She dialed J. Lunceford's phone number, at the same time flipping idly through the collected
Ladies' Monthly Museum
magazines of 1816. Lately the Walkingshaw girls seemed to have nothing to wearâa circumstance made even more inconvenient by Catherine Walkingshaw's newly conceived infatuation with young Capt. Charles Vizor. Juliet had just picked out an Iris scarf, to be used as a turban, a scarf or a shawl, when her call went through.
The voice at the other end was middle aged, somewhat mannered, but relaxed.
“Mrs. Lunceford? My name is Juliet Bodine. I was a friend of your aunt, Ada Caffreyâ”
“Why are you calling, please, Miss Bodine?” Mrs. Lunceford interrupted. Her voice had sharpened. “I have a very busy morning ahead of me.”
Juliet paused, her fingers resting on a note about a caped wrapping coat.
“Well, first I wanted to offer my condolences, of courseâ” she began.
“Offer them to someone else. Was that all?”
Juliet was so surprised that she actually took the receiver from her ear and looked at it. Returning it, she explained, “Well, I'm planning to come up thereâ”
“That's no business of mine.”
Juliet put a bookmark into the
Ladies' Monthly Museum,
closed it, and mustered the small resources of her lamblike voice. It was never easy for her to sound brisk and bullying on the phone.
“You see, in her will,” she said, as forcefully as she could, “your aunt left her books and papers to me. I thought there might be family things among them that you or your relatives would like to have, soâ”
“There won't be. I really must go now. Thank you for calling.”
And she hung up.
The phone clattered down loudly enough to cause a hard little jolt inside Juliet's chest. Whatever had happened between Ada Caffrey and her niece must have been pretty spectacular. The phone rang just as she was about to pick up the receiver again herself. She pulled her hand back. No telling who it was. Letting Ames find out, she opened the
Monthly Museum
to her bookmark.
“Spencer
à la Duchesse de Berri,
” she was copying down on a sheet of lined paper, when Ames knocked on her door. “Parisian travelling costume, satin, pearl colored, trimmed withâ”
“Yes?”
“Dr. Bodine?” The door opened slightly. “I'm sorry to disturb you, but a Matthew McLaurin is calling.”
“Oh!” She picked up.
Matthew McLaurin was speaking. Matthew McLaurin was a friend of Ada Caffrey's, a thin, reedy voice seemed rather to ask than to tell her. The phrase “painfully shy” is a common one. Matt McLaurin's shyness was excruciating.
“I'm calling for two reasons,” he went on, his voice almost a whisper. Somewhere near him, Juliet could hear a little girl singing “Born Free” at the top of her lungs. “First of all, I don't know if Mr.
Nilsson mentioned this to you already, but in her will, Ada arranged to have a memorial service held for her?”
“Yes, he mentioned that.”
“Oh, good. Because, I don't know why exactly, but she asked me to run it. So I just wondered if you'd want to be there, maybe even say something. I mean, you probably don't have time on such short notice. It's this Sunday. Butâ”
Juliet hesitated. She would certainly attend the memorial; indeed, it was the perfect opportunity to learn more about Ada. But should she agree to “say something”?
Eulogies had always stumped Juliet. She admired but did not understand the ease with which others could celebrate aloud a life just ended. And yet the chance to contribute to the service was surely an opportunity to move deeper into the puzzle. It would make her known to Ada's friends, perhaps even encourage them to confide in her. She ought to try.
“I'd be delighted to come,” she said. “I mean, not delighted, but I'd appreciate a chance to participate in the memorial. What was the other reason you called?”
“Oh. That's a little more awkward. But, um, I understand Ada left you her books and papers,” McLaurin went on.
Juliet's heart beat faster. Was he going to raise the question of the Wilson manuscript? Maybe contest its ownership? Say his daughter had found it? Argue that it shouldn't really be considered as belonging to Ada's “papers”?
“I hope you won't think I'm being pushy or anything,” he continued. “I mean, she did leave them to you, butâwell, are you thinking of doing anything with her poems? Because I'd really like to have copies of them, if that's okay.”
Her poems? “Oh, of course,” Juliet mumbled, swallowing her disappointment.
“I think she wrote quite a few. I was wondering if she'd want
me to try to get them published. Or maybe you were already thinking that?”
“No,” Juliet admitted.
“Do you think she wouldn't like it?”
“I don't know. She certainly seemed to enjoy sharing them.” Her ideas about Matt McLaurin tumbling confusedly into a new order, Juliet described her evening with Ada at Cleopatra's Ashtray.
“I don't think they are very likely to sell,” she went on. “Not that they aren't good, but just from what little I know about publishing poetry. Still, I could show them to my own editor,” she heard herself offer, then cringed slightly. Portia Klein probably hadn't read a poem since college. And would Matt then want Juliet to show her his own poems? She'd better dampen any hopes before this became a Pandora's box. “Not that she would ever acquire poetry, but she might know someone.”
“That would be great. Though I think it's much more likely a small, local publisher ⦔
He didn't finish the sentence. Juliet felt relieved by his apparent grasp of the realities of publishing verse.
“There probably wouldn't be much in the way of royalties,” he added, his voice barely audible. “But of course if there were, they'd belong to you.”
“I don't believe distribution of poetry royalties is a problem that comes up too often,” Juliet said. “But if there were any, I'd be glad to donate them to Free Earth. By the way, what will they do with Ada's property?” she added, as casually as she could. “Will they use it for a headquarters?”
“Oh, I have no idea. We're all just flabbergasted. We only learned about it this week.”
“Is that so?” asked Juliet, her suspicions returning. Usually when she asked, “Is that so?” she meant, “How interesting!” Today she meant, “Is that so?”
“Yes, Ada never said a word. We aren't at all sure we'll be able to keep it. The property tax alone is more than Free Earth raises in a typical year. Plus there's insurance and stuff. Mr. Nilsson is finding someone to help us look into it.”
“I see. But did Ada ever mentionâI mean, do you have any idea why she chose not to leave it to her family?”
There was a momentary pause. Then, “Pretty much anyone up here in Espyville could tell you that,” Matt said uncomfortably. “But I'm not sure it's for me to do.”
“Oh.”
His muted voice turned anxious, propitiatory. In the background, the little girl started to belt out, “The sun'll come out tomorrow! Bet your bottom dollar thatâ”
“I don't mean to be rude,” said Matt. “It's justâ”
“No, of course not.”
“I know Ada enjoyed your books very much. I'm glad you can come to the service.”
Juliet explained that she had hoped to come up anyhow. “Would that be all right? I was going to ask Mr. Nilsson, butâmaybe you'd like to meet me at Ada's house? Would you have any time tomorrow?”
“No. Cindy Giddy can probably let you in. She's looking after the cats. I'm sorry, I'd like to help you, but I'll have to be getting ready for the memorial tomorrow. And I have to take care of my daughter. So ⦔
Again, his sentence trailed off. Juliet had the distinct impression something more than other commitments made him disinclined to meet, that he was trying to evade her. She wondered again who the child's mother was. Couldn't she watch her daughter?
“Would another day be better? Maybe Sunday, after the service?”
“No, I'll ⦠I'll need to get Gina home to bed.”
Juliet hesitated. “I could stay till Monday. Maybe we could
have lunch? We could talk a little about Ada's poems.”
“I'll be working,” Matt said, this time with unmistakable curtness. It made a strange mixture, the brusque tone and the whispery voice. Rather sinister.
Thwarted, Juliet gave up. He gave her the name of the funeral home where the service would take place (the Regency, for heaven's sake; why did people name things “Regency” when they wanted them to sound classy?), and the time, and the Giddys' telephone number. She would have to try to grab him at the service, that was all. At the very least, she wanted to mention the Wilson papers to him and see how he reacted. And find out where he had been the Friday Ada was killed. Espyville was not so very far from New York City. Her thoughts churned as she finished her note from the
Monthly Museum.
“âtrimmed with a cordon of pink and white, with a pelerine cape, trimmed with crape.”
She set down her pen but left the book open on the same page while she tried the Giddys. The phone rang a long time.
Then Cindy Giddy answered. Her voice was slow and husky, not at all like the cheery voice of the good-hearted, middle-aged Mrs. Giddy in “A Christian Gentleman.” Still, it had a kind of dreaminess in it that was somehow (but how?) tantalizingly familiar. “Hello?”
Juliet explained who she was and that she had inherited Ada Caffrey's books and papers. She asked if Mrs. Giddy would be at home tomorrow around lunchtime and could let her into the house.
Mrs. Giddy, for reasons that were unclear, gave a short laugh. “Oh, sure. I'll be around.”
Detached, spacey, sleepyâwhat was that in the husky voice? Oh, of course: Drugged! High, at ten in the morning! Juliet thought of some of the students she used to teach at Barnard, and of a classmate or two at Radcliffe years ago. Yes, there had been those who smoked dope even as they drank their morning coffee.
She felt a fleeting pang of envy. How long ago it had been.
And yet, how vivid her recollections. She could almost smell it over the phone.
“But wait a minute, did you check with the Free Earth people?” Cindy asked.
Was it Juliet's imagination, or had a note of anger or envy crept into the lazy voice? Why should that be? Perhaps they did not relish the idea of Free Earth as neighbors. Or perhaps the Giddys had been hoping to buy Ada's place themselves, combine it with their own. In Manhattan, the death of an apartment owner often set off a frantic race among the late resident's space-starved neighbors, especially those with adjacent walls. Sometimes, tipped off by the doorman, or the comings and goings of nurses, they did not even wait for death.
Aloud, she explained that she had just okayed it with Matt McLaurin.
“He was very nice,” she added. “He invited me to the memorial service. Will you be going?”
“Memorial service? Whose?”
Juliet hoped the Giddys didn't have children. Cindy seemed to be barely functional.
“For Ada. At the Regency Funeral Home in Gloversville,” she explained. “Sunday at one.”
“Oh. I'll see if we can come,” the dazed voice replied. There was the sound of an inhalation, then a long, sputtering cough. “Excuse me, I have to go now.”
Juliet heard the entire phone drop to the floor, heard Cindy curse, then finally manage to deposit the receiver in its cradle. Juliet was left with the somewhat unsavory impression of a middle-aged pothead.
Ames knocked, then came in, several papers in her hand.
“Dr. Bodine, I've printed out a map and directions from MapQuest,” she said. “A Dodge Intrepid will be waiting for you at Hertz on West Ninety-sixth Street till ten o'clock tomorrow morning.
I've spoken to Caroline Walsh, the owner of the Candlewick Inn, and reserved a room for you there starting tomorrow night. I think you'll find Ms. Walsh a good source of information. She's also the proprietor of Walsh Novelties Incorporated, which maintains a storefront in downtown Gloversville. You can stop by there to pick up a key if you should arrive before three o'clock.”
“Really?”
“I don't think you'll find the Candlewick overstaffed. Or excessively formal,” Ames said, rather ominously.
Juliet thanked her. “Listen, you wouldn't care to put in some overtime this weekend?”
An anguished look replaced her assistant's usual serenity. “I'd like to help you, but my niece is getting married in Queens on Sunday. There's a rehearsal dinner tomorrow night.”