Prospect Street (24 page)

“Candace lived another twenty years or so. And the hat was a success, although Violet claimed the owner was annoyed by bees every time she wore it.”

After everyone had another laugh, the room fell into a comfortable silence. Faith only broke it when Alex began to squirm. “I did discover a little about that garden tour.”

Lydia settled deeper into her chair. “Well, tell us. I need an excuse not to go back out in that rain.”

“Nobody elected
you.
Let Dad earn the family income by himself for a change.”

Lydia smiled a little. “I like the sound of that.”

“You were right about the tour. I found two brief mentions in old Georgetown papers, as well as a mention in the
Post.
”

“I didn't realize you were going to do so much work.”

Faith backpedaled. “It just took a visit to the library, that's all. One day in April of 1941, some percentage of Washington D.C. came tramping through our house, down the basement steps and out into our garden.”

“Just to see somebody's yard?” Remy clearly found that hard to believe.

Lydia tried to put it in perspective. “It must have been quite an honor. My grandmother was an ordinary woman, from ordinary working people. Although she did have an extraordinary romance with my grandfather.”

When Remy looked interested, she continued. “Picture this. Violet, who has no father, no brothers and very little contact with men, goes into the millinery shop to open up one day when she's only seventeen. She's behind the counter when this fabulously handsome man comes inside with an equally beautiful woman on his arm.”

Remy leaned forward. “How do you know he was fabulously handsome?”

“I've seen photographs. I probably have them packed away somewhere.”

“Mother, you know what a shame that is, don't you?” Faith said.

Lydia waved her hand. “I'll find them and give them to you. They would look nice in the stairwell, wouldn't they? Anyway, the handsome man was there to buy a hat for his fiancée, a woman from one of Georgetown's finest families. He was a scholar and teacher named James Atkins, already known at that time for a biography of Lincoln. There was nothing scholarly about his reaction to my grandmother. He fell madly in love with her right then and there, broke off his engagement, and married Violet six months later. Quite a scandal.”

“This part's boring,” Alex said.

Lydia reached over and patted his knee. “Okay, we'll skip ahead to the guts and glory. Do you know anything about World War I?”

“It came before World War II.”

“Brilliant,” Remy said. “And I liked the other part.”

Lydia shot her a smile. “James, my grandfather, enlisted and refused a job in administration. Unfortunately, he was gassed in France and nearly died. They sent him home, but even though he lived many years, he was very frail. He became something of a recluse. In the meantime, my grandmother was worried about going out to work and leaving him alone, so she turned to the only skill she had. She taught piano in this living room on that piano.”

“That wasn't her only marketable skill.” Faith had been taking notes in her head. Now she added her piece of the puzzle. “Not quite.”

“No?”

“Violet grew potted flowers in her garden to sell. Potted bulbs in the spring. Annuals in the fall. She became well-known in Georgetown's west end. That's how she got on the garden tour. The little snippets I found called her Violet Green Thumb. The local society ladies came to this house for their plants.”

“Grandmother worked all the time,” Lydia said. “I don't remember the plants. Maybe she stopped selling them once the country went to war, but I do remember she was never still.”

“There are a lot of role models in our family.” Faith addressed Lydia, but she hoped Remy was still listening. “Including your mother, who traveled all over the world and helped your father represent the government.”

Lydia didn't respond. Faith wondered what her mother was thinking. Was she wondering how her own descendants would see her? She'd survived her daughter's kidnapping, but at what price?

And what would Remy's children and grandchildren say about Faith herself? That she had let herself grow bitter after a divorce? That she had retreated into self-pity, or that she had picked up the pieces, like her ancestors, and gone on to find happiness? She had never quite realized just how much she wanted it to be the latter.

“I think this discussion calls for a field trip,” Lydia said at last, rising from her chair and picking up a candle. “Would you like to see something Candace left behind?”

“Another signature?” Alex was already on his feet. “I haven't found the one in the garden yet.”

“I can't surprise you no matter how hard I try.” Lydia started up the steps past Remy, and in a moment there was a parade of Bronsons behind her. She led them to Faith's room.

“After Jedediah passed away, Candace wouldn't sleep in this room anymore. Too many memories, I think. Instead she made it her workshop. This is where she worked on hats in the evenings and on Sundays. My grandmother told me that Candace sat right here.” Lydia gestured to the center of the room. “At a table where she could see out the window. She was watching for Jedediah to come home.”

“But he was dead.” Alex was frowning. “Was she crazy?”

“No, but when he was alive, she would always change her clothing and fix her hair before he was due home in the evenings. So she was usually in this room, watching for him. She said that seeing Jedediah walk up Prospect Street was the best part of her day, and after he died, she tried to hold on to those moments. She said it made her feel close to him.”

Faith realized she was about to cry. She cleared her throat. “I bet I know where she carved her name.” She went to the window and knelt so she could look beneath the wide ledge. “Here it is.”

Remy was the first to join her. She knelt beside Faith and looked up. “Because she spent so much time watching for her husband here?”

“I'm sure.”

Remy traced the script with her fingertip, faded with time and never carved by an expert to begin with. Simple Victorian graffiti. A love poem.

Alex joined them, and Faith made room for him. “Is your name anywhere, Grandmother?”

“No, it's not.”

Faith was glad when another knock sounded on the front door so that the silence didn't go on any longer. Where would Lydia have left her name? On the floor under the crib where her first daughter had been put for her only nap on Prospect Street?

“We don't have this many visitors when it's sunny.” Alex leapt up to get the door and ran down the steps full tilt. “Hey, it's Pavel.”

Faith glanced at her mother and saw that Lydia looked interested. The two hadn't met. Faith resisted the urge to finger comb her hair. She padded down the steps in her bare feet and arrived at the bottom just in time to watch Pavel shake like a water spaniel. Alex already had his umbrella and was on the way to the powder room to set it next to Lydia's.

“Hey there. Did you get lonely in the dark?” The moment she said the words, she realized how they could be construed.

He grinned, obviously construing them just that way. “I was worried about you and the kids. It looks like the power's going to be out for some time. Some major glitch. I wasn't sure you were prepared, so I brought candles and matches and an extra flashlight.” He lifted a plastic grocery bag in testimony.

“That was thoughtful.” She stepped aside so that Lydia could finish her descent. “I don't think you've met my mother.” She made the introduction.

For a moment neither Pavel nor Lydia said a word. Lydia stood still, examining him. Pavel was the first to move. He came forward and stopped just in front of her. Lydia extended her hand, and they shook and murmured politely.

Pavel looked around the room. “These old houses were meant to be softly lit. It's lovely this way.”

“Feel free to join us,” Faith said. “But I warn you, we're telling old family stories.”

“Thanks, but I have to get home. I'm charting a leak in one of the upstairs bedrooms.”

“Pavel's restoring his house all by himself,” Faith explained to Lydia. “You should see what he's done.”

“Can I see?” Alex said. “Can I come over sometime?”

“You and Remy have a standing invitation,” Pavel said.

Remy sniffed.

The door rattled again, the pounding even louder this time. Faith slipped past Pavel to answer it. Joe Huston glowered under a wide black umbrella. “Faith.” He gave a short nod.

She motioned him inside, taking and shaking his umbrella as he stepped past her. She gave up on the powder room sink and set it against the wall.

Joe didn't move any farther than the entryway rug. “Lydia, our hostess told me I would find you here. I felt awkward staying, since you'd already taken off.”

“I hardly ‘took off.' I just wanted to be sure Faith and the children were all right.”

Faith introduced Pavel, and the two men shook quickly. Joe managed a gruff hello to his grandchildren.

Faith took Joe's arm to propel him farther into the room. “I'm glad you're here. Now you can see what I've done since the last time you visited.”

“Not tonight, Faith.” He didn't shake her off, but she felt his whole body tense, and he didn't move. His feet were firmly planted. She dropped his arm, and he seemed to realize he had been abrupt. “Your mother and I need to get home. I'll come for a tour another time. When there's enough light to see.”

“We drove separately,” Lydia reminded him. “I'll be along in a little while, Joe, when the storm lessens.”

“No, it's easier for Samuel if we come in together.”

“You can tell him to expect me soon.”

For a moment he looked as if he planned to continue the argument; then he shrugged. “I'll see you at home, then.”

Lydia looked as if she doubted that very much.

Faith opened the door and handed her father his umbrella. He had destroyed the fragile warmth of family and memories. For too brief a time the house had glowed with both. She was outraged for herself and for the others.

“Come when you can stay,” she said politely. She lowered her voice so the others couldn't hear. It shook with emotion. “And only if you're in a better mood. This is the second time you've been rude to me in my own house.”

The moment she said it, she couldn't believe she had. He stiffened, but she didn't trust herself to say more. She stepped back inside and firmly closed the door.

T
he Georgetown Regional Library opened every morning at ten, and for the next week Faith was waiting on the doorstep every day. There was no longer any point to working on the house after the children went to school. The contractor arrived early every morning to install cabinets and oversee deliveries. Faith was only in the way, so she escaped.

She had put off reading about her sister's kidnapping long enough. Now she knew more about distant ancestors than she did about the people closest to her. Candace and Violet were interesting enough, but Hope had affected her life most of all.

On Tuesday Faith asked Dorothy for the scrapbook. She read until noon, jotting questions and making notes. She was surprised by how much information was available. The scrapbook was a day-by-day account of the kidnapping and investigation. She knew the basics, but she discovered right away that there was much more to the story. She was drawn into the pace of the search, the suspects, the alibis, the theories, even the personalities of the reporters, who had obviously been required to turn out stories every day, whether there was news to report or not.

By Friday she had more questions than answers. She could have asked one of her parents for clarification, but both avoided the topic of Hope's kidnapping. Lydia shunned it because it was painful. Joe shunned it because his daughter's disappearance was a sign of personal failure.

The kidnapping hadn't been Joe's finest hour. Even though Hope's abduction had brought him untold publicity, a sympathetic outpouring of votes in his next election and, eventually, a seat in the Senate, Joe was still the man who had allowed his baby daughter to slip through his fingers. Besides, Joe was a man who nursed grudges, and until she apologized for her comment during the storm, Faith was persona non grata.

As she worked, Faith made lists of the investigators mentioned in the scrapbook, and on Friday afternoon she called both the FBI office and the District police to see if any of the men involved were still on the payroll. The long shot didn't pay off. Everyone prominent in the case had retired, transferred or quit long ago. Even though the case was technically still open, it was inactive. That left ordinary people who might remember details the newspapers had left out, people who weren't too emotional to talk.

And
that
boiled down to Dottie Lee Fairbanks.

Although Dottie Lee always found reasons to turn down invitations to their house, Faith and Alex went to hers for tea almost every Wednesday. Faith had quickly grown fond of both Dottie Lee and Mariana. She knew from tidbits fed to her with the scones and lemon curd that a chosen number of Washington's elite had been regular visitors of Dottie Lee's through the years. From a few more well-placed hints Faith guessed that someday, perhaps after her death, Washington was in store for another in a long series of scandalous memoirs. Over the years Dottie Lee had collected stories and information the way some women collected quilts or Fabergé eggs.

Now Faith took scarlet roses she'd bought on her library trip and knocked on Dottie Lee's door. Alex had joined a science club at school and was taking a field trip to the Smithsonian.
Remy had permission to spend the afternoon with Billie. That gave Faith at least an hour before either of them came home.

Dottie Lee answered, and the pleasure on her face was enough to convince Faith that more impromptu visits were called for.

“I couldn't resist these.” Faith held the roses out as Titi took a ceremonial nip at her ankles. “They're beautiful
and
they're fragrant. I thought they'd look lovely on your mantel.”

Dottie Lee buried her nose inside the bouquet. “Hush, Titi. They're lovely. Simply lovely. Come in.”

Faith stepped around the yapping Chihuahua. Once she was inside, the dog took off for parts unknown, her job completed.

“You didn't come simply to bring me roses. You came for some of my Earl Grey.”

“I'd love a cup. The electricity is off at my house again. They're redoing something in the basement.”

“Your kitchen will be ready soon?”

“With luck the countertops will be finished Monday morning.” Faith lowered herself to a rosewood love seat with dragonhead arms while Dottie Lee asked Mariana to make tea. Then Dottie Lee joined her.

Faith knew better than to pretend this was strictly a social visit. Dottie Lee had too few years left to waste even a minute, and she'd said so numerous times.

“I've spent a lot of the week at the library reading about my sister's kidnapping. They have an entire scrapbook devoted to it.”

Dottie Lee pulled her chair a little closer. “This is a town that relishes scandal and tragedy. It's something in the water.”

Faith wasn't sure she was kidding. “My mother and father rarely talk about Hope's disappearance. They told me just enough so I wouldn't be surprised if I was asked about it.”

“And you've never investigated on your own?”

Faith wondered how she could have been so apathetic. “I learned to avoid controversy, and nothing was more controversial than the kidnapping. It was the most important event in my parents' lives and the one thing they never spoke of.”

“That makes it the most important event in your life, as well.”

“You mean next to discovering the man I'd been sleeping with for fifteen years was gay?” Faith wondered if by not marrying and only taking lovers Dottie Lee had shown extraordinarily good sense. “I guess this is my way of explaining why I know so little.”

“And why you're here?”

“I'm wondering what you can tell me.”

“You're asking an old woman who hasn't spoken of this in years to dredge up memories?”

Faith leaned forward. “You don't fool me. You remember everything. And the kidnapping is going to be a chapter in your memoirs, isn't it?”

Dottie Lee's smile was flirtatious. “What memoirs would those be?”

“The ones you mentioned a couple of weeks ago. I have a feeling you could set the city on its ear if you chose.”

“I don't choose to…in my lifetime.” Dottie Lee inclined her head, attired this afternoon in a 1920s spray of rhinestones and jet to hold back her white hair.

“And after you're gone?”

“You might well be sorry you knew me. Not that you'll be mentioned. I've decided to leave you strictly out of it.”

“You considered putting me in?”

“Boring old you, dear? Of course. Your story's as juicy as they come, getting juicier all the time.”

“Dottie Lee!”

“I said I won't, and I won't.” She paused for effect. “However, your parents are a different story, aren't they?”

Faith had been guessing about the book, using it to lead Dottie Lee back into her memories. Now she was appalled. “Are you going to destroy my father's career?”

“Will I need to, do you suppose? Or will Joe manage that on his own before I pass away? He's really not a very good senator. Oh, he's intelligent enough, and heaven knows he was the
alpha male in his political litter. But he runs on vitriol, does our Joe. And eventually someone will notice and do away with him. Hopefully at the polling place.”

Faith could think of a number of political leaders who seemed to run out of a desire to get even. She couldn't dismiss Dottie Lee's words, although she'd never thought of her father that way. “What could you say that would destroy his career?”

Dorothy lifted one penciled brow in what was obviously a question. “Why should I tell you?”

“Are you bluffing?” Faith asked.

“It's quite possible. I'm an old woman and need amusement.”

Faith knew she'd hit a dead end on the topic of Joe. “Amuse yourself, then. Tell me what you remember about the kidnapping.”

“Tell me what you find most interesting.”

Mariana came into the room with a tea tray, and she and Faith chatted a moment. Faith waited until she left before she answered.

“All right, there were several things I've discovered that surprised me. I knew that a handyman, an immigrant named Dominik Dubrov, was questioned and released for lack of evidence. I knew that a lot of people thought he was probably the kidnapper, despite the fact that he had an alibi.”

“So that's what you knew. What
didn't
you know?”

“I never realized he had actually worked in my parents' home. Not until recently.” She told Dottie Lee about the note she and Remy had found.

“He certainly worked there,” Dottie Lee said.

“The papers made that clear, and they claimed he had a key. Obviously that was important to the police, and that's why they questioned him.”

“Of course it was important,” Dottie Lee said. “The key is the reason Dominik was under suspicion. But then he had a key to my house, as well, and several of the other neighbors.”

That was news. “To yours?”

“Dominik was a lovely man. Strong, intelligent—although woefully undereducated. He escaped the Soviet Union with his parents when he was a teenager, and they managed somehow to find their way here. By then he was too old for school, and his command of the English language was poor, but he was a master with his hands. I've never seen anyone do such fine work. An old-world craftsman.” She shook her head sadly. “His ilk no longer exists.”

“So he did work for you, as well?”

“Oh, yes, and for several other neighbors. That's how he made his living. He had a young friend, a cousin of sorts, named Sandor, who worked with him sometimes. Sandor's family escaped from Hungary during the revolution, and between them they could do anything. Plumbing. Wiring. Fine woodworking. Masonry.”

Faith was less interested in a catalogue of Dominik Dubrov's assets than an explanation of how he fit into the kidnapping. “Did my parents recommend him to you?”

“No, I'll tell you how it happened.” Dottie Lee searched for the right words. Finally, she shrugged. “This isn't possible without telling you the whole truth. Your father drove your mother to hire Dominik.”

Faith was trying to follow this. “How did my father figure in?”

“After your parents were married, your father insisted your mother fix up the house. Joe felt he had an image to live up to, and he wasn't certain Lydia could manage the work on her own. Lydia came to me and asked for suggestions. I thought Dominik would be the perfect choice. He could do the hardest part, but Lydia would make the decisions. Everyone would be happy.”

“And were they happy with his work?”

“That's hard to say now, isn't it? I can tell you what I saw and heard, but not what anybody felt.”

Faith knew Dottie Lee was hedging. “Why did he become a suspect? Only because he had access to the house?”

“That's quite a bit, wouldn't you say? There was no sign of a break-in. Somebody simply entered through the backyard,
climbed the steps and entered the house. Then whoever it was swooped upstairs and grabbed your sister.” Dottie Lee shrugged. For her, it was ancient history.

“My mother told me she was playing the piano. She never heard a thing. Maybe if Hope had cried, things would have been different.” She considered that. “Maybe she
couldn't
cry.”

“I'm sure the police considered that possibility.”

Faith fought against the mental picture of an infant being lifted from her crib and muffled, perhaps smothered, so that the kidnapper could make an undetected escape.

“Dottie Lee, do you think Dominik Dubrov was the kidnapper?”

She didn't answer directly. “Dominik was right here in my house at the time the kidnapping took place. I'd had a leak in my plumbing. He came to repair it.”

“You were his alibi? He was here the entire time?”

Dottie Lee hesitated. “Not quite.”

“What do you mean?”

“He went out for supplies. He wasn't gone long. I estimated twenty minutes. It may have been thirty.”

“Twenty minutes was long enough to kidnap my sister. She was right next door.”

“Yes, but he returned with supplies in hand. The receipt was dated that day, although it wasn't time stamped the way it might have been in this day and age. But a clerk at the hardware store thought he remembered Dominik buying the supplies that afternoon about the time he left my house. Then there was the question of what he would have done with the baby after he kidnapped her.”

“Given her to someone he'd made arrangements with in advance? Someone who was waiting nearby?”

“I suppose. But the police felt the alibi was good enough. He had no motive for taking Hope.”

“One article claimed money was the motive. He was poor, with large medical bills. He had a young son with asthma who had been in and out of the hospital frequently.”

“Yes, but remember, there never was a ransom demand. Not even before Dominik became a suspect. It took days for the police to get around to him, because everyone liked him so much no one considered pointing a finger in his direction.”

“And the response is that Hope probably died during the kidnapping and whoever kidnapped her lost his nerve.”

“There are many, many maybes.”

“There must have been other suspects. A child doesn't simply disappear.”

“I believe you watch too many movies. There really aren't as many brilliant detectives as Hollywood and Agatha Christie would have us believe.”

“What did you think of the investigation?”

“Flawed. The authorities descended on the house like a cloud of locusts. If any evidence existed, they destroyed it in the first ten minutes.”

“That's terrible.”

“Youthful enthusiasm, for the most part. They wanted to catch the kidnapper. They knew he had to be somewhere in the vicinity. In the heat of the moment they tore the house and neighborhood apart. There was nothing of interest left when they'd finished.”