Love Lies Bleeding (7 page)

“Plans? Why, to work hard at the factory and earn a pension. Someday, I’ll marry and have children.” He looked over at her to see if he had misread her question, wondering what plans she meant. “Aren’t those the plans of every man? To work hard, marry, and have children?”

“No attending college or furthering your education?” she said, somewhat disappointed.

“Oh,” he said. “I’m afraid not. My parents are both dead. I haven’t the funds for such an endeavor.”

Hi noticed the clock on the wall and realized the ride home that still awaited him after his tasty plate of lake trout. He wiped his lips a final time and placed a few coins next to his plate. Then he stood to begin his departure.

“I must make my apologies, ladies, as I must be returning home. My father agreed to take over the milking this afternoon, but I don’t want to push my luck.” He grinned and shrugged with regret. The others also placed bills on the table and wished Birdie a pleasant afternoon.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gordon,” Olive offered, extending her hand.

“Me, too,” he said, grasping it. Then, realizing that didn’t sound quite right, he restated, “I mean, I enjoyed meeting you too.”

Libbie and Tom had risen from their seats, yet stood mute, gazing at each other. Screwing up his courage, Tom at last asked, “May I call on you, Miss Morgan?”

“Of course,” she said, breaking into a winning smile, “My house is on Seneca Street. The blue one almost at the corner of Stewart.”

No one noticed the red-haired fellow outside the window nursing a newfound jealousy, as taken with the dark-haired beauty as Tom was. He watched the couples rise from their table and say their goodbyes. Then the girls took their leave, Libbie checking back over her shoulder at Tom as she and Olive continued down the broad avenue.

“Hey, there’s Jimmy,” Hi said, slapping him on the back. “You missed lunch, ole pal.”

Jimmy cursed his luck, as one of the other boys might have covered his meal. He sure was getting tired of undercooked squirrel.

“Who’s that?” Jimmy said, watching the girls in the distance.

“That’s Miss Libbie Morgan and her friend Miss Olive Rumsey,” Hi said. “The reverend introduced us.”

Jimmy cursed even further under his breath. His attempt to buy on credit had failed, and he had missed meeting a real sweet chippy. He watched the dark-haired girl stroll past a dress shop and licked his lips, realizing his mouth had gone dry. The swaying of her hips under the skirt was damned near mesmerizing. He helped Hi gather their team together and ready the buckboard for heading home, and they said their goodbyes to Tom.

When Tom glanced back over at the reverend through the café window, he was still writing. He wore a slight smirk and looked very pleased with himself.

Chapter Eight

“T
hey seem to be nice fellows, if a bit common,” Olive commented as they continued their stroll down Green Street.

“Olive Rumsey, you’re a snob,” Libbie replied, laughing.

“I am not,” Olive protested. “I’m just practical. Can you imagine what your father would say if a farmer wanted to court you?”

Libbie bit her lip and remained silent, as that was just what was on her mind.

“Libbie?” Olive prompted.

“All right, all right!” Libbie said, impatient to change the subject.

Farther down the street, they encountered a brass band playing for the gathering public as they window-shopped.

“Ooh! I adore this song, Olive,” Libbie squealed. “Let’s stop.”

Heedless of the stares of shoppers gathered round her, she sang out in a clear voice, “I wonder who’s kissing her now. I wonder who’s teaching her how….” Libbie took Olive’s hands and performed an impromptu waltz on the sidewalk, to the snickers and applause of the onlookers. After the band concluded the song, Libbie took a bow. The girls continued their walk and browsed the latest fashions at Eleanor’s Dress Shop.

“I like this blue one.” Libbie pointed. “See how they’ve gathered the bodice right here? Mary Pickford had a bodice like that in the flicker we saw the other day. Isn’t it becoming?”

“It is, rather,” said Olive, more focused on the green one next to it. “We should be going, though. Mother will expect me soon.”

Ahead of them on Green Street, some young hooligans cavorted down the sidewalk, annoying shopkeepers and unnerving a few nearby matrons. One took her cane and shook it at them.

“There’s that awful Peter Van Riper,” Libbie said, wrinkling her nose when she recognized one of the ruffians.

The problem was, Peter’s father was a judge and the family had money to burn, so his father merely paid off those he offended in word and deed. So he did whatever he wanted. DeWitt had mentioned him once as a possible match for her, but Libbie had put her foot down and told her father in no uncertain terms that Peter Van Riper would never come calling for her. And if he did, the attention would never be returned.

“I’ll have the law on you!” At the stationers, Mr. Weatherby shook his fist at the boys, then re-extended the awning they had caused to drop with a thud.

“Good afternoon, girls,” he said, mopping perspiration from his bald pate with exasperation.

As they greeted him in unison, Libbie realized she needed to pick up some paper. “Let’s pop in for a moment,” she said to Olive.

“What can I do for you?” Mr. Weatherby asked, holding the door open for them before returning to his place behind the counter.

Weatherby Stationers was such a comforting place to Libbie. She loved the smell of the ink and paper and sealing wax and the small occasional books that the store carried.

“I’d like some more of that monogrammed note paper, Mr. Weatherby. You know, the thick ivory card stock I bought before,” Libbie said.

“Already? Why, you purchased ten sheets just last week! Writing lots of notes, are we?” he chuckled.

“It’s summer, Mr. Weatherby. I’m a graduate now!” She puffed out her chest with pride. “Lots of thank you notes to write, you see.”

“Ah, so you are, Miss Morgan! How silly of me. Congratulations. And to you too, Miss Rumsey,” he said, nodding to Olive as well. “Do you ladies have any plans to continue your studies?” he asked, counting out several sheets of the thick, pebbled stock with a cursive E displayed in a silky maroon flourish. Years ago, it would have been unheard of to even ask, but so many of the young ladies were pursuing educations nowadays. Mr. Weatherby had read with great interest about the ladies’ meeting in Seneca Falls and was intrigued by the suffragettes, rather than horrified, as so many men were. He hoped that fool, President Wilson, would see that the ladies should have just as much of a voice in their government as the men folk did.

“We’re considering William Smith’s,” Olive said with obvious pride.

“Aah, Geneva,” he said, nodding. “A scenic area, to be sure. I have an aunt near there. Need to pay her a visit… I could get some trout fishing in, too. You’d get a view of a different lake for a change. Is it to be teaching? Nursing? Secretarial?”

“Nursing, we think,” Libbie replied, looking over at Olive. “Everyone’s talking about the war. They need more nurses now than ever. And it might mean a trip to Europe. Right, Olive?”

“Nursing sounds like a wonderful vocation,” Olive said. “I’d love to be able to help people. Heal them and make them well.”

Mr. Weatherby nodded his approval and placed a small piece of cardboard in the little sack to keep the paper from getting wrinkled, then accepted the coins Libbie offered him.

Shutting the register, he bade them a pleasant afternoon.

The girls said their goodbyes to Mr. Weatherby and stepped back into the sunshine. The hooligans were still in sight ahead of them down the block, roughhousing and creating a ruckus.

Olive saw something flutter out of one’s pocket and began to speak up, but Libbie held her back.

“Serves him right if he loses something important,” she said.

Olive grinned. “Libbie, you’re wicked!” As the girls approached the fallen item, she scampered ahead a bit and picked it up.

She glanced at it, then looked back at Libbie. All the color had drained from her face. She held out the offending object to her friend, as if it were a nasty species of vermin.

Libbie took it with some hesitation, unsure what to expect. On a small sepia-toned postcard was printed a photo of a woman in a seductive pose, nude except for a sheer gown and a string of pearls she clutched to one breast. She lay on bedding of satin, and her lips were parted in a beckoning smile. Masses of curls floated over a shoulder.

“Throw it away! Throw it away!” Olive whispered in a frantic voice, looking around them.

But Libbie continued to stare at the picture. “She’s a soiled dove,” she said, analyzing it. Her eyes followed the pale, sensuous curves and the diaphanous silky peignoir hanging open to reveal her lush womanhood. Libbie gulped as she turned the card over, and they recognized a few words from their French class.

“French?” Olive asked.

“I think Peter’s brother Nelson was in the foreign legion,” Libbie offered. “He must have bought it overseas somewhere.”

“Please, Libbie,” Olive pleaded, whispering. “Someone will see us! Throw it away!”

Realizing her friend was right, Libbie glanced around her and tucked the photograph into her sack of stationery.

“What are you doing?” Olive croaked, the look on her face one of horror.

“I’m keeping it,” Libbie announced with a tone of finality.

Olive hung her head.

Libbie didn’t even know herself what had caused her to pick up and save the picture. The one thing she did know was that when she first gazed at it, she felt like one of the street lamps on State Street when the lamplighter made his rounds. She felt a warm glow radiate from her midsection. Unsure of what the feeling was, she nonetheless planned on studying it more. In private.

Chapter Nine

Watkins Glen, New York
June 1986

“
I
don’t know what got into her,” Olive said, taking a sip of her coffee. “I mean, nowadays, you’d think that’s pretty tame, with all your
Playboy
and
Penthouse
and what have you. I mean, I had sons, for goodness’ sake. I know what’s out there. I’m not that much of a dinosaur.” She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. Frank had to fight not to laugh. “But for two respectable young ladies, just out of school, that was the most scandalous thing I’d ever seen. For her to pick up that postcard and keep it was unheard of.”

“So then what happened?” he asked, enjoying a bite of his cake.

She paused for a moment. “Oh dear, I’ve lost my train of thought.” She gazed into the distance. “Oh, yes, I remember now. I was going to tell you more about Stephen LaBarr. Obviously, Libbie’s father loved him, since it would keep the firm in the family. He was grooming Stephen for partner and son-in-law. And I’m sure he was picturing the sons they would have as well. Libbie thought that he was dull as dirt and that he was just like her father. Stephen talked about cases or legal mumbo-jumbo and that was it. She tried discussing books she liked, or music, or some of the other activities she enjoyed, and he was just stuck in boring old law books all the time. He was only two years older than we were, but he acted like a fuddy-duddy twice his age. She knew she would have to marry him down the road, but I think she wanted to have some fun while we were still young and unmarried. We were planning on attending Smith’s and then sailing over to Europe as nurses, so it’s not like she was ready for marriage right away anyway.”

She paused to take a sip of her coffee before continuing. “Frankly, I wondered about Libbie’s dedication to nursing. She seemed more concerned about seeing Europe, even though much of it was in ruins. To me, she didn’t seem serious about caring for injured soldiers.

“But then again, not long before her death, Libbie asked me if my father had a biology textbook she might be able to borrow. She told me she wanted to study the anatomical portions to help her learn about nursing. I thought maybe she was turning over a new leaf. She always loved learning about new things, and she was always educating herself. She loved books. It wasn’t long before she disappeared…she’d bought a new one. It was called
The
Spoon River Anthology
. I can’t recall who wrote it. She loved that book. It was something I never would have picked up. She showed it to me once, and it depressed me. It was just dead people saying what had happened to them. Epitaphs seemed a bit dreary to me. I liked things like
Pollyanna
, or
Anne of Green Gables
, or perhaps
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
. Libbie questioned things. She enjoyed reading stuff that most women didn’t enjoy. And she loved poetry. She liked that Vachel Lindsay fellow. And Sara Teasdale.” She took a bite of cake and thought for a moment.

“Now let me think of something else that might help you, Frank. Stephen LaBarr went on to become a senator from New York. Served until the nineteen forties or fifties, I believe. I don’t know that he ever spoke about Libbie, but he may still be alive. Lived up in Buffalo somewhere, I heard. He’s probably in one of those reference books they have at the library. You know…legislators of New York State or something like that? I don’t know what his health is like, but it might be worth a phone call or a visit. You’d probably have better resources for finding out his personal information, being a policeman and all.”

Frank nodded and added the information about Stephen LaBarr to his notebook.

She took another sip. “Do you have any photos of your aunt, Frank?”

When he shook his head, she continued. “I do, if you want to see one,” she said.

“I’d like that,” Frank said. “My mother never showed me anything. The historian in Ithaca just had an old newspaper picture of her.”

She crossed the living room to an occasional table and returned carrying an old leather album with metal corners. “Photographs” was stitched in elaborate script on the front.

She opened it to several pages in, and there was a large picture of Libbie from the waist up, in a white shirtwaist and elaborate straw hat adorned with ribbons and flowers. Around her neck was the very locket that now sat at the morgue. He could see the Morgan resemblance even more clearly in this photo. She was a striking woman, with dark hair, light eyes, and a pretty smile, painted with Cupid’s bow lips.

“This was taken not long before she disappeared,” Olive said, “for our senior year.”

“Olive, do you have any other photographs? Maybe any of her boyfriends?” he asked, not expecting much.

She thought a moment. “You know what? I think I might.” She turned to another page, where a group photo was inserted. “Here. A friend sent this to me several weeks after this church picnic in Newfield took place. Tom went to this on the day that Libbie disappeared, and from what everyone was saying, he was acting normal while he was there. Maybe even happier than usual. This is him right here.” She pointed to a dark-haired young man kneeling at one end of the photo. He wore a white shirt, trousers with suspenders, and a straw boater, along with a small smile.

Pointing to another tall blond boy, she said “This was his best friend, Hiram Gordon, whom I also met.”

Then, she indicated a third boy with a full mop of what looked like might have been red hair and a devilish grin. “Someone told me that this was his other best friend. I forget his name, since I never met him. I think he was with them that day, but he’d had to go back to the saddlery for something. I heard he drowned in Lake Cayuga not long after Libbie disappeared.”

Frank scribbled more in his notebook and decided to ask Russ and Linda how much of this they knew.

Olive continued. “Hiram died in the war. He was at Chateau Thierry. He’d had a more minor wound not long before that and happened to end up at my aid station behind the front lines. We caught up and had a nice chat as I treated his leg. A few weeks after that, he was blown to bits by a German potato masher grenade. I was crushed when I saw his name among the casualties, since he seemed like such a decent fellow. There wasn’t anything left of him to bury, the poor boy.” She tapped Hiram’s face in the picture, as if thinking of something important. “I don’t have any photos of Stephen LaBarr, but I believe they have some old yearbooks at the library there in Ithaca. Sorry to say I never ordered one. He was one year ahead of us at the high school. Perhaps there is one there you could find.”

“You’re right, Olive. I’d forgotten about that. That’s a good suggestion. Could I borrow this so I can have a copy made?” he asked, pointing to the photograph of Libbie.

“I don’t see why not. Everyone needs pictures of their loved ones. Just please return it to me,” she said with an obliging smile.

“Of course,” Frank replied. He was fortunate that the photograph was not held into the album by sticky glue so he was able to maneuver it out of its spot and tuck it into the pocket of his notebook.

“Frank,” she said, “I hope we can figure out what happened to her after all this time.” She clasped his hands in hers. The joints were crooked and swollen with age.

“I’m going to do whatever I can, Olive. I promise you. I appreciate you telling me all this.”

She nodded. “You let me know if there’s anything more I can do to help. Would you like to take some cake with you?”

She saw him to the door of the little house and waved as he put the Crown Vic into gear and glided down the street, a piece of apple cake wrapped in foil on the seat next to him. After visiting Spencer’s Photo when he returned to town, he needed to make some phone calls.

Trumansburg, New York
June 1986

Diana Conley Douglas lived up the road from Ithaca with her husband. When she heard that her brother was trying to solve the case of their long-missing aunt, she invited him up to Trumansburg to see what they could discover together.

Frank loved visiting his sister’s place. He wended his way up 96, which clung to the precarious heights on the west side of Cayuga Lake and stretched inland over rolling hills to reach the village. After passing a collection of farmhouses and small roadside stops that sold gas, bait, and fresh summer produce, he arrived on the town’s Main Street. Nested inside the township of Ulysses, Trumansburg reveled in its history. The village’s first settler had been Abner Treman, whose house still stood there. Over the years, Abner’s descendants had adopted the alternate spelling of Truman, providing the town its moniker. It had seen more than a century of commerce, and Main Street was still a draw for visitors, who browsed in the local shops and lunched in the quirky eateries.

Frank veered off Main at Washington then turned onto McLallen Street, named after another of the original settlers of the town. Diana lived in the old Douglas home, which they’d affectionately named Villa Diana. It was one of the “Seven Sisters,” several classic 1850s-era homes just off Main.

The home was a stunning Italianate, as so many were in this area. Diana and her husband Troy had gone to great pains renovating it, painting it the color of pale lemonade with periwinkle blue shutters and door and vivid green trim. The yard was a work of art, and pots full of two-tone pansies on the porch greeted visitors with cheerful, animated faces.

Diana’s neat, orderly garden reminded Frank of her neat, orderly life. Compared to his own, his sister’s had always seemed tidy and well-organized. Frank respected her for having her shit together. Visiting her was a calming experience. He figured anything that could help ground him right now would be a good thing.

Before he could reach for the forged knocker, Diana opened the ornate carved door and welcomed him with a big hug. In her hand, she held her gardening gloves.

“Hi, sweetie. Excuse my mess. I’ve been out weeding,” she said, giving him a quick peck. “Troy just made some iced tea. Can I fix you a glass?”

“I’d love some,” he said. “Thanks, sis.”

“I’ll be right there. Let me clean up a bit.” He heard her retreat into the ground floor guest bathroom and run the water in the sink.

Frank took a seat on the Arts and Crafts sofa in the living room and gazed around him at the tasteful furnishings that Diana and her husband had collected for the old place. Many of them had belonged to their grandparents. He walked to the rogue’s gallery hanging on the stair-stepped wall beneath the grand staircase. It felt like he was observing the pictures for the first time.

His mother was in the center photograph. And now that he’d seen Libbie, he noticed the resemblance of both of them to his grandparents. Having slipped away into the kitchen, Diana entered the room with two glasses of tea on a tray. Set alongside were a small bowl of sugar, a plate of lemon wedges, two teaspoons, and a plate of macaroons. She chuckled when she saw him checking out the family pictures.

“You’ve never much cared about those before.”

“Well, things have changed a bit. How’s Mom?”

“I checked in on her this morning for a few hours. She’s scared, but she’s coping. Seth’s spelling me for the day. I needed to relax a little and get my hands dirty.”

Frank smiled. Diana had always escaped through gardening. Even when she was little, she loved flowers and could always be found in the backyard, digging and planting. She set the tray down on the coffee table, spooned sugar into her glass and stirred. Then she took a cookie. Frank returned to the sofa and sat opposite her, mixing a decent amount of sugar and lemon into his tea. Watching his sister, he could almost imagine Libbie sitting across from him. Diana was a handsome woman in her late fifties and had once had the same shiny black hair as her mother and her aunt. Now it was graying, with a dramatic streak stretching from her hairline back into her curls. Her eyes were a deeper blue than most, almost navy. She wore a plain white T-shirt topped with a chambray work shirt, jeans, and socks. Her muddy Wellington boots had been removed and sat near the front door.

“So… Aunt Libbie. I just wanted to pick your brain. Anything Mom might have told you about her? You were always closer to her than me. Daughters always are.”

Diana chuckled. “You’ve got a point. I remember you and Seth were in the middle of your jerky junior high phases, and I really wanted a sister. That was when Mom told me about Libbie.” She took a sip of her tea.

“I knew you’d be good to talk to about this,” Frank said.

“You said they’ve found a body after all this time?” She shuddered.

“Well, they found bones. It has been seventy years,” Frank clarified.

“To hear Mom tell it, her parents were pretty stuffy. Grandma was from dignified Connecticut stock, and they didn’t show a lot of emotion. She was a good mother; she just wasn’t very warm, I guess. And Granddad…well, you know we’re related to the Morgans. Yes, those Morgans,” she laughed. “I got the feeling from Mom that Libbie was always their favorite. And Granddad wasn’t very good at hiding it.”

She sighed before continuing. “Mom knew she was second best in that household. She always got good grades and behaved herself, but if she got an A, Libbie got an A plus. If her dress for the church social was pretty, Libbie’s was even prettier. She never knew where she fit in that family. I guess she thought that after Libbie disappeared, she would get a chance to shine and earn her parents’ love at last. Instead, everything fell apart.” She sat back in her chair and let out another sigh.