Death of an Irish Diva (10 page)

By Wednesday, the Department of Historic Resources had not gotten back to Beatrice. She was annoyed. She had a huge hole covered by an orange tarp in her backyard, and nobody was doing a thing about it. All she wanted was a pool for her and her family to enjoy over the summer. She sighed.

“Have you looked at the book yet?” Jon said as he walked into the kitchen with a bag of groceries and began to put them away.

“Oh, no,” she said. “I promised we'd look at it together.”

It sat on the kitchen table, mocking Beatrice the entire time that Jon was at the store.

He pulled up a chair and sat close to her.

“Jesus, Jon,” she said, placing her elbows on the table. “Give me some room, would you?”

“Oh, sorry,” he said and frowned. “Just get to it, woman.” He raised an eyebrow.

She opened the tattered cover of the book. Its mildew scent made her nose burn. She could barely make out the writing on the page. “My Memory Book, 1871,” was written in a beautiful, flourishing handwriting so faintly, but still there.

Light came through her lace curtain in patterned streams. A few dust particles flew around, but a hush came over the room. Beatrice clasped her hands, as if praying, and brought them to her lips. She almost didn't want to breathe. She wanted to savor each bit of this moment.

“Just lovely,” Jon said in a whisper.

But there was no name there.

She carefully turned the next page. There, in the same script, was a name: Willa Rose McGlashen.

Beatrice gasped.

“What? What is it?” Jon asked.

“The McGlashens were one of the founding families of Cumberland Creek,” she managed to say. “But we've never been able to prove that the McGlashen line had any progeny that carried the name. Looks like Emily may have been right. She may have come from our McGlashens.”

“This is eighteen seventy-one, just after the Civil War. Maybe there are records,” Jon said.

“Yes! Maybe those medals will tell us something! Maybe there was a McGlashen in the Civil War!”

Beatrice sat back a bit in her chair, mulling over the possibilities. A McGlashen connection in her backyard? The historical society had never been able to figure out where the old McGlashen place existed. Maybe her house had been built on top of it. Maybe the old foundation in her backyard was the old McGlashen place.

Jon touched her hand gently, as if to awaken her from her revelry. “Do go on, Bea. Turn the page.”

The next page was translucent rice paper, but a face stared back at them through the paper. The paper swooshed quietly as she turned it. The next page held a photo of a beautiful young woman.

“Is this her? Is this Willa?” Jon wondered aloud.

“I don't know. . . . Could be her mother, sister, aunt.... Maybe it says something on the back.”

“Initials WRM. Hmm. It would appear that this is Willa,” he said, running his finger along the edge of the thick picture. “It's almost like a postcard, eh?”

“Yes, that's exactly what a lot of older photos are,” she explained. “People would send them through the mail.”

The woman looked to be in her late twenties. Since the photo was sepia toned, it was difficult to ascertain exactly the color of her hair, but it was dark and was pulled back into a severe bun, with a few escaping wispy curls on either side of her face. Her eyes were light and heavy lidded, as if she was tired or sad. Hers was a heart-shaped face, with high cheekbones and a high forehead. A slice of a shadow fell along her cheekbone line. Beatrice couldn't tell if it was rouge or just the lighting. Something about her gave Beatrice pause. She looked utterly . . . familiar. As if she'd just seen her yesterday. Now, who did this woman look like?

Her thick lips were almost in a frown, but not quite. Folks didn't really smile for photos then. And really, what was there to smile about? The years of the Civil War and just after were hard on the whole country. Especially the South. Even though the Shenandoah Valley was spared compared to Richmond and farther south, they'd certainly seen their share of destruction and death.

The woman's dress was plain and dark, just what you'd expect, with a bit of a poof or a hoop, not a huge one like that of the Southern belle of popular media. Full sleeves were gathered at her wrists, where a shiny fabric looked almost jewellike. One ribbon was tied at the neck.

Yes, the Civil War had been harsh on the families in the valley, but this woman looked like she had fared well. But then again, she was a McGlashen, of sturdy Scotch-Irish frontier stock.

She stood on a patterned carpet, next to a velvet settee.

“I bet this is a formal photo,” Beatrice said. “Like in a studio somewhere. But where?”

Jon shrugged. “There's no marking. She is very uncomfortable looking.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“She looks unhappy. I don't know. The dress, maybe, looks uncomfortable for her.”

“Yes, maybe you're right.” She smiled. “But you know I don't think I've ever seen an old photo where anybody is smiling.”

Just then, a knock sounded at her front door.

“Hello!”

Vera and Lizzie had arrived a little earlier than what they planned. Damn. Beatrice gathered the book, slid the photo back in it, and gingerly slipped it into a kitchen drawer. If Vera knew about it, she'd certainly make sure that Beatrice turned it over to the state immediately. Beatrice and Jon had talked about it and were not sure what they wanted to do with it. Although ultimately, they would probably donate it to the state, like the rest of the artifacts, for now it remained a delicious, mysterious secret that she and Jon shared.

Another half day of school for the boys. Annie did not see the point in these half days of school. She waved to them as they rolled off in the school bus, and three hours later, she'd be back at the end of her driveway, waiting for the bus. She planned to proofread a section of what she had already written about the New Mountain Order. It would suffice for the day. Once the boys were home, all hell would break loose.

As she walked in the front door, her cell phone beeped.

“Hello,” she said into it.

“Hey, Annie. It's Steve. How's it going?” said her newspaper editor.

“Fine. What's up?”

“I'm really curious about this Irish dancer that was killed.”

“Me too,” she said.

“Can you dig around and find out more about her? I mean, here she was, this famous Irish dancer, right? In Cumberland Creek. Gets herself killed . . . In the meantime, we find out she had this strange tattoo. Are you sure there's no link to the NMO?”

Annie hesitated.

“I mean, it seems sort of clear-cut.”

“Too clear-cut, Steve. The murder didn't have any of the hallmarks of an NMO murder. Plus, several of its members are in jail, awaiting their trial.”

“It's just too weird. All the way around.”

“Yes, I've had similar thoughts. When I questioned Luther Vandergrift about Emily, he knew about her.”

“There has to be a link,” he said and coughed.

“My gut tells me no,” she said after a moment.

“Hmmm. I know all about you and your instincts, but could you be in denial?”

“About what?”

“You're Jewish, Annie. I'm sure you don't want to believe in the possibility of another hate crime.”

“Wait a minute. As far as I know, there have not been any hate crimes in this area. Sure, some vandalism and some threats. But none of the murders in recent years were hate crime related.”

“So, how do we know this one is not? I'd really like a little more information about this woman.”

“I'm a little uncomfortable with this. I'm the only Jewish woman in town. My kids have been picked on at school. I'm writing a book on the New Mountain Order. I've got conflicts of interest everywhere.”

“Okay, Annie. Say the word and I will put someone else on it.”

Her stomach sank. She and Mike could certainly use the money. They had just replaced the furnace in their 1958-built house, which placed them further into debt. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to write one more story, or series, about Emily McGlashen.

But then Mike might not be thrilled about it. He liked the money, but not the time she needed to spend away from him and the boys. Maybe she should talk to him first.

“Can I think about it?”

“Okay. I'm giving you a few days to think about it. If I don't hear from you, I'll give the story to someone else,” he said.

After she hung up the phone, Annie started cleaning up after breakfast. When the last dish was rinsed and placed in her dishwasher, she stood and looked around her pink kitchen. Very vintage. She loved every piece of it. It was so different from the kitchen she and Mike had when the lived in Bethesda, which was sleek and modern. She leaned up against the counter, and it creaked. She didn't miss that kitchen. In fact, the only thing she missed was her closet where she kept all her shoes.

Annie's cell phone blared.

“Annie? It's Adam.”

“Yes?”

“The Greenbergs are trying to reach you. They couldn't find your number.”

“Where are they?”

“At Emily's apartment. Do you have that number?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. They gave it to me,” she said. “It's odd they would contact me. I wonder what they want.”

“I wondered the same thing,” he said. “But they sounded upset.”

“Upset? Maybe I should just go over there. . . .”

 

 

After she was buzzed in by the Greenberg family, Annie hit the elevator button. Sixth floor. She made her way to the right door and rang the bell. A weary-looking Donald Greenberg answered and led her into the living room. He was wearing a long white cotton shirt with flowers embroidered around the collar.

The place was a mess, with boxes and trash bags scattered everywhere. It reeked of pot.

“Can we get you some herb tea, coffee, anything?” he said with a tired smile.

“No, thank you,” she said, smiling.

“Please sit down,” Rachel Greenberg told her. She patted the couch space next to her, so Annie sat down beside her. The woman had been crying. Her eyes were red and swollen. Or maybe she was stoned?

Rachel still didn't have a bra on, and her shirt was revealing. Annie didn't go around checking out other women's breasts, but the woman was big breasted. It was hard not to stare.

“What's wrong?” Annie asked in a hushed tone. They had lost their daughter. What else could set them off like his?

“My daughter and I . . . Well . . . sometimes I think I wasn't a good mother to her—”

“Rachel—” Donald began.

“No, no, no.” Rachel placed her hand up. “But then I look into my heart, and I know I've done my best to teach her right from wrong. Sometimes your best isn't good enough. People make mistakes.”

Annie tilted her head and leaned in toward her.

Donald held a journal. Was that Emily's journal? Why hadn't Bryant confiscated it?

“We just now found this. You can take it to the cops, if you want,” Donald said, as if her were reading her mind. Odd.

“Usually, we would keep this in our family. We're ashamed. But we'd like to find some justice in our daughter's death.” Rachel paused and took a deep breath. “Emily was having an affair.”

“I had no idea. I never saw her with anybody,” Annie said, almost to herself.

“There's a reason for that,” Donald said, sitting down on the arm of the couch, surrounded by filled boxes and trash bags from cleaning his dead daughter's apartment. “She was seeing a married man.”

“So,” Vera said after swallowing a chocolate-covered pretzel. “Once again, we have a married man cheating on his wife. I see a pattern here. Are any of them true to their wives?”

“Mine better be,” DeeAnn said, holding up her scissors. “Or snip, snip, snip.”

After the giggles died down, Annie cleared her throat. “But seriously,” she said. “Had any of you ever seen her with a man?”

“I tried not to pay attention to her,” Sheila said after a moment. “I really didn't like her. But I can't remember ever seeing her with anybody but dancers and other women,” she added and then paused. “I'm printing off these fabulous borders. This is one of the great things about hybrid scrapping. These borders are free. I am printing them and am going to use them in a traditional scrapbook.”

“It's kind of strange that she was unattached, come to think of it,” Paige said after a moment. “Emily was young and pretty, in great shape, and didn't have a boyfriend. I guess I never gave it much thought.”

“She wasn't easy to ignore,” Vera said after cutting a photo into a heart shape, sitting back, and admiring her work. “Just perfect. Sometimes pictures just speak to you. This one needed to be a heart shape.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Sheila said, reaching for the pretzels. “And other times you just don't know what to do with them.”

“I find myself taking photos that I think will look good on a scrapbook page, you know?” Vera said and laughed. “Sometimes those are the best pictures, too.”

“Here's something you can do with washi tape,” DeeAnn said, holding up a photo that she had taped onto the page. The washi tape, which was acid free, came in many fun patterns and colors. This one was a black-and-white houndstooth pattern and framed the photo nicely against the red floral page, while at the same time providing an adhesive.

“Cool!” Sheila said. “Love washi!”

“So can't the police find out who she was seeing? Cell phone records? Computer records? That kind of thing?” Paige asked Annie after a beat.

“Yes,” Annie responded. “It takes a lot longer to sort through all of that than what
CSI
shows on TV. Besides, the Cumberland Creek Police Department is seriously understaffed. The population has exploded, and the department hasn't yet caught up. They have some new people starting next week, I think. I'm going over on Monday to help, if I can.”

“They are going to let you do that?” Vera said.

“Well, I'm covering the case, you know? And no, they usually don't let reporters do this kind of thing, but I think they really need the help.”

“Oh, Annie, c'mon. You are kidding yourself,” Vera blurted. “Bryant just wants to get you alone.”

The room became silent. DeeAnn cleared her throat, Sheila looked up from her laptop, and Paige looked down steadily at her scrapbook page.

“Maybe,” Annie said, finally breaking the silence and the tension in the room. “But don't worry, Vera. I can handle him.”

“I'd like to handle him,” DeeAnn muttered. “What a hunk.”

A few of the croppers laughed. But Annie didn't. Neither did Vera, who had strong feelings about spouses cheating on one another. Vera was just sick to death of it. The older she became, the more she saw and she hated it. And there was her own ex-husband, the father of her child, living with a twenty-four-year-old in Charlottesville, while she struggled to make ends meet. She found it true that some men just couldn't get their heads straight, simply thinking with their little one and not their big one.

She knew that Annie was attracted to Bryant and that she was struggling. What she needed to do was stop covering the case, back away from Bryant, and concentrate on her husband and family. She could see that so clearly, but Annie was her friend and she wanted to support her. And she was usually so smart. How could it be that she was confused about this? She wasn't sure what she should say or do to support Annie. Vera tried not to be too judgmental or harsh. But Vera saw things very simply:
If you are married, you are married. That is that. If you don't love your spouse anymore, get out of it. For God's sakes, don't drag another person into it before you are finished with your marriage.

“Things are rarely as black and white as they seem,” Annie muttered, then finished her beer.

“Sometimes they are exactly as they seem,” Vera said, closing the scrapbook she was working on. “I'm exhausted. I need to collect my daughter and get home.”

“Why isn't she staying with Bea?” Paige asked.

Vera shrugged. “She is getting funny about the bedtime thing and wanted to come home tonight. She said she wanted her own bed. So Mama is looking for one just like it to put in her room there. Until then . . .”

 

 

Vera was surprised to see Elizabeth wide wake. She'd hoped that her daughter's bedtime struggles would give way to sleepiness. No such luck. Lizzie talked all the way home in the car. The child was a fount of energy.

By the time she finally got Lizzie down, Vera was too exhausted to take a bath or to go downstairs and take one of her pills. She climbed into bed with her clothes on and slipped off her shoes. Ahh, bed.

She woke up what seemed like fifteen minutes later, her clothes clinging to her in the most uncomfortable manner. And so she peeled them off and reached for her nightgown at the bottom of the bed.

After what seemed like another fifteen minutes of sleep, Vera awoke. Lizzie cried. Vera lay there in the dark and listened. Was Lizzie crying, or was she dreaming? She rolled over as quietly as she could manage in the old creaky bed, which her mom had dug out of the attic for her.

Oh, she loved the quiet and the dark. The child didn't cry again, and she dozed off into a warm sleep.

Her feet were cold. The floor was drafty. A cry. A wail. “Mama!”

Suddenly, she was holding Elizabeth. How had she gotten there? Lizzie looked up at her with a red and contorted face wet with tears, as if she had been sobbing for quite some time. “Mama?”

Vera sat down in the rocking chair and wrapped her arms around Lizzie. “Shh, baby. It's okay. . . .”

But Vera wasn't sure that it was.

She glanced out the window, saw the shadows of the old fire escape there. She really wanted to have that thing removed. Why was the window open? Had she forgotten to close it? Or had she just opened it?

She peered out at the indigo blue sky; the full orange moon was still there. The wall glowed with the dusky blue light. The princess clock in the corner said it was 4:00 a.m.

How had she gotten into this room and not remembered it? How long had she been here? And what was going on with her daughter?

She brushed Lizzie's hair off her forehead. Lizzie was calmer now, and her sobs quieted, but the child burned with fever. She didn't look right, not at all, and Vera was certain it wasn't just because she had been crying.