Blessed Is the Busybody (25 page)

“It’s there,” I told him. “And I’m going over tonight with Bob Knowles to look at some of Gelsey’s things.”

“You’re doing what?” Ed said.

“There’s no reason to worry. He’s giving me plenty of time to tell the world where I’ll be and with whom. So don’t tie yourself in knots, okay?”

“Can you ask Mr. Knowles about the punch bowl?” Harry said. “I could give you a photo of last year’s social to prove it’s ours.”

“I bet he’ll be decent about it. I’ll take some newspaper and boxes and pack it up while I’m there,” I promised.

Harry looked relieved. “I’m the one who fields all the phone calls from the spring social committee, you know. I’m the whipping boy. I don’t know how many more calls I can handle.”

“The church couldn’t stand without you.”

Harry shut the door, and I told Ed the real reason for the trip to Gelsey’s. I hadn’t wanted to mention Jennifer’s kids to Harry. Ed was calmer by the end of my explanation.

“So I couldn’t say no,” I finished. “He’s trying to be generous.”

“Do you have any reason to think Bob killed Gelsey, besides wanting to spend the Falowell fortune?”

“Well, he couldn’t stand her. But I don’t really think it was Bob. He had an alibi. And hiring somebody else is just plain tricky.”

“How would you know?”

“I watch A&E.”

“I could go with you.”

“Don’t you have a meeting tonight? And besides, it would be pretty insulting to my boss to arrive with an escort. Can you have the meeting at our house so I don’t have to get a sitter?”

He shrugged a yes.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” I promised him. “Sax is in jail and he probably killed them both.”

“These days I walk around worried, Ag. Let’s see if we can change that to mild concern, okay?”

I gathered up the soup bowls and kissed him on top of the head. “Everything’s going to be fine. The police will charge Sax, you’ll be offered a church where nobody suspects you of murder, and I’ll be home tonight before your meeting ends, punch bowl in arms.”

“If you’re predicting the future, I’m making plans for Sunday. How many people will come to hear a sermon on Unitarianism in the fifteenth century?”

“Sometimes it’s better not to know.”

18

Bob was waiting at Gelsey’s house when I arrived. The storm had finally blown in, and I had driven through pouring rain to get here. On the porch I shook myself like a Labrador retriever and put my rain jacket by the door. Inside I debated whether to remove my shoes, but they were thick-soled ankle boots, not that simple to slip on and off. I didn’t think I was tracking anything with me, and Gelsey wouldn’t even know.

I found Bob in the living room, his expression pained. “Years ago Uncle Herb used to have this great collection of hunting prints in the den. Now it’s flowers and Audubon lithographs.”

“Afraid I haven’t noticed hunting prints anywhere.”

“I’m sure she sold them and anything else I might want.”

I was sympathetic. “She could be spiteful.”

“I suppose there’s no point in speaking ill of the dead.”

“The best revenge? Be nice to her grandchildren. Even if she couldn’t be nice to you.”

“I like kids. That’s why I’m doing it.”

Just as I was about to apologize he relaxed visibly. “But knowing I’m taking the high road sweetens it a little, doesn’t it?”

We shared a laugh. Whatever tension I’d felt getting out of my car was disappearing. “Where do you want to start?”

Slowly we toured the house and I showed Bob interesting things I’d discovered in the living room. When we got to the dining room I opened the cabinet and pointed out the punch set.

I explained the problem. “I brought a photo and the receipt,” I finished. Harry the worrywart had found both and brought them over to the house that afternoon to be sure I had all the proof I needed.

Bob waved away the evidence. “Take it back to the church tonight if you want.”

“Good, I came prepared to pack. Thanks.”

We proceeded through the rooms, and I told him what I thought might be valuable. By the time we started upstairs, Bob hadn’t found a thing he wanted to keep for himself, but he was interested in a delicate Bavarian china tea set with crimson roses for Gelsey’s granddaughter.

I’d expected to introduce Bob to the house and its contents, but he was the one who found the lamented hunting prints. They were stored in a space just under the rafters, reached through a ceiling panel in the guest room closet. The panel wasn’t hidden, but the closet was packed with Gelsey’s summer clothes, and I hadn’t thought to crane my neck. Bob remembered the storage area from a long ago visit.

Bob brought a stepladder from the garage and by the time he reached the second floor, he was huffing and puffing. The prints were his reward, along with two mounted fish, a Remington bronze, and four bowling trophies. When Herb died Gelsey had removed every trace of him, but apparently she hadn’t had the heart to throw his things away.

Bob was in a much better mood after he handed everything down to me and descended the ladder. Old Bob has a sentimental side. Inheriting the family salt mines probably pales in comparison to the bowling trophies. Or maybe not.

“That’s a good evening’s work.” He polished one of the trophies against his shirt.

“Anything else up there?”

“Just a box of odds and ends.”

I wondered if one of the “odds” was a certain 8 mm movie. I knew I’d arouse his suspicion if I shoved him out of the way to check.

“Why don’t you just leave the ladder, and I’ll tell Lucy to have a workman remove it.” I hoped I would be able to climb it later.

He looked grateful. “Let’s finish up.”

In Gelsey’s bedroom Bob spied the little chest and decided this would be an appropriate gift for her grandson. Now I was particularly glad I had found and removed the papers and photos in the secret drawer. Wouldn’t that be some kind of heirloom? Heeeeeere’s . . . Grandma!

Gelsey’s jewelry was in several boxes. I imagined anything of great value was in a safe deposit box—and wouldn’t I like to get a look at that? But the jewelry she kept here was lovely enough to pass down, too.

As I began to go through the largest box, Bob’s eyes glazed over. “Garnets, I think,” I said holding up a necklace. “And maybe onyx? And look, here are earrings to go with it. Gelsey’s ears were pierced, which is good for her granddaughter.”

By the time I got to the second drawer, he was fanning himself with his hand, although the house was cool.

“You’re not having a good time,” I said.

“Why don’t you take the jewelry boxes home and pick out a couple of pieces for each of the kids? The boy can give them to his wife or whatever when he’s older.”

“I don’t want to remove jewelry from the house, Bob. But I hate to choose without seeing everything.”

“Then can you stay a little while longer? I think I’ve seen all I need to. I’ll lock up, and you can pull the door behind you when you leave.”

“And you don’t want any of this?” I scooped up a handful of bracelets.

“Bad memories.”

“Do you want me to take everything home with me that you’re giving the children? I know how to get it to their foster mom.”

“That would be great. Pick out some nice pieces. I don’t mind.”

He really was being sweet, not murderer-ish at all. I walked him to the top of the stairs and he thanked me. He even offered to let me choose a piece of Gelsey’s jewelry for myself.

“Bad memories,” I mimicked, shaking my head.

He understood.

The rain had slowed enough that he could dodge rain-drops outside without his golf umbrella. After he made his last trip to the car with Uncle Herb’s treasures, he locked the front door behind him, and I was alone. If Gelsey’s ghost was hanging around, she was feeling benevolent and didn’t bother me.

I postponed the jewelry decisions and went straight for the attic. Lifting the door wasn’t as easy as it had looked when Bob did it, but I finally shoved it to one side. Balanced on the top step I could just reach the box he’d mentioned. I pulled it closer and rifled through it by the light of a 50-watt bulb.

No movie.

I closed up again and climbed down. What were the chances Gelsey had kept the film anyway instead of just destroying it?

Back in her bedroom I tried to project myself into the future so I would know which pieces of jewelry would still be appealing when the children were old enough to have them. In the end I chose an opal pendant and earrings for Jennifer’s daughter, and a necklace and bracelet of small sapphires and pearls for her son. I was fairly sure the stones were genuine and the pieces timeless enough to be treasured.

I placed the jewelry in the chest and tucked it under my arm. The tea set would fit inside, too, wrapped in Gelsey’s flea market handkerchiefs. I was pleased since I had to bring the punch bowl home, as well.

Downstairs, as thunder rumbled in the distance, I made a half-hearted search of the garage, but gave up quickly. There were no old tires, no motor oil cans, no pots with dead plants, no coiled hoses. The walls were bare of shelves, and Gelsey’s car had already been sold. The few places worth searching were dispensed of immediately.

I could think of only one other place I hadn’t tried. Last time I was here I had not pulled out all the books in the study to check behind them. At the time it had reminded me too much of my job. Besides, several shelves held old leather-bound classics, and these needed to be moved with care. I debated whether it was worth the effort, but decided I would wonder the rest of my life if I didn’t.

In the study I removed the most recent books and peeked behind them with no success. Then I carefully removed five of the classics and placed them on the desk. From that point I inched five more into their place, checking hopefully behind each group. Finally when nothing appeared, I took the first five volumes off the desk and squatting, began to insert them at the end of the bottom row.

The third book I came to was
Tarzan of the Apes,
by Edgar Rice Burroughs, something I hadn’t noticed before.

“Tarzan, huh?” I remembered Tarzan a.k.a. Horace and wondered if this volume had spurred that particular nickname, not Johnny Weissmuller.

It seemed unlikely that Gorgeous Gelsey had curled up with classics in between extorting money and launching call girls. But I opened the book, and there in faded ink were the words, “G, You’ll like this one.” It was signed: “FXC. 1960.”

“G?”

I leafed through, stopping at the first page. I’d never actually read the book. A narrator explained how he’d come across the tale. Then he began to tell the story of a young nobleman, John Clayton, Lord Greystoke. I had forgotten Tarzan was of noble blood.

I closed the book, touched, despite myself. I could picture the young woman with a limited education trying to better herself by reading classic literature. The Gelsey I had known was intelligent, with a large knowledge base. She had probably constructed her identity, one book at a time.

I wondered who FXC could be.

I took the time to leaf through the other books, but none of the rest had inscriptions. There was no 8 mm movie and no place left to search. I was out of options.

While the rain held off I went to my car and delivered the chest, then came back inside with two cardboard boxes full of newspaper from our recycling bin.

I was anxious to get home, but if I returned without the punch set, the spring social committee would have conniptions. I set the cardboard boxes on the mahogany dining room table and removed the first half dozen cups. Gelsey’s ghost awakened momentarily and reminded me how much the committee had paid for the set and how useless it would be if I chipped it.

I told her to go back to sleep, but I carefully wrapped each cup in two layers of paper.

I was wrapping the fifth cup when something caught my eye. I unwrapped it again and held the sheets of newspaper a little closer. I was looking at the front page of our “local news” section from about a week ago, and I recognized the service center dedication. The
Flow
’s photographer had gone all out with a photo spread. I hadn’t paid any attention to it at the time, but now I scanned each photo. Something nagged at me.

Finally, just as I was separating the two pages, I realized what. On the left was a photo of Brownie Kefauver and the service center manager shaking hands. Nothing interesting there. But behind the two men a blurry Frank Carlisle lurked in the shadows talking to a constituent.

Just exactly the way he had lurked in the shadows of the Shadyside Park picnic.

I told myself to relax. Only the circumstances were similar. The man with Gelsey at the picnic could not have been Carlisle. Yet the more I stared the more certain I became. Same nose. Same chin. Same hawklike forehead. Bone structure doesn’t lie and it doesn’t really change. The man at the picnic had been twenty years younger, but this was the same man.

“FXC?”

It seemed preposterous. I tried to remember everything I knew about Carlisle. He wasn’t from Emerald Springs. In fact I had never heard
where
he was from. He had retired from Congress to campaign as a state senator, a comedown by anyone’s standards. I had guessed the demotion was related to a scandal he wanted to avoid, because that’s the way politicians operate. Draw the scandal card and go back six spaces. But Bob had mentioned something about corruption, hadn’t he? That day in front of Book Gems when he and Carlisle had nearly come to blows. Had Bob heard more about Carlisle than I ever had?

If any of this was true could the scandal have to do with Gelsey? Or was it even broader? Did Carlisle have mob connections? Was that why he had agreed to quietly resign from his congressional seat? Someone had discovered this and blown the whistle. Years before had he been instrumental in funding Gorgeous Girls?

The age was right. Carlisle was a little younger than Gelsey, perhaps, but not noticeably. The first and last initials matched. I wished I knew his life story. I wished I had a computer with Internet access and Lucy to operate the mouse.

Was the meeting at Shadyside Park accidental? Had Carlisle and Gelsey simply run into each other and had a political chitchat? I could almost hear Gelsey telling Carlisle that if his lungs were as corroded as his brain and heart, he would never draw another breath. And Carlisle telling Gelsey that good old Joe McCarthy had known exactly what to do with her kind.

But no, I didn’t think Frank and Gelsey had discussed politics.

I didn’t think they had discussed the weather, either. Or the environmental impact of Emerald Estates on the county’s underground springs, or the political correctness of a major league baseball team named the Cleveland Indians. I think they discussed something personal and far-reaching, and I bet if I was looking at the missing movie, I would see a lot of anger in their faces and hand gestures.

I bet they discussed the baby they had agreed to give up together, a baby who by my calculations was on the cusp of adulthood by the day of that picnic. A baby who had not, after all, gone to a family with high ideals and love to offer.

Was Frank Carlisle Jennifer’s father?

Far-fetched as it seemed, the possibility explained so much. Why the storage closet was ransacked and the movie stolen. Why Gelsey tried to extinguish my interest in the archives and possession of the materials by ridding the church of my husband. Why Jennifer was killed—because, after all, she was living proof Carlisle was not the moral beacon he claimed to be. Jennifer had discovered who her mother was. Daddy was probably shaking in his boots. And Daddy wasn’t just some Joe Shmoe trying to cover up an old affair. He was an important man with everything to lose.

It
didn’t
explain why Jennifer’s body appeared on our front porch, or how someone knew Gelsey would be on her way to our house that morning. For that matter, it didn’t explain why Gelsey had been killed when Jennifer was already out of the way.

And it didn’t
prove
Frank Carlisle had been instrumental in either death or that he was now out of danger and ready to resume ruling Ohio.

I had to call Roussos anyway and turn this over to him.

My hands trembled as I dialed the station, but Roussos wasn’t there. I asked for his private telephone number and the man on the other end of the line laughed and put me into voice mail.