The Charity (32 page)

He sat at his desk and pulled a long yellow legal pad from the top drawer and hastily scribbled notes on the day’s events in the courtroom. Many times it was his notes as to what happened behind the scenes that were more important than the official courtroom transcript. He had logs of what every defense attorney tried to pull in court so that the next time he went up against him or her, he would be ready with a counterattack and offensive strategy. He doubted that his notes would make any difference in this case. His witness would not show up in court on Monday, and that is when the defense would put up their ‘newly discovered’ witness. The defense knew he worked with a lean staff. Throwing curveballs was their way of trying to win.

This case was important to him. While tracking the hundreds of transactions through the altered books to prove the embezzlement, he came across entries that were described as ‘bank error.’ Hundreds of thousands of dollars came into the account on several occasions and then were transferred out the same day or up to four days later. Other files showed letters of apology from the bank for their careless errors and expressed hope that nothing would impair their ongoing working relationship. All different banks. All different signatures.

He was able to trace one transaction. It hit four different accounts in one day, at one point splitting into two transactions, but rejoining again the next day. It was finally transferred to the UK. He lost the trail after that. Never had he seen anything like it.

It was not just the odd transaction path the money wove, it was the name associated with one of the companies involved with the convoluted wire approvals. What the hell did Magnus Connaught have to do with doll clothes?

Jessica ran the three blocks to the T and took the subway to North Station. She was in luck. It was rush hour, and the station was crowded with commuters intent on catching their trains home. No one noticed the red-haired messenger pushing through the people.

It had been her plan to talk to Shea right then and there at the Courthouse, but she had no idea how hard it was going to be facing him again. She had been standing by the door to the courtroom and the security guy or whatever barging in the way he did scared the hell out of her. It had taken her most of the day just to get up the nerve to even go near the courthouse. Now, sitting on the northbound train, she was mad at herself. The only thing she accomplished was confirming that the attorney general was the police officer she had a memory of.

Well, maybe it was better that she did not speak to him. She did not even know what she was going to say. What she wanted to do was to find out what he remembered about Gus’ murder. She had tried to jump-start her own memories by reading the papers, but nothing was coming to life, and the process of remembering triggered painful and unwanted panic attacks. But when she went to the Boston Common something happened. Just being surrounded by scenes from her childhood, vivid memories surfaced. She could see Erin and hear her laugh and felt the warm embraces of Margaret and Bridget. The searing pain of their loss came back stronger than ever, and she felt the catharsis of sobs that emptied her, but things clicked together in a way they had not before. With everything becoming real in those moments, she determined that the only plan that made any sense was to talk to people who might help her remember and go back to her farm, Wyeth’s Worldwind Farm. That way, maybe being surrounded by all of her past would force more memories to gel.

Lulled by the sound of the tracks clicking by, she put her head back and thought about her next two days carefully. She doubted that she would be recognized by anyone with her appearance as different as it was now. Even if she went storming back there looking like she did when she graduated from college, no one would truly think they saw a ghost. Hamilton natives were far too conservative to think that.

The conductor called out the names of the towns as they headed north. Lynn, Swampscott, Salem, Beverly, and finally, Hamilton. Jessica leaned her head on the smudged window and tried to drink in every detail of the town. A collection of well-coiffed wives in Volvo station wagons and Saabs waited to pick up their husbands, weary from a day at the office. Headlights flashed to gain the attention of one person or another. Jessica stayed on the train until the next stop. At Ipswich, she eventually secured a cab and settled in for the quick ride to the motel.

The familiar sights and smells of Massachusetts’ North Shore washed over her. There had certainly been some changes and growth over the past seven years, but they were minor in comparison to the old sameness which surrounded her. Her taxi drove past homes that bore painted plaques stating the years they were built and the occupation of the original owner. She saw “1620—Ezekiel Todd, shipwright” and “1728—Joshua Cooper, builder.” Years just could not change the pattern of life and settlement in these old towns.

The area was rich with history. America’s earliest settlers found the natural bays and inlets perfect for establishing ports for trade in wool and farm products. The rivers inland brought the settlers to rolling hills and suitable soil for supporting the growing towns. But even in the first tenuous years, the settlements that took hold in the growing country did not collapse. Instead, merchants, shipwrights, and fishermen supported the hamlets and towns, and various industries grew. The larger Merrimack River just to the north brought products made on the sweat of immigrants from the mills and factories in Lawrence and Haverhill to Newburyport for shipment. The harbor there eventually proved to be too shallow for the draft of larger vessels needed to carry the goods, so the growing port of Boston slowly siphoned the North Shore’s industrial trade. Once the great immigration wave of the 19th century hit, laborers looking to escape the hell of the inner city filtered outward. Many found the North Shore comfortably similar to their homes of England, Ireland, or Europe. Industry may have left the North Shore, but the money, people, and traditions did not.

The proof that the old lifestyles of the generations before her still survived was in the century old estates that were well hidden down long drives. Large mansions could be glimpsed along roads, but she knew that if she were on the ocean looking at the shoreline she would see the immense homes lined up behind their sloping lawns and private beaches. The North Shore held extremes of wealth and struggle. The wealthy became rich from the efforts of common men and built their seaside homes. But it was the homes of the common man than she could see clearly as she traveled the roads. The coastal communities were proud of their seafaring heritage. She looked at the many lobster boats that had already been hauled out of the water for the winter season and stood supported on blocks and braces in the yards of their owners, the rib cage-like spines of the lobster traps stacked neatly beside them. Buoys and other nautical paraphernalia dotted the landscape with both functional and simply ornamental purposes. The taxi pulled up in front of a small motel with a ship’s helm and net lit by yellow spotlights.

Jessica uneventfully paid her fare and checked into her threadbare room. The manager grumbled something about closing next week for the season and Jessica assured the pot-bellied man that she was only staying two nights. Once in her room, she opened the window and relaxed in the single wooden chair with her feet up on the bed. On this still night, she could hear and smell the ocean lapping against the beach. The familiar feel of this corner of the country acted as a balm to Jessica’s psyche. She could feel the pieces of herself begin to merge.

She did not remember crawling into bed, but awoke the next morning to crisp air and sun pouring through the open window. Again, the salty air sparked her senses and gave her additional energy to explore and renew her acquaintance with her home. The motel manager did not mind dropping one of his guests off in Hamilton while he did some errands. After all, it was only the next town over, and he mentioned that Hamilton’s town center had some nice shops she might like to browse through.

Jessica pulled the hat down over her eyes and her coat collar up as she stepped on to the sidewalk of her hometown. In the daylight, the buildings had a freshly scrubbed appearance. It was as she remembered it. The drugstore was still on the corner, and the hardware store had what seemed like the same trucks parked in front of it. A new restaurant graced what once was a series of clothing and shoe stores. It was a nice addition to the town, she decided. As much as she wanted to sit and absorb the details of change, she knew she had to keep moving. She began to walk out of town toward the east along Bay Road.

Wyeth’s Worldwind Farm was only three miles outside of town. Jessica covered the distance quickly and enjoyed the walk on the clear day. As she rounded the final corner, she saw that not all changes had been good. Large portions of land that were once open meadows dotted with grazing horses now held homes with manicured shrubs and brick walks. Each house was different, but each was big, rich, and stately. The homes had a generous portion of land, and some had smaller barns and paddocks out back. The majestic drive which once swept up between two lines of trees to her barn and house now had a stop sign stabbed in its middle to warn travelers of oncoming traffic. A new road split off from the drive to feed another set of homes on the next meadow.

Jessica walked over to a stone wall and sat for a long time just looking. She thought that she would be overcome with sadness if anyone had told her that this was what happened to her farm. Instead, her nostalgia was mixed with a welcomed numbness. Eventually, her legs began to move her forward again, and she found herself walking up the long, tree-lined street.

The house and main barn still stood, as well as the smaller barn she loved to hide in. She smiled to herself as she noticed the name of one of the new drives. “Worldwind Road” greeted her and branched off to the right. Once she got closer, she noticed that it seemed to have been only the front acreage that was sold and developed. The back meadows, where the breeze tracks and the larger turnout areas used to be, were still used for horses. The barn was used for boarding purposes and was busy with many people enjoying a fine Saturday. No hint of the farm’s racing past could be seen.

“Can I help you?”

Jessica jumped at the unexpected voice and quickly assessed its owner. The large hazel eyes of a fresh faced young girl looked up at her expectantly. “No thanks. I was just taking a walk and wanted to have a look around. Nice place. Do you live here?”

The young girl eyed Jessica coolly. “I live just over the hill. Are you friends with a member here?”

“No. I’ve heard about this farm and wanted to see it for myself.” Jessica did not want to be closed out of her inspection of her home too easily, especially by a kid. She returned the assessing glance of the girl. The hazel eyes were peering from beneath a black velvet hard hat. The girl’s attire was distinctly ‘horsey’ in breeches and boots. “I’ll bet you’re in Level Three Dressage and hate it.”

Jessica was relieved when the girl responded enthusiastically to her use of jargon. “Yes! I hate all of that legwork you have to do to get a horse to respond! How did you know?”

“Pretty easy, really. You’re about thirteen years old and look the part. You must have had some experience in dressage.”

The young girl began to warm to this unusual visitor. “Yup. My mom says dressage is a way of riding and working with a horse that gives both horse and rider a workout.”

Jessica kept the conversation on a safe subject as the girl relaxed. “Right. Discipline and better communication. Dressage forces horse and rider to work as one. I love watching a huge horse canter lightly on its feet or gracefully prance sideways. Most people fall in love with the sport after seeing the great white Lipizzaner Stallions from Austria perform their incredible dressage feats.”

“My mom took me to see them at the Topsfield Fair Grounds a couple of years ago!”

“You might hate the work now, but your horse will thank you for it. Do you have your own?”

“Yes! Mom and Dad got it for me last year for my birthday. Wanna see it? My name’s Brittany. What’s yours?” The broad smile flashed silver braces over white teeth.

“Lolly. Are your mom and dad here today?” Jessica fell into step with the young girl and tried to avoid any direct eye contact with any adult in the barn.

“Nope. They’ll be here in a couple of hours.” She stopped in front of a stall. “Welp, there she is! Isn’t she beautiful?” Brittany beamed with pride.

Jessica looked at the gleaming black Morgan pony and smiled. “She really is beautiful, Brittany. What’s her name?”

Jessica listened to the accomplishments of Stargazer and Brittany with divided interest. Her eyes wandered over the pony’s stall and over the familiar beams of the stalls and barn. The ladder to the loft had been removed, and the tack-room expanded. One of the smaller stalls down the corridor was converted into a sitting area where soda and snack machines hummed. It all seemed so odd. The familiar was so mixed with the long forgotten and the new; it was hard to sort it all out. She would not think about her feelings now. There would be enough time for remembering later.

Brittany chirped on about how she first started riding and the smaller ponies she had before Stargazer. She waved to friends outside on their way to the outdoor ring. It was cold, but the ground was not too hard yet on the horses’ legs. Many riders were taking advantage of one of the last days of outdoor riding before another New England winter arrived. “They just finished the indoor arena. Now we can ride all year round!” The young girl was enjoying showing the interested woman around the farm.

“How long has this farm been here?” Jessica looked at the freshly painted sides of her old house. The porch still offered an unspoken invitation.

“Oh. A couple of years. It used to be some kind of racing farm, or something.”

“Racing farm? What do you know about that?”

Having such an attentive audience fueled the young girl to ramble on. “My dad said that the farm was owned by some rich heiress who killed her lover in a fit of rage! Then realizing she could not live without him, she blew herself up! Isn’t that great? My mom hates it when my dad says that gory stuff to me, but I think it’s just creepy thinking about it. Don’t you?” Teeth, silver with braces, flashed in the sunlight as the girl hugged herself with the imagined drama of the moment.