Here I Stay (16 page)

"Hey, Reba." Martin went to the door. "Wind's blowing from the south. Shall I bring in the cushions?"

He went out without waiting for an answer, returning with an armload of cushions which he dropped unceremoniously onto the floor.

"I see you two lushes have drunk all the wine," he said, sticking back his damp hair.

"Open another bottle." Andrea spoke promptly, hospitably, but with an internal whimper; the wine was expensive, and every bottle made another dent in the accounts over which she pored so anxiously.

"Not unless you want some. I'll stick to scotch." Martin went to the breakfront Andrea used as a bar. "How about you, Reba?"

"Make it a double."

Andrea thought nothing of it, even when Reba drained half the glass without a pause. Local gossips claimed that Reba could drink any man in town under the table, but Andrea had never seen her the worse for liquor. Nor did she notice at first that Reba's loquacity had deserted her. Martin had plenty to say; he was furious about the latest news from the disarmament conference in Geneva, which appeared to be in a permanent state of paralysis. His diatribes on the intransigence of the United States delegation roused Andrea to impassioned rebuttal. It was not until the thunder moved off and the rain slackened that she remembered her duties as hostess.

"Talk about closed minds," she said. "I might as well argue with that table. Reba, wouldn't you like to see the rest of the house?"

Reba started convulsively. "No. I've got to get back. It's late."

"You've got your staff so well trained they can run the place without you," Martin said. "Relax,
Reba. How about another drink?"

"No." Reba put her glass down on the edge of the table. Martin caught it as it fell, and Reba pushed herself to her feet. Swaying, she pressed her hand to her mouth. Her eyes had a wild, trapped look, like those of a fox encircled by hounds.

"What's the matter?" Andrea asked in alarm.

"You shouldn't mix your booze," Martin said. But the glance he exchanged with Andrea mirrored her concern, and he put a steadying arm around Reba's quivering shoulders.

"Yeah. Guess you're right. Don't feel so hot. Gotta get out of here—"

Brushing him aside, she plunged toward the door. The prisms on the chandelier chimed musically with the reverberation of her footsteps.

The others ran after her, Martin in the lead. The rain had died to a soft drizzle; off to the east a patch of blue showed as the storm passed.

"Will you wait a minute, you bullheaded old goat?" Martin exclaimed, catching Reba by the arm. "Sit down. Or if you want to throw up, there's the railing."

"I have to get back." Reba drew a long, shuddering breath. "Sorry, Andy. I haven't been feeling so good all day..."

"You look better," Andrea said hopefully.

"Sure, sure. I'll be all right. Thanks—I had a good time..."

Seeing that persuasion was unavailing, Martin said, "I'll drive you home."

"You don't have to."

"I know I don't. Give me the keys."

He helped Reba into the car and ran back to where Andrea was standing. "I'll walk back," he said
softly. "Don't expect me till after dinner. And don't worry—it's probably a touch of flu or something."

So far—twice, to be exact—Jim had repaid Andrea's trust by being punctiliously prompt when he had the car out. He raised his record to three for three that day, returning shortly after Reba had left with Martin. "I figured you wouldn't want me on the road when it was raining so hard, so I pulled over till it stopped," he said virtuously.

"That was a wise decision, darling. Anyway, you're not late."

"Hey, look at the fancy food." Jim popped a crab canape into his mouth. "You didn't leave much for me. Who was here?"

"I told you Reba was coming."

"Oh, right. Sorry I missed her. I thought she'd stay longer."

"She got sick. I only hope there's nothing wrong with the food. Maybe you'd better not eat those canapes."

"They taste great," said Jim, who was in a position to know; he had eaten at least one of each variety. "Lighten up, Too-Small; if the food was bad, she wouldn't have got sick so fast."

"That's right, I guess." Andrea forced a smile. "What did you do today?"

"I went to the courthouse, like I said."

"Any luck?"

"Some. I'll tell you later. Where's Martin?"

He'd consider his audience incomplete without Martin, of course. Andrea suppressed the familiar twinge of jealousy and said, "He took Reba home.

I don't think he'll be back until after dinner."

"You sound like you've still got a cold. Want me to cook tonight?"

"No offense intended, but I'm a little tired of hamburgers and spaghetti. There's a casserole in the fridge. We can eat any time."

Jim was always ready to eat. They had an early supper and then he went upstairs, "to get some work done." Andrea didn't inquire further. She had not been able to shake off her cold, probably because she had been working like a Victorian scullery maid; she felt discouraged and extremely sorry for herself. Six guests arriving next day, and no help...She was also worried about Reba.

Because she was anxious, she was on the lookout for Martin; and because he knew she was anxious, she expected him to come directly to her and reassure her. She heard him come in, but instead of coming down the hall toward the kitchen, his footsteps stopped. After a few moments she went in search of him.

He was not in the hall. In order to save electricity, she had adopted the habit of leaving only one light burning, a small lamp on the desk where she kept the visitors' book and a pile of brochures about local sights of interest. Both parlors were dark, and there was no glow of light from the library. Thinking he must have gone upstairs, she was about to follow when she realized there was someone—or something—in the red parlor: a shadow, slightly darker than the dark of the room, a slight, almost imperceptible movement.

"It's only me," Martin said, as she caught her breath. He moved toward her.

"What the hell are you doing? You scared the wits
out of me."

"Nothing. 1—er—uh—"

"Great. Just great. First Reba takes a fit, and then you start creeping around like Fu Manchu. Give me a break, Martin."

"Sorry." Martin scratched his chin, a habit he had when he was worried or involved in profound meditation. He had a heavy beard; the rasp of his nails across the stubble inflamed Andrea's nerves, and she might have said something regrettable if Jim had not appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Is that you, Martin? Are you busy? I've got something to tell you."

"Yes, no, I can hardly wait," Martin replied efficiently. His eyes returned to Andrea and he said, "Reba's fine, if that's what you're uptight about. She ate more dinner than I did."

"Thank God. Why didn't you tell me right away?"

Martin was saved the necessity of a reply by Jim. "Guess what I did today?" he demanded.

"The mind boggles," Martin said. "What?"

"I found out who she was. I found Mary."

"She was born in 1823, the eldest daughter and only surviving child of Franklin Broadhurst, Esquire. Broadhurst bought this place at a bankruptcy sale in 1854—two hundred and seventy acres, a house and outbuildings, and two mills on the stream. The old house must have been torn down when he built this one, which, as we know, he did in 1862. He
owned a lot of other property around the county, almost a thousand acres at one time; but when he died, in 1866, he had nothing to leave his daughter except this house and thirty acres. All the rest had been sold. He also asked for her forgiveness. The will doesn't say whether he got it.

"Mary was forty-three years old. She had been married to a Colonel John Fairfax, C.S.A. He must have died during the war, because in 1866 she was a widow with a little girl, four years old. Her mother had died some years earlier, so she was all alone, and almost broke.

"She didn't look around for a man to take care of her. Instead she turned her home into a boardinghouse—Fairfax's Hotel. She made a living out of it; it was still a going concern when she died in 1900, leaving an even more peculiar will than her father had. The house was to be sold with all its contents. She left one dollar apiece to a long list of cousins so they could buy mourning rings. The rest of the money was divided between her lawyer, a Mr. Wilberforce, and various charities. Leaving him a legacy was a smart move on her part, because he would make damned good and sure the will couldn't be overturned by her cousins, and he would have to carry out the wishes she expressed with regard to her burial. Her tombstone was all ready, except for the date of her death. It, and no other, was to be placed over her grave. She was to be buried in the old Springer cemetery. If those wishes weren't carried out, the lawyer was to be cut out of the will and all her money was to go to the charities. Among these was a home for animals, and the contribution was dependent on the home taking care of her cat, Beelzebub. The lawyer was directed to check
monthly to make sure the animal was being well cared for."

Jim looked up from his notes with the air of a winning runner who expects and deserves the kudos of the crowd. Martin applauded vigorously. Andrea exclaimed, "How do you know all that?"

"It's a long and rather boring story," Jim said, modestly.

They were sitting around the kitchen table while Jim lectured. Notebook open before him, he had delivered his statement with the aplomb of a professional historian, pausing only to refresh himself from the beer can in front of him.

"I want to know how much you made up," Andrea said.

"I didn't make any of it up," Jim said indignantly. "You don't make things up when you're doing research; you put the pieces together into a meaningful whole."

"And a splendid job you've done of it," Martin said, in an effort to smooth Jim's ruffled pride. He was only partially successful.

"It was damned hard work," Jim insisted. "I never did this kind of thing before."

"Darling, I wasn't doubting your word," Andrea said. "I never did this kind of thing either, and I'm
curious."

"Likewise," Martin said.

Jim only wanted to be urged. "It was more interesting than I thought," he admitted. "Like a puzzle—you find a couple of pieces and you think, maybe the next piece I need is shaped this way or that, and then you go looking for it. And sometimes it's shaped the way you figured—what a triumph that is!—but often it's another shape altogether, and
then you've got to rearrange the first pieces to fit it."

"I do not believe I have ever heard a more illuminating description of original research," Martin said gravely.

Jim took the statement literally, and tried to look modest. "Well, see, I was interested in Mary because that setup was so weird—her epitaph and the grave off in the corner, and—well, the whole setup. The problem was, I didn't know her last name or when she was born or died. I couldn't figure out where to start till I talked to that guy at the Historical Association, who told me about the county records. He suggested I should trace the ownership of the house back in time and find out who owned it during the 1800's. Once I got some last names, I could look them up and see if there was a woman named Mary in the family.

"So that's what I did. Every time a piece of property changes hands, the transfer has to be recorded. The documents—wills, deeds, and so on—were copied into big books, which are in the records room at the courthouse. They go back to the seventeen hundreds. The books are called 'libers' and the page numbers are 'folios.' Now, let's say I buy a house from Martin. On the deed it will tell the liber and folio where the county clerk has copied the deed, and also the liber and folio number of the previous transaction. Like, it would say..." He turned the pages of his notebook and read, " 'The same property that was sold to Martin Greenspan on September 15, 1966, by Joe Smith, see liber 10, folio 10.' Then you look at liber 10, folio 10, and get the number of the sale before that one. Do you understand so far?"

His audience nodded respectfully.

"It isn't as easy as it sounds," Jim continued. "For one thing, the libers—the volumes—aren't numbered in order, one, two, three, and like that. They run in series, under the initials of the county clerk. So, depending on how long the guy held the job, there can be seventeen libers of the series ASL and three of the series BD, and so on. There's a master index that gives the chronological order of the series, so if you want a particular year, you check the index and find what series it's in.

"That takes time. Also, the farther back you go, the more casual the records are. They didn't always record the numbers for the previous sale. There are separate indexes for Wills, Deeds, Birth and Death Certificates, and a lot of other things, and the cross-references are hard to find."

He paused for a well-deserved wetting of his whistle.

"Let me see if I have it straight," Martin said. "If the property passed by deed—by a sale—each time, all you have to do is go back to the volume that contains the record of the previous transaction. But suppose the property passes by inheritance. That change of ownership wouldn't be recorded by a deed. Is there a cross-reference to Wills?"

"Sometimes, sometimes not. See, what I did was, I started with Cousin Bertha Webber's will. It was a long-winded piece of legal jargon, but it said she had inherited from her father, so I looked up his will. That was way back in 1937."

Andrea glanced at Martin and saw his face twist in a sour grimace. He was probably in his forties, she thought; he might have been born in 1937, a date lost in the remote mists of time in Jim's view.

Unaware of the distress he had caused, Jim went on. "Her father inherited from his father. Nineteen hundred and two was when he died. Then I was lucky. Not all the older wills tell where the deceased got the property originally, but this one did. Here it is: 'That property known as Springers' Grove, bounded by hmmm, hmmmm, purchased by him from the estate of Mrs. Mary Fairfax, deceased.'

"The name gave me quite a shock, I can tell you. But I couldn't be sure it was our Mary till I'd gone on a little farther. I was able to look up her will, since I now knew her last name, and then I found her dad's will, and then I was sure. Because the old man bought the place from the Springers, and since Mary wasn't a Springer—"

"How do you know that?" Andrea asked. "I thought you said you couldn't read the other name on the tombstone."

"I just..." Jim stopped. "It would take too long to explain. There are some traces left on the stone. They don't fit Springer, but they do fit Fairfax."

"So you worked that long, detailed story up from a couple of wills?" Martin said. "Nice work."

"Death and birth certificates too. Some of it was deductive reasoning," Jim said proudly. "But it's logical. For instance, the fact that Mary's husband was killed during the war. I couldn't find a death certificate for him, but since he was a soldier and she was a widow in 1866—that's how her father's will described her: Mary Fairfax, widow of Colonel John Fairfax, C. S. A.—it's reasonable to assume he died in battle."