Death of an Irish Diva (21 page)

“Are you home so soon?” Beatrice came walking into the foyer, where all the scrappers were gathered. “Well, what are you all doing here?”

They just looked at her. All of them did, that is, but Paige.

“Well, I suppose you're here to see it, then,” Beatrice said, resigned.

“How could you keep this from me, from us?” Vera said.

“Never mind,” Beatrice said in a hushed tone. “I have company.”

“Company?”

“Yes, come on in. Emily's mother is here,” Beatrice said. “We're sitting out on the porch. It's a nice warm evening for April.”

“What is she doing here?” Vera asked.

“Came to introduce herself, and we started talking, and one thing led to another,” Beatrice said.

“Well, maybe we should leave,” Annie said.

“Why, dear?” Beatrice said. “Her daughter is dead. Where is your sympathy? What is wrong with you people?”

Annie's face reddened.

“I tried to help,” Sheila said. “I just don't know what more we can do.”

“The police still haven't found the murderer,” DeeAnn said. “What can we do?”

“I think it's about her healing. This reaching out to us. She's having a rough time,” Beatrice said.

“Do you know anything new, Annie?” They heard Rachel's voice before they saw her coming. “Do you? Do you know anything new?”

The woman who stood before them was the same woman who had come to the crop and whom each of them had seen throughout the town, but she was not as composed—and she had just barely been composed before. In fact, she was a mess. Beatrice saw it in their faces; they were shocked.

“Now, dear,” Beatrice said. “Let's go sit down and drink your chamomile tea.”

Jon had gone to bed hours ago with a headache. Just the scrapbookers and Beatrice and Rachel gathered. They formed almost a circle on Beatrice's screened-in porch, which looked out over her piles of dirt in the backyard.

Rachel sipped at her tea and sniffled, holding a tissue to her eyes every now and then.

“Have you found out anything new?” she asked Annie again.

“Sort of, but I'm not sure it means anything in terms of finding her killer,” Annie replied. “She was heavily involved with that adoption agency—”

“Her adoption agency?” Beatrice interrupted.

“No, that's been gone for years,” Rachel said. “Go on,” she said to Annie.

“She was on the board, worked as a fund-raiser, and gave money to them. She was passionate about genetic purity,” Annie said.

“So strange,” Rachel said. “We didn't raise her to be like that. In our commune, we had so many interracial families that loved her. I don't get it. As my husband says, it's probably all a part of her rebelling against us. But why? I don't understand it. We were a happy adoptive family.”

“The man I spoke with also said that one of the groups she took money from was the New Mountain Order,” Annie said.

“The New Mountain Order?” Rachel said and blinked.

Annie explained who they were.

Beatrice's heart sank. What would she feel like if Vera died and she found that she had never really known her?

“Tell me something,” Beatrice said. “Do you think she could have been involved with those people?”

“Well, I know that she paid for someone to do research, but I can't imagine . . . ,” Rachel said, then stared into the distance. “Wait,” she said suddenly. “The man she was seeing. His name began with an
L.
Do you think it could be Luther?”

Beatrice's mouth dropped.

“Unbelievable,” Vera squealed.

Annie looked perplexed as all the women sat forward in their chairs.

“No, I don't think so. Luther isn't married,” Annie said.

“Yes, that's right,” Rachel said, her eyes clearing up from the muddled, tear-filled way they were just moments ago. “And this L is definitely married.”

After Rachel left, suddenly claiming exhaustion, Vera turned to Beatrice.

“Now, Mama, what's going on with you? Why are you keeping this old memory book a secret?”

Beatrice looked from woman to woman in the group. Her eyes shifted back and forth. “I don't want it to be taken off to some museum. And I don't need all you busybodies poking around in my stuff.”

“Huh,” Sheila said. “If it was found in your yard, you have the say-so about where it goes, correct?”

“Yes, but I've given Virginia most of it. I handed over most of the stuff. What good is it to me? But I can't part with this book. Not yet, anyway,” Beatrice said.

“I don't know about you all, but I want to see this thing,” Annie said.

Beatrice waved her off. “Some other time. Now, let an old lady go to bed.”

“You're not getting off that easy,” Vera said. “Give us the book. You don't need to supervise. What are we going to do? Steal it? Burn it? C'mon, Mama.”

“Well, I know how trustworthy you are,” she said and shot a glare toward Paige.

“I tried,” Paige said, shrugging.

“Humph,” Beatrice said. “Well, all right. Follow me.”

“Remarkable,” Annie said as Beatrice placed the book on the table. “It's in such good shape.”

“Paper products in those days had less acid in them,” Sheila said. “It must have been in an airtight container.”

“It was,” Beatrice said. “Well, as far as we could tell. It was a chestnut trunk, and it was placed under a baby doll.”

“Doll?”

“Yes, the historian we spoke with loved the doll. He showed us the hole in the back, which was used to smuggle drugs back and forth during the Civil War.”

“Civil War? I guess this site is historically significant,” Annie said.

“Well, yes and no,” Paige said. “There are Civil War sites all over the area. And there is a direct link to Willa Rose and the Civil War. But I suspect this property goes back to when the area was founded.”

“Who is Willa Rose?” Vera asked.

“She's the young woman who owned this book,” Beatrice answered. “Willa Rose McGlashen, born eighteen fifty, died sometime about nineteen ten. She was a spy of sorts during the Civil War. In fact, she was awarded medals for bravery.”

“Is she related to Emily McGlashen?” Annie asked.

“Maybe,” Beatrice said. “We've not been able to prove that William, who grew up here and left, is actually related to her.”

“We found a William McGlashen in California earlier this evening,” Sheila announced. “He and his wife were both listed as some strange term.... What was it? Anyway, he was mixed race.”

“Mixed?” Beatrice said. “Not according to what Willa wrote. Well, wait. She never really mentioned it. Just that she adopted the child. Mary, the kitchen helper, was the grandmother, and Ez was the father.”

“What beautiful dresses,” DeeAnn said as Beatrice flipped the page.

“A dream page of sorts,” Sheila said. “It's heartbreaking, isn't it?”

Vera had to admit it was. Looking over the scrapbook felt almost like a sacred task. A young Willa Rose had placed some of her hopes and dreams onto those pages. Pretty dresses. New recipes she wanted to try. Books she listed that she wanted to read. Vera couldn't help but wonder if she had ever read all those books, or if she had ever gotten that yellow dress. For as they flipped the pages, Willa Rose was becoming more grim. It was the war. It was amazing she survived and even more amazing that the book survived. Vera blinked back a tear.

“Vera?” DeeAnn said. “You okay, hon?”

“It's just sort of sad. Here we are, looking at her book. Did those dreams ever come true? What became of her? And of her William?”

The room quieted.

“That's one of the reasons I love history so much,” Paige said and smiled. “When you actually see something like this . . . you gain such an appreciation for the lives that came before us. They weren't just characters in a history book.”

Just then a wind came through the open dining room window. Beatrice's lace curtains billowed. Some of the pages in the book wafted and paper went flying.

Beatrice shut the window. “Boy, what a breeze. Cold.”

Annie gasped. Vera and the others turned to face her.

“This is amazing,” she said. “Disturbing.”

She held a fragile newspaper clipping and read it to the group.

“Ez Kingston, son of Mary, was found hanging from an oak tree at the crossroads. Nobody has stepped forward and claimed they committed such a heinous act to a loyal member of this community. An investigation into his murder is pending.”

“Murder?” Beatrice said.

Annie kept reading.

“He served as a soldier and fought bravely. Recently he had been accused of cavorting with a white woman. The witness claimed they saw her only from the back and were never able to get a view of her face. He refuted their charges.”

“So he hung because of a woman,” Paige said. “A white woman.”

“Could it be?” Vera said. “Could Willa Rose be the one?”

“Why not?” Beatrice said. “Willa Rose. No wondered she lost her mind after William left. He was all she had left of Ez.”

“If this is all true, and we find a link between Emily and William, well, can you imagine? Emily was in an awkward position, then, building her creds on this pure heritage of hers,” Vera said.

The scrapbookers settled in at Beatrice's house. She had just made a peach pie, and they were eating pie in the kitchen and looking over the memory book in the dining room. Jon and Elizabeth were both upstairs, asleep, so they tried to be quiet in their conversations.

When Annie's cell phone beeped, she just about jumped out of her skin.

“Hey, Annie. It's Herb.”

“Hey,” she said, slipping outside the kitchen and sitting on a stair. “What's up?”

“I've been digging around. Going through some files,” he said. “Files that I'm not supposed to have. Get my drift?”

“I think so,” Annie said, realizing that he had probably stolen them. As long as she didn't ask, she wouldn't have to know where they came from.

“Emily McGlashen was an egg donor, like you suspected, and they were trying to find the right sperm donor.”

“And?”

He breathed into the phone. She was certain he was having a cigarette. The night was chilly, and she was beginning to shiver. She watched a cloud cover the moon.

“I have three names here. Luther Vandergrift. Know him?”

“Yes. He's in prison.”

“Okay. Well, then, he didn't kill her, did he?”

“No.”

“Then we have John Reilly. Know him?”

“There must be a million John Reillys,” she said, thinking aloud.

“This one is a professor of business . . . claims to be one hundred percent Irish. And he's on the board, not of the foundation, but the labs. “

Annie groaned. “Is that right?”

“Yes. And how stupid is that? One hundred percent Irish, my ass,” he said. “But anyway. He was listed as a sperm donor. Several occasions and attempts. I'm not sure what happened. I can't tell from the notes as to whether it was successful.”

“Well, Emily wasn't pregnant,” Annie said. “I checked with the coroner. Nor did she have any pregnancies.”

“There is one more name,” he said. “This guy's a lawyer. So be careful.”

“A lawyer? Local?”

“Yes. His name is Bill Ledford.”

Annie almost dropped her phone.

“Are you certain?” she asked him.

“That's what it says. Several donor attempts and was scheduled to make a few more, ah, deposits. You know this guy?”

“Yes. His ex-wife is a good friend. He's kind of an asshole,” she said, standing up from the cold stairs. “But I can't see him having the balls to kill anybody. Or even what his motive would be, you know? Donating sperm is one thing, but murder is another thing.”

He snickered. “For most of us, yes.”

“Okay,” she said. “What do I do with this info?”

“First, keep it to yourself,” he said. “Nobody wants to know their asshole ex-husband is donating sperm to create a designer baby.”

Good point,
Annie thought.
Especially Vera, who appears to have a lot on her mind these days. What would be the point?

“But what I would do is find out more about this Reilly character. He seems the most likely candidate, since you know Bill and the other guy is already in prison.”

“His wife is a bit of a nut job. She's a lawyer and is very confrontational. She approached Vera yesterday at the park,” Annie said and explained why.

“That Bill guy doesn't seem right to me, either,” he said. “Let's not write him off. What is a guy like that doing living with a twenty-four-year-old who has been terrorizing his ex-wife?”

“Midlife crisis. He's all about his dick,” Annie said, then caught herself. She was talking just like she used to back in the day. She never said the word
dick
anymore. She flushed at the idea of it, yet at the same time she sort of liked the way it felt to say it.

“Poor guy,” he said. “That's an awful place to be in your life. I was there when I was eighteen.” He laughed.

“I need to go,” Annie said, realizing that DeeAnn was looking out the window at her. “I'll call you if I find anything out.”

“Okay. I'll do the same,” he said.

She walked back up the stairs just as the moon was coming out from behind the clouds, shedding more light on Beatrice's mess of a backyard. Piles of dirt. Tents set up. Soon there would be a pool here, on top of what was one of the first places of record in the Shenandoah Valley. Time marched on. Places were of the here and now.

She opened the door and walked back into the warm house.

“It's getting late. I should be going,” she said and picked up her bag.

“Wait,” Vera said. “Who was on the phone? You were out there a while.”

“It was my friend Herb. He's been snooping around the lab, came up with some possibilities for me.”

“Well,” DeeAnn said, “are you off to see Bryant?”

“No. I don't have anything conclusive yet.”

“You should probably still talk with him,” DeeAnn said.

Annie took a deep breath. Maybe she was right. Maybe he had a right to know what she had found out. More important, maybe he could add something to the investigation. Maybe she should stop by the office and see if he was around. It was inevitable. Maybe she should just get it over with.