veronica, and Kris, Nolan had laid out a buffet on the dining room table. The pearl onion soup and the cucumber soup. The beef Wellington, chicken Kiev, and lamb chops à la Béarnaise with eggplant and peppers were perfectly warmed and sauced. The portobellos held spinach, goat cheese, and marinara sauce. Baked barley and wild rice would complement any of the entrees.

  “Pralines and cream.” Kris handed Nolan a half gallon and settled her eyes on the open trunk in the living room. “This is the famous museum souvenir.”

  “That it is,” he said. “Jillian can give you gloves if you want to touch. Thanks for the ice cream.”

  He turned to take the dessert to the freezer.

  Veronica tossed her purse on the couch and followed him to inspect the table. “Nolan Duffy, what have you done?”

  “I threw a few things together.” Nolan straightened the beef Wellington platter on his way past. “Please sit.”

  When he returned from the kitchen with the final dish, the buttered carrots with almonds to add both color and a note of familiarity, Jillian had wrangled everyone into seats. Nolan took his place. “Jillian, would you like to say our family’s traditional blessing?”

  “May you always find nourishment for your body at the table,” Jillian said. “May sustenance for your spirit rise and fill you with each dawn. And may life always feed you with the light of joy along the way.”

  “This is quite a bit of nourishment for the body,” Veronica said.

  “The rules,” Nolan said, “are that you taste everything and you tell the truth.”

  “We can do that,” Kris said.

  “Are we allowed to talk about other things while we eat?” Luke asked.

  “Please.” Nolan gestured acquiescence.

  “I haven’t had a chance to consult my people yet,” Luke said, “but my instinct is the person doing the bookkeeping in your papers was simply doing just that—bookkeeping. Entering transactions in the right columns without interpretation. There’s no nefarious effort to hide the fact that what went out was not balanced by adequate income or offset by assets. But the bigger issue is that despite the number of pages you gave me, the records are incomplete.”

  “I told you!” Jillian said. “I saw the gaps. I think Lynnelle Bendeure kept some papers with her on the train, and those might have been the ones that mattered most—and could explain what happened to her.”

  “But we’re never going to find those,” Nolan said, “are we?”

  Luke shook his head. “Unlikely. Even if the company was still in business, there would be no reason for them to keep those old records.”

  “But we still have one side of the correspondence,” Jillian said, “and those letters give us every reason to suggest Lynnelle Bendeure was traveling with documents that would authorize her to act on her father’s behalf once she arrived in Denver. Suppose someone knew that. That would be motive for something.”

  “So what do you think happened to Lynnelle?” Veronica asked.

  “That’s what I intend to find out,” Jillian said, glancing at Nolan.

  “Jillian thinks she found Lynnelle,” Nolan said.

  “Or at least how her identity morphed in the hands of the person who stole it,” Jillian said. “I need to dig more into some public records, but digitization can be spotty. Everything I need is so old.”

  “Oh nuts,” Veronica said, “I meant to bring you something.”

  “For me?” Jillian said.

  “The envelope on the counter?” Luke asked.

  Veronica nodded. “I was choosing some luggage we might use for the decor at the dinner. I had Luke get down a small case we’ve been using purely for display purposes at the Emporium for a long time. I got it at a lot auction years ago. I’d forgotten it had anything in it.”

  “What did you find?” Jillian asked.

  “Somebody’s old dissertation about the history of Italian immigrants. And the Mafia! I thought maybe you’d like to read it.”

  “Absolutely!”

  “Let’s meet at the Cage tomorrow. Coffee in the morning.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Veronica closed her eyes and savored a mouthful of lamb. “Delicious. As fine as any restaurant I’ve ever been in.”

  “It’s the Irish way.” Nolan basked in her culinary pleasure.

  “Are you going to serve all of these choices?” Luke asked.

  “No, he is not.” Jillian’s words darted at Nolan. “Two hundred meals.”

  “Which one are you suggesting I drop?” Nolan said. Every dish had seemed a winner.

  “The lamb,” Veronica said.

  Nolan set down his fork and knife. “Ten seconds ago you loved it.”

  “I still do.” Veronica forked another bite of the lamb. “But it may be too sophisticated for many people’s palates when they are not placing individual orders. Cute little lambs?”

  “Jillian made the same objection about veal and venison,” Nolan said. “What am I left with?”

  “Chicken and beef.”

  “Boring.”

  “Two hundred meals, Dad.” Jillian spooned more baked barley and wild rice onto her plate. “But in my book, this stuff is a keeper no matter what.”

  “And you might want to steer clear of any nuts,” Luke said as he slid an almond into his mouth. “Even the thought of cross contamination can make people nervous if allergies are an issue.”

  “Do you really need two soups?” Veronica said.

  “Two hundred meals,” Jillian muttered.

  “Kris,” Nolan said, “I notice you didn’t try the onion soup.”

  Kris shrugged and scrunched her face. “It’s not really my thing. Honestly, I don’t think it will be popular. Maybe don’t make it?”

  No Irish lamb. No nuts. No onion soup. And that hateful number was going to drive every decision. He’d asked for honesty. He couldn’t complain that his guests had delivered it.

  “Jillian,” Luke said, “what’s next in your search for this person who may or may not be Lynnelle?”

  “Finding something more solid than conjecture, right?” Nolan said.

  She eyed Nolan, considering whether she wanted to answer, just as she had when she was little and thought he was being nosy about her guilt. He eyed her in return. She was keeping something from him. Weren’t they in this together?

  “Property records,” she finally said. “I’ll have some more of the lamb, please.”

  Nolan couldn’t remember the last time Jillian kept a secret from him. But she had one now.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Nolan was at it again, pots and mixing bowls and utensils taking over every square inch of the kitchen. A couple of sacks told Jillian he’d managed to find his own way to the grocery store today while she was hunkered down in her office with a client phone call. No telling what he’d bought. Her father was subject to whimsy in a grocery store more than anyone else she knew. The Brussels sprouts in the colander were new, as were four kinds of apples, lettuce she had no name for, and meat.

  More meat. At least he hadn’t paid the butcher’s prices this time—probably because he couldn’t find the shop.

  “London broil, Dad?”

  “I haven’t decided which kind of apples to use with it.”

  “So you bought them all.”

  “Apples are always useful.”

  “A bit pricey for—”

  “No need to say it. I’ve already told Marilyn I would underwrite the cost of the food for the dinner as my contribution to the fund-raising effort, so what does it matter what I spend?”

  “Dad, London broil for two hundred people? Are you
planning to cash in your 401(k)?”

  “I asked you not to say that.”

  “Sorry.” At least the pork cutlets option, also laid out on the breakfast bar, wouldn’t ravage his bank account so viciously.

  “Pork cutlet Parisienne,” he said. “I know you’re wondering. Although apples also go nicely with pork in the right sauce.”

  She didn’t ask what it meant to cook something Parisienne.

  “How’s Raúl?” Nolan asked.

  Since Raúl represented an insurance company that gave Jillian steady paying work, she didn’t often put off his messages.

  “Three new projects,” she said.

  “A glut of missing heirs?”

  She laughed. “Something like that. One quarrel within the family about how to respond to a secret daughter no one knew their dear mother had.”

  “Surely that’s a simple matter of a DNA test.”

  “Probably. Raúl just wants me to cover the genealogical bases for why the woman would even want to reveal her secret now, after her death.” Jillian picked up her phone. “I’m going now to meet Veronica at the Cage. Luke is going to be there. Want to come?”

  “Who’s minding the store?”

  “They do have employees, Dad.”

  “You’re sure you’re okay to walk on your bad foot?”

  “I would accept a ride.”

  “I’ll get the truck.” Nolan untied his apron. “Give me a minute to figure out where to put this meat.”

  Good luck with that.

  Nolan crammed the morning purchases into the refrigerator somehow, and they drove the few blocks down Main Street to Canary Cage. The day was mild enough that Jillian wore only a zipper hoodie over one of the long-sleeve T-shirts she favored when she worked and didn’t have any video calls scheduled.

  Behind the counter at the Cage, Clark Addison dipped his head at their arrival and moved to the coffee machines.

  “He thinks just because he used to be a hippie,” Nolan said, “and has a gray braid and an earring, he knows what I want.”

  Jillian snickered. “Have you ever not ordered black coffee in here? And Clark knows I’ll drink anything as long as it’s the opposite of plain black coffee.”

  Clark pointed at Nolan. “She speaks truth.”

  “Maybe I want something to go with my coffee,” Nolan said.

  “You want a jelly-filled doughnut,” Clark said. “You think I don’t know? Now go sit down. They’re waiting.”

  Jillian grinned at Clark and limped behind her dad as he sauntered toward Luke and Veronica.

  “What’s the word, Luke?” Nolan said.

  “I had some news on the bank situation and thought I might as well tag along. Veronica promised it wasn’t going to turn into one of those girlfriend coffee klatches with Kris and Nia.”

  “Actually we’re overdue for one of those.” Veronica pulled out her phone. Luke snatched it from her.

  Nolan and Jillian settled into seats across from Veronica and Luke.

  “The bank where most of those transfers were going,” Luke said, “managed to survive the 1893 recession that put a lot of Denver financial institutions under. I thought it sounded familiar. It had some backing from New York.”

  “That might explain why a Cleveland business would choose it,” Nolan said.

  Luke nodded. “But twenty years after these transactions, Black Tuesday happened.”

  “The Great Depression started,” Jillian said.

  “Any banks that survived the earlier recession were now swallowed up by bigger banks, sometimes for pennies on the dollar. This one was gone before the end of 1929. And that was the biggest of the bunch. The others that show up in the records probably closed within a week of the crash, gone for good.”

  “So there really would be no way to track the records,” Nolan said.

  “Or hold anyone accountable.”

  Clark arrived with coffee and pastries. “You all have what you need?”

  Nolan winked. “Maybe you should tell us.”

  “Maybe I should.” Clark withdrew.

  “It was a long shot to think we’d find anything,” Nolan said.

  “I’ve put out some other feelers,” Luke said. “I have a friend who is a forensic accountant, and he would know much better than I the depth of any funny business. We just have to wait. It won’t be at the top of his list.”

  “No hurry,” Nolan said. “It’s extremely unlikely there is any legal action to pursue, and that’s the main concern.”

  “Is it?” Jillian said.

  “The mystery of the trunk itself, of course, is intriguing in its own right,” Nolan said. “But if we put Rich’s mind at ease about the legal questions, we can all enjoy the trunk for a while.”

  Jillian shifted her weight. “Am I really the only one who wants to know what happened to Lynnelle Bendeure?”

  “I know you’re working on that.” Nolan sipped his coffee. “If you come up with something solid, I’m sure we’ll all be interested.”

  Jillian pushed her chair back, irritated. “It was her trunk after all. We owe it to her to find out what happened to her.”

  “Do you really think somebody stole her identity?” Veronica said. “What can we really do about it now?”

  “Not give up so easily, to begin with. There are people living on property near Pueblo right now who probably have no right to that land.” Veronica’s violet eyes widened. “Related to Lynnelle?”

  “Or not related to her but related to her money.”

  “Jillian, we’ll have to let the various lines of investigation play out,” Nolan said. “There’s no hurry, and we need a lot more information before we can draw conclusions.”

  “I believe I have plenty of information. Genealogically.” Jillian leaned her head to one side. Her father knew what she did all day, every day. What she’d been doing for years. The kind of research companies—including his own law firm—paid her to do to establish family connections, or at least sufficient likelihood in the absence of available DNA. His caution came from nowhere, and it irritated her. Clients hired her because they didn’t believe people just dropped off into nothingness. History was all about the trails people left.

  Nolan drummed the table. “Last night, Luke said the same thing you’ve said. The records are incomplete and don’t offer a particular interpretation of events. Doesn’t that make it hard to say what’s going on one way or another without more expertise? Or more information?”

  “Pueblo?” Veronica said. “You found something in the property records since we talked last night.”

  Jillian nodded. “It started a few days ago when I began with a credible variant of Lynnelle’s name and got a hit on a marriage record.”

  “It could still be someone else,” Nolan said.

  Her father’s doubts were getting on Jillian’s nerves.

  “It’s suspicious that the husband’s name has only initials,” Jillian said, “not even a full first name. Somebody is hiding something.”

  “People in that time often used initials,” Veronica said.

  “Legal documents require names,” Jillian insisted. “He’s listed the same way in the property records.”

  “So he’s being legally consistent,” Nolan said.

  “Or deceitfully consistent. He bought a lot of land shortly after his marriage to someone who could very well have gotten her hands on Lynnelle’s considerable assets.”

  Three sets of eyes stared at Jillian.

  She glared back. “I know what I’m doing. I follow my nose all the time, and then I find the facts I need to confirm.”

  “Then that’s what you’ll do this time,” Nolan said. “The situation is hardly dangerous. Eventually your research will tell you if you’re on the right track.”

  “What about the people living in Pueblo?” Jillian said.

  Nolan shrugged. “Even if there is an actionable inheritance issue—and I’m not saying there would be after all these years—a bit more time won
’t change anything.”

  Veronica’s phone chimed with a text message. “That’s the store. I can’t stay much longer.”

  “I can go,” Luke said.

  “We should both get back to work.” Veronica pulled a manila envelope out of her bag. “But if I forget this again, I’ll kick myself. This was the whole point of this meetup.”

  “Let’s see what it is,” Nolan said.

  Jillian nodded. Her father discouraging her path of questions was disheartening, but for now, a change of topic might be best. She opened the envelope and slid out a packet of about a hundred single-spaced typed pages.

  In partial fulfillment of the requirements of the degree of PhD, it said. The year given was 1957. The school was one of Colorado’s well-known universities. She flipped through pages.

  Italian immigration.

  Mafia families.

  Transference of dominance.

  New Orleans and beyond.

  Influence on Denver culture.

  The phrases jumped out.

  “Wow,” she said. “This is something.”

  “It seemed like something you ought to at least have a chance to look at.”

  “Thank you. I’ll get into it the first chance I get.”

  Nolan pinched the last of his doughnut into his mouth. “Now that I have stuffed myself, I must return to the question of how to stuff two hundred people.”

  Jillian waited until they were inside their home before she spoke again.

  “I’m telling you, Dad, my feeling about this is very strong. There’s a ranch in the foothills to the San Isabel National Forest southwest of Pueblo that may not rightfully belong to the people living on it.”

  He nodded. “I understand your concerns. But even if you dig deeper and can put together a compelling case on the identity question, the legalities are what they are. Property law likes things to be tidy and settled. Nothing would be actionable.”

  “That’s not right.”

  “I’m telling you the legal limits, Jilly.” Nolan donned his apron. “We can gather some more information for the sake of the Owens House Museum—and our own curiosity—but we don’t actually have an offended party that either of us is directly representing. No one could possibly still be alive who could be criminally charged for the financial mismanagement. We probably can’t even uncover who failed to properly dispose of abandoned baggage from Union Station. I really don’t think there’s anything here, Jillian.”