Death of an Irish Diva (17 page)

Beatrice finished rinsing the breakfast dishes and placing them in the dishwasher—a new fancy-schmancy one, courtesy of Jon. She didn't really need such a contraption, but he insisted on her having the best of everything. The best according to Jon, that is.

He had gone on his morning walk while the first few men and women of the crew from the Virginia Department of Historic Resources gathered in Beatrice's backyard, discussing operations for the day. Vera and Lizzie had gone to some Mommy and Me program at the library.

When the doorbell rang, Beatrice thought it must be Jon, who always seemed to forget his key. She had always kept the front door unlocked until a few years ago. When she opened the door, she was surprised to find Annie standing there, smiling at her.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Well, don't just stand there. Come in,” Beatrice said, opening the door. “Coffee? I have a fresh pot.”

“That would be awesome, Bea,” Annie said, eyeing the scones and making herself at home at Bea's chrome and turquoise kitchen table.

“Cinnamon,” Beatrice said, setting the coffee in a large mug in front of her. “Have one.”

Annie smiled, leaning forward. “Sure.”

“What's up?” Beatrice said.

“I wonder what you know about genetics,” Annie said.

“Not my specialty,” Beatrice said and took a sip of her coffee. “I mean, I know the basic stuff. That's about it. Why?”

“Well, you know, Emily McGlashen was giving money to this adoption agency in Switzerland that offers ‘genetically pure' children,” Annie said, then took a bite of scone, rolling her eyes. “Heaven,” she said between bites.

Beatrice smiled, then knit her eyebrows. “Did you say ‘genetically pure' children?”

Annie nodded.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Annie shrugged. “I'm guessing you can adopt a child that's purely Irish or Jewish or Polish.”

“Pshaw,” Beatrice said. “Are there any pure people anywhere anymore? I doubt that. Well, if they have people buying babies on that basis, it seems like there's a bunch of suckers out there somewhere.”

“Well, that's what I thought, too,” Annie said. “But there's another side to their operation. A partnership, a lab of some kind.”

Beatrice took a bite of scone and another sip of coffee as she looked at Annie, who was young, beautiful, and smart as a whip. Beatrice loved that she came to her to bounce ideas off. Kept her sharp.

“A lab? Like a . . . research lab?” Beatrice felt the wheels in her brain starting to turn.

“I'm assuming. I've been trying to track down this writer. I spoke to her briefly, but now she's not returning my calls. Anyway, she wrote a little fluff piece on them, and I thought she'd give me more info. Evidently, she had problems with the story. But how freaky is this? The name of the agency and lab is Alicorn, which is the horn of a unicorn—”

“A symbol of purity.” Beatrice finished her sentence and raised an eyebrow.

Just then Jon walked into the house.

“Good to see you remembered your keys,” Beatrice said, smiling up at him.

He smiled back. “Good morning, Annie.” Then to Beatrice, he said, “What is the symbol of purity?”

“The alicorn, which is the horn of a unicorn.”

“Alicorn?” he said. “Hmm, that sounds so familiar. Have I just seen that somewhere?”

“Well, I don't know if you don't know,” Beatrice said, watching his slight figure as he walked to the sink and poured himself a glass of water. The glass clanked gently on the counter. A breeze tugged at her kitchen window curtain.

“You know, there are adoption agencies that specialize in Chinese babies, for example,” Annie went on to Beatrice. “Or Russian babies. But to specialize in genetically pure?”

“And the lab . . . ,” Beatrice said. “Are they creating pure babies? And according to whose definition?”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Genetically pure?” Jon said. “The last time I heard those terms was in connection with the war and Hitler. You weren't pure if you were Jewish.”

“Jon!” Beatrice said.

“It's true, Bea. It's a matter of historic record,” Annie said. “And I think that's why this has freaked me out so much. It certainly smacks of racism.”

“But it all depends on your definition,” Jon said. “If I'm Jewish, I may want a genetically pure Jewish baby. Or if I'm black—”

“We get it, Jon,” Beatrice said.

“For me, the question is, what is the connection between this agency and Emily McGlashen?” Annie said.

“Maybe you should follow the money trail,” Jon said, then leaned down to kiss Beatrice on the cheek. “Well, I'm off to get a shower.”

“He's a bit cheeky this morning,” Beatrice said, grinning.

“He's right, of course,” Annie said. “I've tried to follow the money. The agency refuses to answer my questions. Privacy issues. But the police are working on it.”

“Bryant?” Beatrice said skeptically. “I wouldn't trust that.”

“I think one of the new guys is working on it,” Annie said.

“You should have seen him eyeing Vera the other night,” Beatrice said.

“The new guy?”

“No, Bryant. He came over when she found that weird little ghillie key chain in her purse. It was the night she had her first date with the doctor. Anyway. The man could barely keep his tongue in his mouth. Couldn't put a sentence together. It was kind of funny. Nothing overt.”

Annie's face changed from alert to mystified and sort of fell.

What was that all about?

“Indeed,” was all that she said.

“I've seen ‘genetically pure' used other places, not just in reference to Nazis. Also the NMO. Remember?” Beatrice suddenly said.

“How could I forget?” Annie said, shaking her head as if she were shaking something off, a tick, an emotion. “But I can't seem to find a link . . . unless . . . Emily herself was the link.”

“I'm not following,” Beatrice said.

“I mean, she shows up dead. Murdered. We find out she's been giving money to this agency. And we also find out that she knew Luther, who researched her family before she came here.”

“Well, sounds perfectly logical that there should be a connection. We're missing a thread. And what kind of connection could it be that needed to be severed so badly that Emily McGlashen is killed in such a brutal way?”

“That's the million-dollar question,” said Annie, propping her elbows on the table and dropping her chin into her hand.

It seemed as if the whole town had come out for the first Cumberland Creek Festival of Irish and Old-Time Music. The fact that a coldhearted killer was probably among them did not seem to faze them. Annie held on to Sam's hand, and Mike had Ben. A woman passed by them dressed like a green fairy, wings and all. Annie blinked, and Sam grinned.

They walked by food booths that were selling Irish brown bread and corned beef sandwiches, fish and chips, and oatmeal cookies. Another booth sold some food with cabbage in it, from the scent of it. Annie's boys wanted ice cream, and as they were standing at the booth, someone handed Annie a program. She stuck it in her bag and helped collect the ice cream cones.

They found a bench and perched themselves, listening to Irish music playing in the distance. It was a typical spring day in Cumberland Creek. The sky was bright blue, and dogwoods and cherry trees were in bloom, with their pinks and whites popping. A row of yellow forsythia skirted around the other side of the river.

The main show started in twenty minutes, which was plenty of time for the boys to finish their ice cream. In the meantime a group of young girls dressed in Irish dancing garb gathered at the far end of the park. DeeAnn, Paige, and Sheila walked up just as the boys were finishing their cones. They decided to head over to the amphitheater together so they could all sit around one other. They passed a man selling balloons, and in the distance a beautiful, colorful kite flew in the sky. The boys loved it.

Yes,
Annie thought,
this is the kind of small town life we were opting for.
Maybe it was going to be okay for them. Maybe they would get through the school stuff okay. Maybe moving here was going to turn out to be a good thing.

She looked at Mike, caught his eye, and he smiled at her. God, she loved him. They had been through a lot together. Everything about him said it was going to be okay. He soothed her. She reached for his hand.

She wanted to get this book sent off to the publisher and take a break, work on the garden, spend time with the boys and her husband. Was it just a matter of where she placed her efforts? Rededicating herself, yet again, to her marriage, her family?

“What a gorgeous day,” DeeAnn said and sighed. “Hey, boys, I've got some cookies.”

“Great,” Mike said. “They just had ice cream. They are going to need to run some of that sugar buzz off.”

“That's your problem, not mine,” DeeAnn said good-naturedly. “You want one?”

Mike shrugged and took one. “Okay,” he said and grinned.

The boys thanked her and tucked in.

The band took its place and began to play. The boys just loved it and danced in their seats. Annie smiled.

She pulled out her program to see which band was playing. She then read over the program, where there was a list of sponsors, which included the Reillys, but the main sponsor was Alicorn.
Alicorn? Whoa! What?

What were they doing here?

Annie's eyes scanned the crowd. Usually, corporate sponsors had a booth set up or something to distinguish them.

“I'll be back,” Annie whispered to Mike. DeeAnn followed her.

“What are you doing?” she asked when they were far enough away from the music.

Annie pointed at the program. “This is the name of the adoption agency Emily was sending money to,” she replied quietly. “I thought if I looked around, I might find them. They would surely have a rep here or something.”

“Let's go look over there.” DeeAnn pointed to a group of booths.

Sure enough, there was Alicorn, selling bottled water. Finally, Annie would get to meet a person from the agency in the flesh.

The young woman behind the counter wore a pink cardigan over a white blouse. Her blond hair was pulled back into a long ponytail.

“I'll take a water please,” Annie said and handed her a dollar.

“Here you go.” The woman handed Annie the ice-cold water.

“What is Alicorn?” Annie said.

“We're one of the sponsors of the event.”

“No,” Annie said, twisting off her bottle cap. “What kind of business are you?”

DeeAnn was now standing beside her.

“We're an international adoption agency.” The young woman smiled at Annie. “Can I help you?” She turned to DeeAnn.

“Yes, I'll have a water,” DeeAnn said. “International adoptions, huh? So if I wanted, say, a Chinese baby girl, I could come to you?”

“Certainly,” she said. “If you're interested, our pamphlets are right over there.” She pointed around the corner, and Annie and DeeAnn sauntered over to the stand.

“Isn't it odd that an adoption agency would be here in Cumberland Creek, sponsoring an event?” Annie said, as she picked up some pamphlets.

“Indeed,” came a male voice from behind them. Annie knew the voice, but when she turned around, she was surprised to find Bryant in disguise as a farmer, complete with bib overalls.

“What are you doing here?” she managed to say.

“Same thing you are, I reckon,” he said with a remarkably bad imitation of an Appalachian accent.

“Oh, Bryant,” DeeAnn said. “If my husband heard that accent of yours, he'd pop you one.”

Annie laughed, and Bryant shrugged. “Well, I tried,” he said.

“So what do you know about these people?” Annie said in a low voice to Bryant.

“Not much, really, except that Emily donated money to them and that they are a weird adoption agency of some sort. What the link is, I just don't know, and nobody will tell us. We have some folks working on it. Nothing so far.”

Annie's eyes scanned the pamphlets. Same verbiage as on the Web site. Wait. This was a little different.

Annie waited until the last group of water customers had left the booth. DeeAnn and Bryant were talking about the forsythia.

“Thanks for offering to answer questions,” Annie said to the young woman behind the counter.

“I'd be happy to help, if I can,” the woman said and smiled.

“What does this mean exactly?” Annie pointed to a line in the pamphlet. “Our labs ensure pure genetic heritage.”

The woman frowned momentarily, then smiled pure saccharine. She cleared her throat. “One of our partners is a genetics lab where we test. You know, it's like your friend said. If someone wants a Chinese baby, it just helps to have the genetics test to prove the validity.”

“Odd,” Annie said. “I'd think the fact that they were from China would be enough proof for most people. Wouldn't you?” She tried to sound nonchalant, like a disinterested passerby who had suddenly happened on intriguing information.

“Well, yes,” the woman conceded and looked away briefly. “But it's very important to some of our clients.”

Bryant came up beside Annie.

“So it's just really a marketing thing?”

The woman reached for a handkerchief and patted her forehead, where beads of sweat were forming. It was getting to be a warm day. “Well,” she said, “I suppose you could look at it like that. But that doesn't take away from the importance of it and the validity of it. All our children are genetically tested for all sorts of things. Our clients' peace of mind is always our biggest concern. May I help you?” she asked Bryant.

“Yeah,” he said. “I'll have a water and a baby that's one hundred percent British.”

Annie held her breath, and the woman almost dropped the slippery bottle.

A group of young women approached the booth. They were all pregnant, all fair, and sort of dressed alike, in long denim jumpers with white T-shirts, white tennis shoes, and socks.

Annie looked at DeeAnn, who rolled her eyes.

“What's that about?” Annie said to her as they walked back toward the amphitheater. “A group of pregnant women dressed alike?”

DeeAnn stopped. “Bryant is talking to them.”

“Maybe they met at Lamaze class,” Annie said.

“That many of them? All dressed like that? Weird.”

“And look,” Annie said, lowering her voice. “They are each being given a bag from the sponsors of the event.”

DeeAnn's eyebrows went up. “Now, that is interesting. Could they be having babies for them?”

“You mean like human incubators? Harvesters?”

“Yeah, that's exactly what I mean,” DeeAnn said.

Annie frowned, took a drink of water, but it didn't sit right in her stomach.

“You've been reading too many weird novels,” Annie told her. Or maybe it was herself she was talking to.

Bryant found his way back to them.

“Interesting group of young women,” he said.

“What's their deal?” DeeAnn said. “Why are they all dressed like that?”

“I'm not sure, but they all go to the same church, evidently. And I've seen other women dressed like that who go to that church,” he replied.

“Are they Mennonite?” Annie asked.

“No,” he said. “One of these start-ups. Been around for ten years or so. Think I should check into them?”

“I don't know. I just think it's an odd way to dress,” Annie said and made a mental note to check on the group herself.

“Creepy,” DeeAnn said.