Venom and the River (13 page)

What the hell happened at the Sapphic bacchanal?

Blanks, Leigh thought. Never to be filled in, at least in any way an honest reporter or biographer dared do it.

Letter four was terse.

Dear Jasper,

Charles’s surgery went as expected. Thank you for the flowers. And I thank you for the invitation. Dear Friend, I realize it’s not likely you’ll travel east again, but I trust you’ll understand that I have no desire to see Pepin, even if Mrs. Bancroft is, as you say, safely out of the way in Palm Beach with your children and grandchildren. She (and I do consider her feelings) is not the issue. In my mind, Pepin is now the town I have created in my books. Visiting would make the ugly truth resurface.

Forgive my haste. Off to the hospital—I’ve been allowed fifteen minutes.

Affectionately,

Ida May

The classical music streaming on the computer switched over to NPR news. Leigh rose and stretched. One letter left. Five letters and one framed picture—the only trace of the mistress and her daughter kept by the old man. Well…letters, a picture, and the cottage.

She slipped a finger under the flap of another blue envelope. Thirteen years, always the same stationery.

Dearest Jasper,

I’m sorry to hear you’re feeling so poorly. Charles knows of a good man at the Mayo Clinic, but I can’t remember the name right now. He’s gone to the shore with the family. (My god, Jasper—I’m living my mother’s life. Do you know how often I stop and puzzle over that! Both of us, giving our hearts to unattainable lovers.) When he returns I’ll have him contact you with the doctor’s name.

Dara sends her love. She and her current very young paramour are off to Berlin next week to get an up-close look at the madman himself. Annalise’s uncle is something in the military. I’ve wondered if I should warn the poor besotted girl not to travel, as Dara’s affairs rarely survive a trip.

The enclosed is a drawing Dara did while we were having tea just now. She hopes it amuses you, and she won’t leave until I seal it in the envelope. She’s pretending to glare at me even as I write this. And she insists on posting it herself. Do
you
think I’ve grown into a prudish old woman?

As you can see, it’s rather naughty. I trust you to keep it to yourself, at least until it can do no harm to my wonderfully lucrative fairy tales.

Much love,

Ida May.

Leigh emptied the box one item at a time. No envelope or folded paper released a rather naughty picture by Dara Seville. Perhaps the old man had destroyed it. Perhaps the estranged wife had spies who’d stolen it.

She went to her computer. She tapped a key and the screen brightened, revealing fat pipes growing out of nowhere. Then, just as she did most evenings before bed, she logged into her email, hoping for a message from Emily. Where was her daughter today—still at riding camp? Home? On her way to Mexico for a mission trip?

When none appeared in the inbox, she sent her own:
Call when you can. Wish you were here—I’ve stumbled onto a little mystery.

A slight exaggeration, but not untrue. And maybe it would finally do the trick and get Emily to write or call.

9.

Terry Bancroft turned in his chair and smiled at Leigh as she entered the study. “I had some thoughts about the Helsinki chapter, but we’re not getting started until you’ve had some of these muffins. Good lord, I found myself a grand cook.”

Leigh sat and poured herself coffee. She selected the largest remaining muffin. “I have to agree with you on that. Geneva’s a wizard.”

“Raspberry. I’ve never had the likes of it. Say, I’ve been meaning to ask: Is your car done yet? You can use mine, you know that, don’t you?”

She smiled into her mug. “I’m still waiting. And thanks for the offer, Terry. It’s been easy getting around.”

“It’s a small town, that’s for certain. I couldn’t wait to get out of it when I was young—oh those school vacations seemed long. I hated being in Pepin. But once I’d seen the world, I couldn’t wait to get back here.”

“Do you want a report on Peach and the photo session yesterday?”

His hand froze part way to his mouth. He blinked his eyes a few times, as he tried to pull the subject into focus. “The cottage,” he said finally.

“They were there for three hours. Some network honcho flew in from LA, along with the well-preserved star of the old television show. There’s talk of a new TV show based on the books, that’s why they were along. Apparently Peach persuaded the network guy to pay the costs of the photo session.”

Her report pained him. He closed his eyes and lowered the muffin to his crumb-speckled lap.

“There will be a whole new batch of fans,” she said.

“Are you’re deliberately trying to kill me?”

“I just thought you should be warned, especially as there was talk of recreating the actual cottage for the show.”

“And now thanks to you, they can. I bet Peach Wickham was pleased. Are you going to work for her? You said she might have something for you, if you made her happy.”

“There might be something, yes.”

“Writing her television show?”

“No. Cranking out several books a year, books that I suspect have only a remote connection to the real ones.”

“That’s better than ghosting for old liars like my friends?”

“It would be a reliable income, Terry, at least as long as the show runs. It’s been a long time since I’ve had that.”

He nodded. “Which means you can buy a place your daughter will come visit, just like you told me the first day you sat in that chair. Is my book still part of that plan?”

“Your book is a big part of it, Terry.”

“Then until we’re done, you focus on what’s important. No more Peach Wickham and her gang. I’m paying you to work for me, not her.”

How could she tell him about Roberta Garibaldi’s visit? Was there any way to avoid that? “Terry, there’s nothing I want more than to stay away from everything connected to the Little Girls. Now that Peach is happy about the photos she got yesterday, I suspect I can keep my head down for a while. Believe me, I will try my best. But—”

He groaned.

“I want to show you something. It was in the box you gave me.” She’d removed the broken glass and cushioned the framed Seville in newspaper before leaving the cottage, and now she gently wiggled it out of her backpack.

He swore lightly. “Oh lord. I bet you spent the night poring over that box and you didn’t touch my book.”

“I finished the chapter about your dinner with Gorbachev. Got up earlier than the sun to do it, which is no small trick in summer.”

“Don’t ask me for applause. That’s what I’m paying you to do. Besides, I’d wager you only got up early to finish the work because you were distracted last night. Well, let me see.” He reached for the frame.

“It’s an original drawing by the illustrator of those books Turnbull wrote.”

“I know what it is. My grandfather had it on the wall by his chair, between the front windows. Glass broke and he meant to have it fixed. Ran out of time.”

“You’ve seen the rest of the contents of the box?”

He nodded. “I’ve went through it years ago. After he died I needed to be sure there weren’t documents or items I didn’t dare keep from the family.”

“There were a number of letters from Ida May Turnbull. You kept those away from your family?”

He shrugged. “I thought I remembered something like that, and that’s why I gave it to you. I don’t remember exactly what they said. Nothing I minded an outsider reading, I’m certain of that.”

“There were gaps in the correspondence. Were there letters that you destroyed because you didn’t want outsiders to read them?”

“I wish you were as interested in my life as you are in his!”

“This is your life.”

“Early life, maybe, and that’s not the book we’re writing.”

“One of her letters talks about another drawing by the illustrator that Ida May sent to your grandfather. She described it as ‘rather naughty.’”

“I don’t remember anything like that. He’d have liked that all right, but I never saw such a thing.” He pushed the frame toward her.

“No, Terry. I don’t want to be responsible for it. An original Seville must be worth quite a lot of money.”

“Hang it up, Leigh. Put it between the windows by his chair, that’s where he had it. Hush—it’s an order from your boss. And here’s another one: Give me the new chapter of my book.”

She handed him a print-out of her morning’s work. He began reading intently. She rewrapped the frame and slipped it into her bag. Just as she’d suspected, the mysterious naughty drawing was truly gone.

10.

Geneva was a wizard. Even her day-old grilled salmon was sublime. Leigh set the remaining chunks of pink fish in a large lettuce leaf, sprinkled them with some salt and pepper and olive oil, and rolled up the lettuce. Just as she’d stuffed the last bite into her mouth, someone pounded on the cottage door. She washed the salmon roll down with a swig of cold water and went to answer.

Marti Lanier lifted a hand in greeting. “I was sitting in my office thinking about the beautiful night, and I thought maybe you’d like a boat ride.”

“What a liar. You were sitting in your office thinking about Peach and the photo session and you thought you’d come find out what you could. It went smoothly. I met Petra Sinclair.”

“Is she looking very Botoxed?”

“Yes, and very orange.” Leigh held the door open and Marti entered.

“Did you salvage your chance to write for the evil empire?”

“I think so. Not that answering to Peach and writing bad books thrills me, but I can use the work once this job is over. Assuming
that
doesn’t blow up in my face.”

“Not on my account. Let’s go for a ride. I was serious about that. Take a break from it all and enjoy the summer evening.”

“Couldn’t you find a gorgeous young man at Dee’s to keep you company?”

“There’s never one in sight when the fish are biting. Come out and play, Leigh.”

“Marti, have you forgotten you’re blackmailing me? I’m not sure it’s blackmail protocol for the participants to play together. Besides, you Little Girls have distracted me enough. I need to buckle down and work, especially with a houseguest on the horizon.”

“Call this work if you have to. My goodness, you don’t get it, do you? I had to make it clear the other night and now I’m doing it again!”

“Don’t get what?”

“The old man’s feelings for this place. Terry Bancroft grew up on the river and he’s come home to it to die. Doesn’t that make you a bit curious about its appeal? Huh—gotcha again. Now grab a sweater and let’s go; we’re losing the light.”

Leigh glanced at the framed picture on the wall by the brown chair. “Fine. But first, I want to show you something.”

*

“Fifteen thousand,” Leigh murmured. She closed the cooler and sat back with the Leinie longneck. She popped the top off and tossed it into the trash can behind Marti’s seat.

“And that was five years ago. It’s pretty rare for one to show up on the open market. Most original Sevilles belong to library collections. Not thinking of a little larceny, are you?”

“Grand larceny, it would seem. I’m not going to take the drawing. I’m a proven liar, not a thief.”

“Not lying to me about what else was in that box he gave, are you?”

She was, if you counted evasion as a lie. Leigh eyed Marti over the bottle as she drank deeply. Throw her a crumb, she thought. After all, it was a nice night for a boat ride. “A rather formal note from Ida May to Jasper Bancroft, dated June 1925. She was thanking him for allowing Seville into the cottage.”

Is that a howl or a groan, she wondered as Marti responded. Pleasure or pain?

“And you have it?”

Leigh took another swig, wiped her mouth, and belched. “I have it.

“When can I see it?”

“Whoa, you’re making a big assumption there.”

“Surely you’re not going to hoard it! People have speculated for years about their relationship. No one knows a thing.”

“There were a couple of other notes, too. Of a friendly nature.”

Marti once again made the noise. Thwarted pleasure, Leigh decided. And what the hell did the woman sound like in bed? “Be good, Marti,” she said, “And maybe you’ll get to see them.”

“Be good?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I haven’t told a soul about Nancy Taylor Lee, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean.” She pointed. “What’s that?”

“Looks like a duck.”

“I know that. What kind?”

Marti shrugged. “A flying kind, I bet. See, I was right: there it goes! Honey, I’m a girl who makes money turning unused waterfront into expensive vacation real estate, and I really only enjoy the outdoors when I’m in a big toy burning fossil fuel. I don’t know much about wildlife beyond identifying duck, heron, and dead carp. Find someone else to tell you the details. How many Ida May letters do you have?”