Death of an Irish Diva (14 page)

Lizzie and Vera were downstairs, romping around. Beatrice and Jon were hiding in her bedroom. They had sneaked the book into her room and had spread it out on the bed.

“Willa Rose McGlashen,” Jon said, forming each word slowly. “I simply can't stand it anymore. Who was she?”

“I know!” Beatrice said, feeling like a twelve-year-old girl opening a Christmas package. Except that it was musty and spotted, which made it all the better to Beatrice. She cracked open the book to the spot where they had left off before, the day Vera called about taking Lizzie to the hospital. Thank God the child thrived.

Beatrice considered the handwriting in this book. It was so elegant and beautiful, with flourishes and so on, which made it difficult to read for modern eyes. But if she concentrated, her eyes became used to it.

“She's a cook!” Jon said.

“Indeed,” Beatrice said. “But who is Mathilde?”

He shrugged. “Someone Willa's grandmother knew. . . . Who was Willa's grandmother?”

“Oh, bother! We are going to have to go to the historical society. I was hoping to avoid that,” Beatrice said.

“I thought you liked it,” Jon said.

“I do, but I don't want to get anybody else involved. Bunch of busybodies over there. I already have strangers in my backyard. I don't know. . . . This feels private,” she said.

He nodded. “I think you're right. This is something fashioned with Willa Rose's own hands. It's truly remarkable that it survived in the ground, in that box. And to think her hands touched this very book. . . .”

An appreciative hush fell over the room. The sun was gleaming through the bedroom windows, and fresh flowers sat in a vase next to Beatrice's bed.

Beatrice turned the page to one of complete handwriting, like a journal entry.

Beatrice's heart sank. She was a Virginian, raised on Jenkins Mountain, educated at the University of Virginia, and this war was not so long ago. Even today there were remnants of it being found on playgrounds, at construction sites, and in farmers' fields. Looked like another, more visceral link to the war existed in her backyard. On her property. It made it all seem more real to her.

Jon tsk-tsked, as he always did when he found something appalling.

Beatrice smoothed over the quilt that she used as a bedspread. Beatrice and her quilts. She loved them. Couldn't have a bed without them. Her off-white quilt was one of her favorites. She had read that this design was traced to the time of the Civil War. It was a “Gunboat” quilt. Southern women made these fancier appliquéd, medallion-style quilts and sold them for the war effort, namely, to purchase gunboats. Her quilt's medallions were stylized purple pansies, with a huge spray of them in the center and smaller ones in the corners. Funny, she was reading firsthand about the war and was sitting on a quilt whose design came from that time. A chill ran up her spine.

She wondered if the road that Willa Rose wrote of was Route 11, which used to come through Cumberland Creek. Or so they said. Roads shifted throughout history.

She turned the page to see some ads with drawings of women in fashionable turn-of-the-century skirts. She smiled. Vera used to keep a scrapbook full of magazine cutouts of women wearing clothes she liked. She was just a girl. Beatrice couldn't remember if she'd ever thrown those books out. They were delightful. How had she forgotten about them?

The dresses were brightly colored pinks and blues, and Willa had cut them out and pasted them onto the page, along with some cutout roses in between each dress.

She had drawn a little star and written beside one of the dresses.
I'd like this one in yellow. Papa says if business picks up soon, I can order it.

Willa Rose loved to cook, was helping her family out, and longed for a pretty dress, just like most young women.

“That's a very pretty dress. I like the back of it,” Jon said.

“Yes, that's a bustle,” Beatrice said. “I don't imagine that would be easy to sit in.”

Beatrice turned the page to another journal entry.

“Impossible?” Jon and Beatrice said at the same time.

“Very interesting,” Jon said, grinning.

Just then they heard footsteps up the stairs. Beatrice closed the book and threw her shawl over it.

“Granny!” Lizzie's voice.

“Leave Granny alone!” Vera's voice.

“It's okay. Come in!” Beatrice said.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Vera said as she opened the door.

“You're not interrupting at all. We were just sitting here, chatting,” Beatrice said, gesturing with her hands. “C'mon in, Miss Lizzie. What are you up to?”

Lizzie plopped herself onto the bed, between Beatrice and Jon.

“Playing with Mama,” she said.

“Will you two be available next Friday?” Vera asked.

Beatrice and Jon looked at one another.

“Sure,” Jon said.

“Can you watch Lizzie?”

“Sure,” Jon said.

“What's going on next Friday?” Beatrice asked.

Vera beamed. “I have a date.”

“A date?” Beatrice stood so fast, the bed rocked Jon and Lizzie so hard that they tumbled over in a fit of giggles.

“With who? Dr. Green?”

Vera nodded, her face tinged in pink.

Was she embarrassed?
Why on earth?

“It's about time,” Beatrice said. “And of course we will keep Lizzie.”

“Now, Mama, don't make a big deal over this. It's just dinner. A pleasant way to pass the evening. You know I don't really trust men.”

“Don't kid yourself, Vera. I saw the way he looked at you. There were definitely sparks. Don't shut yourself off from the possibilities. He comes from good stock.”

Vera leaned against the doorway and smiled. “Well, well, well. It's been some time since you've given me dating advice.”

“Maybe I should shut my mouth.”

“What?”

“You've never taken my advice before. If you had, you'd never have married you know who.”

Vera laughed and waved her off.

So if I'm remembering correctly, the NMO lists a “pure heritage” as part of its precepts, Bryant texted Annie.

Damn him. He knew this was her time to be at the computer, writing. Why was he interrupting her?

She hit the IGNORE button.

Her cell phone rang. It was him.

She answered the phone. “What?”

“Sweet.”

“Bite me. What's going on?”

“Emily was sending money to the Alicorn Agency. It's an adoption agency that specializes in ‘purity.'”

“What? Whoa! And they advertise that?”

“Not in so many words. But the FBI has gotten back to me on this, and they've a contact there that's looking around for us.”

“That is so weird,” Annie said. “Why would Emily be involved with an adoption agency at all?”

Then she thought of her parents. Was this the agency that she was adopted through? But it makes no sense. She had wanted to break away from her past. Why would she give them money? Unless . . .

“I'd like to talk to her parents about this,” she said.

“I've already done that.”

“And?”

“This is not the agency they used. They have no idea what her link to that agency is.”

Annie sat back in her chair, her blue computer screen glaring at her, as she mentally leafed through Emily McGlashen and what she knew about her. She grew up in many places, became an international dance champ, opened a school in Cumberland Creek, of all places, was murdered in her studio, didn't like Vera, was sending large sums of money to an adoption agency.

“Could she possibly . . .”

“She was young and healthy. Maybe. Maybe Emily McGlashen has a child somewhere,” he said.

An odd stinging sensation crept into Annie's gut. Call it another one of her hunches. But it was strong. Loud. This was a very real possibility. But what could this have to do with her murder?

“I don't know, Adam. This is very personal.”

She thought of the Greenberg family. If Emily had had a baby that she wanted to keep secret and had given it up for adoption, how would her family react? Hadn't they been through enough?

“I know,” he said, breathing into the phone. “I suggest we keep it under wraps, Annie, until we find out if it's a real possibility and if it had anything to do with the murder. There's no point in hurting her family more, unless we have to.”

“I agree,” she said, pausing a beat to reflect on the sensitivity from him. It was unusual. He surprised her from time to time. Like the day he handed her Cookie's scrapbook, or what was left of it. It was there that day, in Cookie's empty house, that she began to see him in a new light.

“How about that?” he said in a mocking tone. “We agree on something.”

“Adam—”

“Now,” he said, “when were you going to tell me about her parents still being here? About them thinking of staying?”

“The next time we talked, I guess. I've been working hard on my book. Sorry.”

“It's a pretty big deal,” he said. “Leaving the commune. Strange, don't you think?”

She sighed. “I don't know.”

“What's wrong with you? Why aren't you grilling these people? They live in a commune, for Christ's sake. Don't you think it all has something to do with the puzzle of Emily McGlashen and her murder?”

“I'm busy,” she said. “I don't have time for another project. I need to wrap up this book. You can handle it, can't you?”

“Of course, but I thought with all your curiosity . . . the way you cared about your stories . . . I thought there would be no stopping you.”

“I'm keeping my fingers in it,” she said. “I simply don't have the fortitude to take this on full force.”

“Look, I know how you're feeling. I'll never forget the way you looked the day we met in Cookie's empty house. I saw it all over you,” he said. “But also, I'll never forget the way you disappointed yourself by not thinking clearly about that investigation. It's the same thing I felt,” he added, his voice quieter.

He was talking about the way they were both misled about Cookie's disappearance. How neither one of them read any of the clues properly and how it left them both reeling.

He was right. Her stomach started to twist and flip.

“But that's all in the past,” she said, more to herself than to him. “You have a murder case to solve. And I have a book to write.”

“Well, just think about it. I've talked to them already. But I know you might have some questions of your own,” he said. “Gotta go.”

His face came to her mind. She could see it so clearly and almost felt the way she had felt when he kissed her. It was one thing when she thought this attraction was simply about sex. It was another thing entirely to think he really understood her. And very possibly in a way in which her husband no longer did.

Vera sat in front of her laptop; it was new, and she was just getting to know it. She had brought it along to the crop because the croppers had all promised to try digital scrapbooking. They were setting aside their projects just for tonight so that Sheila could lead them through a tutorial, but not without a great deal of complaining, especially from Paige.

“Does everything have to be on the computer these days?” said Paige, the blue light from her screen reflecting on her freckled face. “Now our whole grading system is on the computer at school, and some of our elementary schools are going paperless.”

“I think it's fantastic. Sam's class is heading that way. Think of it. By the time they get to college, textbooks might be all e-books,” Annie said.

Sheila sighed. “Nobody loves paper more than I do,” she said and nodded toward her color-coded stacks of paper. “But once you get used to digital scrapbooking, you'll see the place for it. I certainly won't give up on the traditional, but this is so much more efficient.”

Paige reached for a pumpkin muffin. “What's the deal with efficiency? This is supposed to fun and sloppy, and I don't know . . . inefficient.”

“Jesus! What's with you?” DeeAnn said after taking a deep swallow of white wine. “Chill out, would you? We agreed to learn this, so just stop your bitching.”

Paige sat back, crossed her arms, and smiled despite herself.

Vera opened up the file that Sheila had told her to open. “What's the big deal, Paige? Okay, now, Sheila, what do we click on?”

“Wait, wait, wait. I'm not there yet,” Paige said.

Sheila waited a few minutes and looked up over her glasses, looking very businesslike, Vera noted. “Are we ready?”

From time to time Vera marveled at Sheila. They had known one another since childhood and had always been best friends, and yet they couldn't be more different. Sheila was wiry, serious, and organized; Vera was none of those things.

But she supposed they had the basics in common, with Southern roots, a good solid family foundation, and similar interests.

“My God, what am I eating?” Annie interrupted.

“Chocolate,” Sheila said.

“Not just any chocolate,” Vera told them. “That is some of the finest hand-dipped chocolate in the state of Virginia.” One thing Vera knew was her chocolate, which had been a passion since she stopped dieting a few years ago.

“Mmmm. Mmm!” Annie threw her head back and rolled her eyes. “Oh, my God. It's the best thing I've ever eaten in my life!”

“What's that, dear?” In walked Emily's mother, who hadn't bothered ringing the doorbell this time, or taking a shower that day, based on the acrid scent permeating the basement.

“Oh,” Annie said, suddenly looking pale. “Um, chocolate. Here. Have some.” She held the box up to her.

“Oh, no thanks, sweetie,” Rachel said, smiling. “I'm allergic.”

“To chocolate?” Vera said. “I don't know what I'd do without it.”

Rachel clicked her tongue. “Plenty of other vices in the world, ya know?”

And she used several of them, Annie reminded herself.

“Please have a seat,” Sheila said. “Did you bring your laptop?”

Rachel laughed. “No, sweetie. I don't do computers. I always left the technical things up to Emily. She was a genius with it, you know.”

“I didn't know that,” Vera said. “I didn't think she even had a computer.”

“Oh yes,” Annie said. “She had one. The police have it. They are scouring it for clues.”

Vera squirmed around in her seat. It seemed as if the energy in the room was shifting all over the place. Now it was definitely off. Or was it in her mind? The meds the doctors had her on gave her all sorts of weird side effects.

“Don't misunderstand me,” Sheila said. “You are welcome to come to our crops. Have you changed you mind about scrapbooking?”

Rachel shrugged, trying to pull out something from her bag “Not really. But I'm getting kinda bored over there at Emily's place. Feeling hemmed in a bit. Not used to the walls, man. We live in a yurt back home. I needed a break from all the cleaning and packing, too. So I've been journaling in this book.”

“What will you do with her things?” Sheila asked.

“We're giving it all away, of course. We've no need for it,” she said.

“What the hell is a yurt?” DeeAnn said.

“It's a round, tentlike home,” Rachel said and smiled.

“We like living in a circle. And it's so light filled. I love light. Emily's place is so dark.”

She finally stopped struggling and pulled the book out. It was a journal of sorts. She opened it, and there was a page with a photo of a very young Rachel holding a small baby.

“Emily?” Annie asked.

“Yes,” she said.

The words
She kept this photo
were written in purple ink across the page. Something else was also written on the page, alongside the photo.
And I found it in a box of her things a few weeks after she died. I cherish the days of her babyhood. From the moment she learned to walk, she began her dance. The dance that took her far from home, far from us.

“How did you make your paper look like this?” Paige said.

“I used tea,” Rachel responded. “I teach art where we live. The kids love this trick.”

“Have some cupcakes?” DeeAnn said, holding a plate up to her.

“Don't mind if I do,” she said and smiled.

“What was Emily like as a child?” DeeAnn asked.

Rachel shrugged. “Pretty typical, except for her dancing. She was . . . extraordinary. There was a dance studio near where we lived, and I cleaned it so that she could have lessons. I wanted her to have ballet, but she wanted to do Irish dancing. I told her the only way she'd get to Irish dance is if she also did ballet. But she hated ballet.”

The group quieted.

Rachel bit from her cupcake and swallowed. “You know, I always wondered about her birth parents. If they were athletes or dancers . . . because Donald and I, well”—she made a gesture at her thin body—“we're not very physical.” She laughed. “She was different from the start,” Rachel added, looking over the table. “If I'm to be honest . . . she was always so strong willed that it scared me.”

Vera piped up. “She was a very strong-willed person.”

“It sometimes seemed like she had no compassion, but she did. It was always in the most unexpected places, though,” Rachel sighed. “Did she have no friends here?”

She looked around the group, at each face.

“Not really,” Paige said. “In fact, we could not ever remember seeing her with anybody other than her dancers. We were surprised to hear she had a boyfriend. She was such a loner.”

“That makes me sad. It was always the case, I'm afraid,” Rachel said. “And I'd really like to find out who this man is. I mean, I don't care if he's married.... I'll be discreet. I just need to know him. Emily was madly in love with him.”

The room stilled as all the croppers stopped eating and fussing with their computers, looking at Rachel. Half-empty wineglasses sat, half-eaten pumpkin muffins lay on their napkins, and computer keys remained untouched.

“She was a serious child. No matter what we tried, the streak of seriousness never left her.”

Vera felt every word this woman spoke. Was it something about her voice? Something about her?

“Emily was always so . . . sensitive. Strong but sensitive. I never knew her to have a boyfriend, so I'm intrigued. It's funny. . . .” She paused and looked around the table at the scrappers. “I feel closer to her now than I have in years. Now that she's gone. Is it something about this place? That I'm reading her journals? I don't know.”

Vera looked at Annie, whose big brown eyes were shimmering with tears. She looked as if she was caught between crying and ranting. Annie. She certainly was an odd bird.

“I don't know about anybody else,” Annie said, “but I'd love it if you could tell us more about her.”

“I'd love to dear,” Rachel replied after a few moments. “But I'm afraid I've taken up too much of your time . . . away from . . . your scrapbooking. I'll be in touch with you soon.”

And she was out the door before anybody could protest.