Of Dubious and Questionable Memory (6 page)

Back in our room, I climbed into the clean sheets, tying a ribbon around my braided hair and pulling my knees up to my chest. While Merinda performed her own nighttime routine, I leafed through the copy of
Little Women
I had brought with me.

When Merinda returned she kept the gas lit and opened a little notebook. “If it didn't sound so ludicrous,” she exhaled, “I'd believe that either Miri completely made up Del Barton or that an entire town is hiding a disappearing girl.”

“This Nicholas is certainly in the habit of drumming up money for his cause! When he passed his hat around, people were immediately fishing in their pockets. If Del really was part of the group—and a known heiress—wouldn't he want to woo her for financial investment?”

Merinda shrugged, threw her notebook aside, said good night, and rolled over.

Sleep evaded me a long time. I tried to block out the sound of Merinda's snoring and turned up the gas on the night table lamp, stealing into
Little Women
again.
I'm not afraid of storms, for I'm learning how to sail my ship.
I must have underlined the sentence in pencil an age ago.

Finally dimming the light, I thought about what kind of girl Del was trying to be. And the more I thought of what little I knew about her, the more I saw myself.

I missed my husband. What I would have given to talk the whole matter over with him.

The next morning, in the breakfast room, I was conscious of the deep circles under my eyes and my pale complexion.

“You look worse than you did in St. Jerome's,” Merinda observed, sipping her coffee.

“I wanted to fling off propriety, marry for love, and take the path no one expected, but it is harder than I imagined. And I feel blasted guilty about that row at Jasper's party, Merinda.” I took a nibble of toast.

“It's rather early in the morning for such life revelations, Jemima.” Merinda's eyes fluttered over the Concord newspaper she had open in front of her. Nothing about Del or the labor meeting the night before graced the pages. Instead, there was news of record-breaking pumpkins, high school football scores, and the doings of the Ladies' Auxiliary Club.

“But don't you see? That's what Del wanted too!” I cried. “To throw off propriety! Marry for love! And if I can keep finding the ways in which our lives intersect… well, then maybe we can get closer to finding out what happened to her.”

“She's a feisty anarchist. You and Del have little in common.”

“Except that we gave up the life—and the men—that everyone expected!”

But Merinda wasn't listening to me anymore.

Not long after breakfast, we were back on a train to Boston and to the Back Bay, where Miri welcomed us with a small luncheon of sandwiches and tea cakes.

“Have you had a successful trip?” she queried, waving the maid away.

Merinda showed her the pamphlet. “Did you know that Del was planning on going to an anarchist meeting in Concord during your visit?”

Miri took a dainty bite of the sandwich she had selected from the tiered tray. “Del always has ridiculous notions. Those views! I used to run with those firebrands and suffragettes too before I met my husband.”

“And now you're a caged bird,” Merinda said without thought to the shadow that fell over Miri's face. She passed the pamphlet over the table to our friend. “Why didn't you give this to the police? It's the only clue in the case.”

“Well, I suppose… ”

Merinda, tired of Miri's hiccup of a sentence, implored her, “At least tell us who Mac might be! He owed her money?”

“I can't see why Del would need money.” Miri had flushed red from Merinda's harsh comment. “Mac is an old school chum. William Mackenzie.”

After lunch we set out into the day with the Winthrops' personal driver. We found Mac on the fourth floor of a barrister's building at Tremont and Washington Streets.

“William Mackenzie,” he said, pumping each of our hands.

Merinda handed Mac one of her business cards.

“Detectives!” He took in our day dresses and hats. “What a lark!”

“What do you know about Del Barton?” Merinda asked as we took the seats he offered us.

“Grand girl, Del! Always a laugh! Right smart too.”

“She's missing.”

“Nah. That can't be the case. I would have heard!”

Merinda showed him the leaflet from the anarchist meeting and pointed out Del's note. “We assume this note refers to you.”

“Of course it does. She had me see to a rather delicate affair. She was selling her grandmother's necklace, and she wanted me to see it safely appraised and to find a good home for it. And I did! A fellow in Toronto, actually. Ironic, that! Wanted a rare piece for his wife and found me through a Canadian agent. I put an advertisement in the
Globe and Mail
newspaper.”

We conversed with Mr. Mackenzie as the clock ticked on, but the heirloom necklace and Del's decision to sell what he believed to be a special possession did nothing to elucidate her whereabouts.

We bid Mr. Mackenzie a good day and took the chauffeured automobile back to the Winthrops' townhouse, settling in for a few hours before George took us all for supper at the Parker House Hotel.

As Merinda conceded to a few hours of rest before the meal, I took advantage of the luxury Miri's housekeeping staff provided. I sent a few things to be pressed, not missing my own finicky iron at home. I had
just closed my eyes for a few restful winks when I heard Merinda's loud whisper on the other side of the door.

I invited her in, surprised that she hadn't just barged in as she had for years when we lived together on King Street. I said as much.

“You're a married woman, Jemima,” she explained lightly. “Who knows what the rules are now?”

I rolled my eyes at her and watched her plop down on the bed. She was wearing trousers and an untucked cotton shirt that I forbade her to wear to the Parker House that evening.

She ignored me, holding up a folded letter. “Look at this.”

I took it and held it a moment. The envelope was torn open. “Where did you get this?”

“George Winthrop's study.”

“Merinda, that's stealing.”

“It was already open, and once you read it you'll see that it is a theft from another theft.”

I extracted the carefully folded paper and opened up a letter written in a man's hand. It was addressed to Del and began with the same quotation we had found in Del's trunk and that Nicholas attributed to Emerson at the Wright Tavern:
Love is the essence of God.

Merinda said of the letter, “It was too much like DeLuca's terrible poetry for me to stomach. You read it.”

It was a love letter, all right. Full of those ripe first moments of tingling infatuation. I felt a little weak reading the resplendent and stark confessions of passion. Rather like I was peeking in on a conversation I had no right to hear.

“But who is it from?” I wondered. “Robert Hutton couldn't cough this up!”

“Of course not. George intercepted it because its writer was deemed an improper suitor for the intended recipient—one Delphina Barton.”

“You think… ” The wheels in my head turned, reaching the same conclusion I assumed Merinda had.

“Del is in love with Nicholas Haliburton!” she cried. “From what we know of Del, she would choose the last person alive who was a suitable match. She would definitely scrape the bottom of the respectability
barrel. Rather like you did. No, do not give me that look, Jemima. DeLuca was a fiend at Jasper's party! I might never speak to him again.”

“I think you hurt his feelings.”

She shrugged. “It's a moot point when we're knee-deep in a mystery. Del's in love, the silly girl, and foolishly gave Nicholas her sister's address because George was supposed to be on a business trip.”

“She knew her brother-in-law disapproved?”

“Everyone would disapprove! Especially when there's a large inheritance at stake.”

“Maybe Nicholas wants the money.”

Merinda shook her head adamantly. “No. He's genuine. More likely they would give all the money away to those poor mill workers.”

“If given the chance.” I nibbled my lip. “Who's to say her family wouldn't cut her off?”

Merinda must have seen a slight darkness pass over my face. She took me into a one-armed hug. “Rather like yours did?”

“It's hard to know that you are going against everyone's expectations,” I sniffed, “and letting down the two people whose good opinion you most desire.”

“But you wouldn't have been happy, my Jem.” Merinda tightened her grip. “For all the squabbling of the other night and DeLuca's abhorrent temper, you're happy.” I nodded, my eyes sheened with tears. It was as emotional as Merinda was likely to ever get. “And those who truly love you just want you to have all the happiness in the world. That's all that matters to me, even when… ”

Here she drifted off. “What time is it?” she asked abruptly.

I looked to the mantelpiece. “Oh, my! We must dress for dinner!”

Merinda hopped up, swooped down, and gave me a smack of a kiss on the forehead. “An entire town doesn't notice a missing girl!” she announced. “She's left no trace. People saw her, but they didn't know she went missing.”

Impatience crept into my voice. “Yes. Yes, Merinda. That's why we're here.”

“Jasper gave me this book for Christmas by this fellow named
Mann.” She clapped her hands. “If a tree falls in the forest with no one nearby to hear it, he asks, will it still make a sound?”

“And if a woman goes missing in Concord and no one thinks anything of it… ”

“Then was there ever really a crime?”

Chapter Five

Merinda and I bustled into the car with the Winthrops, settling in for the short drive to the Parker House. Miri and George were deep in a rather terse conversation about something involving the household before we had even left the gates, leaving the two of us shifting uncomfortably in our seats. I decided to look out the window at the autumn colors.

“I sometimes wonder about Jasper… ” Merinda broke my reverie. She rarely spoke of him in such a tone. She let me in on her train of thought: “This Jo in the
Little Women
book you yammer on about. Tell me about her.”

“She wants to become an author, and she does.”

“But she doesn't marry the boy next door? The
expected
one. The one who looks at her a certain way and who pines for her so obviously?”

“No. She marries a German professor she meets at a boardinghouse in New York. But she stays wonderful friends with the boy next door. To the end of her days.”

Merinda brightened. After a few more blocks, we turned on School Street, alighting at the entrance to the Parker House hotel.

Pristine white tablecloths and the twinkle of perfectly arranged silver were illuminated by chandeliers overhead. Once settled, George ordered for our quartet while Miri relayed anecdotes about the hotel's grand history.