Love Lies Bleeding (5 page)

Chapter Six

F
rank’s next order of business was to contact Olive Rumsey Kingman, Libbie’s friend, assuming she was still alive. The next morning, after waiting for several hours to make sure he wasn’t dragging anyone out of bed, he got right on that.

Grateful that his restraint the night before had left him with a curious lack of a hangover, he settled down at his desk with a cup of his standard swill, two creams, and two sugars. He pulled out the notes he’d taken the previous day and called the number he’d found in the directory at the library. He unwrapped his breakfast sandwich from some fast-food joint while he waited for an answer.

“Hello,” an older woman’s voice murmured.

Praying for someone who wasn’t hard of hearing, senile, or dying, Frank forged ahead with the spiel he had devised.

“Hello, I was trying to reach Olive Rumsey Kingman.”

A cautious pause followed. Then: “This is Olive.”

“Mrs. Kingman, this is Senior Investigator Frank Conley of the New York State Police.”

Frank heard a slight gasp at the other end of the line and continued. “We have reason to believe that we have found the remains of your friend, Elizabeth Morgan. I’d like to come speak to you a bit more about the case, if I may.”

“Oh Libbie…” Olive whispered, her voice fading off. “Mr. Conley, I suppose I came to terms with Libbie being dead years ago. It’s just a shock to hear it said outright like that.”

“I understand. May I come to Watkins Glen and talk to you?”

“Of course. Today, then?”

“Perfect. I had hoped that this afternoon might be good for you. Say, one o’clock?”

“That’s fine. I just made an apple cake. You can come share some with me.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” He set the phone down and finished his breakfast, then penciled in his visit to Watkins Glen on his desk calendar.

After meandering down the scenic yet unending drive west then south on 79, Frank was already tired by the time he got to town. The charming little burg of Watkins Glen sat at the south end of Seneca Lake. Popular among visitors for its quaintness, it was now more famous for its speedway and the surrounding wineries than for the incredible slice of nature in its own backyard. The actual glen after which it was named was a breathtaking fantasyland of gorges and cascades, crisscrossed by manmade bridges that had been constructed in the 1930s. There was no more beautiful spot in the state. Frank had liked it so much that he’d proposed to Allison there years ago, near the Cavern Cascade.

The little houses stair-stepped down steep hills in and around downtown, and Mrs. Kingman’s home was no exception. It had been a cheerful place once. The white clapboard was typical for the area, but the shutters were painted bright blue and pots of violas were still tended with care. A manicured boxwood hedge framed the front. A marmalade tabby on the sidewalk lolled around, enjoying the sun until Frank approached. The cat pussyfooted up to Frank with a plaintive mew, probably craving some Tender Vittles. Frank was not fond of cats. He supposed his visit would be full of the things, if it was anything like going to his mother’s before her hospital admission. Wasn’t that what old ladies did? Collect cats? His mother had lost one or two the last year or so. Walter was the last of her menagerie.

A tiny woman with delicate cottony hair opened the door at his knock, smiling after he showed her his badge. Her eyes still carried a bit of the snap she must have had as a young woman. They were warm and kind, the color of a dark honey, with an atlas’s worth of creases in the corners. She wore a lavender-sprigged housedress and little athletic-styled orthopedic shoes. Holding the door open, she invited him in.

“Hello, Inspector…I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Investigator,” he corrected her. “Conley,” he clarified, “but call me Frank.”

“That’s right,” she said. “Forgive me. Frank it is. And you must call me Olive.” Then, after a moment, she put the pieces together.

“Frank Conley? Are you one of Maude’s boys?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, I’ll be. It certainly is a small world, isn’t it? I adored your mother. How is she these days?”

Afraid he might not be able to confess the truth for fear of breaking down, Frank said she was just fine, albeit with a lump in his throat.

She gestured to a dining chair and took a seat opposite. The dining room was an extension of the living room, compact and small.

“Let me get you a piece of cake,” she said. “Would you like some coffee? I just brewed a new pot.”

“I would love some,” he replied. “May I help you?”

“Of course not,” she said, obviously proud of her independence at her age. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”

She shuffled off to the kitchen in the back of the house, leaving him to get a feel for her. The house seemed full of love and comfort. A huge 1940s-style dark green davenport dominated the north wall, and a pair of green tweed chairs of a lighter shade sat across from it. A hand-knitted afghan in multiple shades of green was slung over a sofa arm. Several occasional tables showing years of wear sat next to the sofa and appeared to have been climbed on by several generations of children and grandchildren. Cabbage roses decorated the draperies on the living room windows, now open to welcome the afternoon sun. A 1970s picture of a cat dangling from a tree branch encouraged, “Hang in there baby, Friday’s coming!” And a framed, cross-stitched version of The Lord’s Prayer hung nearby.

The mantelpiece was full of pictures. An old black-and-white wedding photograph from about nineteen twenty took center stage. The bride was a stunning younger version of the face in front of him, her hair a beautiful pale blond held back with an elaborate headband. Her dress was one of those vintage creations, and she held a huge bouquet of fancy flowers like lily of the valley. Her groom resembled many of the 1930s character actors he’d seen on the late late show, with dark hair, a strong jaw, and eyes of an undistinguishable color.

Near the wedding portrait were photos of children and grandchildren in baby pictures and group shots, in mismatched frames. It was obvious that they were much cherished.

Returning from the kitchen with two small plates of cake, she took a seat at the table. “My husband Arthur died in nineteen seventy-four,” she said in a voice tinged with sadness.

“How many children do you have?” he asked, pointing to one of the photographs that had caught his eye. “You have a very attractive family.”

“Thank you,” she said, smiling. “Five. William, Calvin, Miles, Terry, and Elizabeth. One daughter. I named her after my best friend.”

Frank nodded and returned to the dining chair.

“May I ask who found her?” she said. “Where was she all this time?” She gazed at him with searching eyes.

“A hiker at Buttermilk Falls State Park discovered her. She was buried in a shallow grave near a hollow log.” He paused for a moment, realizing how difficult it had to be to hear that. “Only bones now, you understand.”

“Of course,” she replied. Her voice faded off, and he watched her face as her mind wandered.

“Frank,” she said, then paused. “Is it possible to tell what happened to her?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “It’s been too long. For some cases, such as gunshot wounds, we can sometimes perform ballistic analysis, but I’m afraid we may never know what happened to Libbie. You can try to help me find out as much as we can, though. Who knows what we might discover.”

She thought a moment.

“Libbie was an amazing girl. Everyone in town was in love with her. She was beautiful and she was intelligent, but that said, she could be a terrible spoiled brat at times. She was impetuous, but I loved her all the same. We grew up with each other, and we were good friends. We had planned to go to William Smith’s and study to be nurses together. The war was heating up. Everyone knew we’d be in it before long, despite what President Wilson said.

“Instead, I ended up going to nursing school alone and becoming a nurse during the war and the influenza. I missed her so much during all that. We’d been pals since primary school. Frankly, she wasn’t as enthusiastic about nursing as I was. I think she thought it would make her parents happy.”

“Your father was a professor at Cornell, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, of biology.”

“And what do you remember of my grandparents?”

“Oh, they were wonderful people. I adored them like my own mother and father. They treated me like a daughter too.” She thought a moment. “Frank, do you know where your grandparents lived? The old Morgan house was on Seneca Street—the large gray-blue one near the corner of Seneca and Stewart. That was Libbie’s house when she disappeared. I heard that place cost her father a fortune to build, even back then.”

“I do know it. Wow. Mom never told us that’s where she grew up. That’s an amazing house.”

“Well, your grandfather was quite a man. He supported Libbie and your mother and grandmother in style. Worked his fingers to the bone at the law firm, or so everyone said. He was so respected around town. And he was intent on her marrying well, like another lawyer or a doctor. But then she disappeared, and everything changed.” She paused for a moment, and he pulled out his notebook to make copious notes. “After Libbie disappeared, your grandmother was inconsolable. She became this shell of herself, and I saw it happen. Broke her heart, it did. After she died, your grandfather went off the deep end, drinking more and more. His law partner had to buy out his half of the practice before it went under altogether. It closed for good when Mr. LaBarr died years later.”

“And what about my mother?”

“Your poor mother was a saint. Thrust into the very unfortunate position of having to play babysitter to her father, I’m afraid. And she always looked so sad when I saw her then.”

Frank nodded. He’d heard this part before.

“Now, I know it’s got to be a sore subject, and it’s been covered a lot in the last sixty years or so, but humor me here, as the new guy on the case,” he said.

“You want to know why I lied for her,” Olive said, nodding her head.

“What happened?”

“Well, I had done it before. September seventeenth was a Sunday. I remember the date because there was a big church picnic in Newfield that lots of folks were going to. When she told me she needed to make some plans and her parents couldn’t know, I had one thought.”

“What was that?”

“She had been seeing a couple of fellows. One was very distinguished and oh-so-handsome, the son of her father’s law partner. They were pushing him at her, but she wasn’t sure what to think, she said. We both found him frightfully boring.”

Frank continued his frantic scribbling. As he scrawled more notes, Olive continued.

“But the other was originally from a farm in Newfield. You can imagine how that went over with your grandparents.”

“Not well, I assume.”

“You assume right. Your grandmother met him, but Libbie said she was not impressed. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I covered for her several times. When I asked her why, she wouldn’t tell me. Once, she said they wanted to go to the nickelodeon. You younger folks just call it the movies these days. But back then, we only paid a nickel to get in!”

Frank chuckled for a moment as Olive continued.

“But why did she need me to lie if that’s all it was? She told me we were best friends and that was what friends did for each other. She said that if anyone asked, I was to say she’d been with me. And I’m sure that each of those times, she was with Tom Estabrook.”

“What was he like?”

“He seemed like a nice enough fellow. I mean, I liked him, and he was handsome, but boys like him just didn’t court girls from the Hill like us. He worked in a factory, and we’d been raised to want more than a man with grease on his hands. It wasn’t done. He was very polite and also a bit self-conscious. He didn’t seem to know how good-looking he was. He seemed interested in reading and travel. He made some kind of joke about the weather once, saying he wanted to visit Texas, but he didn’t think he could ever live someplace like that. Too hot. Libbie had him read many of her favorite books, but I think she was disappointed in his scholarship. He was more interested in comics and adventure stories than fine literature.”

“How many times did you have to lie for her?”

“I don’t even know,” she admitted, shaking her head. “Lots. We claimed we were going to meetings about nursing at the college or that we were going shopping or to the nickelodeon. You have no idea how much I regret what I did, Frank. Maybe if I’d been brave enough to stand up to her, she might still be alive. But Libbie had a very strong personality. You simply couldn’t say no to her.” She sighed, obviously tired after telling Frank all this. Her fork shook as she ate her cake.

“Do you know how serious it was with this other boy?” Frank asked, pen poised.

“I can guess. As I said, Libbie could be very impetuous, and I think it got her in a lot of trouble. I saw the sparks. After all, I was with her when she met him.”