The Coach House (41 page)

“The next thing is interesting, but before I get to it, let me tell you what else was in the file. Let’s see…a copy of your high school transcripts.” She looked up at Marie. “More A’s.” She shook her head. “And a copy of the school’s acceptance letter.”

“That’s it?”

“Except for the letter.”

“Okay, Karen. Let’s get to it.”

“Calm down. Be patient. It was typed on National Bank of Chicago stationery.”

“Okay, that’s the bank that oversaw the scholarship fund that had been established for me. What did it say?”

“I wrote down exactly what it said.” Karen read from her notes. “Dated August 30, 1942.”

Dear Mrs. Osborne:

Pursuant to our telephone conversation, you will find enclosed a check for $350 to cover tuition, room and board, and textbooks for Miss Marie Costa for her first semester at Parsons School of Design. If you would be kind enough to send an invoice for each subsequent semester, I would be most appreciative.

In addition, enclosed is a separate check for $50 for any incidental expenses Miss Costa may have during her first semester. I ask that you forward this check to her as soon as she arrives at your school.

Should you have questions, please contact me at once.

Yours truly,

Gregory Feinstein

Vice President

“Well, now I have a contact name at the bank which I didn’t have before. But I’m not sure what good that will do me. I was told the benefactor wished to remain anonymous.”

“I know. At first I felt so discouraged because there didn’t seem to be anything worthwhile in there. But I kept going back to the letter. I kept looking at it, like maybe something would jump off the page…”

“That’s okay.” Marie let out an audible sigh. “I just feel bad you made the trip for nothing.”

“Wait. I’m not finished. I read and reread that letter. Then as I was sitting there at Sadie’s table with the letter lying there and the sun coming through the window right on the letter, something caught my eye. I held it up to the window and saw an imprint on it.” She looked at Marie. “Like something had been written on a piece of paper that was on top of the letter.”

Marie stared hard at Karen. “Go on.”

“So I got a pencil and rubbed the side of it over the impression so I could read it.”

“And?”

“Let me check my notes. I want to get this right. It said, ‘Per Jon, high conf.’”

“Huh?”

“Per Jon, spelled J-o-n, and then h-i-g-h and c-o-n-f.”

Marie repeated it. “High confidence? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Wait. There’s more. I’ll spell it. I-I-l-e-g-i-t.”

Marie closed her eyes.

“What’s the matter?”

“Illegitimate.”

“Oh.”

Of course Marie had figured out long ago she was illegitimate. After all, Costa was her mother’s maiden name, and there was no father’s name on her birth certificate. But it was something else to hear someone say it. It took a minute for everything to sink in.

“How would a bank vice president know I was illegitimate?”

“I don’t know. And maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

“That’s true. Was there anything else you uncovered?”

“Just one more thing. ‘BBQ Jon’s Sat 4:00.’”

“Okay, let’s say, and I think this is a long shot, that this handwriting has something to do with me. How does it all fit together? This bank vice president is going to a barbeque at Jon’s at four o’clock on a Saturday in 1942. What could that possibly have to do with me?”

Karen shook her head.

“Wait a minute.”

“What?”

“This may be crazy, but on one of my high school records, someone had written the letter ‘J’ in the Father’s Name box and then scratched it off.”

“Yeah, that’s a bit farfetched, but let’s keep going with this. What if Jon is the one who funded your tuition.”

Marie thought about it. “So? Do you know how many Jons there are probably out there? It would be next to impossible to…”

“How many Jons do you know who spell it J-o-n?”

“Well…none.”

“If this Feinstein guy is going to a barbeque at Jon’s, then they’re friends or maybe even neighbors.”

“So? What does that tell us?”

“Marie, if they’re neighbors, all we have to do is find out where Gregory Feinstein lives, and that will lead us to Jon.”

“How would we do that? And how would we ever know if Jon has anything to do with me?”

“Let’s think about this. He works at the National Bank of Chicago.” Karen looked in the file folder. “On LaSalle Street. How many Gregory Feinsteins do you think live in let’s say a fifty-mile radius of LaSalle Street?”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t think there would be
that
many. We’d have to check phonebooks.”

“Library tomorrow?”

Marie didn’t answer immediately. “This is all too crazy.”

“What have you got to lose?”

Marie contemplated her question. “Nothing. Library tomorrow.”

“Good. So what did you do while I was away?”

“I worried.”

“C’mon. You had nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah?”

“You have no faith in me, my friend.”

“As a matter of fact, I did see an interesting movie while you were gone.
Rope.”

“The Hitchcock one?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Shoot. I wanted to see that one. Now I’ll have to go alone.”

“I’ll see it again with you.”

“Okay.”

On their way to the library the next day, Marie said, “I don’t know if you realize, Karen, just how frightening this is for me. I’m twenty-four-years old, and I may soon learn for the first time in my life who my father is. And keep in mind, he made it clear to the banker
and
the school that he wanted to remain anonymous.”
Karen can’t possibly know how frightened I am.
“Do you know what that would do to me if I find out who he is and where he lives, and I know he doesn’t want anything to do with me?” Her voice cracked before she could complete the sentence.

“Or, like you said, maybe Jon has nothing to do with you.”

Once in the library, they split up the Chicago and suburban phone books looking for Gregory Feinstein. “Bingo,” Karen said, nearing the end of her stack. “There’s a Gregory Feinstein in St. Charles. I’ll write down the address and phone number.”

When they finished, they had three Gregory Feinsteins, one in the suburbs and two others in the city.

“Now what?” she asked Karen.

“Let’s call ‘em.”

“And say what?” Marie was beginning to feel like they were on a big wild goose chase.

“Give me a minute.” The two women sat at the library table in silence. “What if I call and say, ‘Is this the Gregory Feinstein who works at the National Bank of Chicago?’”

“Now how would you react to that question if you received a call like that?”

“You’re right.” She looked at her friend and smiled. “I could be more creative with a glass of wine.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Back at Karen’s house, a half bottle of Chianti later, they had a plan. They waited until evening, after the bank was closed.

“Hello, Mr. Feinstein?”

“Yes,” the first man answered.

“This is Margaret White from the 135 South LaSalle building security office,” Karen explained. “There’s been a disturbance outside the National Bank of Chicago lobby, and we have your name as a contact person.”

“There must be some mistake. I have nothing to do with that bank. Sorry.”

“One down.”

Karen made the same call to the second number and got the same general response. She looked at Marie and asked, “Do you want to call the last one?”

“No, you’re doing fine.”

“Hello, Mr. Feinstein?”

“Yes,” the last man answered.

“This is Margaret White from the 135 South LaSalle building security office. There’s been a disturbance outside the National Bank of Chicago lobby, and we have your name as a contact person.”

“I didn’t know I was listed as the contact person, but what’s the problem?”

“Now there’s no reason for you to come in. I just wanted to let you know of the incident. It’s our policy. The police arrested the two punks who were attempting to break in. There’s really nothing much else to report for now.”

“Was there any damage to the bank?”

“No.”

“Okay. Thank you for letting me know.”

“You’re welcome.”

Marie smiled at Karen. “You’re good. Now what?”

Karen looked at their notes from the library. “Well, now we know Gregory Feinstein lives at 2IN Forest Trail Road in St. Charles.” Her face lit up. “Let’s go there.”

“What? How would we get there?”

“Drive. We’ll make it a road trip. It’ll be fun.”

“Karen. Get serious. It’s got to be over 500 miles from here to Chicago. Maybe even further to St. Charles.”

“C’mon. We both need to get away. We can share the driving.”

“What about your shop?”

“I’ve closed it before when I’ve gone on vacation.”

It was a crazy scheme, the whole thing based on some scribbles on a piece of paper that might not have anything to do with her. Marie thought about Karen’s selfless trip to New York. “Let me think about it. In the meantime, let’s go see the Hitchcock movie this weekend.”

* * *

“That was one of the craziest movies I’ve ever seen,” Karen said after seeing
Rope.

“Let’s go back to my house. I’ve got a chicken that will go bad if I don’t cook it tonight,” Marie offered.

They sat on Marie’s sun porch while the chicken baked in the oven.

“So what did you think about the movie?” Marie asked.

“Not sure what to think. Those guys were so cold-hearted. But there were some funny scenes. Like when they held that dinner party and the guy’s dead body was right there in the bureau. It was so bizarre. Wasn’t sure when it was okay to laugh.”

“I know.”

“Hitchcock is something else.”

“Yeah. Like how he hinted that Dall and Granger were homosexuals.”

“What!?”

“You didn’t get that part?”

“No! What makes you think that?”

“It was pretty obvious. First of all, Dall had a feminine air about him.”

“Who played him?”

“Brandon Shaw.”

“Never saw him before. Maybe that was just his real life personality, and it came through in this character.”

“Maybe. Then there was that scene where they were walking down Fifth Avenue. That didn’t seem a little strange to you? They looked like they were more than just friends.”

“I think you’re nuts, Marie.”

“All I know is what I saw.”

Karen made a face. “Homos are disgusting.”

Marie had mixed feelings when it came to the contrast between her tolerance of everyone’s differences and Karen’s apparent prejudices. “It’s hard to understand, that’s for sure. But you know it goes way back in history. They say some people have them in their family or circle of friends even, and they don’t even know it.”

Karen’s facial expression took on a puzzled look.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

Marie laughed. “Karen Franklin, you can’t fool me. Something is going through that head of yours.”

Karen jumped up and rushed into the bathroom. Marie followed her. She heard her being sick behind the closed door.

“Karen, are you alright?”

Her voice was muffled. “Yeah. Be out in a minute.”

When she did emerge, Karen’s face was pale. She walked back to the porch and sunk in one of the chairs and waited for Marie to be seated.

“You figured it out, didn’t you?”

Marie stared at her best friend.

“That had to be it. Nothing else makes sense.”

Marie didn’t say anything.

“Ed was a homosexual.” Karen stared straight ahead…at nothing in particular. “Can’t believe I just said that.”

Marie nodded.

“You knew.”

“Not until I saw the movie.”

“I still wouldn’t have figured it out even after having seen the movie if we hadn’t talked about it.”

“Sometimes we’re a little blind to what we don’t want to see.”

“I don’t know whether to hug you or hit you.”

“You don’t think knowing the truth is better, even if it’s unpleasant?”

“Well, I still don’t have any proof.”