Olive and Let Die (20 page)

I watched Jack's fine behind and long legs walk out the door of the family lounge. Where we would end up, I didn't know. But for right now I was pretty happy with where we were.

The door suddenly flew open. My heart flew into my throat. Caitlyn. The wandering assistant had finally returned.

NINETEEN

My blood pressure skyrocketed. “Where the hell have you been?” I demanded. She didn't work for me, and she was almost young enough to be my daughter, but I didn't care whether I had the right to yell at her or not.

The girl was visibly upset and she sat down hard in a chair. Her head dropped into her hands. A moment later she looked up, the tears in her big brown eyes magnified by her enormous glasses. If I wasn't angry with her, not to mention suspicious, I would have felt some sympathy. As it was, I just wanted answers. But before I could question her, she asked one of her own.

“She's been shot? Shot?” She was almost hysterical.

Jack came back in at that moment and looked from one of us to the other. He set one bottle of cold water in front of Caitlyn. “Drink,” he ordered. “Georgie and I will share this one.”

I felt an absurd little rush of joy. Sharing a bottle of water
with no cups in sight? That had to be significant for our relationship. My joy didn't last long as anger came rushing back in.

Caitlyn gave what would have been an adorable little hiccup under other circumstances and took a long drink of the water. It seemed to restore her, because she looked up at me. “She sent me out to do some research. I had to go to Watertown, the county seat, to do it. If I'd been with her, this might not have happened.”

I resisted the urge to snort. This petite little hipster with her skinny jeans and black-and-white saddle shoes thought she could have prevented this? What would she have done? Immobilized the killer with her exceptional cool?

“I think it's time you told me what's going on. The truth.” My maternal truth phaser was set to stun.

She looked from me to Jack, then back. She stalled by taking another long sip of the water, then wiping the condensation on her pants. “I can't. She'll kill me. I promised not to tell. Besides, I'm not done with my research anyway.”

“Georgie, can I talk to you for a minute?” Jack motioned me over to a corner.

“Don't say I'm being too hard on her. She and Melanie are in some kind of mess and they've dragged me into it. They owe me answers, and right now she's the only one who can give them.” Caitlyn could probably hear every word I was saying.

Jack rubbed a hand down my arm, leaving a trail of tingles in its wake. “She might not want to talk in front of me, which I understand. If you're sure you're okay, why don't I leave you two alone for a little while. Maybe she'll open
up to you. Then if you don't mind my bachelor's quarters, once we know Melanie's resting comfortably, you can come over and I'll make you dinner.”

If I was in some kind of danger, I didn't want to be alone tonight. Oh, let's face it. I didn't want to be alone ever. Over the last couple of months Jack had given me a glimpse of what life could be like with a real partner. And I liked what I saw.

“That sounds good. I'm dying to find out the extent of your cooking skills. And we still need to put Monty's files back together.”

“Don't worry about that,” he said. “Although I do have to get these boxes to Trish in Albany before she leaves for her field work. She'll just have to live with the mess.”

I didn't want to get off on a bad foot with the sister I'd yet to meet. “No, I want to help. It'll keep my mind off things.”

His hand was still on my arm as he pulled me in for a hug. “I'm so glad I met you,” he said simply.

“Me too,” I whispered. “Call me later.”

He nodded to Caitlyn and left.

I sat myself back down at the table. My Jack-induced warm-fuzzy feeling chilled to the temperature of my lukewarm fish chowder. I put the lids back on the containers and deposited all the trash in the receptacle by the windows. Hopefully this trash got emptied every night because it would be quite fragrant by morning.

“You two are cute,” Caitlyn said.

“Don't try to change the subject. In case you haven't noticed, trouble came to Bonaparte Bay the minute you and Melanie arrived. When was that exactly?”

She chewed her lower lip. “The day before Doreen died. We stayed in Watertown that night. That day, we went to see her.”

Why was I not surprised? My mother had gone to see her cousin before she came to see her own daughter. “And?”

“And what?” The girl was infuriating.

“And why did you go to see her?”

She fiddled with the cap on her water bottle before she answered. “Melanie had some . . . business to discuss with Doreen.”

“Let's cut the crap, Caitlyn. I know about the trust.” Well, not everything. But enough.

She started. “What
do
you know? She'll fire me if I tell you any more.”

“If she dies, you'll be out of a job anyway.”

We both turned as the door to the family lounge opened. Dr. Dinsmore came in, smiling. “She's in recovery and doing fine.”

Both Caitlyn and I nodded, relieved. Although Caitlyn's relief may have been more a result of us having been interrupted than the update on Melanie's condition. Uncharitable of me, I knew.

“It was the spleen, as we'd thought,” the doctor continued. “We removed it along with the bullet and repaired the rest of the damage. She'll go home in a few days, and then she'll need a couple of months to recuperate.”

“Will she have any lasting limitations?” Caitlyn had pulled out her phone and begun typing into it. “The producers of the show will have to be notified and I need to know what to tell them.”

“Probably not. People can live quite normal lives without the spleen.”

“Can we go and see her?” I wasn't going to get any more information out of Caitlyn now anyway.

“She'll be in her room shortly. Second floor. I made sure she had a private room with a view of the river.”

“That was thoughtful of you, thanks.”

*   *   *

Melanie lay in
her hospital bed. Her face was as pale as fine marble. She was hooked up to an IV bag on a pole as well as to various monitors that emitted a beep every now and then. I was glad she didn't have a mirror because her normally perfectly coiffed hair was a big blond hay bale, with pieces sticking out in all directions.

My heart squeezed. No matter what she'd done to me, or what she still had up her sleeve to torture me with once she recovered, she was my mother. We'd never have the kind of relationship I had with Callista, but we might be okay someday.

Her eyes, which were nested in deep purpley shadows, began to flutter. Caitlyn came and stood next to me. The lids opened and closed again in slow motion, as though her eyelashes were an immense weight. Finally, she looked at me, then at Caitlyn.

“They said I'd been shot,” she rasped.

“That's right. But you're going to be good as new in a few weeks. Do you want a sip of water or anything?” My hand reached automatically for the plastic pitcher on the bedside table.

She shook her head. “Caitlyn.”

The girl bent closer.

“A few weeks?”

Caitlyn nodded. “That's what the doctor said.”

“Fix my hair a little. Lipstick. Take my picture.” She lay back and closed her eyes again, exhausted from the effort of the conversation.

I frowned. “Melanie, are you sure about that? Why don't you wait until you're feeling more like yourself?”

But Caitlyn was already reaching for Melanie's purse, which I'd set on a visitor's chair when we came in. She pulled out a zippered bag and proceeded to give Melanie a touch-up.

While she was playing Max Factor, Melanie's enormous purse tipped over once again and some of the contents spilled out. As I shoved them back in, a business card fell out of one of the pockets. It was bright white with a stark black border.
Sheldon Todd
, it read. In small black letters under the phone number and e-mail address was a single word:
Genealogist.

I shoved the card into my pocket.

The floor nurse came in. “What's this?” she said crisply. “Time for me to check Ms. Ashley's vitals, then she needs to get some sleep.” She leveled her steely gaze at Caitlyn, then me. “Go home and get some rest of your own. She'll be much more alert tomorrow during visiting hours.”

Caitlyn snapped a couple of photos with her phone.

“Come on, Caitlyn. Time for us to go.”

“Tweet it,” Melanie rasped. “My fans.”

Oh, for heaven's sake.

TWENTY

Caitlyn drove off in the black rental. She said she was headed to the Camelot to stay overnight rather than going back to the Spa. I was fairly sure she wasn't going to leave town, not with Melanie in the hospital. My grilling could wait until tomorrow.

It felt like it had been days since I'd been back at the Bonaparte House, even though it had only been hours. Tomorrow was Friday, and we were scheduled to be open for dinner, with lunch and dinner services on Saturday and Sunday. Dolly and I had done the advance work while we prepped the funeral luncheon, so the rest of the evening stretched out in front of me.

The card from the genealogist was burning a hole in my pocket. I pulled it out.
Sheldon Todd.
The phone number had a local area code. My watch read seven fifteen—it would
probably be rude to call him now, if I even dared. Would he tell me anything? I wasn't his client.

But it wasn't too late to do some other research.

I walked the two blocks to the Bonaparte Bay Free Library. Marina's Diner was closed and dark, and Aunt Jennie, the smiling neon figure who graced the roof, was unlit. I hoped Marina and Sophie were winning money on their trip to the casino.

The nineteenth-century library, made of gray, rough-cut blocks of Gouverneur marble quarried twenty-five miles away, had a Gothic-style façade. The broad stone steps dipped a bit in the middle from generations of feet ascending them. When I got to the top, I sent Jack a text message, asking him to pick me up there when the library closed.

The temperature dropped as I entered the library. I was glad I'd put on a sweatshirt. I had virtually no time to read for pleasure during the tourist season, but I patronized the library during the winter and early spring. Fiction was the only section I was familiar with, so I approached the front desk.

The library had exactly one full-time employee, JoJo Linton, who was chewing gum and typing something into the keyboard in front of her. The library relied on volunteers for their other staffing needs. “Hi, Georgie,” she said, snapping her gum. “I didn't expect to see you for another month or so. We just got in a couple of yummy new mysteries, if you're interested.”

“Tempting. But I'm here to do some research. Where's the local history section?”

“Haven't you already figured out all the secrets of the Bonaparte House?” She giggled.

It was probably best not to tell her too much at this point. “I don't know if I can take any more surprises, honestly. No, I was interested more in the general history of Bonaparte Bay and the surrounding area. Uh, you know, people who might have lived around here, that sort of thing.”

She looked thoughtful. “Well, I guess the first place to start would be
Hanson's Illustrated History of Bonaparte Bay
. That will cover the nineteenth century. If you're looking for something specific, we can do a database search and see what we've got. The historical society's been working on digitizing all the old newspapers and our fragile history books, but the project isn't complete yet.”

“Let me take a look at that book,” I said quickly. JoJo seemed discreet and trustworthy, but you never knew.

“Sure.” She led me to a section in the back of the tiny library. Her fingers ran nimbly over the spines of the books on one shelf, stopping when they reached a leather-bound book with gilt trim. “Here it is.” She pulled it out and set it on the table. “You can just thumb through the pictures—lots of the big island houses are in there—or there's an index in the back.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking a seat and opening the book.

“Let me know if you need anything else.” She started toward her desk, then turned back. “It's funny.”

“What's funny?” I resisted the urge to look at the old pictures and turned directly to the index.

“There seems to be a run on requests for Bonaparte Bay history the last few days.”

My spine stiffened. “Oh?” Did I sound casual?

“Some girl was in here yesterday. I'd never seen her before, which is why I remembered her.”

I felt like the Grinch, thinking up a lie and thinking it up quick. “You know, there was a girl at the Bonaparte House the other day looking for a job for next summer. What did she look like?”

JoJo didn't hesitate. “Petite, dark hair, big glasses. Dressed a little weird.”

Caitlyn.

“Hmmm, no, my girl was a blonde.”

“You know who else was in?”

But wait, there's more? “No . . . who?”

“Spencer Kane. He was here the day before he died.”

I sat back in the chair. Spencer had said he had something he wanted to talk to me about. Something I was never going to know now. What had he found? And could I find it here?

“Oh, wow,” I said. “Did you tell the police?”

“Yeah, some cop came and asked me about him. You know, how often did he come in, was he behaving normally that day? Spencer was in here a lot for various things, so I didn't think much of it at the time. As for behaving normally, well, he was naturally a little weird. Not that I would want to see him dead,” she added hastily.

“No, of course not.”

“Well, I have to get back and process some interlibrary loan requests. We're closing in a half hour, but you can always come back tomorrow.” She gave her gum a snap and went back to her desk.

My index finger traced the entries in the index until I came to the B's.
Bloodworth
.

Hands shaking, I turned to the page.

A photo of a man took up a quarter page. He was dressed in severe black with a white shirt and funny little tie, sitting in a big carved chair that framed his white hair. His light-colored eyes pierced through the years and seemed to stare right into my soul. The man's face was gaunt, with sunken cheeks only partially camouflaged by chin whiskers and bushy sideburns. His lips were set in a hard, thin line. Yikes.

Elihu Bloodworth, 1832–1901.

So this was the guy who'd established the trust. I read on.

Elihu Bloodworth was the son of Eleazer Bloodworth and Mary Jenkins Bloodworth, who were among the first settlers of the Town of Alexandria in the early part of the last century.

I skipped the parts about where Elihu went to school and what church he attended.

Elihu Bloodworth when a young man removed to Watertown, where he established on the banks of the Black River a lumbering mill that became the most successful such operation in the North Country. In 1864, upon returning to his native home after service in the War Between the States, Bloodworth married Zerilla Mason. Three sons and two daughters were born of the union.

The rest of the write-up was so flowery and complimentary, I wondered if Elihu had paid the author to write something nice. Because he certainly didn't look like a very pleasant guy despite the fact that he was quite wealthy.

So Doreen was most likely descended from this man if she was a beneficiary of his trust. Possibly Melanie and I were too. I tried on the name “Bloodworth” and found it a bit creepy.

I flipped back to the index. There was another entry for Bloodworth.
See Montgomery.

Montgomery. Gladys. Now I remembered where I'd heard the name “Bloodworth.” What had Gladys said? Her husband's mother was wealthy. A Bloodworth. So what did that mean? Was Gladys also a beneficiary of the trust? And if so, was she in danger?

The page took me to another photo, this one of a large Victorian house.

The residence of Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Montgomery at Bonaparte Bay. Mrs. Montgomery is the former Melvina Bloodworth, daughter of Elihu Bloodworth
.

I studied the photo. Yup. Gladys's house.

The lights dimmed then came back up. JoJo's voice sounded from the loudspeaker. “The library is closing in twenty minutes. Please bring all materials to be checked out to the front desk.”

I closed up the book and left it on the table. Best to let the professionals reshelve it in the correct spot, since my Dewey Decimal System skills were rusty.

“Thanks, JoJo,” I said as I walked past the circulation desk.

“Hope you found what you needed.”

I'd found something, but what it meant remained to be seen.

*   *   *

Jack's Jeep pulled
up just as I walked out onto the covered front porch. It was a high step up into the boxy vehicle. I grabbed the handle and pulled myself into the seat, not quite as gracefully as I'd been intending. Jack gave me his movie star smile. “Ready for a romantic night of . . . paperwork?”

I laughed. “Shall I stop at the restaurant and pick up a bottle of wine? Or maybe a six-pack of beer?”

“Way ahead of you,” he said, indicating a brown paper bag on the floor of the backseat. “I stopped at the liquor store and picked up both. And a pizza from Mama's.”

Mmmm, pizza sounded so good. I rarely had it. It wasn't on the menu at the Bonaparte House.

We pulled up at the Suds-a-Rama and parked in the back. The Laundromat was open for another hour, but the place was empty except for Earl Welch, the owner, who was out back having a smoke. He raised an eyebrow when he saw me in the Jeep, gave a nod, and blew out an enormous and rather fascinating smoke ring.

“Hey, Earl.” Jack offered me a hand to get down out of the high vehicle.

“Jack.” Another puff. Another curl of smoke from his nostrils.

“Any news about the break-in in Jack's apartment? Did they take anything from you?” A big, lean, but healthy-looking cat with fur the color of a Creamsicle wandered out from behind
the trash cans and began to twine itself around my ankles. “Hey, there, fella. Where'd you come from?” I reached down slowly and, when the cat didn't appear to want to bite me, gave it a stroke. In return it gave me a satisfied purr. I'd always wanted a pet—unfortunately, the party poopers at the Board of Health did not want me to have one.

Earl flicked the ashes from his cigarette, then pushed up the bill of his Yankees cap. “Naw. I was here working. Whoever it was wouldn't have gotten much. I'd just emptied the machines and gone to the bank.”

Jack looked thoughtful. “I'm sure the police asked you, but did you see or hear anyone going up the back stairs that day?”

“Naw. I didn't see anything, and with the machines running, it's loud in here.”

I nodded. I could hear them whirring and spinning now, even outside the building.

The cat undulated around my feet once more, then wandered off.

If the breaker-enterer didn't even try to get the easy money at the Suds, he—or she—must not have had robbery in mind. Which meant she—or he—was looking for something specific.

Jack and I went up the back stairs to his apartment. I'd been here a couple of times. I couldn't even say it was a typical bachelor pad. It was far more barren than that. Living room attached to the kitchen, small dining table with metal legs. Beyond that were a bathroom and the bedroom. Not that I'd been invited in there yet. If we ever did go all the way (I sounded like a teenager in a health class movie about
STDs), I did sort of hope it was someplace nice. Romantic, even. Although I was probably going to be so nervous when the time came I wouldn't even notice my surroundings.

The place was neat and clean. No stray clutter, dishes done, remote control on the end table by the couch where it belonged. Not surprising—Jack was a twenty-year Coast Guard officer. Orderliness was ingrained in him.

He set the pizza and the drinks on the counter. “I hope you don't mind paper plates and plastic cups and silverware. Most of my stuff is still in storage in Oswego.” That explained the lack of dirty dishes in the sink and the clean countertops.

“No, that's fine. Let's eat. I'm starving.”

He pulled out a drawer and found a corkscrew, which he used to open the wine. He popped the top on a Riverbrew Beer for himself.

We dug into some excellent pizza. After a few bites, and a few sips of wine, some of the stress I'd been under for the last few days began to slip away. When Jack stood up and began to massage my shoulders, his skillful fingers kneading out the knots, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.