Blackberry Winter: A Novel (23 page)

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

She nodded. “I’ve had many years to come to terms with it. But I still grieve.”

“Do you believe that Daniel was…?” I couldn’t will myself to vocalize the thought.

“Killed?”

I nodded.

Eva threw up her hands. “I don’t know, dear. I’ve thought about it an awful lot over the years. Mother and I always wanted to believe that he only wandered off. That some nice family took him in. But the chances of that are slim. Mother knew that. Not Vera. She refused to believe the worst. She held out hope, until the very end.”

“The end?”

Eva frowned. “Mother shielded me from the details, of course,” she said. “I was only a little girl, too young to understand. But eventually I heard the whole story.”

“What happened?”

“Her body was found floating in Lake Washington,” she said.

I gasped.

Eva shook her head regretfully. “By the time they found her, her skin was so puffy, so waterlogged, that the medical examiner couldn’t make a ruling.”

I covered my mouth. “My God.”

“The police ruled it a suicide,” she continued, “but anyone who knew her didn’t believe that. She’d never leave this earth willingly without the knowledge that her son was safe.” She paused, eyeing my wedding ring.

“When you’re a mother, dear, you’ll understand.”

But I do understand.
I swallowed hard and stared at my notebook, willing my emotion away. “So you think someone murdered her, then?”

“I have my suspicions,” she replied. “But no one really knows. In those days, we didn’t have justice in the same way we do now. If the daughter of a prominent family were found bobbing in the lake, you better bet an investigation would be launched. But for Vera Ray,
daughter of a fisherman? The sad fact is that no one really cared. It’s why the police hardly batted an eye when Daniel went missing. Why waste police resources on the poor? It was the prominent thinking of the time.”

“So sad,” I said, shaking my head. “So there wasn’t even an investigation?”

“They did interview a man in connection with the crime,” she said. “A mason, I believe. Picked him up after getting a tip from someone. But the suspect died in jail. Heart attack. The case fizzled after that. It broke Mother’s heart that nothing more became of it. She always believed she’d find justice for her friend.”

I thought of my visit to the police archives, which had turned up nothing. “Do you know if they have the transcripts?”

“I wondered the same thing myself,” she said. “I set out to find them in the 1950s, but was told that all records from that year were destroyed in a fire.”

The whistle on the teakettle sounded. “Sure you don’t want a cup of tea?”

“Actually,” I said, “that sounds nice.”

Eva returned with two cups. She handed me one, and I held it close, letting the steam warm my face. I took a sip and set the cup down on the nearby coffee table. “Do you know much about Daniel’s father?”

Eva sighed. “Just that he was very rich,” she said. “Vera was proud. It didn’t make for a good match.”

“They never married?”

“No. But she always wore a bracelet he gave her. That made me think she still loved him.”

I thought of my bracelet tucked under my sleeve. From Ethan.
Would I take it off? Would I take my wedding ring off?

“It was a dark time for Mother,” Eva continued. “Losing her best friend in such a tragic way, it affected her.”

“How terrible,” I said. I pulled an envelope from my bag and handed it to Eva. “Some things I found.”

She lifted the flap of the envelope and reached inside, placing the contents on her lap. She held the photo up to the light. “That’s Vera, all right,” she said. “She was so beautiful.”

I nodded. “And the man? Daniel’s father?”

“Yes,” she said. “At least, I think so. I never met him, of course. But look.” She pointed to a spot on the photo. “He has Daniel’s chin.”

I produced the
Seattle Post-Intelligencer
’s photo of the boy, and held it up to the picture of his parents. “You’re right,” I said. “I can see a resemblance.” Daniel had a heart-shaped face, and his chin revealed a tiny dimple, nearly identical to the man in the photograph.

“Ah, yes,” Eva said with a sigh. “Daniel would have been a handsome one, just like his father.”

“Do you know Charles’s last name?” I asked, flipping the photo over and rereading the inscription: “Vera and Charles.”

Eva shook her head. “Mother didn’t speak of him. I never knew.”

“Thank you,” I said, closing my notebook. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

“Wait,” Eva said, holding up the drawing she’d made as a girl, marveling at the brittle yellow page. “There is
something
.”

“What?”

She held out the drawing for me to see and pointed to the woman drawn behind the children. “There was a woman,” she said.

“Where?”

“The image is a bit of blur,” she said. “It might be nothing.”

“Keep trying. The memory might be significant.”

“Well,” she said, holding a hand to her wrinkled cheek as if trying very hard to recall a memory. “Daniel and I used to play in a park near Sixth Avenue. We’d wait there for our mothers to get off work. Sometimes a strange woman would come and watch us. She seemed out of place there, in her fine dresses and hats, smack dab in the working-class part of town. She was friendly enough, talked to Daniel mostly, but I didn’t like her. Mama taught me not to talk to strangers, and there was something about her that frightened me.”

“What do you think it was?”

“I’m not certain,” Eva said. “And really, the woman might have just been taking pity on us. I don’t know. But I have never forgotten the memory, even after all these years, or her hat.”

“Her hat?

Eva nodded and pointed to the stick figure’s head. “They’re feathers, I think,” she said. “I must have been drawing the feathers on her hat.”

I finished writing out her quote, then drew a big question mark on the page.
How will I follow up on that?

Eva’s eyes looked strained, so I stood and gathered my things. “Thank you ever so much for sharing your memories with me.”

“Anytime, dear,” she said. “I hope you solve this mystery. For mothers everywhere.” She paused and tilted her head to the right. “I just assumed you hadn’t any children of your own. Are you a mother too, honey?”

It was the first time I’d heard the question since the accident. I bit my lip. Without thinking, I spoke from my heart. “Yes,” I said. “I am.”

I rarely worked on weekends, but I made my way into the office on Saturday, looking forward to some uninterrupted writing time. A sign on Ethan’s door read,
ON ASSIGNMENT
. I checked my cell phone and saw that he’d tried to call again. I tossed the phone back into my purse and turned on my laptop, pulling up the document I’d begun on the ferry the day before. It felt easier to lose myself in Daniel and Vera’s story than to sort out my own.

I leaned back in my chair.
Who was the woman at the park that Eva spoke of? And the mason?
I recalled the name I’d written in my notebook at Café Lavanto the previous week and thumbed through the pages until I found it: Ivanoff. I pulled up the online newspaper archives and searched for the name, and two entries came back, both from the
Seattle Herald
. I clicked on the first headline, which appeared as part of a police blotter:
MAN JAILED IN DOMESTIC VIOLENCE CHARGE
.

So he had a violent streak, this mason.
I clicked on the next headline.
FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED IN IVANOFF CASE
. I shivered. “Police have charged Sven Ivanoff with the murder of a woman whose body was found floating in Lake Washington last week. Ivanoff, a mason, was the last person to be seen with the woman, who is believed to be a prostitute.”

A prostitute?
I shuddered. If this was indeed Vera, her life had
taken an unfortunate turn. I shook my head in disbelief.
There has to be more to the story.
I remembered Emily’s aunt Bee’s suggestion to speak to her friend Lillian. Perhaps she had crucial information. I searched for her name, and when a number came up, I dialed. A man with a deep, gravelly voice picked up immediately. “Hello?”

“Oh, I must have the wrong number,” I said. “I’m trying to reach someone by the name of Lillian Sharpe.”

“Yes,” he said. “My wife. She’s right here. Who may I say is calling?”

“My name is Claire Aldridge, from the
Seattle Herald
.”

“Hello, this is Lillian.”

“Ms. Sharpe,” I said.

“Yes,” she replied.

“I hate to disturb you, but I’m working on a story about a little boy who went missing in 1933. During the storm.”

“Yes,” she said.

“You remember?”

“Well, no, not the boy you speak of, but the storm. Everybody remembers that. It nearly shut down the city. And right before summer. Just like the storm we had this week. Such a strange coincidence.”

“I know,” I replied.

“How can I help you, Ms. Aldridge?”

“I was just chatting with an old friend of yours, Bee Larson,” I said.

“Bee! How is she?”

“Not well, I’m afraid. She’s confined to bed now. Heart problems.”

“Bless her heart,” she said. “I’ll have to pay her a visit. Is she still on the island?”

“Yes,” I replied. “I was visiting her niece yesterday. Bee told me your father was a prominent attorney in the 1930s.”

“Indeed he was,” she said. “He took on some of the most famous cases of the time.”

“Could one of those cases be the murder of Vera Ray?”

She sighed. “I wish I could recall. The name doesn’t sound familiar, but it’s possible.”

“Bee mentioned something about his case files and archives,” I said. “Do you happen to have them?”

“I do. My granddaughter, Lisa, spent a good portion of last summer reorganizing them for me. She’s a journalist, like you.”

“Is it possible that I could take a look?” I asked. “I mean, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not, dear,” she said. “My father would have gladly shared them with you. He was a truth seeker, just as you seem to be. They’re at the old house, in Windermere.”

I knew the neighborhood, of course. One of the finest areas of historic Seattle. Ethan had a cousin who lived in an enormous home along the lake.

“I grew up there, but it’s empty now. My husband and I are in a retirement facility,” Lillian continued. “I just can’t bear to sell the old place. I hoped one of my boys would move in, but they had other plans. I can’t say I blame them. The house is in disrepair.” She sighed. “Listen to me rambling. I could meet you there if you like. As long as you don’t mind a little dust and cobwebs. We haven’t had the place cleaned in some time.”

“I would be so grateful,” I said.

“I’ve had to part with some of it, but I do have an assortment of boxes in the spare bedroom, all things that Lisa thought to keep. Hopefully you’ll find what you’re looking for there.”

“Thank you so much,” I said. “Could I come by tomorrow morning, say, nine thirty?”

“You choose the hour,” she said. “My husband and I are early birds, up at sunrise. The address is 5985 Windermere Boulevard. It’s an old white colonial with a big blue spruce in front.”

“Great,” I said, writing the address in my notebook. “See you then.”

My phone buzzed in my bag.
Not again.
I pulled it out and opened a text message. From Dominic. “Meet me at the Market at one for lunch?” I smiled, and typed a quick response. “I’ll be in front of the first flower stand. Bring Advil.”

Dominic waited at the corner of the market, a bouquet of hydrangeas wrapped in brown butcher paper in his hands. “For you,” he said, tucking the enormous bunch into the crook of my arm.

“They’re beautiful,” I said, feeling awkward about accepting them, especially after last night.

“How’s your head?”

“Pounding,” I replied.

He pulled a pill bottle from his pocket. “Here,” he said, handing me two white pills.