The PMS Outlaws: An Elizabeth MacPherson Novel (23 page)

“Well, it depends on how far back you need to go,” the librarian told him. “We have actual copies of the newspapers for the last couple of weeks, or so, but since they deteriorate very badly with age, older issues are stored on microfilm, and that would be in the special collections section.”

Armed with directions, Geoffrey went to the special collections room, where he repeated his request to yet another earnest librarian, this time a personable but harassed-looking young man whose name tag said Rob. “Old newspapers?” he said. “What year?”

“Nineteen fifties, I think.”

“Ah, ‘return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear’ ” Rob the librarian waited for Geoffrey to recognize the Lone Ranger quote, and when no reaction from him was forthcoming, he sighed at yet another instance of inappreciation. His wit and charm were quite wasted in Special Collections—pearls before swine, really. Wearily he motioned Geoffrey toward a large gray filing cabinet. He slid out the top drawer to reveal half a dozen rows of small white cardboard boxes, each labeled with the name of a newspaper and the dates of the issues contained on that particular roll of microfilm. “The whole cabinet is filled with rolls of microfilm. We have documents going back more than a hundred years. Census records all the way back to the very first one, which was in 1800. What’ll it be?”

Geoffrey considered his next move. He was pretty sure what he wasn’t going to say, which was something along the lines of: “My cousin, who is a charming girl, but currently in a mental institution, seems to think that the ninety-some-year-old man in her brother’s new house is an imposter. How would you suggest I go about verifying that?” No, that definitely would not
do. Geoffrey’s motto, insofar as he had one, was Emily Dickinson’s maxim: “Tell the truth, but tell it slant.” He decided to try another variant of the facts.

“Actually,” he said, “I’m really not sure what year I need, or even what source. My cousin Bill has bought a grand old house on the outskirts of town, and I’m helping him restore it, so we thought it might be helpful to do a bit of research about who built the house, and so on.”

“House research.” The librarian looked thoughtful. “Shouldn’t you go to the courthouse for that? The Registrar of Deeds has records about property and ownership, and tax bills. Probate records. Wouldn’t that be faster than reading old newspapers?”

Yes, thought Geoffrey, but the courthouse won’t have any of the gossip, and the newspapers might. “It’s a wonderful suggestion,” he admitted with an apologetic smile. “Silly of me not to have thought of it. But, you know, as long as I’m here, perhaps I’ll just take a look at a few of these films. The early nineteen fifties, I think. You never know what may turn up.”

“All right,” said the librarian. “You’re welcome to look. I do think research is fascinating. You never know what you’ll find. Don’t be surprised if you find yourself led astray by topics that have nothing to do with your original search.”

Geoffrey touched his well-chosen silk tie. “I should be astonished to learn that Yves St. Laurent had visited Danville.”

The young man laughed. “So would I! Well, let’s get you started. Do you know how to use the microfilm reader?”

“No, of course not,” said Geoffrey. “I am determined to be the major nuisance of your afternoon.”

“You’d have to take a number,” said Rob. “At least you
look like you can be taught to use the machine. That will make a nice change from the blue-haired old dears who are trying to trace their ancestors back to King Arthur—or, as one of them spells it, King Author.” He smirked. “I told her to check the census records for Maine. Come on then. I’ll show you how it works, but do pay attention so that you can do it yourself, because I’m on my own today, and I have hours of paperwork left to do before we close.”

After a few minutes of brisk instruction, in which Geoffrey endeavored to give the machine his complete attention, the reel for 1950 was loaded, and he was ready to begin. Sitting in front of the microfilm reader and peering at the dark screen, he attempted to read the fine print of a newspaper page greatly reduced in size. This would take some getting used to, but at least he wasn’t going to get his hands dirty with old newsprint. He scanned the headlines of the first newspaper, found nothing of interest, and turned the knob to view the next page. Read, scroll, read, scroll. The exercise was tedious and time-consuming, but not difficult.

Occasionally, as the librarian had predicted, he would become sidetracked by an interesting bit of half-a-century-old news. When Geoffrey read the article about Britain’s young toddler Prince Charles and his new baby sister, Anne, he had the smug feeling of superiority over the original readers of the 1950 story: after all, he knew how it would all turn out. He did not allow his attention to wander too much, however, because his time was limited, and he was by no means sure that he was in the correct year to begin with. It might be necessary to scroll through many more reels of microfilm before he found anything useful.

An hour later, Geoffrey had skimmed through two years’ worth of news, and all he had to show for his efforts was a certain proficiency in loading microfilm machines. This new skill had proved useful when a well-dressed elderly woman came in and, perhaps mistaking him for a library employee, asked him to help her load a reel of census records into one of the other machines. She knew how to thread the microfilm, she explained with an apologetic smile, but her arthritis prevented her from doing so. Geoffrey managed to set up the film for her on the second try, but aside from doing good deeds and gaining technological competence, he had not made any progress in his own investigation—or rather, in his cousin Elizabeth’s investigation, blast her.

“This could take forever,” he said aloud, after a particularly dull succession of newspapers. He could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on, probably the result of having years of Danville trivia seeping into his brain.

When he spoke, the silver-haired woman looked up from the next machine with a smile of commiseration. “It is tedious at times, isn’t it?” she said. “It makes my eyes water. You ought to get up and stretch every now and then, too. Otherwise your back will be quite stiff by tomorrow morning.”

Geoffrey yawned and stretched. “I could put up with the physical discomfort if I thought I was getting anywhere,” he said. “It’s the futility that makes it all so maddening.”

“Perhaps I could help?” she said. “I need to rest my hands for a bit, anyhow. Not to mention my brain. What family names are you looking for?”

“Oh, I’m—” Geoffrey had intended to say “not doing genealogical research,” but just as his mouth began to form the
words, it occurred to him that barking up one’s own family tree would be the perfect excuse to root around in the past history of any of Danville’s citizens. While Geoffrey considered his fellow researcher’s offer of help, he studied her with the practiced eye of a socialite. The silver-haired woman had carefully styled hair and a strand of baroque pearls that seemed quite genuine. In Geoffrey Chandler’s sphere of life, her name was legion. If anybody knew the history of this part of Virginia, surely it was she.

Thankful that he had not denied an interest in genealogy, Geoffrey took a deep breath and began again. “It’s very kind of you. I’m so new at this that I’m completely hopeless, but I did promise Mother, you know.… Well, I’m trying to find information about the Dolans.”

The woman’s encouraging smile turned to a look of bewilderment. “Dolan.” She stared upward at nothing, the way people do when they are searching their memories for some elusive bit of information. “Dolan …” she said again. “Now, that is odd. I thought from the look of you that you would certainly have family connections here.…”

Geoffrey nodded complacently. She had spotted the look by which the gentry know one another, much as he had recognized her. She noted that he was tall and thin, with an aquiline nose, long narrow feet, and aristocratically high cheekbones. He was expensively dressed and shod, but without any ostentation in his appearance. Geoffrey Chandler knew that he would look like a somebody in any Anglo-Norman outpost of civilization, and therefore he would be treated with respect and accorded the presumption of wealth and position. How very reassuring, he thought smugly.

“There must be two dozen family names I was waiting to hear you say, but do you know, you have me quite buffaloed!” She shook her head, still puzzled. “Dolan.”

“Oh, well,” said Geoffrey, turning back to his microfilm reader. “It was very kind of you to offer, anyhow.”

“I wish I could help,” she said. “But really, there’s no family of that name in the county.” She laughed. “Except the notorious Jack Dolan, of course. But you’d hardly be related to him.”

Old Miss Nicholson, who was nearer ninety than eighty, sat in a soft, high-backed chair in front of the bay window, staring out happily at the well-tended flower gardens of Cherry Hill. The leaf colors and the flower variations seemed to change every day of the growing season, and the weather was always interesting. So changeable, such a range of temperature and patterns of sun and cloud. Sometimes she thought it was as if the fifty-two weeks of the year were a deck of cards that someone had thoroughly shuffled, so that instead of getting all the weeks of one season in order, you got them randomly: spring, spring, summer, fall, winter, fall, fall, spring. She didn’t mind the variables of temperature; the novelty, she thought, was worth it.

She seldom spoke to anyone, but she gave no trouble. She just sat there with a vague, secretive smile, which made people wonder what this ancient being with no close relatives could possibly have to be pleased about. It was this: Miss Nicholson quite liked her new home. She had been planning for it all her life.

When Caroline Nicholson was a little girl, she’d always dreamed of the day that she would grow up to marry some capitalist version of the handsome prince, and go off to live in a
beautiful white-columned mansion on a hill. The prince never came, but Miss Nicholson never stopped planning for the day when she would be the lady of the manor. She began a hope chest as a teenager, putting in linens and tablecloths that she meticulously embroidered in the evenings as she sat alone in front of her small black-and-white television. Later on, her parents’ legacies and then her job at the local library had enabled her to purchase more accoutrements for her someday home. She would drive to estate sales in the better part of town and to auctions in the surrounding counties, using what money she could spare to buy beautiful things for the house: a set of Limoges game plates, a sterling silver tea set, enough crystal stemware to serve a hundred guests at the lawn party she never had.

The years seemed to slide by in a haze of tag sales and silver polishing, as she sketched room plans for her perfect house, while scarcely bothering to dust the one she currently occupied. It didn’t matter. It was only a way station to her true home—the one she would have someday, the one that all her silver and linen belonged in. She grew quite knowledgeable about antiques—one year she caught herself putting the Batemans, the Burrows, and the Chawners on her Christmas card list, before she remembered that those renowned silversmiths of Georgian London had been dead for well over a century. Although her knowledge of fine things increased with endless study, she seemed oblivious to the passing of time.

Her retirement from the library came, but a few weeks later Social Security checks began to arrive in her mailbox, so that was all right. Now she had more free time to go to the auctions, and to wait for her real life to begin. She was blessed with good health for many years, and indeed, her body was still
remarkably fit when her mind began to show the signs of age. The house became more of an untidy wilderness, and Miss Nicholson, absorbed in her decorator magazines, could no longer be bothered to shop for groceries.

At last the neighbors notified a nephew, an elderly man himself, who scarcely remembered Aunt Caroline from his boyhood visits. Still, he was the one living relative she had in the world, and it was clearly his duty to see that she was cared for. So one day, having finished all the legal formalities with the lawyers and county officials, the nephew came for Miss Nicholson in his large, gray car. She thought him a very nice looking man, although a trifle old, but he was obviously well-to-do, and she went with him happily.

After a longish but pleasant drive through the country, they came to a large tree-shaded drive that curved for nearly a quarter mile before it ended in a circle in front of a large, white-columned mansion. Caroline Nicholson was enchanted. It was perfect.

Her escort seemed a bit nervous as he stopped the car, as if he wondered whether the place would meet with her approval, but she nodded and smiled, eager to inspect her new home and to meet the servants.

That had been many months ago, and Miss Nicholson couldn’t remember seeing the man lately, but she supposed he was busy in the city, earning the money to keep up such a splendid estate. She settled in happily, planning for new curtains and a rearrangement of furniture, but really, she seemed so tired nowadays that she had never managed to make the effort. Still, it was a lovely place. The home she had always dreamed of. She gathered that the place was called Cherry Hill, such a nice, elegant name for a country place. She was quite content.

For his part, the nephew was relieved that matters had been settled with a minimum of fuss, and that the old lady seemed genuinely pleased with her new place of residence. Money was no problem, either. When he auctioned off all his aunt’s possessions, the money raised amounted to more than enough to pay for her care.

“Y
ou seem a little anxious today,” said kindly old Dr. Dunkenburger, observing his fidgeting patient.

Of course I am, thought Elizabeth. You’re interrupting my investigation. Just when she had managed to muffle the pain of Cameron’s disappearance behind a regimen of possibly meaningless—but nonetheless interesting—activity, Dr. Dunkenburger hauled her in for another excruciating analysis of the nature of grief.