Flight Patterns (35 page)

Maisy stood and picked up Becky as if she were a four-year-old, then lifted her on her lap as she sat down in the chair, surprised that Becky didn't protest. Instead, she nestled her head against Maisy's chest as if she were a small child. “I'm here, sweetie. You know that. I'm always here for you to talk to.”

“And Aunt G-Georgia, too?”

“Yes. And Aunt Georgia. We both love you so much, we only want the best for you. But come to me first next time, all right?”

“Because you're my mama?”

Something squeezed inside Maisy's neck, and she had to swallow twice before she could speak. “Yes. Because I'm your mama.”

Becky was silent for a while. “I f-found the soup cup. It was in B-Birdie's drawer and I d-didn't want to g-get in trouble for snooping.”

Maisy rested her chin on Becky's head, smelling the baby shampoo that would probably be replaced soon with something more sophisticated, and she found herself missing it already. “Why didn't you tell me?” Maisy asked, finally giving up on her resolve to be a better listener and not interfere.

“Because you were b-busy with school and G-Grandpa. And you d-didn't believe me when I t-told you Birdie talks to me.”

“Becky? Are you up there?”

It was Lyle's voice, calling up from the foyer.

“We're in Birdie's room,” Maisy called. Becky quickly scooted off Maisy's lap, as if she were afraid to be caught acting like a child.

Maisy stood, too, and had the absurd notion of borrowing one of Birdie's lipsticks before Lyle reached the doorway.

“Daddy!” Becky ran to her father with outstretched arms, just as she'd done ever since she could walk.

He lifted her with a bear hug and pretended to clutch his back after putting her down on the ground. “I think all that tennis has been building muscles. I felt like I was lifting a ten-foot alligator!”

Becky dimpled, her mood taking an abrupt about-face. “Really?”

Lyle put a serious expression on his face and nodded. “Really.” He looked over Becky's head. “Hello, Maisy.”

The blood in her veins betrayed her again by rushing to her heart and head, despite her best efforts to remain neutral in his presence. They hadn't really spoken to each other since she'd let him know that she wasn't planning on attending the honey festival. He hadn't argued with her, which somehow made her feel worse.

“Did you need something?” she asked, trying to get control of the situation.

Ignoring her cue, he took a step forward, wearing what she called his “dangerous” look. The kind of expression he used when he
had ideas about how to spend an evening together with her. “Do I need a reason to visit my wife and daughter?”

Before she could point out that she wasn't really his wife anymore, he stopped her. “Save it, Maisy. I actually have news to share with you. It's about the man in the truck.”

Becky's eyes were wide; she was listening to every word.

Maisy looked pointedly at their daughter. “I think this would be the perfect time to start cleaning out your closet, young lady. Stack all of your winter clothes that don't fit into a pile to get started. I'll join you in a minute.” Maisy crossed her arms over her chest to show she meant business.

“But . . .”

A stern look from Lyle stopped her protest. Like a condemned prisoner being led to the gallows, Becky moved as slowly as possible, dragging her bare feet hard enough that Maisy thought she'd draw splinters from the hardwood floor.

Maisy peered out the door to make sure Becky had gone to her room, then stayed where she was in the doorway. She told herself it was to keep an eye on Becky, but realized it also gave her an easy escape if she needed it.

“So, what's the news?” she asked, keeping her voice calm. Because no matter how she tried not to, every time she saw Lyle she remembered what he'd said.
I still love you, Maisy.

“Well, they were able to analyze the honey found in the knapsack inside the truck. It was pretty deteriorated, but they determined with some certainty traces of lavender.”

“Lavender?” Maisy frowned.

“Yeah. Ricky called the current president of the Florida Beekeepers Association and asked him if he knew of any beekeepers who had bees near lavender fields in the fifties, but he wasn't much help. Maybe you can ask Ned yourself. You'd probably get more from him than Ricky or I could.”

“I can try. Although Georgia seems to be a lot better at talking to him.”

“Yes, well, she's not here, is she?” He moved over to Birdie's dresser and began straightening the tubes and bottles even though they didn't need to be. He always fiddled with his hands when he was working out how to say something the listener didn't want to hear, and it made Maisy nervous.

“There's another thing, too. How tall do you think your grandfather is? He's a little stooped now because of his age, but how tall do you think he was when you were a kid?”

Maisy smiled involuntarily, remembering the first time Lyle had come to the house to pick her up for a date and met Birdie and Grandpa for the first time. She'd been crazy in love with him already, and it had been so important that everybody like him. She could almost picture him now, standing in the foyer and shaking her grandfather's hand as they took each other's measure. Could see them standing side by side. “When you were sixteen, you and Grandpa were the same height.”

He tilted his head and smiled, and she knew he was remembering, too. “I've been six foot three since I was fifteen.” His face grew serious again. “The man in the truck was found in the driver's seat. The coroner's report says he was about five-six. But the seat was pushed back so that a much taller man could fit behind the wheel.”

It felt as if strong fingers were pressed against Maisy's windpipe, making it hard to breathe. “What are you saying?”

“Nothing yet. And remember that you didn't hear anything from me. Everything so far is just pure conjecture. It's especially difficult when an exact cause of death can't be determined with just badly deteriorated skeletal remains. All we know for sure is that there doesn't seem to be any external trauma.”

“So the man could have died from natural causes?”

“We can't rule that out. But there are dozens of ways for a man to die that don't leave a mark.”

“So we might never know.”

He looked at her with his cop eyes, and Maisy had to remind herself that they were on the same side. She was about to ask him what was supposed to happen next when her gaze fell on the closet door behind him.

“Hang on a minute. I just want to check something out before Birdie returns.”

Lyle followed her into the closet, and held back a rack of clothing so she could reach into the corner and pull out the old suitcase. It was small, much smaller than the American Tourister she'd been given as a college graduation present from her grandfather and still used. Maisy carried it into the bedroom and placed it on the bed. With a questioning look from Lyle, she popped open the two clasps on the side, then pulled it open.

The inside lining was a faded yellow material that was burnished like worn silk. Maisy studied the empty compartment with disappointment.

“What did you expect to find?” Lyle asked.

“I don't know. Birdie's talking now, really talking, according to Becky, and she told Becky that there had been something in the suitcase that she needed to find.”

“This suitcase?”

Maisy shrugged, reminding her of Becky. “Who knows? This is the only suitcase I could think of.” She leaned over to close the lid, but Lyle put a hand on her arm. “There are side compartments. Did you check them?”

Maisy shook her head, then stood back while Lyle ran his fingers around all four sides of the case, neatly hidden in the lining so that they weren't easily seen unless you knew they were there, or you were a trained policeman. Not finding anything in the sides, he continued on to the top half, where a long elastic pouch—presumably for shoes—was hung. He put his hand inside, raising his eyebrows as his fingers touched something Maisy couldn't see.

She watched as he withdrew his hand from the suitcase, a small round wad of what looked like a faded ivory linen napkin held in his palm. He laid it on the bedspread next to the suitcase, then carefully unfolded each corner of the napkin.

“What is it?” Lyle asked as Maisy reached over and plucked the object out of the napkin.

“It's a lid. To a porcelain coffeepot. Or teapot.” She traced her fingers around the china honeybee perched at the top, the familiar pattern of bees in flight chasing one another around the edge of the lid.

“It's the same as the soup cup, isn't it?” he asked.

Maisy nodded, a sick feeling growing in her stomach. “I don't understand what any of this means.” She met Lyle's eyes above the lid. “And the more I learn, the less I want to know.”

“You should probably tell Georgia about the truck, and the honey. And this,” he said, indicating the piece of china held gingerly in her hand as if it were poison.

“Why?” It's not that she didn't know the answer. She didn't want to be the first person to call, but if Lyle said she should, then she'd have a reason.

“Because there's a dead man in your grandfather's truck, and all evidence is pointing at his having something to do with it. I think she needs to know. And somehow this china is connected. I just can't figure out how. Yet.”

Maisy carefully rewrapped the lid, avoiding Lyle's eyes. “I'll text her. I guess I've grown used to doing everything on my own.”

“You've always had me,” he said quietly.

As if she hadn't heard him, she placed the lid in her pocket, then replaced the suitcase in the closet. “I've got to go help Becky. And then I'll send a text to Georgia.”

He tipped an imaginary hat in her direction. “You know how to reach me if you need me.”

She nodded, forcing herself to look out the window so she couldn't watch him leave. Glancing down at the apiary, she saw that Birdie was gone, and Grandpa had left his chair to stand closer to the last bee box on the left. He reached out his good arm and touched the bottom section, seemed to push on it as if to determine its strength and weight. Then he leaned his entire length against the side, as if trying to topple it over. She held her breath, noticing that he stood in front of the hive entrance, something he'd taught her not to do because the bees found it threatening.

He flinched and took a step back, and Maisy realized he'd been stung. She watched as he straightened, then made his slow exit from the apiary, his back to the boxes. She studied his face as he got closer to the house, trying to decipher his expression. When he was halfway to the house he stopped and looked up at the window. Maisy took an involuntary step backward, holding her breath as if she'd just been discovered doing something she shouldn't have. She closed her eyes and waited for her heartbeat to return to normal, and then just as suddenly it thrummed to life again as she realized what she'd seen on her grandfather's face. It had been grief.

Bees do not see themselves as individuals. When bees run low on food, they don't separate into groups to fight over it; nor will a group split from the rest trying to preserve the queen. Instead they will continue to divide the food until it is gone and together they will all die.

—NED BLOODWORTH'S BEEKEEPER'S JOURNAL

Georgia

I
sat at my desk trying to assemble the ten or so pieces of a Delft vase to see if there was enough remaining to restore it. I knew several professional restorers who could make it look like new and preserve some of the value, if only I had most, if not all, of the largest pieces.

My phone rang with the generic tone that had come with it. Jeannie kept asking me to let her buy a ringtone for me and install it, but I'd been successful so far in keeping her away from it. Her ringtone, “I'm Too Sexy,” was a testament to her taste, and if she chose something I didn't like, I doubted I'd be able to figure out how to change it, and I'd be too embarrassed to ask for help.

The phone was facedown so I couldn't see who was calling, but the noise and vibration were enough to completely distract me from what I'd been doing. Despite having an easy way to communicate with Becky, I was already regretting getting a phone. Now that it was
generally known that I had one, people at the office had been sharing my number indiscriminately, which meant it buzzed and binged all day long. I answered most calls, but returned texts only to Becky, since I knew she wouldn't be judgmental about my lack of abbreviations and smiley faces.

I flipped it over and saw a number I didn't recognize with a 203 area code. Assuming it was another client who'd been given my number, I answered it.

“Georgia Chambers.”

“Hello, Georgia. I apologize for bothering you at work, but I just couldn't wait to call you. It's Caroline. James's sister.”

It took me a moment to compose myself. “Yes, of course. I recognize your voice. It's good to hear from you. How are you?”

An ear-piercing scream from a small child followed by the sharp bark of a dog sounded in the background. “Oh, the usual. I'm considering entering a convent just so I can get some peace and quiet. Except I'm assuming one has to be Catholic for that. Although it might be worth converting.”

I smiled, picturing her beautiful face peering out from a nun's habit. “School starts in three months, right?”

“I've always liked people who can look far enough ahead to see a rainbow on the horizon.”

I wasn't sure I agreed, but I let it pass. “Is this about your valuation? I don't know why it's taken me so long, but if you're in a hurry I will drop everything else. . . .”

“No, Georgia. Please don't worry about it. We haven't even put Grandmother's house on the market yet—there is simply so much to clean up and inventory. Just get to it when you can. Although what I'm calling about is actually related.”

I held my breath. Maisy had sent me a text the week before telling me about the honey found in the truck containing lavender, and the lingering question regarding the height of the man and the position of the seat. It was the one time I was grateful for my cell phone, and how it had alleviated the need to speak with Maisy. She'd also texted me the
photo of the china lid she'd found in Birdie's suitcase. I'd held on to all the information, unable to process it. Unable to figure out what I needed to do next. Because that would mean I would need to feel again, after I'd spent nearly a decade trying not to. It would also mean that Maisy and I would have to become allies again, a team. I just wasn't sure either one of us was ready for that, or if we ever would be.

“I just spoke with that wonderful librarian at the Apalachicola library.”

“Miss Caty,” I said. She'd been on vacation when I'd called, and I'd hung up without leaving a message, feeling relieved. And guilty. That had been more than a week before, and I'd yet to call back, each day distancing me further from a story that could only bring me back to a place to which I didn't want to return.

“She's very helpful. We have some wonderful research librarians here, but I remembered that Miss Caty was the one who unearthed the database with the account ledgers for the Beaulieu estate online, so I figured I'd call her first to see what she could come up with.”

The summer storm that had been teasing the sky all day now crackled outside my window, and I imagined the dark shelf clouds hovering over the gulf like a vulture. “Come up with what?”

“I couldn't leave things the way we left them. Especially with all the loose ends about the origins of the china, and a possible connection with your family. Not to mention that James and I never had the chance to give you a proper good-bye. I really enjoyed meeting you, and I know both James and I would hate it if we didn't stay in touch. Hold on a moment.”

Her voice was muffled, as if she were holding a hand over the mouthpiece. “Alex, your sister's retainer is not a hockey puck. Please go put that back in the bathroom.

“I'm so sorry, Georgia. Anyway, James mentioned that he called you to tell you about Colette Mouton, the little girl who emigrated with our grandmother's family.”

I hoped my voice didn't betray the fact that my cheeks were flushing. I wondered whether he'd mentioned how the phone call
hadn't ended well.
It means that you and I aren't done yet.
“She's been on vacation and I meant to call back, but I guess I got too caught up with my work here and forgot. Did she find anything interesting?”

“Yes, you could say that. Are you sitting down?”

I'd always thought that was just a figure of speech until I remembered the day she'd shown me the pictures of the china pieces in her grandmother's cabinet. “I am.”

“It took some hunting, but it was worth the wait. Hang on a second while I go through my notes. James filled me in on all the loose bits of information so I could see the whole picture. I just have to write everything down so I don't forget anything.” Another screech and bark, this time followed by a loud crash, punctuated her words.

“Do you need to call me back?” I suggested.

“Unless they're bleeding from the eyeballs or have contracted the bubonic plague, the children are fine. Okay, where was I?” The sound of rustling pages filled a worrying silence before she spoke again. “We saw in the ledger that the Beaulieu estate had commissioned what we think is the correct set of china in 1893. Or at least that was the best educated guess from the information we had. Is all of this right so far?”

“Pretty much.” Another page rustled, and I found myself chewing on my thumbnail, something I hadn't done since I was a child, and had started just to annoy Birdie.

“So I asked Miss Caty to see if she could find out anything else in any of her online research resources about the Beaulieu estate. I can't tell you again how lucky you are to have her! She discovered that the Beaulieu family had owned that parcel of land since the sixteenth century apparently, and been good tenants. There was a small château, all ruins now, thanks to the Germans, but a profitable farm for the most part.”

She paused, and I wondered whether this was the definition of a “pregnant pause,” because I could feel her excitement and trepidation pulsating in the silence. “One of their major crops was lavender.”

I sat up. “Lavender?”

“Yes. And there's more.”

I stood, needing to walk around, to expend the energy pulsing at
my temples and hold back the panic that pushed through my veins like blood. “Go on.”

“She couldn't find a census, but in the same place she found that ledger with the estate's finances, she found an employee payroll list. And there, right in the middle, written very clearly and legibly, was the name Giles Mouton.”

“Giles Mouton,” I repeated, rolling the sound of it on my tongue, testing it to see whether it sounded familiar. “Who was he? Does it say?”

“It does.” Another pregnant pause. “He was the beekeeper for the estate.”

I had to lean against my desk, remind myself to breathe. “The beekeeper?”

“Yes. And when I asked Miss Caty to look a little deeper, she found that at least from the eighteen forties until the early nineteen forties, when most of the records were destroyed by fire during the war, the Mouton family were the beekeepers on the Beaulieu estate.”

I focused on taking a deep breath, my shallow breathing making me light-headed. “Did she find a connection between the Moutons and the china?”

“Not that we could determine so far. But there's something else.”

I found my chair again and sat. “I'm sitting down. Go ahead.”

“The family—the Beaulieus—evacuated in 1943, but left their personal correspondence at the local cathedral for safekeeping, where they were hidden in a room beneath the narthex. Which was a good thing, since the château burned down in 1945.

“The documents survived and were discovered twenty years ago. The most recent—since 1900—have been saved digitally, making them accessible online. Miss Caty found a tax document from the estate from 1940, which is almost as good as a census report, since it lists the names and ages of the adults and children who lived and worked on the estate.”

I had to move my phone to my other ear, afraid it would slip from my damp palm. “What did she find?”

“Two names: Giles Mouton, widower. And his infant daughter, Colette.”

I frowned, remembering something she'd said earlier. “Isn't Colette supposed to be a relative? An orphan traveling with your grandmother's family?”

“That was on the emigration papers. But Elizabeth's genealogy research shows no connection. Yvette must have known Colette was an orphan and taken her with them when they went to Switzerland, and then on to America.”

“But why would they have lied?” I closed my eyes, something I'd learned long ago helped me focus, something about restricting visual stimuli. Yet the bright colors of painted bees flashed against the blackness on the inside of my eyelids.

“I don't know. But there's more.”

Her voice cracked on the final word and I braced myself.

“Caty tried to track Giles past 1940, but he seems to have vanished off the face of the earth sometime between then and the end of the war in 1945. I did my own research about the region during that time period—called the free zone at the time—and found that although it had been relatively unscathed when under the protection of the French Vichy government, when it fell in 1943 the Germans and Italians marched into the south of France. You can only imagine what happened then.”

“No,” I said softly. “I don't think I can.” I rubbed my face, no closer to understanding all the connections than I'd been before I'd left Apalachicola. “So if this is the same Colette and she emigrated with your family, what happened to her after she moved to America?”

I heard the sound of paper rustling again. “Within a year of arriving, our great-grandmother got very sick—it might have been cancer; it's not clear. But our grandmother Adeline had to go to work to help support their large family, and three of the youngest children were sent to live with other families. Colette was one of them.”

“And now? Where is she now?”

“Elizabeth was able to trace the other two children. She's even been in contact with their descendants. But there was no trace of Colette.”

I was silent for a moment, trying to let the thoughts whirring in
my brain settle into some recognizable pattern. “But how did your grandmother come to be in possession of the Beaulieu estate's china?”

There was a pause, and I pictured her delicate eyebrows knitting together as she sifted through words before choosing the correct ones. “I thought the same thing. I'm guessing they took it for safekeeping, to protect it after Giles and Colette left their home. And my next question was how your family came into possession of a single soup cup.”

There was a long silence as she waited for me to speak. “And a lid.”

“A lid?”

“To a coffeepot or teapot. Maisy found it in an old suitcase in my mother's closet. It was wrapped separately, perhaps to keep it from breaking or from knocking against the actual pot.” My eyes drifted to the Limoges catalogs still stacked at the back of my desk. They'd sat there, untouched, since I'd returned from Apalach. “Hang on a second, and I can tell you which one.”

I pulled out the one on top—the pattern identification guide that I couldn't look at without remembering James's long fingers flipping through the pages—and opened it to the section of blank identification. I quickly found blank number eleven and ran my index finger over all the different pieces and shapes until I found what I was looking for. I took the phone from my ear and, after a long moment of opening up the wrong apps, I found the photo album and the photo of the lid.