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Love Lies  
Bleeding

### Laini Giles

Copyright © April 2015 Laini Giles

First published by Musa Publishing, April 2013

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1508584247

ISBN-13: 1508584249

To Allan, of course

### Chapter 1

Buttermilk Falls State Park, Ithaca, New York - June 1986

"Everybody else goes to Florida for vacation. Hawaii. Mexico. But me? I followed Joni Mitchell to New York on a nature walk from hell. Good going, Nicole," she muttered to herself.

Her lungs were on fire, and she clutched at the stitch in her side. She was losing momentum as she limped down the trail, and prickles of fear traveled across the fine hairs on her arms. With each successive curve she rounded, she figured Kathy would be waiting for her. But each time, Kathy wasn't there.

"I swear to God. This is the last straw. No more hiking. Ever."

Her best friend had convinced her to spend their vacation in the Finger Lakes. From Pittsburgh, they'd curved their way through the mountainous terrain of Western New York and hours of nothing but forests, hills, and rest stops at rural Dunkin' Donuts. Nicole was thrilled to see some civilization at last. Ithaca—with its galleries, clubs, great restaurants, and tons of used bookstores—promised a good time. But what was the first thing Kathy had done? Dragged her out to look at more forests and hills.

As with their visit to Letchworth last year, Kathy had already disregarded safety and somehow outdistanced her. Nicole was pretty tired of Kathy's whole earth mother routine in general, and now she was just tired. And seriously pissed off. What was the old saying? Fool me once...

The scenery was nice, though. Instead of the sudden and dramatic drop of so many falls, Buttermilk was more of a shallow, multifaceted sheet of water. It was so massive, she could still hear the rushing flow from where she sat.

It was a perfect summer day, but Nicole trembled, hugging herself for warmth. Her shins hurt, and the new hiking boots she had purchased a few weeks ago were rubbing, even with the pillowy hiking socks she had bought to go with them. Moreover, her thighs ached from the tension and from the grade of the hill. She sat down on a downed hemlock log to one side of the trail and rubbed the junction of her heel and ankle where a blister was developing.

Why hadn't she stuffed some Band-Aids in her pocket? Trying to reach the car would be hell because of the blister. Kathy would double back and check on her when she felt guilty enough. Nicole just hoped it was before she either starved or the wild animals started gnawing on her, whichever came first. As if emphasizing her point about the wild animals, some twigs cracked nearby, and a graceful doe emerged from the underbrush. It stared at her for a moment with its deep, expressive eyes before darting back into the trees.

As she thought more about the gnawing, she realized she'd give anything for a cheeseburger right about now. A big fat one dripping with cheese and juicy tomatoes. She didn't even have a canteen with her, which made her even more nervous. Although the water churned up by the falls might be safe to drink, she'd have to risk blood poisoning getting to it.

"Relax," she whispered. She wasn't sure why she was being so quiet, since no one else was around for miles. Or at least it seemed that way. She leaned over with her elbows on her knees, studying her surroundings and trying not to think about food. Her makeshift bench was huge and looked like it had been there for years. She wondered how long. A half century? A century? Nature's detritus trailed out the ends. Fallen leaves, rocks, and old rodent nests formed an earthy carpet all around it.

On the ground between the tree and the path, Nicole saw a scrap of blue nestled in the brush. Cloth?

They must have resourceful squirrels in these parts.

Maybe some careless campers left some trash. Or maybe it was an old camping blanket. But who would have buried a camping blanket?

Nicole glanced at her cheap little Timex, shocked at how much time had passed since they had arrived at the park. Impatient, she looked down again. The cloth buried there continued to bother her. Reaching down to grab at it, she noticed a fissure in the soil, and her gaze followed the crack. It trailed off down a little slope, the earth jutting at slight angles, crooked and uneven along its bias. Nicole yanked the large chunk of what appeared to be blue wool loose from the earth.

Intrigued now, she crouched in front of the log. After breaking a nail scraping at the ground, she pulled away several decades worth of leaves and twigs, revealing more blue. The rich smell of earth and rot and decay hit her nostrils. She ground her knees in the soil as she tried to gain a little traction.

She tugged at the fabric some more, the motion causing chunks of bark to shed off the log onto the surrounding forest floor. She was going to be scraped all to hell tomorrow. As she glanced around again to see if Kathy was headed back up the path toward her and knowing she wasn't, Nicole wiped her hands on her shorts to rid them of some of the filth. Now she was on a focused mission, and her digging intensified.

As she pulled, the resistance gave way at last, along with loads more compacted earth. She was confronted with a small glimpse of white. Well, off-white. And then a skull rolled through the remainder of the moss and leaves and settled against her thigh.

### Chapter 2

Parking Lot- Buttermilk Falls State Park - June 1986

"Ten-four. Conley out."

Senior Investigator Frank Conley hung up his radio and guided the Crown Victoria into the lot, nerves thrumming as they always did when he responded to reports of a body. The hikers had found Trooper Vic Lewis cruising near the park and hysterically related their story. The case had been turned over to Frank.

Frank guessed what was in store as he drove to the crime scene. A couple of women from surrounding areas had disappeared in the last few years. He surmised that this victim was Mary Van Order, who had left her abusive boyfriend in West Danby and vanished back in 1984. He tried to prepare himself for calling her mother, June, whom he'd kept updated for the last two years. It was always the worst part of the job and the one he hated the most. As the father of a teenaged daughter, Frank had to steel himself for these phone calls; Shannon was all he could think about when he gave the news. Finding bodies was bad enough. Finding bones was a rare occurrence in these parts.

Shutting off the Crown Vic's engine also stopped Joe Cocker in midhowl. Frank grabbed his cheap insulated mug from the beverage holder, managing one last sip of Dunkin' Donuts coffee. It was already starting to go cold. The HQ was on the other side of town, so there'd been plenty of time for it to go lukewarm on him on the drive over.

"Shit," he mumbled, spilling a few dregs on his pants and wiping at it with a paper napkin. "I'm too old for this crap."

As he unfurled his full six feet three inches from the front seat, he could feel joints popping that he hadn't been aware of until now, and he wondered for the umpteenth time how many more cases he had to see out before he could retire. Even near a small city like Ithaca, being a cop was serious business. Frank had joined the state police when he was all of twenty-four and had seen the wear and tear of twenty years since then. His fondness for Jim Beam hadn't helped him weather that time well. In fact, it had cost him his wife and daughter a few years before. The lines around his blue eyes gave the slightest hint of the mileage he'd seen. His thick dark hair had become a blanket of gray, and his forehead traveled a little farther back every year.

Frank still managed to draw stares from admiring women, but he had ceased noticing them long ago. He and Allison had been divorced for three years, and often, he preferred it that way. Then he would see his daughter Shannon growing up so fast and realize how much he was missing.

Shannon had turned fifteen in April, and she was as much of a handful as her mother had been at thirty. He told himself it was easier being single, and sometimes, he believed it. He and Allison had been able to end their rollercoaster time together after sixteen years, but with Shannon, the fun was only beginning.

He was beginning to wonder if he could relate to women at all anymore. Except maybe for sex. Whenever he got a little keyed up, he went home with Shelly, the bartender at The Dive Bar out near the lake. Yeah, the place was a dump, but he could escape there when he needed to forget he was a cop for a while.

Law enforcement in rural upstate New York required an intrinsic relationship between city cops, state police, and those working in the sheriff's department. Sometimes, it was hard to tell where jurisdictions split between all the fields and creeks and state parks. Ithaca was a small city, crouched at the foot of Lake Cayuga, one of New York's scenic Finger Lakes. The steep, rolling terrain gave the area an abundance of parkland, and the mountainous overlooks and deep valleys formed over one hundred fifty waterfalls that had delighted tourists since the late 1800s.

With two major colleges in town, Ithaca was an outpost of liberalism in red upstate New York. Its left-leaning bent also gave it some of its quirky character, with its mix of galleries, shops, theaters, ethnic restaurants, and political activism. The well-preserved architecture lent the area a relaxed quaintness. It had even been one of the original movie-making capitals before the action had shifted out west in the 1920s. But more than a thriving arts scene separated it from the farmland that surrounded it. As someone had told Frank years ago, "Appalachia starts here." Anyone who had ever glimpsed the strange juxtaposition between the city and its country-cousin neighbors knew what that meant.

Life was pretty tame here, but an overabundance of young people kept the police hopping. Other than the usual speeders on Highways 13, 79, and 96, most of his work seemed to be alcohol-related misdemeanors, like drunk-and-disorderlies, DWIs, and vandalism. The Cornell kids stayed too busy studying to create too much trouble, but the city's high school age teenagers could be a handful. After a quick response to a neighbor's complaints a few weeks ago, they'd caught four of the little bastards tearing up one of the rural cemeteries south of town. It was nothing but a damned waste, and Frank hated waste. He was a history buff, and nothing pissed him off more than seeing it destroyed by a bunch of punks. He still couldn't understand what bizarre need caused anyone to smash the tombstone of a respected townsman who'd been dead for over a century.

"What's the story, Chuck?"

Sergeant Chuck Keith stood near the tape separating the path from the clearing where the bones had been discovered.

_It never fails_ , Frank thought as he watched curious hikers crane their necks to get a glimpse of the body. _What is it about death that fascinates people so much? I've been doing this crap for years now, and it only makes me tired and sad for society._

"A hiker found the bones. We pulled 'em out a little while ago wrapped in a blanket. Look pretty old. Coupla' decades, I'd say."

"Really? I figured this was Van Order."

"Nope." Chuck shook his head, shuttling more hikers back to the path.

"Larry says it's older."

Frank's forehead furrowed as he considered an unknown victim. Keith carefully guided park-goers away from their crime scene.

Shaking hands with him, Frank peered through the trees where Sergeant Dave Ross worked in ever-widening circles, scouring the clearing for any evidence and bagging it. Sergeant Jerry Lawson knelt nearby, photographing the crime scene. Next to Lawson, medical assistant Larry Gleason analyzed the remains.

Pushing the tape down and stepping over it, Frank approached the other troopers.

What had been unearthed of the skeleton lay on a clean plastic sheet. The blue blanket buried with it was covered in old black blood. The remnants of an ancient black dress clung to the upper torso and arms, and the bones of the feet were still encased in old-fashioned lace-up shoes. The leather remained in relatively good shape, but the stitching had eroded, causing the soles to separate from the upper structures.

"Any weapons?" Frank said.

Ross shook his head but guided him to what they had unearthed.

"Not really, but we found these wrapped in that blanket with her." His gloved hand held up two evidence bags. The first contained a long metal instrument of some type, but Frank had no idea what it was. That would require a little research. The second held a locket. It looked to have been gold-colored once, but now it was crusted with dirt and tarnish. Obviously not pure gold.

As Ross held the bag, Frank tugged on a pair of gloves and pulled the locket out of it. Grasping the tiny clasp, he eased it open and nearly dropped it. The two tiny sepia-toned photos in it—a respectable middle-aged man in jacket and cravat, and a sophisticated middle-aged woman with an elaborate hat— made his blood run cold.

"Frank, what is it?" Ross said, holding out a steadying hand, which was good because Frank thought he might take a header into a nearby barberry bush. Failing that, he might pass out or puke. After a moment, he took a deep breath. Ross eagle-eyed him.

"Frank? You okay?"

"Yeah." Frank avoided his gaze.

"What is it?"

Frank rubbed his eyes and slipped the locket back into its protective plastic. "Nothing," he said, holding up the bagged necklace. He had a job to do, and he needed to do it.

* * *

"Hey, Frank." Lawson clapped him on the shoulder. "The hiker is over here. She and her friend want to get back to Pittsburgh pretty soon." He jerked his thumb toward the girls, sitting on a log in a nearby clearing talking to Sergeant Dan Aubrey. A pretty blonde in cargo shorts and a Duran Duran T-shirt shivered, but not from cold. Her friend had long, straight, chestnut-colored hair, a tie-dyed tee, and khaki shorts. The brunette put her arm around the blonde, who shook it off in annoyance.

Frank took the clipboard from Jerry. He felt bad for the girls, but it had to be done. He slipped on his reading glasses and approached them. "Hello, ladies. I'm Senior Investigator Conley. I'm very sorry about your discovery this morning. I just need to ask you a few questions. I'll try to make this as quick as possible."

Nicole took his hand as if it were a lifeline, clutching it a little too tightly.

"I'm Nicole Harris. This is my friend, Kathy Culver."

The other girl nodded at Frank, who said, "Now, can we start at the beginning? You're here from Oakmont, Pennsylvania. Is that correct?"

"Yes, outside Pittsburgh," Nicole said. "We arrived three days ago. We're staying at the Holiday Inn. We wanted to see some of the pretty scenery around here, try out the wineries, ride the lake boats...you know. So we went up to Taughannock the other day, and yesterday we saw Ithaca Falls and Lucifer at Treman State Park."

"So you came to the upper park this morning, about what time?"

"About eight thirty. We got a nice early start so we could see plenty of the falls, the park, and everything. We weren't sure how long it would take to hike all the trails, you know?" Nicole was fidgeting in that way he'd seen before from those unlucky enough to find bodies. Not quite sure what to do with themselves after being confronted with their own mortality.

"Yeah, I know," Frank said, surveying the area. "That's a lot of walking."

He smiled in the reassuring way that cops are trained to use in their everyday work. "What happened then?"

"We parked at the lot off Upper Buttermilk Falls Park Road and hiked for a while, then..."

"I got a little too into my nature," Kathy admitted. When he gave her a quizzical look, she glanced at Nicole.

"She left me," Nicole clarified. Her voice shook with anger. "She was too busy looking at the scenery and collecting leaves and rocks and got too far ahead of me. Again."

"It wasn't intentional, Nicole," Kathy said. She lowered her head.

"You never do it on purpose Kathy, but you still do it, and this time, something awful happened," Nicole protested.

Frank made more notes on his pad and peered over the top of his reading glasses at the two girls. Frank looked over at Nicole, but she was ignoring Kathy. He could see that irreparable harm had been done to their friendship.

"So then what happened?"

"I started getting a blister on my foot," Nicole continued, rubbing the side of her boot absentmindedly as she spoke. "It was killing me, so I stopped for a minute. I sat down on that log and rubbed my heel." She pointed to where Ross was now examining the soil near the end of the log.

"I thought about how old it might be, and I was admiring it. But then I saw a little bit of blue material right where that trooper is standing. Looked like some kind of wool, and I wondered what it might be. I was just curious..."

"Sure you were. I would be."

"I pulled on it. And it came away in my hand."

"It was part of that blanket we found?"

She nodded. "It looked like some kind of blanket. Maybe the type they use in the army. Only blue, not olive green."

"Then what?" Frank said, scribbling in his unreadable chicken scratch.

"I was intrigued. I mean, who would bury a blanket? I got down on my hands and knees on the side of the log and pulled out all the gross leaf stuff that was around the material. I just wanted to see what was going on. I started yanking."

Frank prompted her again with his eyes, looking up from his notepad.

"I gave it a last good tug, and it pulled free. Whatever it was...." She shuddered, then corrected herself. "Whoever it was...their skull hit my leg."

Frank scribbled and scribbled, trying to keep up with her narrative.

"Is there anything else you can think of?"

"Well, I wondered why the animals wouldn't have taken the body apart...you know...stealing the bones. Like you see on TV? I wasn't sure why it had lain underground so long."

"That's a good question," Frank said, wondering the same thing.

* * *

Frank tried to see if the hikers knew more, but it was obvious that they had just stumbled upon something that had put a giant damper on their vacation. He had Nicole sign a statement. Then he wished them safe travels back to Pittsburgh and watched them bicker as they hiked back down the trail toward their car. That was not going to be an enjoyable drive home. Six hours of arguing most likely. He figured that by the time they got twenty miles or so, one of them would be standing next to Highway 86, thumbing it. He pulled out of the parking lot at Buttermilk and headed back to the barracks.

The Troop C headquarters lay on the eastern outskirts of Ithaca, on Dryden Road where it intersected Baker Hill Road. It was a nondescript wooden building, very no-frills. It was just large enough to contain a captain, a lieutenant, a couple of sergeants, a few investigators, and the requisite number of troopers for the area. He started a case file for the skeleton, trying to figure out how to cope with what he had seen. What he hadn't been able to tell Ross, what had caused him to go temporarily numb, was what had been in the locket.

When he'd opened it, his grandmother and grandfather had stared back at him, and he instantly knew that he was looking at the remains of his mother's sister, Libbie Morgan. She had disappeared back in 1916, never to be heard from again. As he printed MORGAN in bold capital letters on the folder, he thought, _How the hell am I going to tell Mom about this?_

The rest of the afternoon was spent dealing with the repercussions and paperwork from the previous week's drug bust off Hanshaw Road. That evening, he would have to break the news.

* * *

All six stories of Cascadilla Memorial Hospital loomed above him. The building was white brick, constructed in the sixties, and lacking any personality as most buildings from that period did. Not only that, but it was infinitely cheerless in the way only hospitals could be, the antiseptic odors of disinfectant and alcohol overpowering every other smell in the place. Three wings stretched off a main corridor in the E-shaped building. Maude Morgan Conley was in room B-506 in the middle wing.

"Doctor Van Etten to recovery. Doctor Van Etten to recovery. Dr. McFall to X-ray. Dr. McFall to X-ray," announced the loudspeaker as Frank hurried inside.

Once inside the main entry, Frank rushed past the visitors' information desk, then the gift shop, chapel, and flower store that sat around the corner from it. The soothing aqua walls were not enough to assuage the nausea and sense of futility he felt whenever he entered. No matter how well you lived your life, how low your cholesterol was, how much you ran, how many salads you ate instead of cheeseburgers, your body would fall apart from something, and a place like this would be your final destination.

Frank hated hospitals with a purple passion. In particular, room A-203 of this establishment, in which his father, Robert Conley, had taken his final breaths years ago.

The elevator was crammed full of visitors, including one old man who seemed to have a chronic case of pneumonia or tuberculosis, heaving and hacking and making no attempt to cover the coughs. Frank pressed himself as far into the back of the elevator wall as possible, even though his common sense told him that the germs were attacking him as he stood. He exited fast, since TB man was getting off on six.

His mother's room was set at the end of another paler aqua hallway, with windows surrounding the small vestibule. Her door was ajar, and she was propped up with several pillows. Plants and get-well cards crowded the surface of her bedside table, their bright colors and printed slogans wishing her the best. A gaudy foil balloon hung at a limp angle, the helium in it ebbing as he imagined her strength must be. Frank's sister Diana had purchased a decorative throw pillow to add to the sterile white ones from the hospital, and a yellow and pansy purple knitted afghan lay across Maude's legs. The most recent issue of Ladies Home Journal lay open on her lap, but when he walked in, she was gazing out the window toward the parking lot and farther out in the direction of the lake.

"Hi, Mom." He leaned down to kiss her.

"Hello, Frank," she said, offering a cheek. The tone of her voice was not disapproving, but he heard reproof in it anyway.

"Why can't you go to law school like your father did?" she'd always asked. "Or your grandfather? He founded Morgan and LaBarr." Frank had chosen another path in the law enforcement area, but it had not been enough for her high expectations. The one thing Frank had inherited had been his grandfather's craving for alcohol. DeWitt Morgan had preferred brandy to Frank's Jim Beam and Coke, but the dependence was the same.

"Have you seen Shannon?" she asked. "I sent her a birthday card with some money and I haven't heard anything back yet."

"I'm sure she's just been busy. They only finished with finals a week ago. I know she appreciated it. I'll talk to her about a thank you card."

"She wouldn't forget if you were still around."

"I know. Little late for that."

"Allison was the best thing that ever happened to you."

"Yes, Mom, I know."

Right now, he could at least pretend to be a dutiful son. They'd found the cancer several weeks ago, but they still weren't sure what her prognosis was. Maude was keeping up a brave front for her children and her grandchildren. Frank, Diana, their brother Seth, and the grandchildren were all spelling each other at the hospital, but he'd caught them between shift changes.

"Did Diana just leave?"

"Yes. Seth is supposed to be here soon. They both work so hard," she said.

Frank thought of the endless stakeouts he'd worked the previous four months, busting a medium-scale drug op over in Ludlowville, and bit his tongue. It didn't matter how hard he worked, he wouldn't measure up. Diana had married well, donated to charity, and attended benefits for various causes. She and her husband had spent a fortune on renovating and preserving the old Douglas home up in Trumansburg.

Seth had followed his father and grandfather into law school and owned a successful practice down in Horseheads. Frank often wondered what his mother thought cops did.

Maude still had some of the spark left in her blue eyes, but her shiny black hair had turned cottony white years ago. Diana had been helping her to wash it and keep it styled in spite of her environment. Maude's gown seemed to dwarf her, and Frank noticed how much weight she had lost.

"How are you feeling, Mom? Are you in pain? Should I call someone?"

"It's not too bad," she said, but she winced as she shifted positions. Her face was drawn and haggard-looking. He could tell she was lying.

"Has the nurse been by lately?" He picked up the clipboard at the foot of the bed and reviewed the schedule of visits listed there.

"I'm fine. I don't want to disturb her. She has so many people to take care of."

"Do you need anything?"

"Could I have a cup of tea?"

Same old Mom. "I'll check for you, okay?" He paused for a moment.

"Mom, we need to talk." He grabbed the chair in corner of the room and pulled it next to the bed, sitting down and taking her hand.

"What is it?"

"It's about your sister. Aunt...Libbie." He stumbled over the words, hardly having conceptualized his aunt before now. "I think we've found her." He tried to say it in a comforting, gentle tone, but there was no easy way to relate the fact that a girl who had been missing for seventy years had been found at last.

Maude started, turning to him with wide eyes. "What? Libbie? Where is she? Why didn't you bring her with you? Where has she been all this time?"

In her drug-induced state, her first thought was that they had found her sister alive.

He patted her hand. "She's dead, Mom. Up at Buttermilk Falls. A hiker found her. She'd been buried all this time."

"Oh," she said, deflating. "But how do you know it's her? You could be wrong."

"She was wearing a locket—with pictures of Grandma and Grandpa Morgan inside. And the clothes were the correct style. I'm pretty sure it's her."

"Can you tell how she died?"

He sighed. "We're checking. But I'm not sure we'll ever know."

She lay back on the pillow, defeated, her eyes faraway.

"I need you to tell me about her. I need to know more to be able to figure out what happened to her. You never talk about your sister, and I want to understand why."

"I can't..." she whispered, her voice hoarse and ragged. "I just can't. I'm sorry." She sat for a moment with tears pooling in her eyes, then grabbed a Kleenex and wiped them away.

"If I was just your son, I might still accept that. But I'm not. I'm in law enforcement. This is a case, and keeping information from me is not helping us to solve it. It's called 'obstruction of justice.'"

She pulled her hand loose. "I'm your mother. Please don't speak to me that way." She looked at him sadly.

Frank opened his mouth to speak, but Maude continued in a whisper. "You'll never understand what it was like having Libbie for a sister."

"Then tell me, and I can try to," he said, trying not to lose patience.

She pulled at a loose thread on the thin hospital blanket with single-minded determination.

"I'm not ready to talk about it yet," she said. "Give me time."

"Mom, it's been seventy years, for God's sake. Whatever's bothering you, have you ever thought that if you told someone, it might make you feel better?"

"It wouldn't."

"How do you know? You've been living with this burden for most of your life. Whenever anyone asks you anything, you shut down and start crying so they'll drop it. Just let it go. Tell me about your sister."

"No."

"This is important," he said, trying to project sternness when all he could accomplish was annoyance. "I'll let it go today, but we are going to hash this out. You and me. So think long and hard, and then I'll talk to you about it later."

"They gave me the news today, Frank," she said in a feat of diversion.

His breath caught, and he tried to prepare himself for what might be coming.

"It's terminal. They've given me about six months."

He hung his head, suddenly feeling sick and very powerless.

* * *

Frank pulled into a spot outside The Dive Bar and killed the engine. It was a small, nondescript white clapboard building next to the Cayuga Diving Club near Myers Point. Not wanting to drink alone, which he considered the mark of someone out of control, Frank found that the bar filled a need. It was a place to go when he needed a drink and a bit of company, but not the trendy booming bass and lights of the clubs in town catering to the college students. An amateurish hand-painted sign outside jibed with the name, announcing the complete lack of pretense. A row of Harley Davidsons was parked next to the dejected hedge that divided the parking lot from the tattered front lawn and announced the presence of the Cayuga Knights, a local motorcycle club.

The smell of cigarette smoke clobbered him like a sledgehammer the minute he opened the door and stepped inside. The loud click of billiard balls in the corner announced that a game was in progress among the Knights. The head knight, who bore the unfortunate moniker of Stanley, but who insisted on being called "Snake" for obvious reasons, was lining up a two-rail reverse.

Shelly was at the bar as usual, wearing a low-cut peach tank top, black denim mini-skirt, and cropped pixie boots. Shelly was at least twenty years younger than he was, but she had a hot little body, and she liked older men.

Frank didn't argue. She never asked anything of him, and that was more important than any other qualification at this point in his life. He needed something uncomplicated that wouldn't interfere with his work, which was about all he had left. And even that had lost much of its fascination.

As Shelly topped off a draft, she was gyrating to "Skin Tight" by the Ohio Players, and half the patrons were licking their lips, clearly thinking lecherous thoughts. He had asked her once why she wore such sexy outfits to the bar, since he was worried about her safety.

"Duh. Bigger tips," she'd told him without a second's hesitation.

"Hey, Frank," echoed several voices around the bar. He raised a hand in greeting to them all and sank onto his favorite stool—the one at the end of the counter facing the windows overlooking the lake. Shelly came and flashed him her million-dollar smile, emphasized with plenty of apricot lip-gloss, then paled for a moment.

"Wow. You look like shit."

"Thanks."

"What's wrong?"

"I'd rather not talk about it right now," he said, running a hand through his hair.

"Jim and Coke?"

"Yeah, thanks." He accepted it with a grateful half-smile and let its sweetness and warmth travel through him, numbing the pain and the sadness. He downed it in seconds, then ordered another, which he took a little longer to finish.

He had been nursing drink number four for a while when he sensed Shelly pull up a stool next to him. When he looked up, he noticed that most of the biker patrons had moved on. The lone remaining Knight, Rhino, was named for his nose, which had been broken multiple times. Rhino tended to be very docile. Left with two customers, Shelly slid onto the seat next to Frank and pressed him for information.

"Can I help?"

"Not really," he said, crunching on a piece of ice.

She brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. "Are you at least ready to talk yet?"

He sighed.

"Guess not."

"My mother is dying." He felt like a balloon that had been pierced and abruptly needed to expel what was inside.

"Oh God, Frank, I'm so sorry." She embraced him, resting his head on her breast in its tank top. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Take me home," he said, exhaustion oozing out of him. He just wanted to forget for a night.

* * *

The morning light, glinting in the window, revealed just how threadbare Frank's sheets and pillowcases had become. It was a blue and yellow flowered set that had gotten divvied up during the divorce. Frank thought it had been a wedding present, but couldn't be sure.

Shelly lay next to him, her eyes closed, rimmed with smudged eyeliner. Her spiky new wave hairdo formed little peaks and valleys all over her head. A milky thigh emerged from under the covers. Her clothes and boots sat in a wrinkled pile next to the bed.

Frank had a massive headache—the kind that reached out with deft pincers from the middle of his skull, grabbed his eyeballs, and squeezed. Clutching his forehead, he reached for the aspirin on the nightstand and padded naked to the bathroom, where he poured a tumbler full of water.

He swallowed three and washed them down, glancing at his face staring back at him from the medicine cabinet mirror. He did look like shit. And for once, he was tired of it—looking awful, feeling worse. He just wanted to stop feeling out of control.

Despite coasting along in neutral for the last few years, not really knowing or caring about much, he realized this case demanded more of him. More everything—thought, effort, and fortitude. He wasn't sure he was capable of it. But he did know that he needed to make some changes, starting now.

"No time like the present," he muttered.

He couldn't remember ever being so dehydrated, so he gulped down two more glasses of water and went to check on Shelly. She was awake now, hugging the sheets to herself, trying to tempt him with a little come-hither smile. For once, he just wasn't interested. "I need to get to work, so can I give you a ride home here in a bit?"

She frowned a little, and he could tell she was hurt, as morning quickies had become somewhat of a favorite tradition after their late nights together.

"Big case?"

"The biggest."

With that, he headed to the kitchen cupboard, grabbed the almost full bottle of Jim Beam and unscrewed the cap. Then he poured the entire contents down the drain.

### Chapter 3

"See you later, Frank?" Shelly looked over at him. He could tell she was expecting to get together soon.

They sat in the Crown Vic in front of her place, a rundown little studio in College Town. He cleared his throat, trying to stall for a moment, then decided the time had come.

"Shelly, remember what we said when we first hooked up? No strings, no commitments? You were still sort of dating that guy—what the heck was his name? Pete?"

"Yeah." She hung her head, as if she knew what was coming. "So this is it? We're done?"

He sighed. "I really hate being a stereotype here, but it's honestly not you. It's me. I know no matter what I say right now, I'll look like a giant douchebag. I need to have my head clear for this case I'm working on. I just don't want you to hate me."

She let out a bitter laugh.

"Nah. I'm a big girl, Frank. Like we said, no strings, no commitments, right?"

He looked over at her and gently took her hand. "I appreciate you being there last night. I really do. If you were a few years older, or I was a few years younger, we'd be the perfect couple, you know."

"Are you kidding? You don't even like punk. It'd never work. Besides, I've had my eye on this guy at the bar for a while. Maybe it's time to give him my number." She looked up at him through eyes pooled with tears, then quickly leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek before scrambling out of the car.

"Bye, Shelly." He put the Crown Vic in gear and sat there for a moment.

"Bye, Frank." She closed the car door, then stood there staring after the car as he headed off down the street toward the medical examiner's office.

Years ago, someone noted Leland Savage's name and profession and laughed, so his friends began calling him Doc Savage after the pulp fiction character. It had since been shortened to "Doc." Doc had been in charge of the morgue for ten years and kept a tight ship. Frank had never seen a man so devoted to his job. He was meticulous and knew his stuff, courtesy of his Cornell medical degree. But rather than being intimidating, Doc was the most laidback guy Frank knew. His eccentricity could have gotten him mistaken for a roadie in the Stones' entourage.

Doc's inner sanctum was dark and cavernous, with a bright lamp shining a luminous sphere over his work area. Before Frank entered, he had to steel himself for the smell. Most cops learned to carry a small container of Vick's Vaporub with them, using the menthol fragrance to mask the sickening sweet smell of rotting flesh. But Frank's supply had run out and he needed to run by the drugstore.

Doc was wearing his standard uniform—white lab coat over a Grateful Dead T-shirt, battered old jeans, and red suspenders. His long, graying brown hair was pulled back in its usual ponytail, but in here, it was always stuffed under a clear shower cap so as not to contaminate evidence.

When Frank entered the room, he could hear Blue Oyster Cult coming from the cassette deck in the corner. As Doc made a long incision down the breastbone of a cadaver to begin his examination, the first few guitar chords of "Don't Fear the Reaper" began to play. When Frank approached, he had to fight not to laugh.

Frank stood there for a few moments, but Doc didn't react, obviously engrossed in his work.

"Hey, Doc?" Frank said, his voice a respectful half-whisper. It was never a good idea to sneak up on a man with a scalpel in his hand.

Doc turned, his magnifying glasses making him resemble a huge insect with a MENSA membership.

"Frank!" he exclaimed. "Come on in, buddy. I'm done with your bones.

That Buttermilk case." He consulted his notes. "853267."

"Great," Frank said, the news sitting like a rock in his gut.

Doc looked at him with a curious expression. Frank figured he was trying to read the lack of enthusiasm.

"They're old, man. I mean old old." Doc peeled the glasses off and went to the sink, where he scrubbed his hands with stinky medical soap before shaking Frank's.

"Yeah, I know."

"The shoes a dead giveaway?"

"No, the locket."

"So, any idea who this woman is?"

"My mother's sister, Libbie."

Doc's eyes widened. He shook his head and let out a low whistle as Frank's mouth curved in a grim half-smile.

"Do I even need to tell you any of this? Or do you know it all already?"

"Hit me. I'm sure there's plenty I don't know. Hell, I don't even know what she looked like. My mother never talked about her or showed me any pictures of her. I only know she disappeared years ago."

"Based on the length of the leg bones, I'm thinking she was about five foot seven or five foot eight. Plus, she had black hair." Doc showed Frank the small clump of hair he'd found with the skeleton, along with the remnants of the black dress and shoes. "What was left of the blanket was bloodstained. Most of it is eroded and gone, but you can see this discoloration here." He pointed at the fragment of material.

"Now, none of the bones were damaged by gunshot, and the guys on the scene didn't find any shell casings or other possible weapons nearby. Probably not a gun. If someone stabbed her, there might have been some scrape marks on the bones where they were struck as the knife was penetrating, but that's not definite either. I've taken some hair samples and sent them to the lab to see if poison was involved. But so far, I got nothin'. It also appears that we can rule out a broken neck."

"What about that metal thing we found? Do we know what it is?"

Doc reached over to the counter where a small tray rested. He used it to place any personal effects he found with the bodies so they could be added to the evidence and, if the culprit was found and tried, returned to the families. With a gloved hand, he grabbed the item off the tray.

It was of a tarnished, sterling silver finish, slim like an ice pick, with a small, curved circular hook at one end and a fancy, carved handle at the other that culminated in a tiny amethyst bead at the tip.

"This, I believe, is a buttonhook," Doc said, holding it up.

"A what?" Frank cocked his head.

"A buttonhook. Remember the fancy old shoes they used to wear?" He picked up the topmost portion of one of the shoes they'd found, then the tool. "They needed one of these little guys to help them do up the front."

Holding the device at the proper angle, he demonstrated in the air next to the one button that remained on the shoe.

"Aaah..." Frank said, nodding as he understood what he was looking at.

"And before you ask, I tested it, and yes, there appears to be some degraded blood on it too. I don't know if it was lethal enough to be the weapon—I mean, I'm not sure how much damage someone could have done with it." He fingered the shaft of the tool. "This middle part is pretty flimsy for stabbing somebody. It would have broken or bent with too much force. But somebody used it to do something to her."

### Chapter 4

Upon his return from the morgue, Frank found a note from his boss on his desk. Lieutenant Elliott Quinn had been in charge for a little over a year after being transferred in from Rochester. He was a decent guy—balding and with a bad Cohiba habit, but he was fair, and he didn't take crap from anybody, two traits Frank admired.

Hey, Frank," he said when Frank knocked on his doorframe. From his tone of voice, Frank could tell he was on the phone with somebody from brass, but he made up a reason to end the call and gestured Frank into his office. "I got some concerns about this Buttermilk case. I just wanted to hash things out with you."

"You heard, huh?"

"She's your freaking grandmother or something?"

"Aunt."

"I don't wanna get too personal here, Frank, but you know this is a conversation we gotta have."

"Look, Lieutenant, to tell the truth, I know very little about this woman. She disappeared a long time before I was even born. I've never even seen a picture of her. To me, it's almost like she didn't exist at all. But she did, and now we got a case to solve. Honestly, I can retain my objectivity about this. Scout's honor." He wasn't necessarily vested in his aunt, but if he could bring some peace to his mother, he would call it a winner. Quinn didn't need to know that though. That was too much personal baggage Frank didn't want to unpack at work.

"You're sure?"

"Sure."

Quinn looked closely at Frank, then the corners of his mouth curled.

"All right. Go figure out what happened. This is one hell of a human interest story, if nothing else."

"Got it."

Feeling a bit of a buzz from his conversation with Quinn, Frank sat back at his desk and brainstormed for a minute. He felt foolish for not thinking of it before, but he needed Russ Chaffee's help. Ithaca's town historian, Russ was a retired Cornell history professor who lived up on the hill. He sported a mane of majestic gray hair and a full beard and favored blazers with elbow patches. He drove an old beat-up Volvo station wagon and knew everything there was to know about the Finger Lakes.

The fact that New York mandated having a historian for each town had been perfect for Russ. He and Ithaca fit like macaroni and cheese. He knew every street, both modern and in its historical incarnation, and he could tell you anything you wanted to know about the personages who had once called this town or the surrounding areas home. Russ's grandfather had been a town elder, and both his grandparents had been active in the community. They'd regaled him with so many tales of the good old days that he could rattle the stories off as well as if he had witnessed them in person. He could also recite the family relationships and intermarriages of quite a few of the prominent families in the area. Russ and the historians from Trumansburg, Lansing, and Enfield had been good friends for years and often had coffee or lunch together when they could. The man was a walking encyclopedia of local lore. So although his mother was still being uncooperative, Frank knew he could depend on Russ to fill in the gaps.

Choking down his cup of swill from the office coffee pot, Frank searched for Russ's number. He needed to get organized. After sifting through a few geological layers on his desk, he found it at last.

"Hey, Frank. What's new?"

"Hi, Russ. I need to meet with you right away about a case I'm working.

And you'll need to have your source stuff nearby for this."

"Sounds intriguing!" Russ said. "Come on up!"

"I'm on my way," Frank said, grabbing his jacket and keys.

* * *

His car wended its way up the hill to College Town, the neighborhood nestled near the Cornell campus, where Russ and his wife Janet owned a charming bungalow. Janet was also a professor, but her areas were English and Classical Literature. She and Frank saw each other every two weeks or so down at the grocery, but hadn't gotten to talk as much while Janet was deep in finals.

Janet and Russ had painted their own house—a muted sage, with bright tangerine shutters and front door. Janet had planted multiple pots of marigolds for the porch, and orange and yellow daylilies lined the front walk. A Calder-style rusted metal sculpture hung from the roof of the front porch, twisting in the breeze. Russ was waiting for him when he pulled up. They shook hands, and Russ offered him some fresh coffee and a bagel.

"Can't refuse an offer like that," Frank said, smiling as he nabbed a blueberry bagel from the box. Then Janet handed him a mug, anointed with a little cinnamon on top.

"You're an angel," he said, taking his cup.

"That's what they tell me." She smiled, taking a copy of the _Ithaca Journal_ and heading for the dining table to check out the headlines. "I'll leave you boys to your important business."

"Let's go in here," Russ said, guiding Frank into his study.

When he visited, Frank was always dumbfounded by Russ's love of history. Stepping into this room felt like stepping back in time. Russ had painted it a comforting café au lait and covered the hardwoods with a kilim rug. Barristers' bookshelves lined the walls. They were crammed full of thick tomes with titles like A Finger Lakes Compendium, A History of Modern Day Ithaca, and of course, Selkreg's Landmarks of Tompkins County, a doorstop of local history from the previous century that could fetch two-hundred dollars at antique stores nearby. Above the bookshelves hung several framed vintage maps of the area, some from as far back as 1840.

Large sepia-toned photos of Taughannock Falls and Robert Treman State Park matted into rich dark wood frames alternated with the maps across the wall. A desk piled with papers stood to one side, but Russ also kept an old battered wooden worktable in the middle of the room for conferring with Ithacans and other interested history buffs.

"The suspense is killing me. What is this all-important matter you needed to discuss? I've been chafing at the bit since you got off the phone."

Russ pulled out a chair at the worktable and made himself comfortable, gesturing to another for Frank.

"I need to know what you might know about a missing person case. One involving a woman named Libbie Morgan."

Russ let out a low whistle. "Libbie Morgan? Is that what this is all about? Did someone find her? After all this time?"

Frank nodded. "We found her bones up at Buttermilk Falls day before yesterday."

Russ stared at Frank with obvious interest. Then his genealogist brain put two and two together. "Frank, she would have been your..."

"My aunt, yes. There was a locket on the body. My grandparents' photos were inside."

"Found after seventy years? Unbelievable." Russ shook his head. "Do we know what happened yet? How can I help?"

"We still don't know how she died. I'm hoping you can help me figure out that part. My problem is that my mother refuses to talk about her sister. I know next to nothing about this woman, but my sister told me back when I was a teenager that she had just disappeared. I don't know anything about it. I was hoping you could fill in the rest."

Russ thought a moment. "Let's see. We can start at the beginning. I don't know how much you know about your grandfather." He headed to the bookshelf, picked up one of the local history books and, after checking the index, turned to the biographical sketches portion. Looking back at Frank was the same face from the locket, very much like his own, with heavy brow, full lips, and the similar gray mat of hair with receding hairline.

"DeWitt Clinton Morgan. He was an attorney here in town."

"I knew that much. And he drank a lot."

Russ paused a minute. "That didn't come until later, after your grandmother died. I think that was how he manifested his grief. Your aunt was very beautiful. Eighteen years old. You said you've never seen a picture of her?"

Frank shook his head. Not surprising Russ didn't know. Maude never talked about her sister to anyone.

"I think I may have a bad newspaper picture of her here somewhere,"

Russ said. He rifled through a huge stack of papers on his desk and pulled out a page from an article in the microfilm stash at the Tompkins County Public Library.

The photo print showed a girl with what looked like pale skin and a flirtatious smile, with the bee-stung lips so popular for the age. She wore a plaid dress and a large wide-brimmed hat. Frank touched the photo with his index finger, thinking she looked like images he'd seen of old silent film actresses. And even more, she looked like his mother when she was younger.

"In September of 1916, she disappeared," Russ continued, glancing at Frank. "Nobody knew what happened to her. She'd been dating a couple of fellows, but no one was able to figure out if she just left town or if foul play was involved. Just poof, and she was gone. She said she was going shopping with a friend of hers, but the girl later came clean and said she'd lied for Libbie. Libbie wouldn't tell her why she needed to lie, but the girl knew she'd been seeing two men."

This case was enormous. Other than his mother, who else might still be alive who remembered any of it? It was like something out of the movies.

Taking a pen and poising it over his notepad, Frank readied himself for any nuggets that Russ could impart. As they looked over the clippings, the doorbell rang.

Frank could hear Janet pad to the door in her socks, and then female voices filled the hallway outside the office. Russ turned toward the open door.

"That you, Linda?" he called.

"Yep!" a voice called back.

"Why don't you come see us when you're done talking shop?"

"Gotcha!" she called back.

Then, turning back to his companion: "Frank, remember Linda Horan, who used to run The Bluebird Café over on Cascadilla Street?" he said, pushing his chair back and standing up. "She always talked about writing a book on the case. She's a bit of a history buff too. I'll bet she'd love to know about all this. I think she could be a big help to you."

Frank laughed. "At this point, any help I can get is a big bonus."

After a few moments, Janet opened the study door a little wider to let Linda in, waved at everyone, and then went back to her paper.

Linda swept into the room and greeted them both with a big smile, her perfume a subtle combination of sandalwood and vanilla.

"What's up?" she asked. "Hey, Frank."

"Hey, Linda. It's been months. How've you been?"

"Not bad, I've just been swamped. My life consists of books, books, and more books. I live on takeout and black coffee, and I don't leave my place much anymore except for school."

Frank looked at Linda with new eyes. He hadn't seen much of her since she'd sold her half of the café a while back. So school was where she'd been.

He noted her dark mane of ringlet curls and green eyes, a semi-pug nose, and little round glasses that couldn't disguise what an attractive woman she was underneath. She wore an artsy-looking green vest over a white T-shirt and a pair of cropped jeans with white Keds sneakers. Just as he remembered her—breezy and with a youthful sense of style. She reminded him a bit of Shannon in that outfit.

"Linda, you'll never guess what Frank has found."

"Jimmy Hoffa?" she asked, grinning.

"Libbie Morgan," Russ said.

"My aunt," Frank added for effect.

"No kidding?" She sank into the nearest chair, leaning forward as she digested the information. "Oh my God! Where? When?"

"Two days ago," Frank said. "Up at Buttermilk Falls. A hiker found her bones. I was just getting the details of the situation from Russ."

"From Russ? Didn't your mother ever...?"

"She refuses to talk about her sister to anyone. I don't know why."

"Well, your grandmother died of a broken heart—or at least a weak one—not long after the disappearance. Your grandfather kind of went downhill after that," Russ said.

"Thanks for the diplomacy," Frank said. "He became an alcoholic and his partner took over their law practice."

"Russ, you said that Libbie's friend's name was Olive Rumsey, right?" Linda offered.

"She married a guy from around here, from what I recall," Russ said. "You know what? She may still be alive. She married a King something. Kingery? Kingsley?" He closed his eyes for a moment and then snapped his fingers. "Kingman. Her married name was Kingman." He went back to the huge pile of papers, flipping through it with determination, and pulled out another one. "I've been giving Linda bits of information here and there as I find them," Russ said. "I just haven't gotten all this stuff re-filed. Now I can lay my hands on just about anything you need."

Frank and Linda laughed as he sifted through his stash. The next jewel he handed them contained an obituary for a Cornell professor named Elisha Rumsey who had died in 1933. His daughter Olive was listed as a survivor, with the married name of Kingman. At the time of the obituary, she and her husband Arthur lived in nearby Watkins Glen.

"You can check with the historian in Watkins Glen to see how late they were there," Russ continued. "They might have a cemetery transcription or two, or maybe a few city directories or some other records. Who knows? Maybe they're still alive. I don't know if Olive told anybody anything more, but I sure would like to know what the real story was."

"You and me both, Russ," Linda said. "I had hoped to get started on the book by now, but school has been a full-time job the last year or so. I guess the time hasn't been right. Turns out I just had to wait a little longer." She smiled at Frank.

"So Frank, does it look like she was killed right about the time she disappeared? Do we think she's been up at the falls this entire time?" Russ said.

"Yeah, from what I can figure, that tiny temblor we had here a few months back must have dislodged some ground up at the falls," Frank said. "Looks like she had been pretty well buried all this time, but the blanket she'd been wrapped in started surfacing after seventy years. That's how the hiker found her. I don't know if we'll ever find out the whole story, but I'm sure going to try. It's important for my family right now."

Linda and Russ both looked at him, and he could tell they were looking for some insight into his newfound dedication. That was when he made his confession.

"Mom's in the hospital. Cancer. We just found out yesterday she has about six months."

"Oh God, Frank. I'm so sorry." When Linda reached out and took his hand, he had to fight not to let himself fall apart. It was the kindest thing he'd felt in a long time. No ulterior motive behind it, no sex required, nothing. Simple comfort.

"I'm sorry, Frank. Your mom's a very special lady," Russ added. "If there's anything I can do..."

"You're already doing it," Frank clarified. "I need to solve this case so Mom can go with a clear conscience no matter what happened between her and her sister. Whatever you guys can do to help me will be most appreciated."

Russ and Linda exchanged solemn glances and nodded in unison. They agreed to do whatever they could. With that out of the way, Linda and Russ spoke a bit on the latest Ithaca Historical Society meeting, and then Frank walked Linda to the curb, where her forest-green Karmann Ghia was parked. The shadows from the nearby oaks had started lengthening.

"Niiiiice," Frank said, walking around the car to admire the character and shiny new paint job.

She laughed. "You should have seen it when I bought it."

"Oh yeah?"

"I rebuilt the motor, put in a new trannie, carburetor, and suspension. The seats were all ripped up, so I had them reupholstered, and then I got it repainted over at Cascadilla Auto Body. Whaddya think?" She unlatched the door and let Frank look inside.

"Geez, it almost has 'that new car smell,'" he said, impressed.

"It's amazing what new seat covers will do. That leather screams volumes, doesn't it?"

Frank looked over the roof of the car at her and couldn't help but smile.

He told himself that it would be nice to have some company, if only for a few hours.

"Do you have any plans now?" Frank said.

"I was just going home to fix a bite, why?"

"I was thinking about heading over to the library for a little while to make copies of some of the news stories on the case, but then I thought, maybe dinner?" He liked watching the expression on her face change from noncommittal to beaming.

"How can I say no to an offer like that?"

### Chapter 5

"I've got a fistful of change for the microfilm printer. I think we're set," Frank said. He fired up the Crown Vic and aimed it down the hill toward the library. He wanted every article or any other piece of information on the case that he could digest.

The Tompkins County Public Library was a brownish brick building of uncertain 1960s vintage on Cayuga Street opposite DeWitt Park. For a small city like Ithaca, its facilities weren't bad.

While Frank got himself set up at a microfilm reader, Linda grabbed the _Ithaca Journal_ film for September 1916 out of the filing cabinet and handed it to him. He scrolled past ads for Lydia Pinkham's Vegetable Compound and Grape Nuts cereal, aids for catarrh, and the latest scoop from the European front, with special emphasis on The Somme. Frank got distracted reading an account of The Battle at Flers-Courcelette until Linda nudged him.

"I know. It's so easy to get immersed in this stuff, isn't it?" she said, laughing. "You could swear you're in another age."

"It's pretty fascinating," he agreed.

"You'd make a good genealogist," she said, patting him on the back.

"They have to do this stuff all the time. And you never know what goodies you might find."

At last, he encountered the first story about the disappearance.

"Hey, Linda, look. Here's one on September seventeenth."

She pulled up a vacant chair from a nearby study carrel and read over his shoulder.

" _Daughter of Prominent Attorney Missing After Day of Shopping_

Miss Elizabeth Morgan, daughter of attorney DeWitt Clinton Morgan of Morgan and LaBarr, is missing, friends say. A recent graduate of the high school here, she had told her parents that she was going to be shopping with a friend yesterday, but after the day was over, had not returned. A search has begun for the girl."

They printed a copy then moved on. The next day, the eighteenth, the story had been fleshed out a bit more:

" _Miss Elizabeth Morgan Still Missing After Twenty-Four-Hour Search_

Miss Elizabeth Morgan, daughter of attorney DeWitt Clinton Morgan, of this place, is still missing after a search of over twenty-four hours. Claiming that she was going shopping with a friend, Miss Olive Rumsey, the girl did not return home at the agreed upon time, and relatives are frantic with worry for her safe return.

Ithaca police have not ruled out foul play in the girl's disappearance. A search for two suitors is continuing."

Frank pressed **Print** again, adding the article to the collection. Small snippets appeared over the next couple of days—nothing

more substantial than the date of her disappearance and that she was the daughter of a lawyer.

He searched in vain for more until he reached October 1st. By then, the local police had called off the search and her parents had lost all hope. But the investigation continued. Frank swallowed his disappointment. If it had been easy, someone would have solved the mystery years ago.

"Frank, look. There's one."

At last, on October 3rd, there was a little chunk of gold:

" _Person of Interest in Morgan Disappearance Questioned and Released_

A suitor of Miss Elizabeth Morgan, who disappeared on September 16, was questioned in the matter of her vanishing. Mr. Stephen LaBarr, the son of Mr. Amasa LaBarr, partner of Morgan's father, was attending Columbia University at the time of her disappearance. He appears not to have been in the local area at the time the vanishing occurred. Mr. Thomas Estabrook, another suitor of Miss Morgan, was a worker at the clock assembly plant here and was on a church outing that day. He has not been located. He has not reported for work since the disappearance, and it is assumed that he has left the area. A search is ongoing. At first, authorities were told that Miss Morgan had been shopping in town with a friend, Miss Olive Rumsey, but it is now understood that the story was told to cover her real movements. Her whereabouts on the evening of her disappearance are still unknown."

He glanced sideways at Linda as they read.

"My mother has some clippings at home, too. Next trip over, I'll look for those. I'll have to search through some of the old albums and dig them out." He pressed Print again on the reader and they moved on.

A search of nearby town directories in the library's local interest section revealed a Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Kingman in Watkins Glen. Up until the previous year, Olive still appeared in the same listing. He hoped he'd get lucky. Figuring what he had would suffice for the time being, he and Linda packed up the stuff they'd copied. He could tell he was going to need lots of help from her and Russ.

"Italian?" he asked as he and Linda headed outside.

"Italian sounds great," she said.

Nonna's was a pleasant walk away—a little slice of Italy in the Finger Lakes. Francisco Andreazza had started the place back in the 1930s and named it after his grandmother, who had immigrated through Ellis Island with his grandfather and his father in 1875. The place was still owned by the Andreazzas and retained much of its original character. The tables were set with red and white checked cloths, and decorated with straw-covered Chianti bottles coated with wax from the candles. Lace curtains adorned the windows. On cold winter days, a huge fireplace in the dining room provided welcoming warmth for enjoying a bowl of their famous minestrone, and another stone fireplace in the kitchen churned out authentic thin crust pizza, baked pastas, and desserts to die for.

"Frank! Linda! How the heck are you?" Marco Andreazza called out. He was the current owner, having taken over Nonna's from his dad back in the 1960s. Marco was known for running one of the most popular restaurants around. Movie-star handsome, with dark, chiseled features, he wore black trousers, a white dress shirt with the cuffs rolled up utilitarian-style, and an ever-present dishtowel slung over his shoulder for mopping up spills.

He and Frank shook hands, and Marco gave Linda a big hug. Since she had begun concentrating on her education, everyone missed seeing her as much. "Table for two coming right up," he said.

Marco grabbed a couple of menus and led them to a table right near the window so they could people watch on The Commons. A portion of State Street that had been turned into a pedestrian mall in 1974, it boasted a glut of restaurants, bars, bookstores, and other retail shops that sold everything from new age crystals and tapestries to cookware and local T-shirts to head shop goods. Professors in blazers with briefcases, old hippies in tie dyes, little old ladies out visiting the market with wheeled carts, students in the latest fashions from Gap—it was a never-ending stream, and they had the best seat in the house.

Frank held out Linda's black leather captain's chair for her, and she sat down. An old Mario Lanza record played in the background, adding to the ambience. Marco brought them some ice water, and after a quick glance at their menus, they decided—gnocchi alla panna for Linda, and linguine alle vongole for Frank. Marco recommended a bottle of Barolo, but Frank surprised himself by ordering a Coke instead. Linda ordered a glass of the house red.

"I love this place," she said, gazing out the window at the passersby.

Outside, a mime in a Superman costume and cape punched imaginary bad guys. "Can you imagine what it must have been like in the 1920s, watching them filming movies just down the street?"

He laughed. "Yeah, it kind of marches to its own beat, this town."

"So tell me more about what you guys found. I'm curious."

Frank unwrapped his napkin deliberately and set it on his lap, then took a drink of his water first. "We found her bones, along with a gold locket and buttonhook wrapped in what was left of an old blue blanket in a shallow grave."

"Up near Buttermilk you said?"

"Yeah. Northeast of the falls, there's a trail that winds through that wooded area. Not far from Pinnacle Rock. She was buried under a log right off of it."

"A buttonhook. Now there's something you don't see people buried with every day. Any ideas there?"

"I was intrigued as well. According to Doc, it has blood on it. But the buttonhook wasn't all bent up like it would have been if someone had stabbed her with it. And it doesn't look like she was shot or stabbed with anything else. So we're not sure what happened. We may never know that part. You have no idea how much her disappearance destroyed the Morgans, Linda. My poor mom...she always had to clean up Grandpa's messes after Grandma died. She had to search for the booze that he hid all over the house." He shook his head. "I'm not sure why she was able to tell us about living with my alcoholic grandfather but she won't tell us about her sister. It's so frustrating!"

Linda patted his hand as he continued. "I'd like to know everything that happened so I can try to fix my messed-up family. What was it Dostoyevsky said? Happy families are all the same? The screwed up ones are all screwed up in different ways?"

"Tolstoy. But yeah, something like that."

"I knew it was a Russian. I'll do whatever I can to solve this case," he continued. "My mother has lived with something her whole life. It's some secret that she refuses to let go of, and I'm hoping I can give her some closure, some kind of peace before she dies. I may have six months; I may have less."

"Well, you can count on me. Whatever you need, just ask."

"Thanks. We both know it's going to be a challenge. Chances are, whoever did this to her is long dead too. But it would be nice to find out what happened to Libbie and at least put the case to bed. For my mother, for your book, for all of us."

She smiled. "I don't suppose there's much of a handbook when you're solving something this old, huh?"

Marco arrived with Linda's wine and Frank's Coke, setting them in front of the couple with a dramatic flourish. Then he retreated to the bar.

"I'm sure that someday in the not-too-distant future, there will be amazing tools for investigations like this. Advances are being made every year in the area of DNA research. Right now, we can analyze blood to find out what subtype it is. And that's it. But someday, Linda, we're going to be able to save spit and blood and we're going to be able to identify criminals that way."

"Wouldn't that be amazing!" Linda took a sip of her wine, and they sized each other up. She raised her glass. "Here's to solving those cold cases, pardner."

They clinked glasses, and Frank had to admit he hadn't noticed Linda that much when she managed the restaurant. He'd always found her pleasant enough. But he was seeing her in a new way. Her love of history, her interest in this case, and the fact that she had rebuilt a Karmann Ghia granted her new cache. She wasn't hard on the eyes, either. But her tenderness about his mother's illness evoked feelings he had pretty much told himself he'd killed for good.

"I haven't seen you around for a while," Frank noted. "You said you went back to college?"

"Yeah, I started graduate school up on the hill, and I am now about four credits shy of my Masters in English," she said, the pride in her achievement making her even more attractive. "Frank, can you just imagine having that credit after my name and then getting this book published? It's something I've been wanting for so long, and now I may get there at last. I even have a literary agent interested in my proposal."

Her face was already alight with happiness, and the wine was causing a becoming flush to creep over her cheeks.

"That's fantastic," Frank said, smiling. "Congratulations."

"Thanks. Russ and Janet and I had some great conversations, and they convinced me that I should just bite the bullet and do it. Janet's actually my academic advisor, in addition to being one of my good friends. That's why I was there today. I always got As in school and felt like I was selling myself short, I guess. I was running the café and liked it, but I needed something new."

"That place has been there a long time, hasn't it?"

"It's been there forever. And the plumbing is proof!" she laughed. "This lady started it back around 1909—they called it Birdie's back then. Her picture's on the wall in the dining room. With all that history behind the place, I just felt this responsibility to keep it going. It's hard to describe. But Samantha, my sister, is doing just fine running it. She's hired some great staff, and it's been a good learning experience for her."

They finished their pasta and then split a tiramisu. He picked up the check and then drove Linda back to her car, still parked at Russ's.

"Thanks for a great time," she said, handing him her number. "Let me know if you need more help."

"That'd be great." He leaned down for a chaste, somewhat awkward peck on the cheek, which Linda returned. Linda had been fun. Serious, but cute at the same time. He wasn't sure which he might enjoy more—solving the mystery of Libbie, or getting to know Linda.

### Chapter 6

Frank'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 1920 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 1974," 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 17th 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."

### Chapter 7

Ithaca, New York

June 1916

"I tell you, trying to decide how much to bale when the hay comes in... I'm not one for math, and having to take the number of bales and multiply it by their average weight...it's a challenge. It's never been my strong suit, averages. Pa says that we can bring in a good haul if we just..."

The voice faded away as if Hiram wasn't even talking. The first time that Tom Estabrook saw Libbie Morgan, he was struck dumb. Right there on State Street. It was the darnedest thing. She was strolling with a friend down the sidewalk, her pleated white shirtwaist a startling contrast to her silky black curls and extraordinary blue eyes. A bright blue sash topped an ankle-length navy lawn skirt. And her hat was adorned with an assemblage of ribbons and flowers in various hues of blue.

Tom had met up with his friends Hiram Gordon and Jimmy Devenport, who were in Ithaca buying some farm implements and leather goods at Hedden's. Or what had been Hedden's. Old Aaron Hedden had moved to Idaho years ago but had sold his business on State Street. It still offered bridles and harnesses for sale. Until the last year, it had also been a busy livery stable, but that business had been falling off.

As she exited the milliners around the corner on Cayuga Street, the girl seemed very pleased with her new purchase. Not a little vainly, she cocked her head to and fro, trying to catch her jaunty reflection in the surrounding shop windows. She and her friend giggled over a joke, and her eyes flirted with half the boys as she walked.

"And the bumper crop of berries we've got now. You wouldn't believe it! Pa thinks we can fetch a pretty penny at market for these doozies," Hi said.

Hi and Jimmy were oblivious to the thunderbolt that had struck their friend. They ambled along, thumbs tucked into suspender straps.

After a moment or two, Hi and Jimmy realized that Tom had not kept pace with them. They turned to find him standing dazed on the sidewalk in front of Smith's Bakery, a tentative smile spreading across his earnest features.

Hi followed the direction of Tom's gaze and discovered it had locked on the girl with the hat full of blue flowers. Tom wasn't alone. The girl had turned heads up and down State Street, that was for sure. She and her friend whispered confidences and shared a laugh, enjoying the sunshine and the light June breeze. The girls stopped in front of Birdie's Café, and the boys knew it was time for a bite. They knew right where they were going.

"Let's get some lunch," Tom said, right on cue.

Hi smiled and followed Tom to the restaurant, but Jimmy stopped for a moment.

"Aw, hell," he remarked, smacking his forehead. "Ma wanted me to check on some other stuff and I plum forgot. A bridle, and she wanted me to price a new saddle. Let me see how long this will take me. I'll catch up with you."

They were aware that Jimmy dreaded the pricing and having to find out if he could buy on credit, but there wasn't much help for it. The Devenports were broke.

Hi and Tom entered the little restaurant, the tiny bell letting out a cheery jingle as the door shut behind them. Hi and Tom and Jimmy had been best friends since birth, eighteen years ago in Newfield, southwest of town. The boys had always been together—playing or working, it was just understood. Tom's father and mother had died within months of each other during a typhoid outbreak two years earlier. Tom's older sister Della had already married, but their place was too small to take in her brother, since she had just given birth to twin baby girls. Tom was in a bad spot until Hi's parents, affectionately called Aunt Mary and Uncle Zeke, had taken him in. Their clapboard farmhouse in the area of Newfield called Trumbull's Corners had become home to him for a year and a half. When he was old enough, he had moved to Ithaca to make a life for himself, finding a job at the clockworks. Tom visited Aunt Mary and Uncle Zeke as often as he could nowadays, and Hi and Jimmy made the trip to Ithaca when time permitted, but chores could be prohibitive. Most often the milking. "Twice a day for the rest of your life," as the joke went.

All as different as night and day, the three were still as close as brothers. Hi was tall and ginger-blond, raw-boned and ruddy cheeked from his Scottish roots, a farm boy through and through. Jimmy was red-haired and green-eyed, betraying his Irish origins. No one was sure where the Estabrook name had come from, but Tom's dark hair, high cheekbones, slight build, and nickelodeon good looks always got him the girl.

Hi and Jimmy were used to it. In Newfield, plenty of farm girls were ready to settle down, but Tom wanted more. He wasn't a farmer, and he knew it. Just like Tom knew he couldn't stay in Newfield, Hi knew he could never live in Ithaca. There was too much bustle, too much noise, and no nature. At first, Hi had been a bit insulted that his sisters had not been good enough for Tom, but seeing him tripping over his own feet trying to work a plow or annoying the cows with his milking technique, it became obvious. This was his life, not Tom's. The boy would never be a farmer.

They seated themselves at a table in the corner of Birdie's, not far from the window. If they looked outside, they could see the tables of the ladies from the Women's Christian Temperance Union across the street.

The head WCTU lady, Mrs. Philomena Armstrong, waved her arms and attempt to foist her pamphlets off on passersby while calling out slogans and cautionary statements about keeping oneself pure of the evils of John Barleycorn. Tom was distracted by the girl in blue and took the seat facing so he could watch her without being obvious. Then they waited to be served.

In the meantime, the girls had ordered consommé and tea sandwiches. Birdie's was one of the most popular restaurants in town, its owner one of the more beloved townspeople in Ithaca. Sophronia Montgomery was a big-boned lady who'd led a hard life. She'd lost three husbands, the last to diphtheria in 1908. In the midst of such sadness, the small bit of good news was that each had seen to her welfare by leaving respectable sums in their wills, and the last had also left a paid-off mortgage. Having raised six children, she'd capitalized on her cooking and baking skills, which had won her numerous awards at surrounding county fairs. Because of her love of birds, someone had bestowed the nickname "Birdie" upon her as a girl, and she had never gone by anything else. The reproduction Audubon prints on the walls added to the avian theme of the place, which served homemade favorites to everyone, from politicians to farmhands. The smell of home cooking drifted down the block, attracting everyone in for roast chicken, blue-ribbon pies, and bread fresh out of the oven.

"What'll it be, boys?" Birdie wiped her hands on her apron and pulled a small writing pad from it. "The ham is real nice today. Got it decorated up with cloves and brown sugar."

"I think we're gonna have some fish and fried potatoes, Miss Birdie,"

Hi said, tucking his napkin under his chin and grinning. "You know it's our favorite."

"Everything's your favorite, Hiram Gordon," she said, placing a maternal hand on his shoulder. After collecting their menus, she waddled off to the kitchen.

As Tom looked around after handing over his menu, he and the girl caught each other's eyes. When she flashed him a coy smile, he thought he might pass out on the spot; his heart was beating more rapidly than he had ever felt it do before.

"Why hello, Hiram, Thomas. How are you boys doing this fine afternoon?"

Tom and Hi glanced up to see Reverend Savercool, their former minister at the Newfield Methodist Episcopal church, rocking on his heels in front of their table. He had accepted a post at the First Episcopal Church in Ithaca several months before and seemed to be in good spirits on this pretty summer day. Though the reverend was young and green, he was beginning to bald a little too soon. The snug fit of his cassock around a developing paunch spoke of his special fondness for parishioners' baked goods. Still, he was enthusiastic about spreading the word of the Lord.

"Good afternoon, Reverend!" Hi stood and shook the minister's hand. "It's been some time! How is your new ministry?"

Tom waited a moment, then did the same.

"Splendid!" Reverend Savercool said with his usual enthusiasm. "The congregation here in Ithaca has been most welcoming. Why, just this past week, Mrs. Julia Whitcomb baked a fine peach pie for those of us at the parsonage. It was such a Christian gesture."

At his recommendation of the locals' hospitality, a bell-like voice from a few seats away called, "Why, Reverend! How are you?!"

Tom turned to see the beauty calling to the clergyman with a slight wave of her hand. His heart beat a crazy rhythm like those ballroom-dancing partners, Vernon and Irene Castle, performing an out-of-control turkey trot. The reverend knew her. Now he had to find out who she was.

"A member of your new flock?" he joked to the clergyman, attempting to hide his anxiety.

"Why yes! That's Miss Elizabeth Morgan and her friend, Miss Olive Rumsey. Shall I introduce you?"

"Oh, no, no, no," Tom stammered. "We wouldn't know what to say. The young ladies must be very busy this afternoon."

"Piffle," the reverend said, gesturing the girls over.

They approached with their plates, and although it was imperceptible at first, the spicy scent of lilacs arrived at Thomas's side.

"Hello," the dark-haired girl said. "I'm Libbie, and this is Olive. You also know the reverend?"

Tom nodded. "We're happy to meet you. Won't you sit down?"

Hi gestured to the other chairs at the table.

"Pleased to meet you," Olive said, taking a seat opposite Libbie. Where Libbie was all day and night, pale and dark juxtaposed, Olive was a study in warmth. Her ash blond hair was tucked under a straw hat aflutter with silk daisies and daffodils. Her pale yellow shirtwaist and rust-colored linen skirt further accented a pink-cheeked, healthy complexion. And her eyes twinkled, a shade somewhere between gold and hazel brown. "Are you from Ithaca? We haven't seen you around much," Libbie asked and took a bite of her sandwich.

"I'm Thomas Estabrook, and this is my friend Hiram Gordon," Tom said. "We're from Newfield."

"But Tom moved up here to work at the clockworks," Hiram finished for him.

"I've heard that is a good job," Libbie said, making conversation, glancing from one to the other. She and Tom locked gazes once again.

"Reverend, you transferred here from Newfield, didn't you?" Olive offered.

"I did indeed," the reverend said. "And Hi and Tom's families were loyal parishioners for some time. 'Here is a call for the endurance of the saints, those who keep the commandments of God and their faith in Jesus.' Revelation 14:12."

The teenagers nodded. They attended Sunday school, of course, but the latest beauty magazine or Tarzan serial was far more apt to gain their attention these days than the teachings of the prophets.

"Boys, is Jimmy Devenport joining you today? Whenever I see the two of you, I know to expect him along any minute," he said with a chuckle.

"Oh, we were just at Hedden's, and he forgot something. He should be joining us soon."

"Aha. Well, you must give him my regrets if I don't see him when he arrives. Tom, how is your sister? I must know about those little girls of hers. What a darling pair."

"She's good. And so is my brother-in-law. The twins are growing like weeds." He smiled the smile of a proud uncle. Every time he saw his nieces, he craved children of his own. He wasn't sure if he was ready yet, but he knew from Della that children caused you to grow up faster than you ever thought you could.

"That's marvelous," the reverend said. "Excuse me, if you please, boys and girls," he said, trying to extricate himself from the conversation. "I must try to finish my sermon, as I'm running behind this week." He moved to a table nearby, ordered a filet of sole and creamed peas, and pulled his Book of Common Prayer and fountain pen out of the pocket of his cassock.

Then he proceeded to make notes in the margins.

Back at the youngsters' table, lemonades were ordered all around.

"Are you girls from here in Ithaca?" Tom asked.

"Yes, we are," Olive said. "We graduated from the high school last month.

My father teaches at the college..." she said, gesturing in the direction of "The Hill," where Cornell lay. "Libbie's father is an attorney over on Seneca Street. We both live on the Hill."

Tom gulped as the implications hit home. As if their clothing weren't enough of a giveaway, these girls were far and above his station.

"That's a very becoming hat," Tom ventured, looking over at Libbie.

He was so intimidated, it was all he could think of to say. But she was so beautiful, he had to say something.

A lovely flush crept over her fine features before she murmured, "Thank you, Mr. Estabrook."

Tom surprised himself. He was usually so quiet, but this girl made him bold. She made him want to do something important. Something to impress her. He knew girls were drawn to his shyness, but for the first time in his life, he felt confident, almost cocky.

He could tell she was happy with the attention.

Taking another sip of her lemonade, she smiled and said, "It's new."

"I told Libbie that the blue sets off her eyes nicely. Don't you think?" Olive asked.

"Very well indeed," Tom said, gazing at Libbie, not even glancing at the hat. They stared at each other for a few minutes.

"So, Mr. Gordon, what do you grow on your farm down in Newfield?" Olive asked, restarting the conversation.

"Corn, onions, cabbages, some berries," Hi said. "And we have some orchards. So we make lots of cider. Say, are you kin to the Rumseys in Newfield?"

"Why, I believe I do have some cousins down there," Olive said. "A bit distant, though. My father was from Cobleskill. Do you know it?"

"Aways east of here, yeah?"

"Yes, indeed," she said. Then she and Hi looked back over at Libbie and Tom. "We're some kind of cousin to that millionaire Morgan fellow," Libbie said, chuckling. "Not that he ever remembered us at Christmastime."

She's very casual about it, for being related to a millionaire, Tom thought.

"Papa's a self-made man, but he loves to brag about being related to the old vulture," she continued. "Mother and Father were both from Connecticut, but Father attended Cornell and opened his practice here. He's the Morgan in Morgan and LaBarr, you see. I was born here. I couldn't imagine living anywhere else, could you? I mean, it's so beautiful here, with the lakes and the mountains and waterfalls."

He shook his head, knowing what she meant. He loved his home and could never even consider leaving.

"One of our friends had to move with her parents out west," Olive began. "To Oklahoma. Can you imagine? She hates it. She says it's hot, and dusty, and it doesn't rain very often. But when it does rain, it never stops. The rivers all flood, and they almost have to build an ark every spring! It's dull and flat, and they have these horrible cyclones there that can pick up an entire house...." She shuddered. "I'm staying right here." She leaned back with a thump in her chair, as if to illustrate the solid fact of her immobility.

"I wouldn't mind seeing Texas myself," Tom said. "You know...the last home of the frontier, cows, horses, covered wagons and chasing after Pancho Villa. Almost like a Tom Mix short. It would be nice to be able to buy a piece of property for pennies of what it's worth here. But I hate the heat. And my farming skills are a bit, well, inadequate..." He grinned.

"That's for sure!" Hi said, slapping his knee. The boys shared a belly laugh.

The girls glanced at each other, not in on the joke but taking Tom's word about his lack of agricultural acumen.

"So what are your plans, Mr. Estabrook?" Libbie asked him.

"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 8

"They 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. Libbie 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 9

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 1940s or 50s, 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.

"Frank, you know Mom did the best she could with all of us. I think she was trying to make up for the inferiority complex she got when she was young, but there's always been this inherent sadness about her. It's hard to describe. I'm not sure why she can talk about all that happened with Grandpa and his drinking but she can't talk about Aunt Libbie. I figure she said or did something that she feels so guilty for, she still can't talk about it. Don't you think? I mean, I know she loved Aunt Libbie, but Mom felt a good deal of resentment for her while she was around. If you ask me, they must have had a hell of a fight before Libbie disappeared, and Mom blames herself for what happened. For so long, she didn't know. You've discovered that her sister has been dead all this time. She must feel responsible. Now more than ever."

### Chapter 10

Ithaca, New York

June 1916

Libbie and Olive separated at Aurora Street, as they had so many times in the past, and then Libbie continued on to her house on Seneca Street.

The home of DeWitt Clinton Morgan was a Second Empire-style affair, elegant as befit an upstanding attorney of the Finger Lakes. One of the most impressive on a street full of impressive homes, it was painted a deep, dark grayish blue with shingles several shades darker and black shutters with pale cream trim. Its location afforded it a sweeping view of the surrounding area, including Cornell's campus. A widow's walk adorned the top floor and provided Libbie's sister Maude with a favorite spot to sit with a book and a cup of tea. Three large oaks stood at attention on the verdant front lawn, joined by several sunny forsythia bushes.

Pleasant days like today found Harriett Morgan outside, clipping flowers for a bouquet to be placed on the oak sideboard in the dining room. She made her way through the beds, selecting peonies, roses, and irises and inhaling their fragrance. George the Newfoundland observed her as he relaxed on the soft grass.

When Mr. Morgan had succeeded in his career, he had chosen the most regal-looking dog possible, not realizing the trail of drool that George would leave in his wake. By the time he saw his mistake, his young daughters had fallen so much in love with the dog, there could be no talk of sending him to a farm in the country to live. The dog, and the drool, remained.

As George saw Libbie approach, he let out a deep, joyful bark and ran to meet her along the sidewalk. She leaned down to embrace him so he wouldn't knock her over with his immense size.

"Hello, my darling," she gushed, burying her face in the soft fur of his broad, fluffy neck. She earned a delighted tongue bath over her nose in reply.

"Libbie, you're home," her mother said.

Mother and daughter shared a perfunctory hug, and then Libbie took a delicate embroidered handkerchief out of her small bag and dabbed at her nose.

Harriett Bardwell Morgan wasn't intentionally cold, only formal. She had been raised to be an attorney's wife. She was still a classic beauty at fifty-two, with high cheekbones and a perfect complexion. The gray had come to her hair, but it was a shade of steel that set off her blue eyes.

Libbie and Maude were the only two of her four children who had survived childhood. The two little boys had never even made it past four years old.

"Stand back and let me see the new hat, dear." Her mother watched as Libbie cocked her head to model it. "It's lovely," she said. "I shall have to ask the milliners for one like it."

"Mother, I'm a bit tired. I'm going to my room," Libbie said, giving George's head another affectionate rub.

"All right, Libbie. Juliana is working on dinner. It'll be an hour or so. Your sister is in the parlor. And remember that the younger Mr. LaBarr will be here for dinner this evening. Please take a little extra care with your appearance. You know your father and I have worked hard for this match."

"Yes, Mother."

Libbie let herself in the front door. The polished floorboards were awash with a mosaic of colors from the stained glass panel over the front door.

"Maude?"

"In here, Libbie," Maude called. She was nestled into the cushions on the divan reading. Seeing Libbie, she set aside her copy of _The Secret Garden_. "I like the new hat. What did you do today? Anything exciting?"

Libbie tilted her head to show off her purchase. "In addition to the hat, Olive and I went and saw _The Perils of Pauline_ and had lunch. I'm exhausted. I'm going to freshen up before dinner."

"Libbie...you know Stephen LaBarr is coming for dinner tonight, don't you?" Maude asked, even her wheedling tone an irritation.

"Yes, Mother told me," Libbie said, already turning in the direction of the stairs.

Libbie knew Maude was sweet on him, and she crinkled her nose. LaBarr was a nice enough sort, but he was just like her father. Dull dull dull. All they could talk about was contracts and civil discourse and judges and attorneys. It bored Libbie to tears. But she knew that LaBarr was the best match in town for her. A marriage to him would keep the law firm a family endeavor and her future comfortable. She could overlook boring dinner conversation if it kept her living in this neighborhood, with servants and the fine cuisine she was so used to. Maude had plenty of other suitors. Not as rich, of course, but she'd be fine. She was an idiot to want to marry for love.

"I just wondered if I might be able to sit next to him this once. He's so attractive. I find him fascinating. Mother and Father like him so much, and so do I—"

Libbie cut her off. "You little fool," she laughed. "Mother and Father like him because he's going to become partner one day, and they are grooming him to marry me."

"But you don't even like him, Libbie. It's not fair," Maude protested.

Stephen LaBarr was one of the most attractive men in town, and his prospects were excellent. It was obvious that he planned on courting Libbie if she would have him. On the other hand, Libbie's discouraging him would allow him to see all the wonderful qualities that Maude herself possessed.

"Don't be a ninny," Libbie said. "I'll marry him if that's what Mother and Father want. Besides, do you see me saying goodbye to all that wonderful money he's going to earn? I may have to have lots of babies and play the part of the rich socialite, but I'll have a cook and a maid and servants to help me. There's no way I'll settle for some middle-class accountant. You can do that if you like."

"But Libbie...." Maude's eyes welled up.

Libbie climbed the stairs to her room. Sometimes she felt bad about taunting Maude. She just wished that her sister would grow a backbone. She grasped the knob and retreated inside, turning the key in the lock as she did. Her chamber was a calming space, with flounced white spread and canopy and Turkey carpets on the floor in various shades of teal, gold, white, and crimson.

At her dressing table, she grasped the hatpins that held the new hat onto the artful upsweep of her hair. She placed them in a dainty porcelain dish on the vanity and lifted the hat off with a gentle motion. Then she set it on a nearby hat stand. After gazing at the postcard for a moment, she placed it back in the sack and slipped it into the top drawer.

She thought about the boy from this afternoon, knowing it would be impossible not to see him again. When she'd gazed at him, she knew the feelings were unlike any she'd had about boys in the past. Flirting was what she did best. She had mastered it and cared little for the subjects of the fawning words and coy glances. This boy was different. What was his name again? Tom. That was it. She had felt the same thing when she gazed at the postcard of the naked woman. It was something a little thrilling and forbidden. She couldn't put her finger on it, but she knew she wanted more.

She undid the buttons on her shirtwaist, then pulled it off and laid it aside on the bed. She pushed the straps of her chemise aside and caressed her skin the way she imagined the soiled dove might do. She had no idea what had gotten into her the last few months, but her body seemed to have a mind of its own. She was consumed by the pleasure of her own touch. She wondered if any other girls her age ever bucked the tenets of the church and committed sins of the flesh. If lust was so sinful, why did it have to feel so good? She loved imagining what it might be like if she was with someone as attractive as that Tom person. LaBarr was handsome, but dead boring. She imagined his lovemaking would be staid and methodical. On the other hand, she figured Tom had some experience with easy farm girls, in haystacks or wherever they did those types of things. She imagined how he might touch her and how she might have some fun before marriage to LaBarr ended all that. She knew she'd have to host numerous dinner parties for other boring lawyers and their horsey-faced spouses, keep a spotless home, and raise beautiful children. But until then, she was free to find out what youth was good for. Closing her eyes, she determined to find out more about Tom Estabrook.

Downstairs, their maid Juliana announced dinner with the tinkling of a small bell. Libbie opened her vanity drawer and took one last look at the woman in the photograph before collecting herself. Then she changed into a dinner frock and wove some ribbon through her hair in a dramatic upsweep. After dabbing some lilac toilet water on her wrists and neck, she flounced down the stairs.

* * *

Outside the Morgan home, Stephen LaBarr stepped out of his Town Car. He had always known DeWitt Morgan to be a respectable gentleman. DeWitt Morgan could teach him even more than his father about law. Working with both of them would be a splendid opportunity. However, the idea of courting and marrying Morgan's stunning oldest daughter appealed to Stephen even more.

He was let in by Juliana, then accosted by George the Newfoundland. He gave the dog several ebullient head scratches and a playful ear ruffle, which evoked a series of contented grunts and groans. Juliana took Stephen's light spring coat and ushered him into the parlor.

"Wait here, sir," she said. "George, would you like some meat?" At the word "meat," George's ears perked up, and he happily followed her back to the kitchen.

The first word that came to mind when one saw Stephen LaBarr was distinguished. He had all the good looks his father had once embodied in his prime, combined with the intelligence of his mother and her forebears.

Marguerite LaBarr was descended from senators and statesmen who had left their mark in New York since the Revolution. She expected great things from her son.

His chestnut-colored hair swept across his forehead, and small round spectacles balanced on an elegant Roman nose. His clothing was well-tailored and expensive, as befitted a son of the upper classes. Everything about him screamed respectability and charm. The old leather of his satchel, the lather of his herbal shaving cream, and the light clove of his toilet water melded to lend him the scent of a true gentleman.

Several photos sat on the mantelpiece, but the one that captured his attention the most was of Libbie. Her father loved bragging of her beauty, her academic record, her dreams of attending William Smith's, her quick wit... It was obvious how beloved she was. Her sister, in a photo nearby, was also attractive, but her eyes lacked the spark that made Libbie stand out.

He had seen many beautiful women in his academic career so far, but few could compare. Many of those he'd met tended to be a bit too serious about their studies; doubtless, they had suffrage ideas and would soon become old maids because of their "loftier goals." He subscribed to the fact that women were happier in a domestic setting, caring for babies and keeping a home such as this one. Elizabeth doubtless would become a perfect helpmate. Teaching or nursing was acceptable for the year or two before marriage, and then a bride was expected to give up her job to keep a home and raise children. Libbie would of course do the same. He could see her on his arm at the nearby society soirees and, if all proceeded according to plan, perhaps in Albany, where he planned to run for governor eventually.

She would make a perfect governor's wife. Perhaps he would campaign for the senate. Maybe even the presidency lurked in his future. His horizons were wide open.

* * *

"Good evening, Stephen. It's so wonderful to see you again," said Harriett Morgan as she entered the parlor.

"Mrs. Morgan, what a distinct pleasure. And how lovely you look this evening." He took her hands and gave her a peck on the cheek.

"Please come this way. The girls should be down in a moment," she said, leading him into the dining room.

They were still talking as Libbie descended the stairs.

"Guess I'll have to get used to those lawyers' hours too," he was saying.

"I'm sure you're up to the task," Harriett said. She was brimming with excitement, willing this to work. Harriett always talked about what a perfect match it was. Never mind if Libbie even liked the fellow.

"Harriett?!" boomed from the front hallway as DeWitt Morgan returned home.

"I'm in here, Father," she called, "and we have a guest."

"Ah yes," he said, taking off his overcoat and bowler and entering the parlor. "Young LaBarr. Juliana!"

In her usual quiet manner, their servant appeared. He handed the coat and hat to her as he crossed the room to greet Stephen.

"How are you, Stephen, my boy?" he said, offering him a hand.

"I'm more than adequate, sir," Stephen joked, giving his hand a hearty shake. "And yourself?"

"Dreadful," Morgan replied, launching into a diatribe against the legal profession that vexed him daily.

Straightening her skirt, Libbie swept down the staircase with a flourish, and Maude followed a step or two behind. Her pretty but plain embroidered lace dress with ribbon sash made her look positively drab next to her sister. Libbie's dress was a peacock blue tunic over a longer skirt, simple and elegant, with very little adornment. Her hair was drawn into a dramatic upsweep, with a ribbon of the same color twisted through the curls. The teal color complemented her eyes, causing them to dance with an inviting glow.

Behind Libbie, Maude entered the parlor. Once again Libbie took center stage.

"Good evening, Mr. LaBarr." Libbie held out her hand for an offering.

Maude nodded at him and smiled, her eyes and cheeks burning. Stephen took Libbie's hand and kissed it, doing the same with Maude, albeit with less enthusiasm. Turning to their father, he stated, "Mr. Morgan, I am always amazed at how beautiful your daughters are."

"They are our pride and joy," her father said, beaming.

"I trust your journey was pleasant?" Libbie asked.

"Long but enjoyable," he said, chuckling.

"I've made that trip," DeWitt agreed, lighting his pipe. "Arduous, isn't it? This is a perfect time for traveling, though. Not too hot, not too cold.

And the farmers are busy in the fields, so there are far fewer lower-class travelers. And far less smell of perspiration, too. That's always a plus."

Juliana brought out the first course, a spring pea soup with mint, served in the elaborate china soup tureen that had belonged to Harriett's English great-grandmother.

"How are your studies coming along, Stephen?" Harriett asked, feigning interest in a topic she knew nothing about. She sat upright in one of the Hepplewhite chairs, her back stiff, adjusting a ruffle on her skirt as she gazed over at LaBarr and then at her husband. Maude, as usual, sat unnoticed, sampling her soup.

"Splendid!" He launched into a detailed description of statutes and complicated Latin terms.

DeWitt nodded, seeing himself in the clever young man.

As Libbie sat watching, she could see her mother's brain working, imagining the same life for Libbie that had been hers. Dinners over legal jargon where she understood nary a word, nodding, murmuring occasional "Mmm-hmms," but knowing that she was well taken care of. That was what was important.

"How was your work today, Father?" her mother asked after wiping her lips between dainty sips of her soup.

Mr. Morgan began another harangue about plaintiffs and defendants and judges that devolved into a rant about job frustrations and the problems with the judicial system. With the exception of a few of the names he mentioned, it was almost a word-for-word repeat of a rant several days before. Or several hours before.

"And you, Mother? How was your day?" he said.

After years of observing the dinner etiquette between her parents, Libbie knew her father asked about the running of the household but remained unconcerned with the reply he received. That was women's business. But being a courteous sort, he showed only cursory interest.

"Millie Van Rosenbeek hosted our Daughters of the American Revolution meeting today. We established some new rules for the local chapter and had an entertaining tea afterwards. I also attended a meeting of the Rebekahs this afternoon at Sally Adams's home. Oh, and I drew up the new household budget, which I'd like you to look over, Father."

"That sounds like a busy day, Mother." He patted her hand in that patronizing way he always did.

"And Libbie, Maude, my dears? How did you enjoy your afternoon, with no French or mathematics classes to take up your time these days?"

"I bought a wonderful book called _The Secret Garden_ ," Maude began. She leaned back as Juliana set down her portion of quail on cress accompanied by small potatoes dressed with dill.

"My day was lovely," Libbie interrupted. "I got a new hat, and Olive and I had lunch at Birdie's. Oh, and we went and saw a flicker at the Orpheum. It was one of those _Perils of Pauline_ episodes. Very suspenseful, but you have to go back to see what happens!"

"These moving pictures are scandalous," her father said. "They'll lead to nothing but ruin, mark my words. They might be tame now, but they won't remain that way. I'm convinced of it."

"I've heard the Pauline flickers are very exciting," Stephen said, "but I prefer Douglas Fairbanks. There's a man who knows how to create excitement!"

DeWitt harrumphed, all aflutter with righteous indignation. Libbie knew he'd never understand the fascination with moving pictures. To him, anyone who wanted to see a story could attend the theater. He sampled his quail, then applied a liberal sprinkle of salt.

"We ran into Reverend Savercool at the café," Libbie added.

"Oh, how is the reverend?" Her mother inquired. Her mother had been so much more enthusiastic about services since Reverend Savercool had taken over for the stodgy old Reverend Cornish.

"Fine. He was writing some of his new sermon over lunch. We also met some of his old flock from Newfield who happened to be visiting."

"Pah. Newfield," her father said. "Nothing there but ignorant farm people."

"Oh, Papa. They were nice."

"They're nice; they're just ignorant. Everything has to revolve around milking or threshing or planting." He wrinkled his nose.

"Give me a real profession like law or merchantry or doctoring,"

Stephen added, laughing. "Something respectable. Nothing that smells of cow dung."

"Whom did you meet, Libbie?" her mother asked.

She knew her mother expected to hear the names of a local matron or two. Everyone in the Finger Lakes was a cousin to everyone else, after all.

"Thomas Estabrook and his friend Hiram Gordon," Libbie said.

"Estabrook, did you say?" Harriett cocked her head. Libbie could see she was considering the name, but evidently it rang no bells. "And Gordon?

Perhaps he's kin with the Gordons over on Linn Street. What were they doing up here?"

"Well, Mr. Gordon was here buying some bridles and such, and his friend is living in Ithaca now. He has a job at the clockworks."

Libbie looked over at her sister. Mousy Maude continued to eat with her head down, even though her tears threatened to dilute her soup. No one had asked about her stupid book at all.

### Chapter 11

After dinner, Libbie and Stephen sat out front enjoying the evening breeze. The slow creak of the porch swing and its gentle sway caused them to relax a bit and open up.

"Do you read much?" Libbie asked.

"Of course! _American and English Annotated Cases, Roberts' Rules of Order_ , _Black's Law Dictionary_ , _Prosser's Handbook of Torts_ ... I'm competitive, I guess. Want to make sure I get accepted to law school."

"No, Stephen. I meant, do you read for pleasure?"

"Oh that. Not much since I started school, but I do enjoy a good adventure now and again when time permits. I'm afraid that's not often anymore."

"Whom do you like?"

"Conrad's good for a look. H. Rider Haggard is all right. I quite enjoyed that _Allan Quatermain_. Why do you ask?"

"Well, to know what your interests are. I love to read."

"I see. What does Libbie like to read? I hope it's none of this suffragette rubbish that's being passed around."

Libbie made a face that he couldn't see. "I'm entranced with _Sons and Lovers_ by Mr. Lawrence and the _Spoon River Anthology_ by Edgar Lee Masters. Do you know them?"

" _Sons and Lovers_ is pornography, my dear. Do your parents know you're reading such scandalous literature?" He spit out the word "literature" as if it were an unripe fruit.

"What? It's a book. He was experimenting with style and content. Have you read it?"

"Of course not."

"Then how do you know of its content?"

"If the censors see fit to say that it is trash, then that's good enough for me."

"Aren't you trying to become a lawyer? To uphold the law? To debate things that go against our constitution, like censorship?"

"The author is a special type of degenerate to be writing all that about a mother and son. I'm not the only one to think so."

"But he has the right to tell the stories he likes without worrying about being censored. Who are you or I or anyone else to call it pornography?" she asked.

He snorted in derision.

"What about Edgar Lee Masters?"

"Dead people? I'll be dealing with dead people every day if I become a criminal attorney. I have no desire to read about them in my spare time if my job does not require it."

"What about poetry? Do you like poetry?"

"Depends on the poetry, I suppose."

"Well, who do you like?"

"I don't know, Libbie," he said. "'Roses are red, violets are blue.' I don't know. I don't read poetry that much. Why is it important?"

"I'm just trying to get to know you better. That's all."

"I'm not trying to be cross. I'm just unused to women asking me so many questions or so much about writers. What else do you like to do?"

She thought a moment. "I like shopping, and going to the nickelodeon, and ice cream sodas, and going for strolls...holding hands..."

"Well, then, I shall hold your hand."

He took hers into his, and the warmth was comforting. But the company left much to be desired. Libbie knew that eventually she would adjust to him. She just didn't know what on Earth they would talk about.

* * *

Trumansburg, New York

June, 1986

"According to Mom, it wasn't long after this that Libbie began acting strange," Diana said. "Snapping at people, going out more often with Olive...at least at the time they thought it was with Olive. Later on, they figured out that she had probably been with that boy from Newfield. That Thomas what's-his-name that the papers talked about," Diana explained.

Frank took another cookie as he listened.

"And something else," Diana said. "She became very secretive. Mom said she would walk into the room, and Libbie would put away what she was doing or grump at Mother for invading her privacy. She had never been like that before. Mom didn't know what she had done that had set her off. But one night, when she was downtown going for a movie with a friend, she saw Libbie with that boy. And she knew something was going on."

### Chapter 12

Ithaca, New York

June 1916

Several days later, Libbie noticed a new dress in the window of Rothschild's and had to have it. It was pink-sprigged and perfect for summer. She imagined how she would look in it at a picnic or an outing on one of the lake steamers. While in the store, she bought the dress plus a bag and a straw hat to match. The hat had a pink ribbon band and pink-tinged white rosebuds with tiny tufts of delicate tulle and silk baby's breath accenting them. Of course, it would look divine on her. Her usual frocks were in various shades of blue, as she knew how becoming she looked in them, but once in a while, she varied her wardrobe a bit. This dress had a delicate girlish femininity that many of her blue ones did not.

As she approached the marble lobby on her way out of the department store, she decided to sample a new fragrance at the ladies toiletries counter, neglecting her usual lilac to try something different. She had to admit that the wisteria had a certain piquancy she enjoyed.

She exited the revolving doors, then stepped off the curb on State Street. That was when she saw Tom again with a friend. He noticed her right away and they crossed the street to join her.

"Good afternoon, Miss Morgan," he said, removing his hat.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Estabrook," she countered, smiling at him and then at his friend. "Isn't it a lovely day?"

"It certainly is. I was out with my friend Jimmy here. This is Mr. James Devenport from Newfield." He gestured at Jimmy, who doffed his hat at her.

"Nice to meet you," she said, nodding perfunctorily but without warmth.

"I needed to have my pocket watch repaired at Mr. Becker's shop," Tom said. "And you?"

She held up her parcels. "I'm doing a bit of shopping. The summer frocks have arrived. And I bought a new hat."

"I'm sure that any of the dresses would look becoming on you. Especially the blue ones." He blushed.

Jimmy observed the exchange with a grin.

"Why, thank you," she said, milking the compliment. She had mastered the passive plea for more just by batting her eyelashes.

Clutching his hat in his hand, Tom said, "Miss Morgan, I'd be most pleased to buy you a sarsaparilla or an egg cream."

"I'd like that," she said as they strolled down State Street, with Jimmy walking alongside.

Tom took her arm and guided her between the other adults and children out promenading down the paving bricks, headed toward Platt & Colt's.

At the drugstore, they found stools amid the bustle and ordered three ice cream sodas–chocolate for Thomas, strawberry for Libbie, and vanilla for Jimmy. Although he could ill afford it, Thomas paid for all three. He and Jimmy spoke of their time on their respective farms and their favorite subjects at school.

"I love science," Jimmy said. "I like going hunting and knowing what it is I'm cutting up when I gut it."

Libbie gasped.

"You know, like the liver or the heart or the kidneys," Jimmy continued. "And I like to look at rocks and know what kind they are, like shale or geodes or such. You know, they have volcanoes in the South Seas that explode and do all kinds of awful damage. You've heard of Krakatoa, right?"

Libbie nodded.

"That's science," he clarified.

"I enjoy arithmetic," Tom said. "I suppose that's why I like my job at the clockworks. It's my way of working with numbers."

Libbie sipped her soda and considered the science versus math conundrum. "I hated arithmetic, and I wasn't very good at science. But I love literature. Have either of you read _The Spoon River Anthology_? You simply must."

"What's it about?" Tom asked.

"It's a little town in Illinois," she continued, "and there are all these dead people. Each section of the book is a person's epitaph."

Jimmy stirred his soda.

_Most likely wondering how the heck anyone has money to spend on books_ , Libbie thought, looking at him.

Tom furrowed his brow.

"An epitaph," she said, able to see he was confused. "You know, when you die. What they put on your tombstone, or what people remember about you. It's fascinating. Free verse, I think they call it. Have you read _Sons and Lovers_ or _Sister Carrie_?"

Tom and Jimmy shook their heads. She could see Tom didn't have much time for reading, and when he did, it was probably things like the _Katzenjammer Kids_ or _Tarzan_. She took a spoonful of ice cream, savoring it as it slid around in her mouth.

"If you think I should read these books, I'll purchase them right away," Tom said.

"Nonsense. You can borrow my copies," she said, taking a last mouthful.

You may call on me tomorrow afternoon, and I'll lend them to you." She collected her things and let him know that she needed to catch the streetcar.

"I'd enjoy paying you a social call," Tom said.

"Then I shall see you at three o'clock at my house. Seneca Street near Stewart," she replied. "The blue two-story with the black trim. Oh, and thank you for the drink."

* * *

The next afternoon, at two thirty, Thomas pleaded with his landlady, Mrs. Catherine Protts, to let him claim some of the blossoms from her garden so that he could go courting in a proper fashion. He told her he had spent the last few coins he had this month on the ice cream sodas, and now he had nothing to spare for anything like candy or flowers. Not if he wanted to make rent, anyway.

"Courting, you say?"

"Yes, Mrs. Protts. Courting. A beautiful young lady. I need to make a good impression, but I know my rent is due soon, and I don't want to run short. Your garden is so beautiful, with so many exquisite flowers; I know you'd love to show them off by helping me win a young lady's heart. You could spare a few, couldn't you?"

Catherine Protts was seventy years old, with a chin full of whiskers, a set of badly fitting false teeth, and no patience for phony talk. But Estabrook was her favorite tenant. Always on time with the rent, spoke like a charmer, and he was a looker to boot. If she were fifty years younger...

"All right, son. You've the gift of gab, I'll give you that much!" she said with a chortle. She rubbed her chin and laid out instructions, pointing at each as she cut a stem. "You can have some of the daisies and the dame's rocket. Oh, and some bleeding.hearts. Let's see. A few of these lilies, and one or two of these irises. But don't touch my roses!" she thundered. "Let me get you a vase. You'll look ridiculous taking her a bunch of dead flowers."

"Oh, but I don't want to leave you short a vase," he protested.

"Don't worry, young Tom. I have plenty. My brother's a potter."

She ambled up the front porch back into the house, returning with a hideous piece of some sort of ceramic. He was fortunate that the misshapen container was almost hidden by the luxurious magenta blossoms of the dame's rocket and the sad blooms of the bleeding hearts, which drooped lazily over the pot's sides.

She chuckled in her throaty way as she handed it to him. "I didn't say he was a good potter."

"Are you certain, Mrs. Protts? All this? It's such a generous gesture. I can't thank you enough," he said, astounded by the stunning bouquet he was now carrying. He leaned down and gave her an impulsive peck on the cheek.

"Of course I'm certain. Now go win the hand of your lady fair," she said with a cackle, which became a hacking cough.

* * *

With his heart in his throat, Tom approached the door of the intimidating mansion on Seneca Street. He grasped the gleaming doorknocker and rapped it twice against its metal base. A servant answered the door and led him into the parlor, where he took a seat on the plum velvet divan.

Waiting with his cap in hand, he looked around the elegant room, and his leg wiggled of its own accord. He'd never felt so out-of-place in his life. The walls were covered with floral wallpaper and oak wainscoting. The high ceilings and cut glass chandelier dominated the room. A patterned carpet in shades of plum and gold covered the glossy hardwood floors. One whole wall in the back of the room was covered with carved bookshelves full of impressive volumes—everything from the classical Greek philosophers to the founding fathers to more recent novels. He set the ceramic vessel on the table in front of him, hoping it wouldn't leak on the expensive-looking furniture. Soon, he was joined by an ebullient George, who buried his snout in Tom's crotch.

Fending off the affections of the hundred-pound dog was not an easy task, but at last he managed to extricate himself from the range of the questing wet nose and find a better spot on the settee. Just when his anxiety was about to overwhelm him, Libbie flitted downstairs and into the parlor. She wore a sky blue silk dress, and her black hair fell loose around her shoulders.

Feeling his breath catch at the sight of her, he stood when she entered the room. She was carrying several books.

She accepted the small kiss he gave her hand. Then, seeing George sitting near her visitor, ready for another opportunity to pounce, she turned and commanded, "George! Down!"

The huge black shape retreated a few feet, then collapsed onto the floor panting.

"These are for you," Tom said, handing her his prize bouquet, pleased to see it had not left a water spot on the precious table.

"How thoughtful. Thank you." She buried her face in them to inhale their fragrance.

"Juliana!" she called.

The maid drifted back into the room from the vicinity of the kitchen. Libbie handed her the flowers.

"Please place these on my dressing table where I can admire them later."

"Yes ma'am." The servant nodded, disappearing again.

"These must be the books you spoke of yesterday," Tom said, needing something to say. Of course they were the books. She must think him an awful dolt. Tom wondered if he might be able to smell her delicate perfume on them. He doubted he'd get much reading done with that scent of lilacs taunting him.

"Yes. I want to share them with you. Come here." She crossed to the settee and sat down, smoothing her skirts. Patting the seat next to her, she looked up at him and smiled. "This is the _Spoon River Anthology_. Read it first, since I shall miss it if you don't bring it back right away. I do adore it so." She held a thin, tan-colored volume in front of her, hugged it to her chest, then handed it to him.

He smiled and took it.

"The second is _Sons and Lovers_. It's by Mr. Lawrence, and it's rather scandalous. In fact, it's been criticized for being obscene. Can you imagine?" She looked thrilled to be imparting such outrageous gossip about the book and edged a little closer to him. "But I enjoy reading provocative things. Don't you?"

He didn't know what provocative meant, but he was getting a sense from her nearness and the scent of lilac. "I'm not sure, Miss Morgan."

"Provocative. You know. Tending to provoke, stimulate, or excite?" she said, raising her eyebrows.

"Libbie!" a female voice called.

"In here, Mother," she said, rising and crossing several feet of floor before the entrance of Morgan mère into the parlor. Tom rose in deference as well.

"Oh, forgive me," Mrs. Morgan cried. "I had no idea we had company. Libbie, how unforgivably rude of you. Won't you introduce me to our guest?"

"Mother, this is Mr. Thomas Estabrook. Mr. Estabrook, my mother, Harriett Morgan."

"I'm delighted to meet you, ma'am," Tom said with a slight bow, hat in hand. He felt unequal to shaking her hand or kissing it. She was a dignified lady, and he was a mere farmer's son.

"Estabrook," her mother said, thinking for a moment. "Are you employed at the clockworks, young man?"

"Yes, ma'am. Elizabeth was just...letting me borrow some books. They sounded very interesting." He was pleased that Libbie must have mentioned him to her mother already.

"I hear you know the Reverend Savercool." Her smile did not include her eyes, which remained icy and unexpressive.

"Yes, ma'am. He's a very good pastor. They miss him down in Newfield, I hear."

"Libbie, where is your sister?" Harriett asked.

"Mother, I'm sure I don't know."

Harriett sighed. "Juliana will begin preparing dinner very soon. I suggest you freshen up."

Libbie rolled her eyes after her mother's departure.

"Your mother is very beautiful," Tom said.

Libbie shrugged. "I suppose so." Then she turned her attention back to her guest.

"You should call on me tomorrow. We can go for a stroll."

"I would be most flattered, Miss Morgan."

"Good. Three o'clock, then. You must do some reading this evening. You can let me know tomorrow how the books are coming."

### Chapter 13

Ithaca, New York

June 1916

After a dinner of Mrs. Protts's pork and beans that evening, Tom settled down on his bed with the volumes Libbie had given him, handling them with reverence, as if they had been bestowed by the Delphic oracle. He read several of the epitaphs for the citizens of Spoon River, but although he concentrated, he could not understand what was so magical about the work. All he managed to glean was that the people were dead and that these were quotes about their lives. Depressing. Give him a copy of _Ben Hur_ or _Lord Jim_ any day. He liked something with a bit of action. Chariot races and the like. He set the book down, rubbing his eyes in frustration.

He opened the D.H. Lawrence and struggled with the language at first but enjoyed it more as he progressed. He fell asleep reading, his dreams an odd mix of Hell Row Nottinghamshire coal mines, garden flowers, and pretty blue-eyed ladies in fancy houses up on the hill.

* * *

Trumansburg, New York

June 1986

"Mom said she remembered Libbie mentioning something about lending books to the boy to help him get more educated. She had a couple of favorites she wanted everyone to read," Diana said, sipping some more of her tea.

" _Spoon River Anthology_ ," Frank mused out loud.

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"Olive Rumsey was Libbie's best friend. She's still alive down in Watkins Glen. I spoke to her yesterday."

"Oh, yes. She came to dad's funeral years ago. I didn't realize she was still around."

"I don't remember her at the funeral."

"Frank, you went out with Uncle Herb between the service and the wake and got blitzed."

"Oh yeah. Imagine me wanting to forget something like that." He grimaced, remembering when his life had begun to spin wildly out of his control. He pinpointed it to right around the time of his father's death. Maybe it was history repeating itself. "Olive's a nice lady. She shared some stories with me."

"Mom always liked Olive a lot, even though she was best friends with Aunt Libbie. Olive is such a decent human being, but I don't know how she stayed friends with Libbie. According to Mom, Libbie could sometimes be nasty to people just because she knew she could get away with it. Aunt Libbie knew she was beautiful, and everyone loved her because of that, so it sounds like she pushed the envelope as far as she could."

"Can you remember anything Mom told you about this Estabrook kid?" Frank asked.

Diana thought a moment and shook her head.

Frank reached for his second glass of tea. He and Diana had been talking for hours. But he felt like he knew his aunt a lot better now. Libbie wanted all the fringe benefits of being married to a lawyer, even if it hurt Maude, who was carrying a torch for Stephen LaBarr. It also sounded like she might have been carrying on with this Estabrook guy and getting her ya-yas out before she had to settle down and get married. But the strict social mores of the day had made it difficult for her to do anything but what her social class had raised her to do.

"Diana, do you know if Mom saved any of Libbie's possessions?"

"Geez, I can't believe I didn't think of that sooner," she said, palming her forehead. "Have I got a treat for you." Rising from the couch, she jerked her finger for him to follow and led him through the main corridor to the back of the house.

The guest room had a queen-sized bed tidily made up in sea green linens. Frank had spent many nights here after a visit stretched into the wee hours.

She gestured to the bed for him to sit a moment and opened the closet, where she pulled the cord for a bare bulb light fixture. From the top shelf, she pulled down a cardboard box labeled "Libbie's Stuff" in magic marker.

"Mom didn't like looking in here. I think it freaked her out too much. I'm sure everyone and their brother has looked through here, but maybe you'll see something no one else did. Her diary's in there, and she does talk about both of the guys, but there was a lot of stuff I didn't understand. Other people's names I didn't recognize, that sort of thing. Since you're talking to more people, maybe you'll figure out what's up with it."

"Could I borrow this for a little while?" Frank asked, gesturing to the box.

"If it helps to figure out what happened to her, take it," Diana said, letting out a sigh. She handed him the box and then followed him as he made his way back to the Crown Victoria.

"You've been a huge help, sis," he told her, placing the box in the trunk of the car. "I promise I'll do everything I can to figure out what happened to her. I need to do this. For Mom, for us. For me."

"Thanks," she said, hugging him.

He climbed in and started the car, then headed back to Ithaca. She stood in the driveway, waving as he drove away, realizing belatedly that for once, the wafting scent of Jim Beam hadn't clung to him like bad cologne.

* * *

Ithaca, New York

June 1986

Frank's home was on Aurora Street, not far from DeWitt Park. It was a tiny little place in an older mansion that had been subdivided into four apartments. What it lacked in modern conveniences, it made up for in turn-of-the-century charm, and that was okay with him. He was a no-frills kind of guy anyway. He'd needed a place after he and Allison split up, and it fit the bill. He had the eastern sun in his bedroom in the morning and he wasn't too far from either the barracks or a Chinese place that delivered, making it ideal for his needs as a bachelor.

He pulled around to the back, where a community carport fit six cars. Splurging a bit, he'd gone by Moosewood on the way home and picked up some burek for dinner. It sat on the passenger seat, ready to be microwaved.

He picked it up and headed to the back door. As he rounded the corner to go in, the sagging privet hedge that ran the contours of the building accosted him. It needed a massive trim, and the landlord refused to do it.

One of these days, Frank was going to rent a weed whacker and level the thing, just to piss the guy off. His key stuck in the lock, so he ended up fighting the shrub for longer than he would have liked.

Once inside, he kicked off his shoes while dinner nuked. Then he grabbed the plate and settled onto the couch, where he clicked on the TV and finished his meal. The flaky pastry melted in his mouth. It would have tasted even better washed down with an ice-cold Genesee, but he settled for a Pepsi instead. Over an episode of _Simon & Simon_, he looked through the box to see if anything jumped out at him. The smell of yellowing paper and old bookbindings announced the history of the items inside. The first item, tucked into a brittle envelope near the top of the box, was a pressed flower of some sort. Frank turned the desiccated stem to get a good view and recognized a bleeding heart. His mother had always grown them in her garden. Three books followed, Libbie's supposed favorites: The _Spoon River Anthology_ , _Sons and Lovers_ , and a volume of Vachel Lindsay's poetry, all of their pages cracked and crumbling with age. Next out of the box were several photographs—a picture of a chubby baby with a mop of dark curls labeled "Libbie" on the back, Libbie and Olive laughing, Libbie in her long white graduation dress holding a diploma, and the picture of Libbie in the plaid dress and hat that was used for the newspaper articles about her disappearance.

The next item in the box was a portrait from the McGillivray studio in Ithaca. He opened the flap on the cardboard frame and saw the same face he had seen in the group photo of the church picnic that Olive had showed him. On the flap, he'd written, " _To Libbie, with all my love, your Tom_." From the photo, he was able to study his subject better than from the tiny face he'd seen in the group shot. No doubt about it, Thomas Estabrook was a good-looking guy. Dark eyes gazed out from a face with high cheekbones, full lips, and the slight semblance of a five o'clock shadow. A straw hat covered thick, dark hair, and he wore a dark vest over a pleated white shirt and striped necktie. But Frank had seen it before in plenty of the kids he'd brought in for questioning.

Even though Tom was handsome, his eyes still looked vulnerable—as if he was wearing someone else's suit and was aware that he was out of his element. Frank stared at the face for a long time, committing it to memory, wondering what had happened between these two and wondering how Libbie came to be buried for seventy years because of it.

The next item slipped out of the cardboard surrounding the old photo. An old sepia-toned postcard fluttered to the ground, so Frank picked it up and saw the telltale item that Olive had mentioned. On the flipside was a woman wearing next to nothing, holding a string of pearls over her bare, lily-white bosom. It was far sexier than most of the porn that was out there nowadays, he had to admit. Maybe that was just his style. For a sheltered woman at the turn of the century, this must have seemed forbidden, dangerous, and more than a little titillating. He could understand why she'd kept it.

The last item in the box was her diary, a small, leather-bound book with a decorative gold insignia on the cover. A girlish script filled the inside. If he was lucky, he might pick up a clue from it. If not, it would be a banal read about new hats and the 1916 social scene. He took a deep breath and dove in.

May 25, 1916

Dear Diary-

I am a graduate! The ceremonies were today, and it was a pretty day for it. Belinda Goodwin gave the valedictory address, and several of the graduates formed a quartet and sang a very patriotic song. Dr. Bruce gave the invocation, and afterwards, there were delicious refreshments. I cannot believe that soon, I will be headed to Smith's with Olive and learning about nursing so that we may help in the war effort when America enters the struggle. Everyone says it will happen any day now, after the Lusitania. Even so, President Wilson promised to keep us out. It's all so confusing. Dr. Kincaid encouraged us in our pursuit, saying what honorable ladies we are for wanting to help. Is it terrible of me that I'm only doing it to see Paris? That sounds so shallow I know, but I can't be alone in that. Most girls would give their eye teeth to see Gay Paree.

I figure I'll go again when I'm old and married, but I don't think it would be possible to have any more fun than to see Paris while you're young. I realize there will be nastiness and gore involved with the nursing, but just thinking of meeting a romantic Frenchman sets my heart aflutter. Not like the thought of Stephen LaBarr. Seeing the land of Balzac and Molière would be so exciting.

I hope there will be some Frenchmen left after all these battles are over. The newspaper makes it sound very bad.

Yours,

Libbie

* * *

June 12, 1916

Dear Diary-

I'm still enjoying the Lindsay poems that Dr. Kincaid shared with me just before graduation. It amazes me that there are artists and writers who think this way. His poem about snaring moonlight gives me goose bumps. Today, Olive and I went to the flickers and had lunch afterward. Also, I have a divine new hat!

At Birdie's Café, we met two boys whom the reverend knew from his ministry in Newfield. Just poor boys, but one is rather handsome, if a bit shy. Tomorrow, I'll attend a lecture at the university for ladies interested in nursing positions overseas. Olive and I still plan on Smith's, but it wouldn't hurt to know more about what might await us when we go.

L.

* * *

June 14, 1916

Dear Diary- I ran into the farm boy again today. His name is Tom. He was with a friend named Jimmy, who seems a bit of a bore. He bought me an ice cream soda at Platt & Colt's, and we talked about life and literature. Neither of them have read any Masters or Sons and Lovers. I think he is not very educated at all, but he seems a decent fellow. He's more of a "salt of the earth" type if I read him right. Why are the handsome boys always poor and the rich boys always boring? I have invited him to call at the house, and I will let him borrow my copies of the books. I have to admit that I'm very attracted to him. Perhaps I shall even let him kiss me. I've never kissed a poor boy before.

L.

* * *

June 16, 1916

It seems that Tom (the poor boy) doesn't much like the Edgar Lee Masters. I suppose that's all right. Epitaphs aren't for everyone. In fact, he didn't even know what an epitaph was until I told him. See? A bit simple, as I said. Perhaps it's something to do with both his parents being dead. I suppose it might be a bit sad, reading memories of the deceased.

But he's being a good sport about conquering the D.H. Lawrence and seems to like it. Tonight, we visited his flat on Linn Street. And now I have a secret. We kissed. Good gracious did we kiss! We almost did more, but the landlady interrupted us by knocking on the door. Perhaps next time, I shall write about something delicious and forbidden.

L.

Here, Frank noticed a long haphazard line scrawled down the page.

* * *

"Libbie?"

Libbie slammed the diary shut abruptly, causing her pen to skid across the paper. She looked up just as Maude crossed the room to peer over her shoulder.

"What do you want?" Libbie asked.

"Mother wanted me to call you for dinner. Juliana has rung the bell twice and you didn't come."

"Tell her I'm sorry. Just give me a moment. I'll freshen up and be down in a jiffy."

"What are you writing?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I'm just curious, Libbie."

"It's called nosy, little sister. Now go. I'll be down in a moment."

Once Maude had left the room, Libbie placed the diary back in its usual hiding place, between the slats on the back of her nightstand. With it tucked away in a safe spot, she smoothed her skirts and descended to dinner, thinking that the roast duckling with ginger sauce smelled divine. It was one of Juliana's specialties.

### Chapter 14

Ithaca, New York

June 1986

"Dad!"

Frank looked up from the diary with a start, realizing he'd become engrossed in its pages. The doorbell rang again, accompanied by Shannon's frustrated call.

"Dad!" A heavy banging followed the bell, so he rose from the couch and opened the door.

His daughter stood there in all her sullen teenage glory, hair moussed to the limit in some stand-up punk sort of 'do. She'd also added a bright pink streak and had a tiny braid trailing down one side. Frank couldn't understand the whole new wave thing. It seemed more about shocking people than it did the music as near as he could tell. And what was the deal with all the drum machines and keyboards? Soulless, he thought. Give him something like The Allman Brothers or Neil Young.

She'd worn an old military surplus jacket formerly owned by an army guy named Private Petrovski. Beneath, a black T-shirt with "The Cure" in psychedelic lettering on the front peaked out.

The cure for what? he thought, annoyed at her rebellious attire yet embarrassed that he noticed how she filled out the shirt. She was becoming a woman before his eyes and he had no idea how to react.

After his dad's death, he'd begun staying out later, drinking more, feeling more distant from Allison, and when she found out that he'd had a one-nighter with Shelly, that was the last straw. His only defense was that he'd been drunk, which was no defense at all. He'd blown it, and now he had to be content watching Shannon grow up on alternate weekends and whenever she decided to drop by, like now. For a few years, their connection had been tenuous, even hostile. Lately, she seemed to have forgiven him, and they were getting along much better. But she was still a teenager, with all that entailed.

"Hi, honey." He gave her a hug, trying not to ruin the hairstyle he could tell she'd obviously spent hours creating.

"Mom's P.O.d about something," she shot back, ejecting herself from the embrace with typical teenage ennui. She flopped down onto the couch and crossed her arms in defiance. "I had to get out of the house."

"What's she upset about?"

"School, what else?"

"What about school? We've talked about this before. What's going on?"

"Can I please just have a beer?"

"You'll have a soda," he said, crossing to the fridge and pulling out a Pepsi for her. Bringing her the can and a glass, he stood there for a moment, expecting answers. "All right, Shan. Cough it up. Tell me."

"I skipped algebra yesterday. The principal called her. It's no big deal. I just freaking hate algebra. I went shopping with the girls, and the stupid shopkeeper called the truant officer. It was just one period." She rolled her eyes.

"Shannon, don't start skipping school. Seriously." Frustrated, he ran a hand through his hair, trying to figure out what to say to her. He loved her so much, but he found it so difficult to relate to her these days. More so now that she resembled her mother in looks and temperament.

"Why? It's boring."

"I know that. Math wasn't my favorite subject either. Can I impart some paternal wisdom that I have gained in all my years?"

She snorted, and he took that as a yes.

"Algebra is bullshit."

"Duh," she said, and he had to mentally smack down the disciplinarian in himself.

"I'm serious."

She looked at him and her face was unreadable. "Really?"

"Yes, Shan. The truth is that algebra is useless. Knowing you as I do, I'm aware that you will become an artist or a writer or a journalist. You like using words to get your point across. Very sarcastically, I might add. I also know that you get As in English and art. Your mother and I are very proud of you for that."

She looked cynical.

"However...here's the thing. Algebra is a necessary evil."

She rolled her eyes again, and he looked up, beseeching whomever was up there to give him the strength he needed to deal with her.

"I know it's boring, and I know you don't give a flying flip what x and y are or if they're squared or cubed. But you have to take it to graduate, and chances are, you'll have to take it and pass it in the future in college. You might even have to take calculus or trig too. Haven't you talked about going to Cornell? Well, you'll never do it by skipping classes. You just can't.

Cornell wants the best of the best. When my dad and I had this same conversation years and years ago and I asked him what algebra was for, do you know what he told me? Shipbuilding."

Her mouth dropped open.

"Now, I know you don't have any blueprints for the Mauretania on your desk at home. The school district knows it too. But the truth is that you have to take it and pass it before you can move on."

She sat for a moment, seeming to really think about what he'd said.

"Do we understand each other?" he asked. "I don't want to have this conversation again. You have to go to class. And I don't care if you get As. Let me rephrase that. As are nice. I love As. But I just want you to do your best. You can't do that if you're not sitting in that seat. And I may not care about As, but I know Cornell sure does. Got it?"

Shannon broke out into a smile and put her hand on his knee.

"Thanks, Dad. You always explain things so I can understand them."

She leaned over and hugged him, then sighed.

"Why can't things be the way they used to? I wish you still lived with us."

"I know, honey. You don't know how sorry I am."

"Mom just gets crazy. Zero to hysterical in ten seconds flat. I can't think with all the yelling. I won't skip algebra again. Can we go to Purity's and get an ice cream now?"

* * *

After they had ice cream and he deposited her back at her mother's place, Frank pulled the Crown Vic to a stop in front of his mother's house, a pretty bungalow in the East Hill neighborhood. Navy shutters and a deep blue front door accentuated the pale cream exterior. Although it looked small from the outside, it was spacious inside, with a full finished basement that contained an entire extra bedroom suite. It had experienced much modernization during the last century, and his father had done much of the work himself. The house sat back from the street, with a healthy, expansive lawn and flowerbeds drenched in deep shade. His mother had planted hostas and lady ferns around the perimeter of the house. Up until she got sick, her garden had been Maude's pride and joy.

As Frank strolled up the front walk, Walter the cat hopped down from a nearby stone retaining wall. He made a beeline for where Frank stood at the front door. Like all cats, Walter knew where his bread was buttered. When old lady human was not there, visiting tall guy meant dinner and a scratch or two.

"Come on, buddy."

Walter made himself at home, purring and serpentining his gray fluff between Frank's pant legs. Frank went to the pantry for a can of whatever Maude had on hand for his dinner and found one last can of Friskies Seafood in Sauce, which he dished up and set on the floor. Walter began devouring what was in the bowl, and Frank had an awful thought as he watched him eat.

What happens to Walter when Mom goes?

Diana was allergic, and he knew how particular Seth's wife Angela was about lint and fur and dust in their house. Frank loathed cats, but if no one took him, Walter would end up at the pound, and that couldn't happen.

Maude loved this damned cat. He wondered if Linda or Russ might be in the market for a new pet.

Walter, for his part, enjoyed his dinner, unaware of the strange U-Turn his seventh life was about to take. He began his dainty after-meal bathing ritual, using his front paw to launder the rest of himself. Frank scratched his forehead, which he seemed to appreciate. He moved his head so that Frank could work his way over to the neck and then onto the breastbone.

Walter preened, milking his cuteness factor for all he was worth. Frank hated to admit it, but the cat could be a fun companion at times. He was more independent than a dog, at least. If nothing else, Shannon would never forgive him for letting anything bad happen to Walter.

Frank glanced at the room he knew so well, with its lavender blue couch and chairs, and then into the bedroom his parents had shared for years before his father's death. In the closet, up on a shelf, his mother kept a book full of nostalgia. That was where he needed to look. Suddenly, he was craving anything and everything about his family. It didn't even matter if it pertained to Libbie. He just needed to feel close to them all somehow. It seemed essential to know everything he could. He took the album from its place on the shelf above the clothes rod and sat down on the bed to examine its contents. Walter, evidently in the mood for company, followed him into the room, where he hopped up on the bed, kneaded the spread to get the consistency just right, and settled down for a nap, his purr engine in high gear.

The first page of the album contained clippings for his mother's graduating class in 1917. A graduation program listed the valedictorian, salutatorian, and the schedule for the ceremony, including Elgar's "Pomp and Circumstance" for the recessional. Things hadn't changed much, it seemed.

Obituaries for his grandparents were glued into the book. While they were what he was searching for, looking at them was a real downer.

" _Harriett Bardwell Morgan_

_Ithaca_ _— Mrs. Harriett Bardwell Morgan passed away yesterday morning after an extended illness. She was born in Fairfield, Connecticut, April 8, 1864, to Charles Bardwell and his wife, Jennie Van Kirk. She attended the Litchfield Finishing School in Fairfield, Connecticut, and in 1896 married DeWitt Clinton_

Morgan, an attorney who is well known in this city. One daughter, Maude Morgan Conley of Trumansburg survives her. Another daughter, Libbie, went missing in 1916. Her whereabouts are unknown. Obsequies will be at the home on Stewart Street Saturday morning with ladies from the Rebekahs assisting in receiving callers. Mrs. Morgan will be buried Saturday in the Ithaca City Cemetery."

" _DeWitt Clinton Morgan_

_Ithaca_ _— Mr. DeWitt Clinton Morgan, a well-known attorney of this city, passed away late last night after an illness of several years' duration. He was born September 12, 1860, in Old Saybrook, Connecticut, to Levi Cornelius Morgan and his wife, Phoebe Baldwin. After attending Cornell here and studying law, he decided to settle. He married Miss Harriett Bardwell in 1896, and they became respected members of the community, Mr. Morgan practicing law here for many years. He had the marvelous home on Seneca Street near Stewart built for his new wife in 1896, and it has become a grand addition to our architectural community._

Of Mr. Morgan, his old partner, Mr. Amasa LaBarr, commented that he was 'one of the most skillful arbiters of law in the state.' Judge Eli Van Riper, who sat on the bench for many years, called Mr. Morgan 'a stellar individual, one to whom justice and integrity were paramount.' Many Ithacans remember Mr. Morgan with fondness.

One daughter, Maude Morgan Conley of Trumansburg, survives him. Another daughter, Libbie, went missing in 1916. Her whereabouts are unknown. Services will be held at the Ithaca Methodist Church on Friday at eleven o'clock. Mr. Morgan will be buried Friday afternoon in the Ithaca City Cemetery."

He hadn't expected either of the clippings to tell him much more than he already knew, but at least he was being thorough in his search for more information. In addition to the brittle yellow obituaries, he also found an invitation to his parents' wedding and the clipping from the paper.

" _Morgan-Conley_

_Ithaca_ _—_

Saturday morning, the marriage of Sarah Maude Morgan to Robert Harrison Conley occurred at the Morgan home on Stewart Street. The company of invited guests was not large, yet those fortunate enough to be present report one of the most pleasant gatherings of the season. The room was decorated with garlands of orange blossoms and beautiful arrangements of white roses. The costumes were elegant, and the ceremony was brief but pleasant, the repast fine and list of presents large and unusual in merit and value.

A fine orchestra helped to entertain the party, playing several choice selections, including Lohengrin's Wedding March for the processional. Later, Clara Armbruster and Phoebe Hill put all in a pleasant mood with their comic songs.

The young people have each been residents of this place for a long time and have many friends here who have the best wishes for their happiness and future prosperity. They began housekeeping in their fine new residence, and there was no break made in the practice of law, which he has so faithfully practiced. A formal wedding trip to Niagara Falls will follow later this summer. The Journal joins in hearty congratulations and trusts that in the years to come, there may never come a moment when either will regret the step they took on Saturday June sixteenth."

When Frank was done reading, he looked over at Walter, who was sprawled over the bedspread. Walter let out a lazy yawn and stretched a little more. Frank rubbed his belly, and the little fellow rolled over on his back and scooted across the spread backwards in enjoyment. Frank considered impromptu cat ownership.

### Chapter 15

Ithaca, New York

June 1916

Breakfast was quiet. Maude read her copy of _The Secret Garden_ , even though Harriett had a rule about no books at the table. Today, however, Harriett was preoccupied with directing the servants in their duties. The Morgans were entertaining several other attorneys and their wives that night, and Harriett wanted everything to be just so before their arrival. Libbie watched with amusement as her mother harangued poor Juliana about the linens, the flowers, and the courses to be served at dinner, while Jack, their part-time butler, polished her mother's silver tea service until it glistened.

"Now Juliana, we've decided on the Chicken Lyonnaise, tomato aspic, creamed carrots, green turtle soup, jacket potatoes, and some fresh fruit and cheese. For dessert, I'd prefer the pear tart to the brandied nectarines that Mr. Morgan mentioned to you. Several of our guests are teetotalers and may not appreciate liquor in their dessert. We'll serve the others an after-dinner brandy or cognac instead. Will that be sufficient to get you started?"

"Yes, ma'am," Juliana said with a half curtsy as she retreated back to the kitchen to plan the cooking marathon that would ensue when she returned from the market.

Libbie finished her poached egg, buckwheat cakes with marmalade, and fruit compote and then made her way upstairs. No one knew of her plans, but she was meeting Tom Estabrook at the nickelodeon later. Their walk several days before had been pleasant but had only left Libbie clamoring for more.

This afternoon, they were buying separate tickets and then sitting together in the darkened theater. She was thrilled even thinking about it. She wasn't sure she liked the choice of films—something called _Civilization_ that Tom was interested in seeing. It was all about the brutality of war or some such. But Libbie supposed it might prepare her for what she would see overseas once she and Olive arrived. She didn't recognize any of the actors, either. She'd hoped that Lillian Gish might be in it, or Theda Bara. But she supposed she could sit still to watch it anyway. When she purchased her ticket and the usher showed her to her seat, the theater had not yet begun to fill.

The Palace was a recent addition to Ithaca's architectural milieu. It stood at the intersection of Green and Aurora, near Six Mile Creek, and a grander theater the city had never seen. The owners had built it to accommodate vaudeville shows, but they had added a screen for flicker capabilities as well. The builders had modeled the stone masonry work on the Italian palaces of the Renaissance and constructed a huge proscenium arch over the screen. Casts of cherubs and angels decorated the arch, and deep indigo velvet draperies hung alongside it. The ceiling was the most beautiful of all, with fake paint effects resembling a sky with clouds and glistening stars. It still smelled of new paint and plaster.

Mr. McGillicuddy sat at the piano in front of the stage, entertaining them all with current melodies before the show started, then he started a tinny sort of tune more in keeping with the film. Libbie pulled out the hatpins securing her headwear and set it with care on the seat beside her, in keeping with the "Ladies, please remove your hats" frame on the screen.

At that moment, the usher showed Tom to a seat behind her. As soon as the man retreated to assist another patron, Tom moved up a row and sat down next to her. When he smiled, her heart fluttered a bit.

"I'm glad you made it," he whispered.

"Me, too."

They watched in silent fascination at the flickering black and white images for a time, and then he reached for her hand in the dark. She grasped it and smiled, even though he couldn't see.

* * *

After the flicker, as they sat next to each other on the streetcar, Libbie looked over at Tom under hooded lids. He was nervous and twiddled his fingers, trying to steal a glimpse at her while pretending not to. She had never seen a boy so anxious. But she had also never seen a boy so handsome. He seemed unaware of it.

They had taken a stroll down Seneca Street after the film. It wasn't a long walk, as the neighbors would have gossiped, but then they caught the streetcar, and it didn't matter much anyway after that. Tom told her of his mother and father, and of living on the farm with his aunt and uncle, and of his sister and her adorable twin daughters. Libbie listened with one ear, as she found his stories of rural life frightfully dull.

"I want to see where you live," she'd said, turning to him.

It didn't seem proper to Tom at all. With no chaperone, what would the neighbors say? What would Mrs. Protts say? He found that he was frightened and hoped it wouldn't look as if he had compromised Miss Morgan's honor, when that hadn't been his intention at all. In fact, she was rather insistent on seeing his room.

"They don't have to know," she whispered, reading his thoughts. But he noticed she was shaking too.

As they stepped out of the car at his stop, they walked up Linn Street, wanting to hold hands but knowing they couldn't. They could have been brother and sister for all anyone knew, except for the disparity in the quality of their clothing.

The nondescript two-story clapboard house owned by Mrs. Protts loomed up ahead, with shadows beginning to collect across the afternoon lawn. The dark green shutters framing the two front windows gave it a bit of a brooding look. Tom could have sworn that the house was frowning at them. He surveyed the garden as they walked up the hill, but there was no landlady in sight. During the spring and summer, like now, she was always out cutting flowers or harvesting her small batch of vegetables. After a few moments, he heard her voice warbling a shaky tune from the back summer kitchen as she rinsed something she had dug up. Perhaps they could enter the building unseen. He didn't know how they did it, but they made it down the corridor, with its peeling green paint, and entered his spare little room.

Although he had straightened it before his departure that morning, it was still the rented lodging of a poor man. He was even more self-conscious about it after seeing the luxurious parlor in the Morgan home.

A lonesome bedstead in the center of the room sported a striped mattress and two spare blankets, along with a cheap, lumpy pillow. Next to it was an overturned box, with a small brass alarm clock and a selection of several books: a cheap _Tarzan_ serial, _Lord Jim_ , and those that she had lent him. In one corner on a cheap table was a small bowl and pitcher for washing up. Some tooth powder stood next to it, and a toothbrush, comb, and straight razor lay beside. A small-looking glass hung nearby on the wall, with a lather mug on a shelf below it. He watched Libbie as she looked around the room, running her fingers over the little table that had belonged to his mother. On it sat a framed photograph of all the Estabrooks before his parents had passed away. He kept it out to remind him of the good times. The only real piece of furniture was the chiffarobe, which contained his meager wardrobe.

She picked up the photograph and touched his figure through the glass.

"How old were you here?" she asked.

"About twelve. That's my sister Della there with me."

"It's a sweet picture. You were an adorable little boy."

"Thank you," he croaked.

"Is your sister still nearby?"

Tom sighed, since he'd already told her about his family. She must not have been paying attention.

"Yes, she lives down in Newfield with her husband and my two little nieces, Frances and Dorothy."

"Very sweet," she said with little interest, continuing her perusal of his place. She crossed to the books that lay on his small table and fingered the spine of _Sons and Lovers_.

"It's an extraordinary book, don't you think?"

"Yes. I'm enjoying it. Thank you for recommending it to me," he acknowledged.

Picking up the book, she said, "I love this part, here, at the beginning, in 'The Early Life of the Morels,' when her husband has been out drinking and Gertrude gets angry at him. You can feel the fury on the page. This part here? Where Gertrude tells her husband she would have left years before if it wasn't for the children? I adore how Lawrence crafts this narrative. It's brilliant. Gertrude Morel was a fool for marrying beneath her station, and she knew it." Libbie paused for a moment. "I love reading about her, but that will never happen to me."

Thomas continued to look at her, engrossed in her words but not even hearing them, so intent was he on the animation in her face as she described the scene.

"Good books are like food for me. I need them to exist," she finished.

"I'm afraid that you're better equipped to know good literature than me," Tom confessed. "I am enjoying it, but my education was a bit simpler than yours, from my one-room school. That's all you have when you're poor."

"Some of the richest men in America came from nothing. Why, Mr. Vanderbilt, Mr. Rockefeller, Mr. Carnegie...they were all poor men who made good. There's nothing in the cards that says that although you were born poor, you have to stay that way."

"You're very clever. All right, someday I shall make a fortune. I shall take over the clockworks from the owners, and I shall buy a grand mansion up on the hill. And there I shall take you so you can live in the grand style you're used to." He smiled. He hadn't been brave enough to tease her before now. As he approached, she turned, startling him.

"Do you want to kiss me, Tom?" she said.

He gazed at her, his mouth agape that a girl could be so forward.

"I...why....yes...I would very much like to kiss you, Miss Morgan."

"Libbie...." she whispered, her mouth almost on top of his, as she moved closer and closer to him, her lips tempting and retreating. She kept threatening to kiss him but never completed the act. It was maddening.

She smiled, enticing him and enjoying how discomfited she made him. She grabbed the hatpins on her hat and pulled it off, shaking her hair. It fell in a myriad of wanton curls around her shoulders. Setting the hatpins on the nearby table, she dared him to touch her.

And at that moment, a knock came on the door.

"Mr. Estabrook! Oh Mr. Estabrook! Do you suppose you could help me move a small table out of the basement? It's rather difficult for an old crone like me to lift."

Blushing at being interrupted in such a compromising position, Tom was reluctant to pull away from Libbie. But he did. She sulked at being neglected.

"Of course, Mrs. Protts. I was just changing. I'll be there in a moment."

Her heavy footsteps retreated down the hallway outside, so turning to Libbie, he said, "My landlady. She's a nice old woman, just a bit of a pest at times."

"Helping her is more important than me?"

"No, not at all, Miss Morgan. I'm very fond of you. I hope I can see you again."

"We'll see," she said, turning coy in light of his resigning her to second place, behind Mrs. Protts.

### Chapter 16

When the streetcar dropped her off, Libbie hurried up Seneca Street, hoping she wasn't late to dinner. She didn't want to provide any other clues to what she'd been doing. Straightening the tendrils of hair that had escaped from her hat, she turned the front doorknob.

"Libbie? Is that you, dear?" her mother called. "For goodness' sake, where have you been? The party will be starting any minute! I've been worried sick! Now, go freshen up, right away!"

"Yes, Mother," she said, taking the stairs two at a time. Reaching her room, she turned the key in the lock and closed the door behind her. She took a deep breath, still unable to believe what had just happened.

With the large number of dinner guests arriving, Libbie did her best to freshen up. She changed into a newer heliotrope-colored frock and wound some ribbon trimmed with pearls through her hair. Trying to act normal at dinner was awful. She wasn't sure who annoyed her the most: Maude blathering on and on about some book she was reading about gardens, or Mr. Hathaway from the tobacconists' shop, discussing the merits of southern tobacco versus the recent influx of Cuban to the markets.

Her father once again bored them to tears with his day full of plaintiffs and defendants, aided this time by three other attorneys to join in his lament. Her mother detailed her busy social schedule with the Daughters of the American Revolution meeting and the Ladies of the First Episcopal Church social. Mrs. Stephens, one of the other lawyer's wives, droned on and on about the respectability and tradition of the Rebekahs organization. Mr. Cady, another of the lawyers at the firm, spoke to Libbie about considering

Cornell, as he was familiar with her stellar academic record. Mr. LaBarr, her father's law partner, leaned in for a quick hug and squeezed just a bit too tight for her taste. Mrs. LaBarr looked a bit glassy-eyed, and Libbie wondered why until her mother whispered that Marguerite LaBarr had already had three glasses of brandy.

There Libbie sat, feeling as if her life had begun at last, and everyone around her droned on and on about the same humdrum things they always had. Couldn't they see how different she felt? Everything before this moment seemed unimportant. She had to fight to keep a look of triumph off her face and escaped from the table as soon as possible. Even Juliana's pear tart with meringue couldn't keep her a moment longer.

* * *

Ithaca, New York

June 1916

That evening, Tom also had a visitor. Hi showed up at his door, hat in hand and tears in his eyes.

"Hi, come in! What is it? What's wrong?"

Hi fought to get the words out. His ruddy complexion was more flushed than usual, and his eyes were almost swollen shut. Tom had never seen his friend so upset.

"Tom, it's Father..." he began.

"Uncle Zeke? What's happened?"

The boys sat down on the bedstead, and Hi lowered his head and sobbed as if his heart would break.

"He's gone, Tom. It must have been his heart. We were out in the barn two days ago, and he grabbed his chest and fell over. Right in front of me. There was nothing I could do..."

Tom didn't think he'd ever seen a human being in so much pain. Even when their parents had died a few years ago, he and his sister had borne it as well as they could. But Hi and his father had been extraordinarily close. He put an arm around his friend, wishing he could help him somehow.

"When is the service?" Tom asked.

"Tomorrow at four p.m. Do you think you can make it?"

"I'll try my best. I'll speak to my supervisor tomorrow. He's a decent fellow."

"There's something else, Tom. Mother saw a lawyer yesterday. We're in debt. The farm isn't doing well, in spite of how it looked to us...the mortgage..."

"What are you going to do?"

"The bank's going to take it. We...we have to move. Mother and Alice and Lucy and me," Hi said with a sigh.

"Oh, God. What will you do?"

"Mother's sister Susan and her husband Jeremiah live in Buffalo. We'll have to stay with them for a while until I can find work. We have to sell everything."

"What about Alice and Lucy?"

"They can find something as domestics when we get to Buffalo. They're good at cooking and cleaning, although that means I won't see them as often. We had hoped that they would be promised by now—" the small arrow stung Tom a bit "—but since they're not, we all have to go and make the best of it."

"Oh God, I'm so sorry," Tom said, holding his head in his hands. "Is there anything I can do? Please let me help."

"That's why I'm here. And to tell you about everything. I know you were trying to save for a Model T."

"It was kind of a pipedream, but I was putting a little away, yeah."

"I can sell you ours for a reasonable price. It'd be a little older than the one you wanted, but I know how you've needed one. And it would give us a slight cushion."

"Now I won't even need the car as much if I don't have to come down to visit you on the farm," Tom said. "Hi, your mother must need this money from the car to pay debts. You can get far more for it than you'd get from me."

"I know. But I don't want the vultures to have everything. Father was so proud of that car. Even if we did have to transport feed in it and it was a farm vehicle, it was still his pride and joy. He would have wanted you to have it. You can still come down and visit Jimmy, right?"

"But Hi, what about you? You need the car."

"No I don't. We can take the train west. In Buffalo, I can take the streetcar everywhere when I find a job. I know President Wilson's said he'll keep us out, but it's obvious we'll be entering the war soon, so most likely I'll be headed over there. When I make it home, I'll get a soldier's pension, and they'll have nicer cars on the market. Better ones." He tried to smile but wasn't successful.

"No matter what happens, you have to send me an address there so I can stay in touch with you. Who knows? I may end up in Buffalo someday. If war comes, perhaps we could at least enlist in the same regiment."

Hi nodded, his face solemn. They sat together for a time, neither saying a word. After a half hour, Tom knew Hi was ready to go.

The boys went outside, where Hi showed Tom how to crank the handle to start the engine, and they took a spin around the block so he could see how it maneuvered. Now Tom would have to speak to Mrs. Protts about where he could park his new acquisition. And he would go to the bank in the morning to get the money for Hi. As they parted, they embraced.

Mr. Farnsworth at the factory seemed like a decent sort. Tom hoped he could manage an hour or two off for the service. At least now he had faster transportation to get there and back. After driving Hiram back to Newfield, he returned home late.

* * *

In Newfield, the Methodist Episcopal Church was packed to the rafters for the funeral of Ezekiel Gordon. It was a simple house of worship—white clapboard like most of the farmhouses in the area. The inside was spartan, although the congregation had splurged on one very basic stained glass window behind the altar. In the front pew, Hiram sat with his mother and sisters, all clutching handkerchiefs. Reverend Bliss, clad in his white woven chasuble, spoke of the finality of death but the thrill of everlasting life, then recited from Psalm 91.

"He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, 'He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust,'" he quoted. He swung the censer back and forth, scenting the entire church with frankincense. Tom had always loved the warm, tangy smell, as it reminded him of his mother, who had been the most devout woman he'd ever known. He had always associated the verses, sights, and smells of the church with her. He'd felt guilty turning away from religion after he lost his parents.

It seemed to him that any greater power who knew what He was doing would never have taken two such genuine, God-fearing people like his mother and father. He had returned to the fold, but his attentions to the Great Almighty were much more reticent these days. He wasn't sure of his true feelings, but he supposed if he could behave himself and keep his nose clean for the remainder of his time on Earth, God would decide that he had suffered enough in this lifetime and go a little easier on him in the future. He looked over and saw Jimmy sitting to the left of Alice and Lucy. He felt far removed from what was happening. Uncle Zeke had been a good man. Good enough to take him in and raise him as his own son, despite the financial pressures of running the farm. Turned out he could have ill afforded the extra mouth to feed.

Tom was wracked with guilt but also thrilled to have his own Tin Lizzie to travel wherever he wanted to go. All he could think of was escorting Libbie around town in it. He wasn't poorer than poor anymore. He gazed at the car's features, a bit dust-covered from the ride down, but knew that it would be his ticket to a better life.

He accompanied the Gordons back to their farmhouse, where the neighbors had laid out a bereavement spread of a roasted chicken, small sandwiches, stew, and apple cider on a table set with a white cloth. On another table sat a small white cake adorned with strawberries. The black crepe draped over the windows had dimmed the light in the room. Seeing Uncle Zeke's favorite chair empty produced a sense of melancholy he had not felt since the death of his parents so long ago. He crossed the room to the mantel where all the photographs sat—portraits of Aunt Mary and Uncle Zeke, the girls, and Hi. There was even a picture of Thomas. He couldn't believe how much he owed all of them. It broke his heart to see them in such reduced circumstances. Tears pricked the back of his eyes as he looked at his adopted family.

* * *

"I miss him already," Jimmy said, approaching him.

"Me, too," Tom replied.

"It's so strange for him not to be here. He was always such a good friend to me."

Jimmy's connection to Uncle Zeke had been strong too. Jimmy's father, Alfred, the town blacksmith, was a drinker, leaving Jimmy, his mother Marian, and Jimmy's five sisters to fend for themselves as best they could.

Marian kept a vegetable garden, and Jimmy had a job at the gristmill in town, but the money didn't go far. He'd also begun doing odd jobs for some of the townspeople, but they were always behind on bills and had to live on credit at the mercantile store.

Alfred had passed away of dropsy the year before, so Uncle Zeke had often been wise counsel. Now he too was gone.

"I'm worried about them," Tom said, fingering the frame of a photograph.

"I'm worried about all of us," Jimmy said, clarifying which of them he deemed to be worse off. At least the Gordons had relatives to run to. His mother had been an only child, and his father's side was all drunks like Alfred had been. No one could count on them for any help. Unless you had a fifth of hard cider, he corrected himself. Then, they could always be counted on to help you finish it.

"We'll be okay."

"Will we? The wolf is at the door, Tom. I've got to figure out how to bring in some more money or we'll lose our place, too."

"I wish there was something I could do to help."

"You never know," Jimmy said, his voice cryptic.

"What?"

"Nothing. Say, how's your courting going with that rich girl? She's a pretty little thing, isn't she?"

"Yes she is," Tom said.

"A looker yes, but kind of a snob, if you ask me."

"Oh, but she's not. She's very interested in literature. She lent me several of those books she told us about. That was thoughtful of her."

"Yeah? That nonsense she was talking of about dead people? Why would you want to read a bunch of tripe like that?"

"Well, I didn't like the one with the dead people much," Tom agreed, "but the D.H. Lawrence isn't half bad. I'm enjoying it."

"And after you're done reading, then what?" Jimmy lowered his voice a bit, moving in closer.

"What do you mean, then what?"

"You know what I mean. How is she?"

"Jimmy! How dare you suggest such a thing? She's a lady—beautiful and honorable. We wouldn't consider such a thing."

"Oh, you might not, but that girl knows just what she wants, and she wants you, my friend."

Tom snorted at Jimmy's behavior. "I can't believe you're talking this way," he said.

"That girl is no lady, Tom. You can see it just looking at her that she's ripe for it. The way she walks, the way she flirts, the way she was looking at you. You're a lucky man, Tommy. What I wouldn't give for something sweet like that." He licked his lips, imagining the heaven that Tom refused to admit he'd visited.

"Jimmy, you need to stop this talk. I won't stand for it. Have some respect for Uncle Zeke, even if you have none for Miss Morgan or yourself."

"Suit yourself, Tommy. But you're a fool if you haven't plucked that cherry yet."

* * *

Tom turned his back on his old friend, bade his goodbyes to Hi and the rest of the Gordons, and glared at Jimmy from across the room. He would have stayed in Newfield longer for an extended visit for such a somber occasion, but this time, he pleaded the need to return for work. He hoped that he'd be down to see them again before they had to leave for Buffalo.

After saying his goodbyes to the local townspeople, he made a hasty exit. He had to be careful not to throw an axle on the rough road into town. Before he headed home, he drove to the house on Seneca Street and parked across the broad avenue from the mansion. Gazing at its wide porch and stained glass window above the door, he imagined her inside.

As he ran his hand down the dash, he realized he couldn't wait to show off the flivver to Libbie. He hoped she was not angry that he had been called away. He even thought about finding a tree outside from which he could throw pebbles at her window, but with his bad luck, he'd pick the wrong one and end up finding her sister's room, or worse, her parents' room. He decided not to push his luck. Instead, he took his not-so-shiny new Tin Lizzie home where he could admire it some more. For as much as he loved and missed Uncle Zeke, this car was a beaut. With a gorgeous automobile like this and courting an exquisite girl like Libbie, he couldn't ever imagine things being dull and boring again.

* * *

When Libbie arrived at the rooming house that afternoon, she knocked on the door of Tom's flat. Hearing no answer, she knocked again.

"Can I help you, Miss?"

In the dim light of the hallway bulb, Libbie saw the ample figure of an older woman lumbering toward her in the corridor.

_Aha. My nemesis from yesterday_ , she thought. "I'm here to visit Mr. Estabrook," Libbie said.

"Are you now?" the older woman said, sizing up the petite visitor with her hands on her hips, peering at her over a pair of round spectacles. So this was where her prized flowers had gone. _Not a bad pick_ , Mrs. Protts thought. _Little out of his league, though. This girl has money._

Libbie sized her up, too. The old woman had pulled her unflattering brassy gray hair into a tight bun. Her hands were huge, with fingers like Vienna sausages. She was intimidating, no doubt about that.

"He appears to be out, though," Libbie said. "We were supposed to meet.

He was...to...return some books of mine," she lied.

"Well, that's a darned shame, dearie. He had to head down to Newfield this afternoon. His uncle died, you see. He found out last night from his kin down there. He left me a little note. A nice boy, young Tom."

"Oh dear. That's terrible. I'm so very sorry. I shall have to come back another time. Do you know when he's returning home?"

"Late, most like. May I take your name to give him a message?"

"I'm Miss Morgan."

"Aah, Miss Morgan! He left a note for you. I won't be a minute." She shuffled off to her rooms and then returned a few moments later, when she handed a small piece of paper to Libbie.

" _Miss Morgan. I apologize with my whole heart, but I've had a death in the family and had to go to Newfield on very short notice. I hope you can forgive me by letting me take you to the Tioga county fair in Owego this weekend. I hope you are having a wonderful week. Yours, Tom Estabrook"_

Libbie smiled as she read, and Mrs. Protts watched with interest, for she had, of course, peeked at the contents of the note. She grinned and waddled away. As she stepped off the front porch, Libbie added Mrs. Protts to the list of people she had charmed.

### Chapter 17

Ithaca, New York

June 1916

"Olive, dear..." Libbie said.

The girls were strolling down Green Street after a visit to the bookstore. A Salvation Army band played on the corner, the main character dancing about with cymbals between his knees and the man in back pounding a huge bass drum. The noise was deafening, so they continued walking until they reached Mr. Chambers' curio shop.

Even then Libbie found it a bit difficult to speak to her friend, since at that moment, Olive was distracted by the goodies in the shop window.

"Oh look, Libbie! Look at the cat!" Olive pointed at a small porcelain cat figurine in the window, with tiny blue gems for eyes. "It's charming. I'm going to check the price."

"Olive, wait."

"What is it?"

"I have to ask you a favor. A very large favor."

"What kind of favor?"

Libbie pulled her friend around the corner of the Clinton block, where they had a bit more privacy to talk. "A very important one."

Olive was impatient. The last few weeks, Libbie had begun to try her nerves. Her erratic mood shifts and her usual mercurial temper had become even more pronounced. Olive couldn't begin to wonder what Libbie required of her. If things kept going the way they had been, Olive wondered just how successful their studies at Smith's would be. There was no way they would allow someone of Libbie's spoiled temperament anywhere near the injured soldiers. And she was beginning to think that Libbie had no interest in saving people, only in traveling to foreign destinations.

Whenever Olive had tried to get her attention to attend nursing lectures, Libbie's mind had always been elsewhere—not on learning about anatomy and post-surgical care.

"Well? What is it? Just tell me, for goodness' sake."

"You remember the boys we met at Birdie's? Tom and Hiram?"

"Yes," Olive said. "What about them?"

"I need you to tell a slight fib if anyone asks you where I am tomorrow afternoon."

"What?"

"I know it sounds terrible, but you're my best friend. Everyone will know that if I'm out with you, everything is fine."

"But Libbie, you won't be with me. Are you telling me you're going to be with that Tom person? Are you out of your mind?" Olive fanned herself with a flyer for a church social that she had picked up from the bookstore, more than a little frightened for her friend.

Libbie looked down and giggled.

"Libbie, this isn't funny! What could be so important that you need me to lie for you while you're with this person?" She paused for a moment. "I'm not sure I want to hear this."

"Olive, you know Stephen LaBarr. He's a pill. He came for a visit and dinner the other night, and I thought I would be bored silly. He's just like my father. All he wants to talk about is law. Law books, law papers....we have nothing in common. And I'm going to end up married to him."

Olive looked at Libbie, her harsh expression tempered by sympathy for her friend. While it was true LaBarr was rich and handsome, she had to admit that he was the stodgiest fellow she'd ever met.

"I like Tom. He's sweet. He's a gentleman. And although he's not well-educated, he enjoys some of the books I like. He makes me laugh. You saw how handsome he is. I just want to have a little fun before I marry. That's all," Libbie said.

"How much fun?" Olive demanded.

"How could you ask me that?"

"Libbie, come on. You're the worst flirt in our class. I saw the way you were looking at him the other day—like he was a wonderful piece of beef tenderloin you'd just discovered at the butchers' shop. I'd never seen you so intense before. I'm just worried about you."

"Why? We want to spend a little time together, that's all. We want to go to the county fair, and we don't want the whole world to know. It's innocent." Libbie paused before delivering her coup de grace. "Remember when we had to read that horrible Silas Marner? Remember when I let you copy my answers for the test on it?"

"Oh, Libbie please. Don't do this."

"I need this. I want to see him, and I need your help," Libbie said between clenched teeth. Olive realized it was a lost cause. You couldn't argue with Libbie. She always won.

* * *

Owego, New York

June 1916

Under the sign with the large, expressive eye, they'd opened the flap on the fortune teller's tent. When the wind gusted through the tent entrance, the candles flickered and almost went out.

"You vant me to tell your future?" the old woman asked in an indistinguishable Eastern European accent. She wore a black ruffled blouse and dark floral skirt, with a maroon flowered shawl and crimson scarf over her graying head. Fastening the neck of her garment was a brooch of gold filigree with a deep rose engraving in it. Ten strings of beads of various sizes and colors hung around her neck.

Libbie approached the table with the milky globe on it. She would have been much less enthusiastic about having her palm read had she known that the diviner's real name was Esther Rabinowitz, and that instead of Moldova, she hailed from Brooklyn.

"Cross my palm vith silver and I vill predict your life, dear," she said, as Libbie seated herself at the table.

Madame Sonia spread her spidery fingers for an offering. Libbie reached into her bag and pulled out several coins, which she placed in the woman's hand.

"And you may vait outside," Madame Sonia instructed Tom with a shooing motion.

After he retreated to the other side of the tent flap, Madame Sonia grasped Libbie's hand, pressing the fingers open and gazing at the mysteries she saw revealed there.

"You are a passionate person," she said without hesitation. "Full of love and great emotion."

Libbie leaned forward to absorb every word.

"This is your love line," Madame Sonia said, pointing with a deep red fingernail, the numerous beads roped around her neck rattling with the movement. "Very strong, with much affection." Her accent was slipping in and out, but Libbie was so intent, she didn't notice.

"Und zis here..." she continued. "Zis iss..." Her eyes grew wide, and she drew back a bit, as if she'd been burned.

Libbie looked up, wondering what was wrong. "What is it?" she said. "Nothing," Madame Sonia said, attempting to feign normalcy.

"What do you see?" Libbie asked, her voice frightened.

"A long life. A long life, vit a handsome man, and many babies," she lied.

Libbie's eyes narrowed. "I just gave you fifty cents. I want the truth." "Vhy, it is the truth, my dear. I vhas surprised by the interesting configurations of lines in your palm. That is all." The ersatz gypsy pointed at the lines in Libbie's hand. She did not mention that the lifeline made an abrupt stop not even halfway across the girl's palm. It was one of the most frightening portents she'd ever seen.

As Libbie retreated out the flap of the tent, the old woman reached behind her to a large bottle of schnapps and poured out a huge glass. Only God knew what was in store for that girl. And very soon. She tried not to think of it.

* * *

When Tom rejoined Libbie outside the tent, he noticed again how pretty she looked in her afternoon frock of cerulean blue with a lace overblouse. The straw hat covering her curls was tied beneath her chin with a ribbon of the same color, and tiny tendrils of black hair trickled out. The hat had come in handy on the drive down from Ithaca. Even the goggles hadn't detracted from her beauty. She'd been thrilled to see the car and to know that he now had transportation to any number of interesting places. Very private ones.

After a visit to the fortuneteller, Tom brought Libbie up on the Ferris wheel in a not-so-sneaky plan for getting her alone, at least for several minutes.

A quick whoosh, and the car lifted them up into the air. The balmy afternoon was perfect for a Ferris wheel ride. They'd already ridden the merry-go-round, and they'd seen the fire-eater, the fakir, the sword swallower, and "Leona Longlocks," the fair's claim to Bearded Lady fame.

As the Ferris wheel climbed higher and higher, Libbie took his hand. He reassured her by giving her hand a squeeze. When he couldn't stand the temptation any longer, she leaned up close and gave him a sweet kiss on the cheek. Surprised, Tom reclined against the seat, then kissed her back. As they approached Earth again, they both relaxed, appearing innocent to the fair-going public once more. Somehow, Tom sensed that their relationship had irrevocably changed.

* * *

As they stood in his room after the fair, he gave her a soft kiss, rejoicing at the taste of her. He was so afraid that the beautiful vision might vanish in a flash. He fingered a silky strand of her hair, then his hand moved to her face. He caressed her cheek as he gazed at her, and she leaned into it, guiding his hand to her neck. She pulled him closer, her lips still tantalizing him, taunting him to take more. He did, almost losing control. They found themselves pressed against the wall, unaware of anything but the need for physical contact and release after the decorum of the outside world. All he could sense was her softness and the succulent earthy lilac scent of her.

She tried guiding him to the bed, but he pulled back, knowing that as much as he wanted her, he would not be able to stop himself if they ended up there now. She pulled away from him.

"What's wrong?" she asked, pouting.

"Miss Morgan, I think you're the most beautiful girl in the world. You're about the sweetest girl I've ever met. But I've just begun to court you... I...I know your Mother does not approve of me. We cannot do this in good conscience."

"If you think I'm so beautiful, then why don't you want to make love to me?" She sat down on the bed, her face haughty and annoyed, and looked up at him. He moved closer, ready to reason with her, when she grabbed the front of his pants and roughly tried unbuttoning them.

He groaned as she caressed him through the front of his trousers, knowing he wouldn't be able to resist her, murmuring, "No, no...Libbie, please no..."

Then he stopped caring and pushed her down on the blanket. Fumbling with her skirts, he lifted her slip and let his hand travel down the filmy silk-stockinged legs to her shoes, which he let drop to the floor. He started his quest between her legs. She gasped in contentment. Just as she began panting in earnest, a sharp rap came on the door. Tom swallowed hard, trying to retain his composure while placing a gentle hand over Libbie's mouth so the sound of her heavy breathing was less pronounced.

"Mr. Estabrook! Oh, Mr. Estabrook!" came the voice of Mrs. Protts. "I'm sorry to disturb you again, young Tom, but I'm wondering if I could obtain your assistance in carrying a flour sack out of the basement? It's a heavy bugger. I don't think I can lift it!" So intent had they been on their need for release, they had not even noticed her ponderous approach.

Taking a deep breath, he announced, "I won't be a moment, Mrs. Protts! Why don't you head back to the kitchen and I'll be there presently."

Satisfied when they heard the tread of her footsteps in the hallway retreating to the summer kitchen, Libbie and Tom pulled themselves up as the mattress gave a weary squeak. They were still breathless and disheveled.

"I'm sorry, Miss Morgan," he said, shaking his head. "I was ready to deflower you with no thought for your honor. It was very crass of me. Please forgive me."

"Oh for goodness' sake, Tom. Call me Libbie, would you please! We were almost intimate," she declared with irritation. She straightened her skirts and leaned down to slip her shoes on.

"There is nothing in the world I want more than to make love to you. To romance you and whisper sweet words. But we can't yet. I am a poor man right now. As you said, poor men can make their way in the world these days, and that is what I want—to be able to support a wife in grand style. I want to be a respectable husband. I would love to give you babies and a home and grandchildren...our whole lives together. That's what I want. I want to make you happy."

"My parents would never allow it."

"Then we shall run away together. It will all be very romantic and adventurous." Flirting, he flicked his eyebrows at her, embracing her as she swept her hair back up, placed her hat back on, and pinned it in place.

"We'll see," was all she would say, kissing him on the cheek.

They made plans to meet in his room the next day. He told her to come in the back door to the corridor, where there was less chance of her being seen. The neighbors might talk otherwise, and her reputation could be damaged. They parted in the hallway, as he went to go help his landlady.

Libbie headed back to the streetcar, feeling exhilarated yet unfulfilled. As she walked the rest of the way home with bruised lips and mussed hair, she felt more excited than she had in a long time. Now she knew there would be more to life than the stolid existence she saw ahead with Stephen LaBarr. Before she married, she would know what it was like to be a real woman. Not just a dutiful wife, but also one who had experienced the heights of real emotion. Even before she saw Paris, she would know what everyone spoke of when they talked about it being a city of love and passion. As she neared the house, she felt her cheeks and knew they were flushed with excitement and with the exertion of the walk.

Safe in her room, she crossed to the desk and once again pulled out the postcard and gazed at it. The courtesan gazed back at her, but this time, she seemed to grin at Libbie as if they shared a marvelous secret. Now, both of them knew how it felt to be adored and embraced by men who were besotted by them.

Drinking in the sheer forbidden feel of how his lips had felt kissing her and how his hands had felt moving beneath her skirts, Libbie lay back on the fluffy spread on her bed and closed her eyes. It might not have occurred this afternoon, but it was going to happen. The anticipation made her want it all the more. She pulled up her skirts, running her hand over the tops of her stockings like Tom had, wondering how he had known just where to touch her and just how many farm girls he had taken in how many barns not far from here. She knew she could not stand the frustrating tension much longer. It was extraordinary. How could anyone deny oneself the feeling she had encountered with Tom? It had become imperative to feel it again as soon as possible.

### Chapter 18

Buttermilk Falls, New York

June 1916

"We shouldn't," he said as she kissed him again.

"I know," she murmured, straining beneath him.

"I adore you, Libbie. You've enchanted me." As he leaned in closer to her, he nuzzled her neck, inhaling the lilac scent. The warmth of her shoulder further intoxicated him. All it took was a gentle whiff of her, and he could feel himself becoming rock hard. All he could think about, day or night, was the feel of her, the smell of her, and the taste of her. He nibbled her earlobe, then darted his tongue into the delicate shell of her ear. Her head fell back, and a small gasp escaped her lips.

After one evening of cuddling in his flat with no interruptions from Mrs. Protts, this was their second visit to the falls in the flivver. The first night, she'd let him once again feel beneath her skirt and allowed him to caress her breast through her lace blouse. She'd reciprocated by stroking him through his trousers. For that night, it was enough. The kissing and petting and flowery words had stroked Libbie's ego and fulfilled her need for physical contact. Tonight was different.

How delightful it was to sit and admire the scenery from their favorite hollow log and then retreat to the car. They had an entire auto to themselves to do whatever they wished. Here, there were no pleas for help from the well-meaning landlady and no threats of being discovered dating someone from the other side of the tracks.

They could hear the water streaming over layers of rock, collecting and frothing around Lake Treman. A soothing concerto by the crickets accompanied it. While strolling around the area, they had kissed a bit on the rocks overlooking the falls, sharing a passionate embrace until Libbie suggested they return to the vehicle. This had become their favorite spot to park since their last visit. Overlooking the cascades, yet sheltered and very private.

As he kissed her again, she let out a soft giggle and parted her mouth to allow him entrance. Their tongues danced a soft, languorous rhythm.

Maddened by her acquiescence, he grew ever bolder, daring to lay a hand on her breast over the starched fabric. She sighed and pressed it harder against him. He realized that only a few small buttons lay between him and the beautiful bare skin beneath. Holding his gaze, she placed her hands over his and undid a button for him. His hands quivered erratically as he unfastened the rest of the tiny pearl buttons at the front of the shirtwaist, frightening him with his ardor. She gazed up at him, entreating him with her eyes. Her slight smile gave him a new urgency.

When he'd revealed her delicate lacy chemise, he peeled back the fabric to expose the paleness beneath. Fastening his greedy mouth upon her, he grasped more of her through the fabric prison.

Libbie closed her eyes. "So niiiiice...." she whispered.

Feeling him pause, she opened her eyes to see him unsure and nervous about continuing. "Why did you stop?" she asked, obviously irritated.

"I don't want to compromise you, Libbie. Your honor..."

"Oh for God's sake. Kiss me..." she said. She held the chemise away from her breast, a brazen offering to him. "Touch me. I want it."

He could no longer find any reasons to stop. As he caused new and exciting sensations to rip through her, he elicited little mews of delight. She pulled up the hem of her skirt and unclipped the garters on her stockings, now granting him unfettered access.

"Libbie..." His mouth was so dry, the anticipation so great that the word caught in his throat.

Unable to hold back any longer, he yanked down his suspenders and released the buttons on his trousers. He burst forth like an angry bull from a barn.

She gasped, and her eyes widened as he reached for her, fingers in a bold quest beneath her undergarments. What originated as a gasp evolved into a series of deep sighs. What began as gentle thrusting evolved into mindless need as he pounded his way to satisfaction above her. Although craving her own pleasure, this first time, all she felt was searing pain.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, caressing her cheek afterward.

"Just a little," she said, kissing him. "It will get much better."

He stared at her in surprise at the thought that she planned on more of what they had just done.

She looked over at him, her face full of wonder as she analyzed it. "It was so...primal, wasn't it? Basic human needs and all that."

It disconcerted him to hear her express the blunt sentiment, but he supposed she was right.

The only thing he had felt while he was laboring above her was something he had no explanation for. He supposed men and women had been feeling the same thing for centuries, or he and Libbie and the rest of the folks on Earth wouldn't be here.

"I want to do it again," she said, her voice a hot whisper in his ear. She rubbed his hand over her breast and raised her hips to him.

He took in her wrinkled dress, rumpled chemise, tousled hair, flushed cheeks, and bright eyes, and he wanted her once more. But they had to be mindful of the hour. He had to get her home in time to jibe with their story.

Olive had agreed to lie for them, and they couldn't get her in trouble at the risk of being discovered.

"Oh my Libbie. My beautiful Libbie." His fingers spidered through her soft glossy black hair. "We should get home. Your parents could suspect something. Or your sister."

She looked down at her disarray, laughing. "I do look a sight, don't I?"

Taking a corner of the blanket, she wiped the blood from her thighs and tried to tidy herself. "I suppose you're right," she admitted.

"I do want you," he said, his earnest brown eyes fixed on hers, "Over and over again. In a real bed in a little cottage. I want babies and grandchildren. I want to make you happy, Libbie. I want to give you so much."

"Ssssshhhh," she said, placing her index finger over her mouth. "Not now."

They lay close for a few moments longer, murmuring sweet nothings for a time, offering each other gentle pecks and soft cuddles until Libbie noticed the new swelling in his trousers. Intent on seducing him again, she reached down to cup him.

"I want to do it again," she whispered.

### Chapter 19

Cascadilla Memorial Hospital, Ithaca

July 1986

His mother was looking a bit frailer than during Frank's visit the previous week, and Diana was already there, dozing in a chair next to the bed. As he moved closer, Diana came to, blinking at the sudden brightness of the fluorescent lights in the room. Her hair had fallen like a curtain over her face as she slept, giving her a delicate vulnerability. Mom's sleep had obviously been fitful, her face wrinkled at some figment of a dream.

"How is she?" Frank whispered.

"It's been bad today. I've had to call the nurse pretty much hourly for painkillers. Her sleep's been restless."

They tiptoed into the hallway so they would not wake the old woman from her meager sleep. Even more tubes were attached to her than the last time Frank had visited.

"It's metastasized again. The liver this time," she said. "God, Frank, it's so hard for me to see her like this. She's miserable. I know she's trying like hell not to moan because she knows how upsetting it is for us. But she's in so much pain."

"I know, I know." He folded his sister into his arms and held her for a few minutes.

They stood in the hallway, enjoying closeness they hadn't experienced for a long while. He tried to remember the last time they had hugged like this with no undercurrent of resentment or annoyance, and he couldn't.

Maybe their dad's funeral, and that had been years ago. She snuggled in closer, nestling her cheek against his sleeve.

"I'm not sure what I'm going to do when she's gone," she sighed. Diana and their mother had always been close.

"It's going to be hard," he agreed.

"Hey," she said, stepping back.

Surprised, he stepped back too. "What?"

"You smell nice. Aftershave or something."

"As opposed to what?"

"You know what I mean. I can remember very few times the last few years that I've been near you and haven't smelled booze. I noticed it the other day, but I thought it was my imagination."

"I'm taking a little break."

"A little break?"

"Okay, a big break."

"Seriously?"

"Well, I'm trying real hard. Let's put it that way."

He flinched as she ran an affectionate hand through his hair. Men weren't supposed to be so vulnerable, but he was in new territory. Before, he'd been a volatile guy. Instant asshole, just add whiskey. This new leaf was going to have its challenges.

"You know how much it would mean to her, right?"

"I have a general idea. I want a clear head right now to figure out what happened to her sister. I need to do this, Diana. For all of us."

"Do you have any clue how much I love you right now?" she asked, smiling up at him.

* * *

Ithaca, New York

July 1986

"I'm glad you called to discuss the case," Linda said, leaning back against the front of his couch. They were sitting on the floor of Frank's place, leftover Kung Pao from Ling's Pagoda spread out on the floor in front of them.

"The weird thing is, you've been here for three hours and we've hardly talked about it."

"Yeah, funny how that works." She gave him a little half smile, and he grinned back.

"So tell me more about Linda," he said. Trying to distract himself from his dawning attraction to her, he used his chopsticks to chase an errant shrimp in the bottom of his take-out container.

"There's not much to tell. I'm pretty boring."

"No, you're not. You ran a restaurant for a long time. You live in Ithaca, New York, arguably the center of the known universe. You're a total gearhead. You have amazing green eyes. I find you fascinating."

"Believe me. If I tell you, I'll cease to be fascinating," she said.

He gave her a hangdog look and she laughed.

"Let's see. I have two sisters. I went to SUNY Rochester and majored in English. I hate rainy days. I love Neil Young, Bailey's Irish Cream, and long walks on the beach. I do think Ithaca is the center of the known universe. Oh, and I'm terrified of clowns." She rose, taking the last of the containers and paper Coke cups with her.

Frank couldn't help himself. Her irreverence was catching. He chuckled as he followed her out to the kitchen.

"Go ahead and laugh, but I'm telling you...once you've gone to the circus and had Bozo up in your face when you're five, you won't look at those freaks the same way again. I was traumatized, buster."

"I believe you. Shrimp?" he asked, offering the last of his bounty. He moved in closer as she scraped the leftovers and styrofoam containers into the trash.

"Don't call me Shrimp. I'm also quite sensitive about my height." She smiled up at him. "Thanks, but I'm stuffed."

"Cute, too."

"Wow. You never said anything about this before."

"Well, you were always busy behind the counter. It was hard to get a good luck at you."

"And now?"

He ran his hands through her hair. "Now, I'm beginning to see things in a whole new way."

They shared a sweet, short kiss, and Linda looked up at him. Frank knew she was trying to figure him out. The Frank Conley who had visited the restaurant with his daughter was always distant and distracted. Despite her best attempts at friendly overtures, Frank had been cordial. Nothing more. He knew this wasn't the man she was used to.

"That was nice."

"Well, I've been practicing."

"On who?" She winked.

He smiled. "Shhhhhh..." he whispered and kept kissing her.

The forest green Karmann Ghia remained parked in front of the gray house on Aurora Street all night. And the night after that.

### Chapter 20

Ithaca, New York

July 1916

Ithaca's First Episcopal Church was full of parishioners the next morning for Sunday services. A tall white stone building near downtown, it had been built in 1900 to replace the original wooden structure that had burned in a huge fire in late 1898. The church boasted multiple leaded stained glass windows in long rows on either side of the aisle. They shone in jewel-like colors that glinted and reflected off various surfaces inside the sanctuary. Carved oak pews formed orderly rows, bisected down the middle by a deep red carpet down the aisle. Several tapestry wall hangings depicting the lives of the apostles hung closer to the back vestibule near the entrance. When the girls were little, Harriett had taken them around the sanctuary after mass, showed them the embroidered stories, and explained all about Christ's ambassadors to mankind, their travels in the ancient world, and their epistles.

"Peace be with you, everyone," the reverend said as he concluded the initial prayers of their Sunday services. He fluttered his hands at his sides to indicate that the parish could sit. The congregation relaxed and took to the pews. The women cooled themselves with their small decorative fans and the men with whatever was available.

The Morgans sat together near the front and toward the right, their usual spot. Knowing her family as she did, Libbie knew what each of them was thinking as they went through the motions for the community.

DeWitt did his best not to appear bored, running cases through his head as the reverend recited the standard prayers. As a pillar of the community, he was expected to appear at services, but never paid much attention.

Everlasting life was not half as important to him as the one he was trying to live at the moment and the lives of his clients. As devout a woman as any in town, Harriett bowed her head in a pious gesture and concentrated on her silent prayers. Going through the motions, Maude inclined her head but wished she could be home reading. Libbie knew she would go straight to hell if anyone was able to read her mind. All she could think about was Tom. The welcome ache between her legs was a constant reminder of how they had challenged the Lord last night.

Tom sat alone on the left side near the back with the working class. If he stretched a bit, he could see Libbie's tall graceful neck over some of the shorter parishioners.

"In keeping with the theme of the seven deadly sins I have been discussing for the last few weeks, today, I will speak on one of the worst, and that is lust." Reverend Savercool said. "This sermon is mostly for our younger parishioners," he said, looking directly at Libbie, as if reading her mind.

She lowered her head so he would not see her eyes. It made her feel less transparent.

She was still queasy, though. The remainder of the sermon would be spent pretending that everything was normal when it was anything but.

In the back, Tom's mouth curved into a subtle smile. He hadn't been to church since he had moved to Ithaca, but knowing he could see Libbie, not matter how distantly, had brought him back today. He had known lust in his heart last night. And as much as he wanted to regret it, he couldn't. Every man in town wanted Libbie Morgan, and now, she was his. Soon, he would be free to make love to her anytime he wanted. Despite the difference in their stations, he was determined to marry her and have a beautiful life together.

"First Thessalonians 4:3-5 tells us, 'For this is the will of God, your sanctification: that you abstain from sexual immorality; that each one of you know how to control your own body in holiness and honor, not in the passion of lust like the Gentiles who do not know God.'"

Libbie blushed as she remembered last night. No control had been practiced near the falls then, not that it mattered. She had never been so happy. She was now a real woman, and the reverend was at fault. He had introduced them, for goodness' sake. She dared not glance behind her at the spot where she knew Tom would be sitting. But she so wanted to glimpse his handsome face. Realizing she'd lost track of the reverend's lecture, she looked up, pretending to be intent on his words.

"We must keep ourselves clean and moral, or we may not enter the kingdom of heaven!" Reverend Savercool thundered.

It always amazed Libbie to see the good-natured reverend transform from a doughy milquetoast to a fire-and-brimstone-raging crusader a few words into his sermon.

"Marriage is one of the most sacred covenants between man and God. To defile marriage with a cheap imitation is a sin in God's eyes! True love... real love...is one of God's most beautiful creations." He clenched a fist in indignation. "Do not abase yourselves by indulging with a partner before being blessed with the sacrament! You must thirst for the love of God more than you thirst for the physical satisfaction given to you by lust. You must practice self-control and let nothing lead you from that path!"

Libbie couldn't help herself. She let out a stifled giggle and felt the furious glares of her mother and sister on her. Feigning contrition, she lowered her head in false prayer once again as the reverend continued.

"In James 1:14, we are told, 'Each one is tempted when, by his own evil desire, he is dragged away and enticed. Then, after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death'!" he shouted to the rafters. "God is the way and the life, and all it takes is one misstep for the devil to distract us from living a Christian existence. The marriage bed is the truest consummation of God's love that exists. By making the act about physical sensations and animal need, we lose the special qualities of the sacrament that make marriage the blessed union that it is. I implore you all to keep your eyes to the true path of the Lord and keep him alone in your hearts. If you lust for anyone, lust for God. Lust for his benediction and his good favor. It will come back to you one-hundredfold when St. Peter greets you at the Pearly Gates. The true Christian path is available to you all if you will take it and avoid the sins of the flesh. Lust for everlasting life!"

Libbie's mind wandered once again and she shifted in her seat. All this talk about sex was not leading her closer to God. All it was doing was causing the vivid thought of nights at the falls to preoccupy her even more.

Last night, Tom had taken her for what seemed like hours. And she had craved every minute of it. If that made her a bad Christian, she supposed she could live with that. It felt too good to stop.

### Chapter 21

Ithaca, New York

July 1986

After a few phone calls, Frank managed to find Stephen LaBarr's number in Buffalo. His name was still listed, and Frank was surprised the old man and his wife Mabel were both still alive. Speaking to their daughter Charlotte, he explained the investigation into Libbie Morgan's disappearance and death. She warned him that they were frail and might not be very helpful, but he'd gone ahead and booked a commuter flight from Ithaca to Buffalo. Although he was leery about going, he knew the information that could be revealed was important. Diana promised to call him at the slightest change in their mother's condition.

Linda gave him a ride to the airport, and they shared kisses tinged with Earl Grey tea at the snack bar. She had introduced him to it, and it had become his new favorite beverage. The heady scent of bergamot that emanated from a fresh teabag could never replace the effects of bourbon, but it had helped him develop an appreciation for something besides booze.

Especially when Linda joined him in a relaxing cup of the stuff. Even with all the drama and sadness he was experiencing right now, she provided a calming presence. He promised to call her when he arrived home, still pinching himself that someone who seemed to have herself so together could be interested in him.

* * *

Buffalo, New York

July 1986

After grabbing a rental car at the airport, he checked in at an Economy Inn in the suburb of Amherst so he could avoid as much of the local Buffalo traffic as possible. Then he found a restaurant nearby for some beef-on-weck.

The next morning, he headed for the local greasy spoon for a breakfast of eggs, sausage, and toast. After Mavis, his helpful waitress, gave him directions to the neighborhood he needed, he headed into town. He knew he could find the house from there. He hadn't been to Buffalo since he and Allison had visited her relatives in Cheektowaga years before.

Shannon now kept him informed on the state of the ex-in-laws. He hadn't minded them one bit. It was the being married to their daughter that was the hard part. Not even that. Being married to their daughter had been great. Being married to her as a screwed-up drunk was another matter. He consulted his map as often as he deemed safe in the traffic and aimed for Delaware Avenue, the Millionaire's Row of Buffalo. On Barker Street, half a block away, he pulled up in front of one of the most impressive Tudors he'd ever seen. A lush lawn out front was the unnatural bright green of pool table felt, and every piece of shrubbery looked like it had been trimmed with manicure scissors. Closer to the front door, elegant, sculpted flowerbeds exploded in a riot of bright colors. A lawn guy in olive green work clothes zipped by him on a riding mower and waved.

Every square inch of the place oozed money and class. Of course it did. The guy had been a senator for decades. Always cynical of politicians, Frank wondered how many greased palms it had taken to secure this little crib.

If LaBarr or any of his brood could give him some clues, he'd be willing to overlook the crooked part for his mother's sake. He'd always imagined what these places looked like on the inside. Now he'd get a glimpse at last.

A stunning blonde of about thirty with beautiful hazel eyes answered the door. Her scoop-neck white T-shirt, pressed khaki slacks, and sandals made her look like a model in a Gap ad. Frank wondered if he had the right house.

"You must be Investigator Conley," she said. "I'm Mr. LaBarr's granddaughter, Cassie. You spoke to my mother, Charlotte, on the phone.

Won't you come in?" She shook his hand, then led him into the front hall.

"Very nice to meet you," Frank said, trying not to gape at the luxury.

A hall table held a flower arrangement full of calla lilies, bird of paradise, and other exotic flowers that must have cost a fortune. The marble floors echoed every sound. He felt like he was in a church. The entire front vestibule was open to the second floor, and a balcony overlooked the entry.

The foyer led to a dramatic stairway with an elaborate curved balustrade. On the landing one level up hung a massive oil portrait of whom Frank assumed were the LaBarrs as a younger couple. He estimated from the clothes that it must have been during Stephen's senate days around the late 1930s. The man wore a double-breasted gray suit, tie, and spats. The woman wore an elegant bias-cut gown in emerald green, and her hair was bobbed and marcelled. The man sat in an upholstered green velvet chair, and the woman stood behind him with a hand on his shoulder. Class and old money shoring up Buffalo's social structure.

Frank followed Cassie through the cold, sterile living room, crammed full of antiques, and then into a warm, welcoming sunroom. A golden glow entered through one whole wall of wide picture windows. Cheerful paintings by French masters hung around the room. Frank was too intimidated to ask if they were real.

"Grandfather likes this room quite a bit. He never wants us to move him anymore, it seems. Investigator Frank Conley, this is my mother, Charlotte Seagrove."

Cassie presented a petite, elegant woman with frosted hair, small diamonds in her ears, and a salmon-colored pantsuit that must have cost a fortune. Raw silk, Frank thought his ex-wife had called it. Her green eyes glowed with guarded warmth, and she clutched a Virginia Slim. He couldn't help but notice the fingers trembling.

"Pleased to meet you, Investigator Conley," Mrs. Seagrove said, standing and shaking his hand.

Although it wasn't even noon yet, he saw she was already working on a lowball of what looked to be whiskey. He wondered what that was about. And then she told him.

"Now, we've agreed to meet with you, although I'm not sure how much help we might be. My parents are a bit frail, as I told you. Father is eighty-eight, and mother is eighty-four. She's still very sharp, but his mind wanders a lot. And many times, he's not all there. We're fortunate that we can keep a nurse here so they can stay in their own home. I live just a few blocks away, and Cassie is also close. I just want to prepare you for his condition."

"I appreciate that, Mrs. Seagrove."

"Please, call me Charlotte. Mrs. Seagrove is my mother-in-law," she said with a chuckle.

"Can I pour you some tea, Investigator Conley?" Cassie asked. A sterling silver tea set sat on a nearby antique cabinet surrounded by delicate china cups.

"I'd love some, thank you," Frank said.

Cassie brought him the cup of tea with cream and sugar as he requested, and also several delicate wafer cookies.

"Sweetheart, why don't you help Darlene bring Mom and Dad down now," Charlotte said, nudging her daughter.

Cassie nodded and pressed a button in the nearby wall. A wide elevator door, camouflaged to match the expensive wood paneling, slid open. The door slid closed, and she disappeared for a moment. Charlotte and Frank waited, while Frank marveled at the fact that they had their own elevator.

"We had this place retrofitted a few years ago so they could still move around the house as much as they wanted," she said. "But Lord how the Historical Preservation people gave us a hassle! We had to agree to do it just so to avoid any desecration of the home itself. All the mechanics had to be hidden very well. This whole district is historical landmarks, you see."

"Yeah, that must have been hell," he said, without emotion. It really must be true what they said about the rich being different.

After a few moments, a small chime sounded, and the elevator leveled off. Cassie pushed her grandmother, Mabel, and the nurse pushed Stephen LaBarr into the room. Mrs. LaBarr observed him from her wheelchair. Her eyes were the most noticeable thing about her—an intense pale green in a desiccated face that looked as delicate as tissue paper. Age had faded her until she no longer resembled the beautiful debutante in the oil painting on the stairs. But the eyes were the same intensity they had always been. The nurse had dressed her in a green sweater and cream-colored slacks, but the clothes seemed to be wearing her. Her tiny body was so insubstantial as to be almost nonexistent. Frank returned her tentative smile.

Stephen LaBarr was as distinguished in appearance as any 88-year-old man could be. His longish white hair was swept back from a receding hairline, and an aristocratic Roman nose dominated a face coated in liver spots. He was dressed in a maroon smoking jacket over dark trousers, but for all the effect of his aristocratic wardrobe, his eyes wandered the room as if he did not know where he was.

"Mother, Father," Charlotte said, her voice almost a shout. The old man turned at the sound. "This is a state policeman—Investigator Conley from Ithaca. Could you speak to him, do you think?"

"What does he want?!" Mr. LaBarr bellowed.

"He wants to speak to you about a lady you once knew!" she replied, voice still at high volume for his benefit.

Pointing his finger at Cassie, LaBarr relived an old case in his fractured mind. "Lady? This lady is not guilty!! Gentlemen of the jury, she did not murder her husband, and we, the defense, are going to prove it!" he thundered.

"I'm sorry," Charlotte said. "As I mentioned, he does this sometimes."

"I think I know who it is," Mabel said in a small reedy voice. "You mean the girl who disappeared, right?"

Frank sat down directly across from her so he could hear her soft voice more clearly. Then he pulled out his notebook.

"Yes, ma'am, I do. Can you remember your husband saying anything about her?"

"I remember he was very bitter when we met. I didn't know right away, of course, but I found out later. I was a debutante but very naïve about things like that."

Frank took a sip as he listened. "Things like what, ma'am?"

"Why, sex, Investigator Conley."

Frank almost choked on his tea, so unprepared was he for the frank statement from this little old lady. He smiled and recovered in a fraction of a second. "Um....in what context do you mean, Mrs. LaBarr?"

"I now pronounce you Mr. and Mrs. Stephen LaBarr!" the old man announced. He glanced around, looking for approval.

Charlotte patted his hand and took a deep swig of her drink as her father broke into a joyful smile. This wasn't going well at all.

Returning his attention to Mabel LaBarr, Frank put pen to paper, ready to take more notes.

"He caught them together, you know," she said.

Frank, Charlotte, and Cassie all looked at each other in shock.

"Oh, he didn't tell anyone, of course," she continued. "But he found them going at it in the back of a car somewhere. She and whomever else she was seeing. Seeing isn't really the correct word, but you get my meaning. I think he said it was out near Buttermilk Falls somewhere. He had to come up with a fake reason not to marry her. It's how he wound up in Manhattan courting me, you see. He was nursing a grudge when I met him." She splayed the fingers of her left hand and looked down at the pear-cut diamond on the third finger. "I daresay this was intended for her before he gave it to me. As I understood it, she was very beautiful. But quite a...what do you call it nowadays? Slut. Or to be more polite...easy. That's it."

"Gentlemen, it will be very easy to balance the state budget this year! It will require a tightening of our belts and a good deal of assiduous work at managing tax revenue versus expenditures!" Stephen proclaimed.

Charlotte shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Conley. I had hoped he might be a bit more lucid for your visit. I'm afraid it's not one of his better days. But Mother has given you a bit of information on Libbie Morgan. I hope that helped somewhat."

Suddenly, the old man reared back in his wheelchair like an out-of-control stallion being confined with lead ropes. His face contorted, and he snapped to perfect consciousness in an instant. For now, he knew just what he was talking about.

"Libbie Morgan? Did you say 'Libbie Morgan?' Libbie Morgan was a whore! A common whore! A trollop! Faithless strumpet!"

Daughter, granddaughter, and nurse jumped into action at calming him, and Frank backed out of the room quietly. His eyes met Charlotte's.

"I'm so sorry," he mouthed. He'd unleashed a tornado of spite and poison from the splinters still populating the old man's brain. It would probably be days before Charlotte and Cassie and the nurse would get him lucid again. Even headed down the front walkway toward the rent car, Frank could hear him inside the house. He tried to imagine what Stephen LaBarr must have seen seventy years ago to provoke such a reaction, even now.

But one impression stayed with him. His last glance into the sunroom before he left had told him Charlotte's glass was now empty.

### Chapter 22

Devenport Farm, Newfield, New York

August 1916

Jimmy Devenport sat at the old dining table nursing a glass of rotgut. It was all he could afford, and their neighbor, Mr. Aitken, distilled his own and gave him a deal if Jimmy helped with the farm chores. Scraping the very last leavings of tobacco out of his pouch, he rolled a cigarette and lit it from the meager candle flame.

In front of Jimmy sat a stack of bills. He also had a few crumpled IOUs in his pocket that he had written to the madam at the bawdy house at the edge of Ithaca. He had worked off several of his debts there by repairing furniture or other odd jobs. Now he was talking real money. And it had to come from somewhere. The candle flickered with a menacing glimmer as he contemplated complete financial disaster. He was not much of a farmer, and it became more obvious after the death of his no-good father.

He had no idea how he was going to continue to support his mother and sisters. If he couldn't pull himself together pretty soon, his sisters were going to have to join Miss Rosie's girls themselves. Their home was mortgaged to the hilt, and they had no vehicle other than the buckboard and their nag, Old Blue. Everyone else was buying Tin Lizzies and zipping around town like they didn't have a worry in the world. But Jimmy would never be able to afford even the oldest model. If he did manage to eke out any crops from the rocky soil around Newfield, he had to drive them to town in the buckboard.

He gazed down at the table to the one valuable item he still possessed; the one item his mother had gotten from her side of the family. His grandfather had spent a small fortune on his silver pocket watch, and Jimmy often sat and rubbed it for good luck when he was feeling low. The bit of tarnish and comforting ticking helped him feel connected to his maternal side. They'd been decent, God-fearing Methodists, not like the drunken Gaelic sots from his father's line. His grandfather had been a devout Pennsylvania Dutch farmer. He had become prosperous in the area around Waverly in Tioga County, and as the single child of this marriage, Marian had been expected to marry a neighboring farmer and keep their lands adjoining. It was to be willed into one large parcel to be split among any children she would have.

But upon Marian's marriage to the Irish blacksmith whose relatives were all die-hard papists, her father disowned her. He had cried when his daughter married Alfred Devenport. All the land, the dowry, everything she would have received from Johann Geisle was withdrawn, and she was alone, with no relatives to help her. After Alfred's death, she threw herself on her mother's mercy, but the old woman had turned her back on her daughter and all her grandchildren and left everything to a nephew. Except this watch.

It was the last thing Jimmy had to remember his grandfather, even if he wasn't sure he wanted to. In spite of himself, he respected these dour Teutons. Angry at his mother for denying herself and all her children the birthright she deserved, he couldn't help but respect his grandparents and their code of honor. The pocket watch was a mellowed silver, engraved with an elaborate Germanic G for Geisle, and had seen his grandfather through some tough times. His mother had proudly related its history.

He flicked open the lid and felt its reassuring ticking, comforting him almost like a mother's heartbeat to a kitten. He hated even considering hocking the watch, but the situation was impossible.

He often succumbed to despair at times like these. Most often it was when he drank, which made him even more disgusted at himself. He wanted so much to be different than his father, but he was becoming more and more like him every day. The only time the sorrow would lift was when he thought about visiting Miss Rosie's place. Her girls were a talented lot.

From the outside, her establishment looked like any other farmhouse. But the gaudy, bright-red front door and shutters gave a clue to what lay inside. Miss Rosie generously bribed the local authorities to keep herself and her girls out of trouble, but the cops were there just as often as everyone else, so it became a question of who was paying whom.

Miss Rosie was a formidable woman of indiscernible years. Her hair was an unnatural shade of red, and she was one of the few women Jimmy had ever seen who wore fingernail paint. Her usual uniform was a deep violet satin dress, her ample charms spilling out the top, and although he owed the place a vast amount of money these days, she was always kind to Jimmy, as he was one of her best customers. She knew he'd be good for it someday.

The parlor of Miss Rosie's was the most luxuriant room Jimmy had ever seen. Tufted red velvet divans sat about the room in strategic locations. Beaded lampshades swathed in silky scarves added to the ambience. Thick brocade draperies covered the entire length of the windows so no prying eyes could surmise what went on inside. And oh the women...they lay about in flimsy little nightgowns so sheer they left little to the imagination.

The minute Jimmy strolled through the front door, they treated him like an old friend, and all his worries about debts and bills were forgotten. Miss Rosie had a Negro piano player in the parlor, Cajun Joe, and he kept the girls entertained playing the latest in ragtime while they plied the customers with champagne and hard cider.

"Da Fig Leaf Rag!" he'd say, launching into the jaunty piece, his fingers dancing with a deft touch over the ivories. Between tunes, he'd mop his dark face with a calico handkerchief.

When Cajun Joe took a quick break out back to have a bite of a sandwich and smoke a cheroot or two, the girls would fire up the Victrola and play records like "By the Beautiful Sea" or "Aba Daba Honeymoon." When Bianca sat downstairs, everyone had to hear recordings of Enrico Caruso, which she listened to when she was homesick. When a customer was ready, his girl would take him up to a spare room upstairs, with a bedstead, a rag rug on the floor, a coat rack, and a bowl and ewer for washing up.

The sweet angelic little blonde Anna spoke little English, but he loved listening to her cries of pleasure and pain as he banged her head against the brass headboard in his gusto. She would lambast him in Swedish after they were done, but he'd hand her an extra quarter to shut her up.

From some small town in Calabria, Bianca had black hair, dark flashing eyes, and huge breasts like melons. She'd fought him like a tiger as she too cursed him in her native language. He had ripped off her silky little negligee and left her in just her delicate little shoes as he had gone about his business. She had struggled with him until he found just the right way to proceed, and then she had gone breathless, summoning every saint in the Catholic roster as she came, loudly and explosively.

His favorite was the little redheaded firecat, Molly, just off the boat from Belfast. One night several weeks ago, he'd blown his entire pay packet on one night with hot little Moll and couldn't walk straight afterward. She'd kept at him all night, and he'd taken her from every position he could devise. Just thinking of that night made his mouth water in anticipation.

But now, he examined the various bills and knew the Devenports were living on credit and the good graces of Mr. Billingsley at the market in the village. It caused him to take another swig of liquor. The burning in his esophagus was painful, but not as much as having to pay for his father's mistakes in life. He might have had an easier shot at getting through his teenaged years if the old bastard had made a decent living instead of drinking away all their money. How nice it must be to have a little extra from time to time. He thought of the snooty folks who lived in Ithaca—the doctors and lawyers and merchants who never had to worry where their next meal was coming from. His burp reminded him of tonight's dinner— overdone squirrel meat again.

But there had been one nice addition to his evening that he hadn't planned on. Branching out from his usual hunting grounds near their house, he had decided to hitch up Ole Blue and head up nearer the falls.

Someone had told him the hunting there had been pretty good of late. He'd hoped he could snag a nice buck. He'd been craving some venison meat and deer sausage. However, the deer all had other plans, and he'd managed to end the life of the rather bony gray squirrel instead.

But on his way back to where he'd tied Ole Blue, he'd happened across a Model T parked in the woods near the falls. And what do you know? It looked like the same model that Hi had given their buddy Tom. It burned him that of the two of them, he was the one who most needed it, but Hi had given the car to Thomas Estabrook. Where was the measure of friendship in that? The resentment churned in his gut along with the whiskey as he considered the car again.

The flivver had rocked and quivered and squeaked with all the action going on inside, and he could hear a woman's mewling cries, exhorting her partner on.

"Yes! Yes!" she gasped.

Wouldn't Tom be surprised to know Jimmy had caught a striking view of that rich girl he'd met a few weeks ago? She had a nice little body, that one did, with plump tits and a perfect, round little ass. He saw much of it reflected in the moonlight as she rode Tom for all she was worth. Her moans were exquisite and expressive. She was enjoying the hell out of herself, letting her emotion play over her face for him to observe. That Tommy. What a terrible liar he was. Valiant in defending her honor during the day, but oh what a time he had with her at night.

From behind a tree, Jimmy had watched them for the rest of the encounter, wishing he had enough money to stop by Miss Rosie's on his way home and do something about the iron rod forming in his trousers.

As it was, he'd be taking the squirrel home and cooking it over the flames in the fireplace, hoping to God his mother still had a bit of rice or potato to serve with it so it would go a little farther.

Back at the house, Jimmy made lists of how much he owed to each individual, how much was late, and how much could be put off until the last minute. Hunting would have to be their mainstay for a while. He was sure Hi's mother would be generous with items like flour and sugar until they left, but for the rest, they were on their own. He just had to find a way to earn some more money. He wondered if he could talk to Tom about helping him find work at the clock factory. If he refused, well... Now Jimmy had some ammunition to insist he do it.

* * *

Ithaca, New York

July 1986

"So Dad, what's new?" Shannon asked, reclining on Frank's couch, her feet up on the coffee table.

"The usual," he said, not sure how to answer her. "Everything fine with you?"

"Of course everything's okay. Why wouldn't it be?" she said, picking at a cuticle. "I mean, other than Mom being insane."

"Don't talk about your mother that way. It's gotta be hell on her raising a teenaged daughter alone."

"But she's not doing it alone. That jerk Greg she's dating is over all the time. Wanting me to call him 'Uncle Greg' and trying to tell me what to do. Barf."

"He is?" Frank wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. "What's he like?"

At least the bastard hadn't tried making her call him Dad. He'd have to lay him out for that. He didn't mind it if the guy made her mind. It was his methods Frank wanted to make sure were kosher.

"Ha. You fell for the bait."

"Shannon, stop it."

"What? I knew you'd be interested. How the heck else do you tell your dad that your mom, his ex-wife, is dating a schmuck?"

"I don't need this right now," he muttered. "I really don't."

"Is it because of that case you're working on? The one with the lady we're related to?"

"How did you hear about that?"

"Aunt Diana told me about it when I was at the hospital last time." She looked at him, expecting more information.

"Yeah. It's the case. It's making me a little crazy. It's hard to have to worry about you and your mom and the schmuck right now in addition to this other stuff," Frank said.

"So what happened?"

"Well, she was a teenager like you, and she got into something that got her killed."

"Drugs?"

"They didn't have the drug problem back then that we have now."

"Gangs?"

"Ditto on the gangs. Not anything she needed to worry about."

"Then what?"

"I'm not sure yet, Shan. It was 1916. A long time ago."

"Wow, I can't even conceive of that. That's like, ages ago. Before the sixties and everything. That's even older than you," she said.

"Seventy years. And thanks for that."

"No sweat. So Linda...the lady from the Bluebird Cafe. Is she your new girlfriend?"

Frank sighed. Shannon didn't miss a trick.

"How'd you know about her?"

"Toby Hackmeier was skateboarding the other night near The Commons and saw you. He told me."

Thanks, Toby.

"So is she your girlfriend?"

"Yeah, I guess you could say that."

"I do say that. I want to know if you say that."

"Shan," he said, his voice a warning.

"I just mean she seems super nice. I like her. She's not like that jerk Mom's going out with. I could totally see myself having a slumber party with her or something."

"You don't say," Frank said, taking note of Shannon's enthusiasm.

"Yeah, she's cool. I thought so even when she was at the café. I was a lot younger then, but..." She smiled a reassuring smile. "She's okay, Dad."

"Well, I'll tell her you said so."

"We could, like, give each other a pedicure or something. I'll bet she's even into cool music, not that fuddy-duddy stuff you listen to."

"Neil Young is classic. She is also a fan of the fuddy-duddy."

"Bo-ring..." she said, rolling her eyes.

"But I happen to know she also likes The Clash. That hip enough for you?"

"Cool." A smile tickled the corners of her mouth.

### Chapter 23

Ithaca, New York

August 1916

Stephen LaBarr was in a marvelous mood as he guided his town car down Green Street, headed for the house on Stewart. It would be a surprise visit, but he didn't think the Morgans would mind, since he'd just returned from New York City on the evening train. He'd finished registering for his classes and had a specific purpose for his visit.

He couldn't wait to see the girl of his dreams. He had been thinking of her all day, along with the ten-karat diamond ring in his pocket. He planned on presenting it to her at some point during this visit. Not yet, of course, but he hoped that during this week-long break, he could find the perfect opportunity to speak to Mr. Morgan, obtain his blessing, and then present Libbie with the ring, knowing she would accept.

He always enjoyed returning to Ithaca after having been away, even for a short time. Some of his favorite buildings—like City Hall and Clinton House, the Cornell Public Library, and the Ithaca Hotel—greeted him.

What a beautiful place it was. He could never tire of coming home to his city on the lake. As he turned onto Aurora Street, he saw an attractive woman walking ahead of him. Delighted, he realized it was his bride-to-be. What a pretty picture she made. A deep navy skirt just skimmed her ankles, and her long, light blue chemise accentuated the curves beneath. Her hat sat at a perfect angle on her head, the silk hyacinths and lilies adorning it transforming it into a work of art. Just as he was about to call her name though, she was joined by a young man, and they walked together for a block or so before getting into a plain Model T nearby. Stephen was confused. Who was this chap? He dressed like someone living in the gutter. An almost threadbare shirt and a newsboy cap topped wool trousers, cheap suspenders, and plain leather work boots. But even past the man's cheap garb, he could see that the fellow was good-looking. Very common, of course, but possessed of a dark, almost delicate handsomeness, he admitted to himself. He also seemed to have a sense of humor, since she was laughing at something he said.

Flabbergasted and hurt, he decided to follow the pair to see what it was they were doing. Perhaps he'd misread. Perhaps this boy was just a school chum she was fond of. Stephen needed to know if the ring he carried in his pocket was a worthless bauble or if it would be adorning her finger before long. He reconsidered, thinking they might be headed to the library or to the nickelodeon, at worst. But as it got darker and he watched the car leave central Ithaca, his hands fidgeted more than usual on the steering wheel.

The jalopy headed to the southwest, following the pockmarked road out of town and into the country. God knew where they were going. Stephen didn't like the look of this at all. The ruts in the road were giving him a headache, but he kept up the pace. He hoped he was far enough back that his scrutiny would not be noticed.

The flivver left the main road past the stone quarry at the entrance to Buttermilk Falls, its body bouncing haphazardly over the dirt path. It jerked to a stop at a spot overlooking the falls that was drenched in moonlight, and he could see the occupants reach for each other. Stephen pulled the town car to a stop behind a tree several hundred yards away. Later, he would never be able to decide whether he was fortunate that the moon was full and silvery that night, or if it was something he wished he had never glimpsed, as it would be etched into his brain for the rest of his life. He exited the car and found a large oak he could stand behind. He could see every move they made, but they were too involved in what they were doing to pay any attention to him.

Sneaking up on the car in the blackness, he saw the dark-haired man who'd met Libbie running his hands through her hair and kissing her with abandon. He caressed her beautiful body, fondling her through the fabric.

And then, he pulled the blouse aside to allow better access. Stephen saw the reflection of moonlight off her pale skin before the man lowered his head.

He heard every moan and gasp of her delight. This continued for endless minutes as the man ravished first one breast and then another. One part of Stephen wanted to cover his ears rather than hearing her kittenish cries, but another part of him felt a strange arousal, watching her with another man.

As the man rose up and unfastened his trousers, Stephen saw her eyelids lower. She gazed at him with outright lust, beckoning him like a common harlot. Stephen had seen such tantalizing looks from a female only once before, and that was at the sporting house he sometimes frequented in Brooklyn. The man complied with her unspoken request, shedding his trousers and beginning to labor above her. She urged the man on to greater and greater heights. For what seemed like an eternity, the flivver bounced and squeaked as the couple indulged their baser instincts. At long last, both of their wails crescendoed to a peak and stopped.

Stephen held his head in his hands as he felt the lump in his throat grow. Where before there had been naïve adoration, now there was hate and disgust. Of course he had wondered if she had other suitors, but he had never imagined anything like this. If she would give herself to a common laborer like the one he had just seen, she would take on all comers. Stephen could never imagine marrying her now. She might be an adventuress in the bedroom, offering him pleasures no other woman could conceive of, but what of her behavior in the future? Would he come home to find her in bed with half the state legislature? He could never tell anyone what he had just seen.

Her parents might find out about her bawdy habits. In fact, it would give him a perverse pleasure if they did. But it could never be from him.

He would have to find an excuse for not marrying Libbie. He would have to meet a beautiful debutante in Manhattan. He would have to move into a big city firm to avoid shaming his father by not taking over the practice. But he could not marry Libbie Morgan or even stay here, where he would have to gaze upon this Jezebel any longer. Feeling sorrow and rage churn up his insides, Stephen turned to go back to his car. Hearing the laughter of his intended echoing from behind him felt like being stabbed over and over again. He scraped his palm as he grabbed the trunk of a tree and vomited his late lunch into the nearby weeds. Then, trying to be as quiet as possible, he cranked up the touring car and beat a hasty exit from the grove.

* * *

New York State Police, Troop C Barracks, Ithaca, New York

July 1986

Chuck Keith poked his head into Frank's office. "Hey, Frank, you're never gonna believe this."

Frank looked up from his notes on a recent murder-suicide in Varna.

"Hey, Chuck. What is it?"

"Bob Marshall over at IPD just called me. I think we may wanna go take a look at what they found. They just pulled it out of the lake."

"What is it?"

"Bob says it looks like what's left of an old Model T."

They piled into the Crown Vic and headed across town to the city impound lot.

On a flatbed truck driven by Eddie Worley, the mechanic at Wilseyville Auto Repair, sat the rusted-out hulk of a very ancient automobile. From his place behind the wheel, Eddie summoned up his substantial bulk and hopped down from the cab with an agility Frank found surprising for someone of his size. He reminded Frank of a basketball hitting the court.

Eddie wore grease-stained, king-size denim overalls with one shoulder buckle undone. One jaw worked a soggy hunk of Copenhagen as he watched the police conferring over the new find.

The old wreck oozed muddy fluid out of its various cavities, and the ripe smell of lake water, decay, and rust clung to it. The top of the cab was gone. The lower portion of it was all that remained. The wheels were a mass of pointed spokes covered in mud and sediment. The bacteria and minerals in the water had eaten the wood on the rims away. The engine block sat in a crumpled mass, along with the front of the superstructure.

Even with so much of the vehicle missing, the muddy grill and headlights were compacted against the engine block and still resembled a face, albeit a deformed, comical one. It grinned quizzically at them. The colder northern temperatures of the water had worked well to preserve it.

"Wow..." Frank said, impressed. "Who found this?" He circled what was left of the car, wondering what its story was.

"Couple of kids decided to scuba dive up near Myers Point and went a little deeper than some of the others have. Could have just been left by a drunk years ago, but then I remembered that case you were working on—the bones we found up at Buttermilk. I'm not presuming they could be related, but you never know, right?" Chuck asked.

"Yeah, we never know what might turn up," Frank said, thinking of Mrs. LaBarr's recollection of Libbie and Tom getting amorous in a car near the falls.

After aiming a clump of tobacco at a nearby signpost, his prodigious middle shaking with the effort, Eddie said, "From the style of headlights and the radiator on there, I'd say yer lookin' at what's left of a 1911 Model T touring car. Yer basic Tin Lizzie. No bells and whistles on this fella. Just plain vanilla."

Frank turned to Eddie, curious that the mechanic he'd used for years had a side he knew nothing about.

"Eddie, you know about antique cars too?"

He shrugged. "I've done a little puttering here and there. My dad was in an old Model T club down in Brooktondale years ago before we moved up here. He had a Model A, I think it were. A 1928. Nice one it was." He cocked his head, gimme cap sliding to one side.

"Anything else you can tell us about it, Eddie?" Frank asked, examining what was left of the old seat support.

Eddie did a survey, walking around the wreck as he scratched his chin. "Well, this right here is where the gas lamps fit on. You can see the mounting for the one on that side, but this one's long gone. This baby had metal panels over a wooden frame. See, a lot of this area right here, the part that's collapsed?" He pointed to the area around the dashboard. "That was made of wood, so everything supported by it kinda caved in on itself."

He pointed again as he indicated each component. "Here's what's left of the engine. Open valve. Cast iron exhaust manifold. Then you got yer three-pedal standard transmission, with the brake lever operating yer clutch and rear brakes." He spit another wad toward the signpost, then had one of the local patrolmen sign for the tow.

"Where ya want it, fellas?"

The local patrolmen on duty had to think a minute. They'd had a Civic and a Taurus towed into the garage the day before and had to consider if there was enough room.

"I think it'll fit in down there," Patrolman Powell said. "Put it in next to that Caddy in the corner, Eddie. Anderson, can you give him a hand?"

Anderson nodded and strode toward the garage to direct Eddie into a spot where they had adequate room for the remains of the old jalopy.

Eddie rubbed a muscled paw over his graying beard and said, "You know, if you need to find out anything on this fella, you can get the number off the engine block and contact Ford in Detroit."

"That's a great idea, Eddie. Thanks."

Eddie used the special hoist attached to his truck to bring the flivver down with a watery thump. Within moments, she was the center of attention among all the personnel on duty.

He couldn't explain it, but Frank felt drawn to the car and looked over the chassis to see if anything remained to identify it other than the engine block ID number. Taking a flashlight to it, he found two pieces of metal lying on what remained of the floor. Examining them, he determined that they looked like the handle and scoop of a shovel. He had no explanation.

Playing the beam over the nooks and crannies of the base of the car, he saw a glint from a crevice in what remained of the floorboard. Something wedged into the tiny space sparkled, but he couldn't figure out what it was.

"Hey, Chuck, hand me that screwdriver over there, willya?"

Chuck hurried over to the wall, where a variety of auto repair tools hung on a pegboard rack. He grabbed the driver and handed it to Frank. Using the small blade, Frank jimmied it into the crevice to pry up the shiny object. When it pulled away into his hand, he was looking at a beautiful gold signet ring. And a glimmer of recognition hit him.

* * *

Ithaca, New York

July 1986

As usual, his mother was propped up in bed. Her complexion was wan beneath the fluorescents, but she lit up when she saw him enter the room, reaching her arms out to him. He took her hand as he approached the bed.

"Hi, Mom. I know this is a bad time. We fished an old Model T out of the lake yesterday. This was in it."

Frank pulled the ring out of his front pocket and set it down on the rolling utility table that stretched over the top of her bed. She sat there a minute, then picked it up and looked at the insignia.

"The Morgan crest," she whispered.

As she stared at the ring, her eyes filled to overflowing, and the tears fell unbidden down her face. She stretched out her hand, and there on her right ring finger was the same pattern engraved in gold. Just as Frank had suspected, the ring had been Libbie's. So her unceremonious death had probably happened in a car that had ended up in Cayuga Lake.

"Mom, talk to me. I want to find out what happened to your sister. Tell me something, anything that might help me figure out all this."

She nodded through her tears. A Kleenex box sat on a nearby counter, so he handed her a few and pulled up the chair next to her bed.

"I'm sorry I haven't told you before, Frank. I was ashamed."

"Ashamed? But why? What could you have done that was so awful?"

"Not did. Said." She sighed and lay back against the pillow. A plastic tumbler of water sat on the metal tray on the rolling table. She took a small sip before continuing. "It was several weeks before she disappeared..."

### Chapter 24

Ithaca, New York

August 1916

"Clara, do come on. You're dawdling, and at this rate, we'll never make the show on time," Maude urged her friend.

Clara Armbruster giggled as Maude pulled her away from the huge display window at Rothschild's Department Store. Clara was Maude's best girlfriend, and they had made plans to see Hulda from Holland with Mary Pickford tonight. Maude knew Clara had a special fondness for Pickford movies, since Clara had taken to wearing her blond hair in long, corkscrew curls like her idol.

It was a perfect summer night, and the breeze was pleasant for a walk to the theater. A quartet in the gazebo at DeWitt Park had struck up an old-fashioned waltz for the townspeople out for a stroll. Maude didn't think she'd heard "The Band Played On" for some time. But it was more enjoyable than always sitting at home with her head in a book. She was determined to forget Libbie always having all the fun. Now she was going to have some good times of her own.

As she and Clara hurried toward the theater, Clara pointed ahead a block or so, to where the milliners stood at the corner of State and Cayuga.

"Maude, isn't that your sister?"

Maude squinted a little, knowing she was in need of some spectacles from all the reading she'd been doing.

"You know, I believe it is."

"Perhaps we should have her join us at the flickers. What do you say?"

Maude hesitated. She'd been looking forward to an evening out with just her friend and Mary Pickford. No Libbie, and none of her accompanying drama.

"Maybe next time. I thought we'd have some fun, Clara. You know, the two of us."

"Maude Morgan, you're the sweetest girl I know," Clara said. "Should we stop in at the general store for some taffy or tootsie rolls? Please say yes."

"I'm not sure if we have time. What do you think?"

"Sure we do. Besides, you know what a terrible sweet tooth I have."

"Okay, okay," Maude said, laughing. "Clara without her taffy is a sad sight indeed."

The cheerful tinkle of the tiny bell on the door greeted them on their entrance to Mr. Killian's store. They each bought a few handfuls of penny candy, including Clara's favorite salt-water taffy. As the girls stood at the huge brass cash register, watching him ring up their purchases, Maude glanced out the window at the passing traffic. Libbie was now standing on the sidewalk, not far from the store's front awning.

As Maude watched, a jaunty older Model-T pulled up, and Libbie got in. From the light cast by the streetlamp, Maude could see a dark-haired boy in a newsboy cap at the wheel of the car. It was not Stephen LaBarr's auto, and she could tell it wasn't Stephen driving. She wondered where Libbie was off to at this time of night with someone who was not her intended betrothed. Everything running through her head was an awful scenario.

She had come to resent her sister of late but could not believe Libbie would be so intentionally cruel—to her, to Stephen, and to her parents. Who was this boy, and where was he taking her sister? As the car shifted into gear and chugged into the darkness with a backfire or two, she did not have much chance to further observe the mystery auto.

As the rest of the theater became engrossed in the story of the spunky Dutch girl who came to America with her brothers and fell in love with a poor artist, Maude's mind raced. She had decided to live her life without the dominating specter of Libbie always looming over her, and now she was being reminded once again of her sister's ability to have any man she wanted and live life by her own rules.

Could this be the poor boy Libbie had mentioned at dinner several weeks ago? Perhaps this meant Stephen might consider her instead. She couldn't dare to hope, but by making herself available, she might be able to fix things. The not-so-nice part of her considered informing Stephen of her sister's perfidy. She wasn't sure she'd be able to do it. Maude knew that if put in the same situation, Libbie would have no qualms about moving in for the kill on whatever fellow Maude had ignored. But that was what made them so different.

* * *

As she snuggled into Tom's shoulder, Libbie felt like she could climb a mountain. Now that they were intimate all the time, she had exhorted him to more and more. Eager for a second helping of what they had just shared, she ruffled his hair and moved beneath him again.

"I'm exhausted, Libbie. Give me a few minutes." His eyes were closed, but he wore a huge smile.

He was so handsome, she thought. It was a shame she would have to end the courtship soon. With the official betrothal, things would become much more complicated. They could meet until Stephen returned from New York, but no longer. And they had to be very careful. Her mind wandered to the engagement dinner, the teas, showers, dances, and balls that would follow. There were so many choices.

Mint green was a pretty color for accessories, or butter yellow. She adored daisies; they were so cheery. Or perhaps pink roses. They would be stunning in bouquets. She should choose violets to bring out her blue eyes. And orange blossom, of course, for fertility. Shoes with bows on them were popular right now. She could imagine helping to sew her gown, tiny little seed pearls interspersed with the lace. How beautiful it would be...

"Libbie, if you could run away anywhere in the world, where would it be?" he asked.

"What?" Irritated at having her reverie ruined, she wondered what he was talking about.

"If you could travel. Escape from here and see anywhere you wanted. Where would you go?"

"Why? Where would you go?"

"I think it would be fascinating to travel to Africa. You know...the Hottentots and the jungles and all the wild animals. Lions and monkeys and elephants. Down the Zambezi on a riverboat. Maybe to Palestine to see the Wailing Wall. Or even head south to Patagonia or the Amazon, or to the Andes to go mountain climbing."

"Why in God's name would you want to do that?" she said.

Confused, Tom paused, wondering at the nastiness in her tone. "Why, for an adventure, sweetheart. To see the world."

"It's too hot in Africa. There are mosquitoes, and yellow fever, and all sorts of other nasty things. Palestine has heathens. And doesn't South America have cannibals and tribes that do human sacrifices? Why would you want to risk that? Besides, you don't have any money. You'd never get farther than Buffalo." She laughed.

"I know I'm a poor man. You don't have to be rude about it. We've had this discussion before. I have ambitions, Libbie. You shouldn't worry."

"I'm sorry. That was terrible of me." Embracing him on impulse, she regretted being so disparaging. But what did it matter where he wanted to travel? It seemed pointless to discuss it since he'd never go anywhere with no money. He had no funds to go anywhere important or do anything essential with his life. While ambition was admirable, it was his social status now that counted. And it didn't come to close to meeting her aspirations. She was going to be a politician's wife, after all. Stephen could even become a diplomat someday. He spoke French and German fluently. That would not only make them rich, but powerful as well.

When she was a married society woman, they would travel everywhere. She had already determined that she would see all the major world landmarks. This war in Europe couldn't last forever. When it was over, there would be summer trips to the Riviera, Christmas visits to London, cruises down the Nile, Paris in the springtime, viewing the Acropolis in Greece, and seeing the Bridge of Sighs in Venice. She was already planning a new wardrobe from Poiret when his couture house re-opened after the war. In the meantime, she would comb Paris for the most incredible designs she could. She had even heard tell of a new couturier making revolutionary clothing at her boutique in Deauville. Designs that let women dress for themselves, in comfort and style, with boyish influences like sweaters and knit fabrics. And no corsets. It was hard to imagine, but Libbie was determined to visit the boutique and purchase some of the apparel. She had forgotten the designer's name. Something Chanel, she thought.

As she worked herself into a cat-like stretch, arms above her head, and launched into an unladylike yawn, a glance at her hand told her something wasn't right.

"Oh no! My ring!"

"What? What's wrong?"

"My signet ring! It's slipped off my finger! Oh dear!" Frantic, she felt around in the dark for where it might have fallen off in the car.

"What does it look like?"

"What do you mean 'What does it look like?' I've worn it every time you've seen me," she snapped. "It's a gold signet ring!"

Stroking her hair, he tried mollifying her. "Sweetheart, it's too dark out here to see anything. I promise I'll give it a good look tomorrow in the daylight. It may not even be in the car. Perhaps it's in your room at home? What about when you bathed last?"

"Of course it's not there. I would have noticed it at home. Don't be stupid."

"I'm not stupid," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry."

"Perhaps on the street, then. You've been shopping and to the nickelodeon. You told me just last week that you had seen that new Chaplin flicker. Perhaps they found it at the theater."

"I suppose they might have."

"Of course, my darling. Please don't worry. I'll help you find it."

"Can you help me find something else?" She giggled, back to her good-natured self. Reaching down, she grasped him once again and guided him toward her.

* * *

Maude lay across her bed, contemplating what she had seen before the movie. Her room was a girlish sort of froth, with lots of lace, pink ribbons, and plenty of flowers. Maude loved nothing better than collecting flowers from her mother's garden. She often had to take the leavings after Harriett found her favorites, but the sweet scents comforted her and the pretty blossoms made her smile. The fat fluffy peonies were her favorites.

She imagined what life might be like married to Stephen LaBarr. She was shy and withdrawn—not like Libbie—but she just knew that in such a marriage, with glamorous people visiting them and attending dinners at their home, she would grow into the social life. It wasn't fair that everything went to Libbie. Just as she thought she might retire for the night, Maude heard a noise on the stair.

* * *

The front door groaned as Libbie closed it behind her in the cavernous front hall. Satisfied as it clicked into place, Libbie slipped off her strapped kid pumps to sneak upstairs unheard. She stuck to the carpet runner on the stair so as not to make any sound as she climbed up to her room. She'd just reached the second floor landing when she saw a movement from the corner of her eye. It was Maude.

"What do you think you're doing?" Libbie snapped.

"Go," Maude said, pointing into Libbie's room.

"What is it?" Libbie said, annoyed now. The loss of her signet ring had ruined her evening, and she had no patience for Mousy Maude and her weepy tantrums at being second best and never getting anything she wanted. "I want to go to bed. Leave me be."

"No," Maude said, shutting the door behind them.

Libbie backed into the room and took a seat on the coverlet.

"Okay, Maude. Let me guess. You've begun a wonderful new book and you had to tell me about it. Or no, wait. You've seen a new Mary Pickford flicker and you must tell me about how sweet and virginal she was." She blew out a breath and her hair took flight around her face.

"You can be so cruel, you know that?"

"Grow a spine, and maybe I'll respect you a bit," Libbie said, cocking her head and making a face at Maude. She tossed her shoes over into the corner of the room.

"I have a few more vertebrae than you've given me credit for, Libbie."

"What are you talking about?" Libbie had pulled off her dress and stood in her chemise and stockings.

"Who is he?" Maude demanded.

"What do you mean, 'who is he?'"

"The dark-haired boy who picked you up in front of the general store. That's who."

Libbie couldn't help herself. Her mouth fell open in a gape. The little bitch had been spying on her.

"Got your attention, did I?" Maude said with a little smile. "I was in the candy store. And you were so intent on your paramour, you didn't even see me."

"It was...nothing. He's just a classmate."

"Malarkey. I saw you kiss him as you got in."

"It was just affectionate. As I said, he's a classmate. We went to the library."

Maude glanced over at the small brass clock on the night stand. "He didn't look like anyone I recognized from school. The library closes at seven o'clock. It's now nine o'clock. What were you getting up to for the last two hours?"

"Maude, this is tiresome, and it's not important. I don't see what the problem is."

"The problem is that you are supposed to be promised to Stephen LaBarr! The problem is that you don't care about him and don't want him, and I do! How can you hurt me so? I'm so fond of him, yet you tramp on my feelings like they're nothing. He will marry you if you'll have him. What's wrong with you? Who is this other man? It's that boy from Newfield, isn't it?"

Libbie's silence betrayed her. For once in her life, she had no retort. "You can't tell anyone, Maude."

"Who says I can't? I think Stephen would like to know that his betrothed is going out unchaperoned with another man."

Libbie's heart leapt in fear. "Maude, did you hear me? You can't! You can't say anything. To anyone!"

"Father will be very interested in this new love of yours, too. Maybe we should give him the good news right now." Maude reached for the doorknob.

"Maude, no!" Libbie lunged for her sister's hand to stop her from opening it. "What do you want? I'll give you anything. Just don't tell Stephen. Don't tell Mother and Father."

"Anything? That's rather a broad term. This poor boy must be wonderful if he's worth all this. Is he?"

"I don't know," Libbie confessed.

"What? Then why continue with him? I at least gave you credit for loving him. You're practically engaged to Stephen LaBarr."

"I can't explain it to you. You wouldn't understand."

"Try."

Libbie laughed. "What, so you can compare me to some character in one of the goofy molasses-sweet books you read? There's nothing to compare."

"Then what?"

"I'm afraid it's a bit more adult than you could understand, Maude."

"You've become _Madame Bovary_ ," Maude said. "You have a man who cares for you, but instead, you go riding with the debonair rogue who makes love to you in the carriage. That's it, isn't it?"

"You're so naïve," Libbie said. "That's the way the world works, dear. Tom is handsome, and I enjoy being with him that way. But I'm not sacrificing Stephen for you or anybody else. Girls marry for money, not love. Especially this girl!" Noticing Maude's face at last, she saw the hurt in those eyes, which changed to a glare.

"I never ask for anything," Maude said. "You know you're the favorite. You get life handed to you on a silver platter. And now you'll have him, too. What makes you so special? Why do you always get everything you want?"

Libbie looked at her with amusement and laughed. "Because I'm the pretty one, that's why."

"You bitch," Maude hissed. "I hate you. I wish you were dead." She reached for the doorknob, then turned and whispered, "Just wait, Libbie. You'll get yours. I'll tell Mother and Father. Maybe not right away, but when you're not suspecting it, I'll tell them all I know about you. Nothing would make me happier right now than to see Father toss you out without a cent. Don't underestimate me."

For the first time in her young life, Libbie Morgan felt a pinprick of fear.

### Chapter 25

Ithaca, New York

August 1986

Frank watched as his mother's face crumpled. He couldn't believe that she'd kept all this emotion pent up for seventy years. All the times people had mentioned her sister and she had never said a word about all this. She'd learned the hard way that once hurtful words were said, they couldn't be unsaid.

"I didn't mean to do it," she wept. "I didn't want her to die. I wanted to hurt her as much as she was hurting me. Oh God, Frank. What did I do? Libbie, forgive me!" She held her head in her hands and sobbed as if her heart would break. The oxygen tube was becoming a liability until he could get her emotions in check.

"Mom, calm down, please! You can't breathe if you're crying."

Frank rang the call button, and a nurse appeared. She glared at him, but her first responsibility was to stabilize Maude's condition. They both spoke to her in gentle voices, reassuring her that everything would be fine. Frank waited until the nurse, whose nametag read "Doris Birnbaum," moved on to the compound fracture three doors down. Then he comforted Maude by telling her that she did not cause her sister's death, and that deep-down, Libbie had known how much she loved her. She got quiet and contemplative and stared at him almost as if she hadn't looked at him for years. "You've stopped drinking, haven't you?"

"I...yeah. I have."

"I'm sorry if I've been disagreeable the last few years. I've been unfair to you, and I'm sorry."

He smiled at her, taking her hand closer to him.

"I saw you repeating the same behavior I saw with my father, and I was so disappointed. I never considered how I might have contributed to you going there. When you and Allison separated, I was so angry at you."

"I was angry at me too, Mom. It was stupid, but I've paid for it."

"Frank, I have a favor to ask you."

"What is it?"

"I'm so worried about Walter. What will happen to him when I'm gone? Diana's allergic, and Seth's wife would never have a cat. I don't know if Allison would let Shannon have him. Can I depend on you to find him a good home?"

"Of course. He'll be fine. Don't worry about Walter."

"I love you, Frank. I'm sorry if I haven't been the best mother the last few years. I'm very proud of you. I want you to know that."

"I love you too, Mom."

He held her hand until she fell asleep, then sat a little longer until Diana arrived to spell him. When he left the hospital, he felt twenty years younger.

* * *

"She told her she wished that she was dead?" Linda said. She was sitting Indian-style on the couch, sorting through everything they had on the case. In her left hand, she crunched a breadstick, left over from the Joe's take-out she had brought over.

Frank nodded. He'd given her a key a few days before, and his eyes had lit up when he'd seen the Karmann Ghia out front when he arrived home from the hospital. It had seemed natural, and very right, to find her reclined on the couch in jeans and a Kermit the Frog T-shirt.

"God, what an awful thing for her to live with all these years." She shook her head.

"And you have to understand how sweet and meek my mother is to know how out-of-character that is for her. I'll bet she's never spoken to anyone like that since. Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, for God's sake. Best I can figure it, Mom has been dealing with so much remorse all these years that she's been terrified to even raise her voice to anyone. Guess she's been afraid that if she does, they'll disappear too."

He sank down on the couch next to her, head in hands. Something hurtful like that, and she could never take it back, never apologize, and never make it right to the family that was destroyed by the disappearance.

Of course she felt responsible. His mother had always shouldered everyone else's burdens as her own. All these years, she'd been living with the largest one of all.

Linda's arms were around his shoulders, reassuring him once again. When she turned his face and gave him a soft kiss, he felt a lightness he hadn't known in years. Sure, cheesy song lyrics spoke of being born again with someone, but he'd never known what they meant until now. With her, things seemed to make sense for the first time in a long time, and he realized the sensation in his midsection was something he'd been too frightened to name. He'd told her about the divorce and the drinking, and she hadn't even blinked. She just seemed to accept that it was something to deal with together. He looked at her, making a mental list of everything he found irresistible about her. Her kisses tasted like Close-Up and flavored beeswax lip balm, she loved Italian food, and his daughter thought she'd be fun to hang out with. Then there was the added bonus of her taking such joy in helping him solve this case.

"Thanks for being here," he said.

"Don't mention it. We're collaborators, right?" she said, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Is that it? Like co-workers on a project?" he said, a little disappointed.

"Well, I know another project we can collaborate on."

"What's that?"

"Follow me and I'll show you."

She took his hand and led him to the bedroom, where she stripped off Kermit and the jeans. Frank admitted this new project had definite possibilities.

* * *

They'd fallen asleep afterward, both spent. He leaned on an elbow, brushing a hand over her naked shoulder, and watched as she smiled in her dreams. The clock read eight p.m. Running his hand through her hair, he watched her sleep. When she woke, she ran her thumb over his jaw.

"I need to tell you something," he said.

"What's that?"

"I think I'm falling in love with you." He exhaled, happy to have that off his chest.

"Hmmm. What a coincidence. I'm finding you rather pleasant to have around myself." She cupped his cheek in her hand.

"Do you remember my daughter, Shannon, from when we used to visit the restaurant?"

She thought a moment. "Yeah, I do. Adorable kid."

"Well, she's not so much of a kid anymore. She's fifteen."

Linda whistled. "They grow up so fast," she said, chuckling.

"She seems to think you have definite slumber party potential."

"Seriously?"

"Yep, painting each other's toenails and everything, if I remember right."

"You told her about us?" Linda said.

"She figured it out, I think. But I was going to tell her anyway."

"I would love to see your daughter again. And we can start planning that slumber party."

She ran a hand over the gray fluff on his chest, enjoying the coarse texture on her palm as she became even more acquainted with the detail of his face, crags and all. Reaching down, she grabbed a handful of blanket, covering her thighs and then spreading it over him, too. Spidering her fingers through his hair, she pulled him close for another kiss.

"I love you too, Frank."

* * *

Ithaca, New York

August 1916

Libbie didn't often wake at four o'clock a.m., but she did today. What an awakening it was. From a sound sleep, she'd been wracked by the vilest nausea she'd ever felt. She dashed to the bathroom down the hall and clutched the cold porcelain as she emptied her stomach. She'd eaten almost nothing for dinner; she wasn't sure what was causing this. Juliana's roast tenderloin had looked tempting, but she'd barely touched it.

Gathering her nightgown around her legs, she was at last able to pull herself up from the tile floor. Cupping her hands under the tap to take a sip and running some cold water over her face helped a bit.

She opened the door to the bathroom and slunk down the corridor to her room, but before she could reach the alcove near her room, Maude's door opened and she stood there glaring at Libbie. George looked up from his sleep in the hallway, and his nails clicked across the floor as he took a seat between the two rooms, looking back and forth at the sisters.

"You woke me up," Maude said, grouchy at the early morning interruption. The previous night's conversation hung between them like a poisonous cloud.

"Sorry. I didn't feel well," Libbie mumbled, gesturing with her hands for George to follow her. He tramped behind her to her room, where he plopped down on the rug and fell asleep. Reaching the sanctuary of her room, she rolled her eyes and wished once again that her baby brothers had been allowed to live instead of bratty Maude. God knew when she planned on springing her little surprise. One word from Maude to her father or Stephen, and her life would be destroyed.

Now there was this blasted nausea to deal with as well. She still felt a bit green. She hoped she wouldn't have to cancel her lunch with Olive today, but she still wanted to see Tom tonight. He was a need that was going to be hard to break. But as long as Stephen had not yet made his official social call requesting her hand from her father, she was free to do with her weeknights what she wished. Tonight, she was once again claiming that she was attending a nursing seminar with Olive. Any idiot could have discovered what she was up to, but no one bothered. Except Maude. She said a fervent prayer that the little bitch would not give away her secret.

This might be the last time she would be able to see him, if things kept up this way. But perhaps, even when she was married, she could still get away from time to time to rendezvous with Tom. If her time in the bedroom with Stephen was abysmal, she would have to. The need in her was all-consuming.

If he never learned how to please her, it would be his own fault for being too concerned with his stupid, boring law books.

She sat down at her vanity and brushed her hair, once again finding solace and inspiration from her bawdy postcard. It seemed the more she misbehaved, the more the woman in the postcard smiled at her when she pulled it out of her drawer. Why was it that men who enjoyed making love were considered virile and masculine, but women who did the same were branded trollops? It simply felt good.

That night, they met at Tom's flat, since she wanted them to lie on an actual bed if it might be the last time. They had to listen for Mrs. Protts and her thundering footfalls in the hallway, but it didn't matter. Tom made Libbie bite down on a corner of the pillowcase so her passionate cries were not heard all throughout the building. When they were done, he reached over to the small table and handed her a large piece of cardboard. "I wanted you to have this, darling Libbie."

"What is it?" she said, intrigued at the thought of a present.

"Open it," he said, grinning.

When she flicked back the cardboard flap, there he was in a posed studio shot, looking more handsome than usual. On the flap of cardboard, he had written "To Libbie, with all my love, your Tom."

"You look very respectable and dignified," she said.

"I look like a famous writer in that photo, don't I?" he said. She could see he'd purchased a new cravat for the occasion.

"Yes, you do. But you still need a distinguished gray beard," she laughed.

"I was thinking I'd label it on the back. 'The respectable Mr. D. H. Lawrence.' Think anyone would buy it?" he laughed.

"Here, let me do it for you!" she squealed. The sheet not quite covering her breasts, she leaned across him and grabbed a fountain pen off the table. Then, she scribbled the name on the back of his picture for fun.

"There. Now you're famous," she said, inserting the photo back into its cardboard frame.

"I am indeed," he said. "All I need is some money to go with that fame, and I can marry you some day."

Libbie didn't respond.

* * *

"Olive, dear, could I ask a huge favor of you?" Libbie asked, forking another small potato into her mouth.

"Depends," Olive said, stirring her tea. The girls were at Birdie's having a late lunch of chicken pie and vegetables. Libbie had devoured everything on her plate and finished part of Olive's, as well. Olive had never seen Libbie so hungry.

"Do you think you could borrow one of your father's biology books for a short while?"

"Why?"

"I need a medical text of some kind. I'd like to study a bit. With all our talk of nursing, I'd like to reacquaint myself with some of the sciences, and I can't remember much from our studies. Aren't you nervous about what we might encounter if we go overseas? It's going to be bloody." Libbie was amazed at how the lie rolled off her tongue.

The fact was, she had vomited just about every morning for over a week. She felt weak and woozy and could never quite get rid of the sour taste in her mouth. But at the same time, she was voracious, devouring more in the past week than she had for months. She doubted the medical text could tell her if she'd come down with some sort of strange disease, but she did wonder about her symptoms. She had a sneaking suspicion, and it wasn't good.

"I don't see why not," Olive replied, spearing a chunk of squash on her plate. "Father has so many. I doubt he would miss one. I'll bring it to you tomorrow."

"Thank you, dear. You're a treasure. Are you excited?"

"I suppose I am," Olive admitted. "But it is far away from home. And it will be dangerous near the battlefields. Aren't you frightened at all?"

"A little. I'm more concerned about niceties. You know, indoor plumbing, my favorite face cream, that sort of thing. I'm spoiled in that respect, you know."

Olive laughed, knowing Libbie's love of luxury. She could never say no to a pretty hat, a new perfume, or some bauble. The reports from Europe were abysmal. Living with so much mud and gore and ugliness every day would be difficult for Libbie.

"How are things going with Tom?" Olive asked, lowering her voice a bit.

"Fine," Libbie said.

"Libbie, what's going on between you two? I don't understand why you're still seeing him when the rumor is that Stephen LaBarr is going to ask for your hand any day."

"I like him. And he is fond of me."

"Yes, but Stephen is also fond of you. Your parents are very fond of Stephen. You need to let the poor boy down easy, but you need to do it, Libbie. You're not being very discreet about seeing him, you know."

"What do you mean?" Libbie demanded.

"Just what I said. Don't think people haven't noticed you strolling around town with him. They're starting to talk."

"It hasn't been often."

"It doesn't have to be for people to talk, Libbie. People don't need excuses to ruin a girl's reputation. I just want you to think about what you're doing."

At that moment, Birdie approached their table. "Well, ladies," Birdie said, "anything for dessert?"

"Oh, some spiced pears, please!" Libbie said, "With lots of whipped cream on top, please Miss Birdie."

Again, Olive marveled at Libbie's new capacity for lunch.

* * *

The next day, Olive brought the book to Libbie at home. Juliana let her in, and she waited in the parlor. When Libbie came down to get her, she looked a bit peaked.

"Libbie dear, what is it?" Olive asked as they climbed the stairs to Libbie's room.

"Must have been the chicken pie yesterday," Libbie said, forgetting that Olive had eaten the same thing. "Maybe it was spoiled. I feel dreadful," she said, sitting down on the bed.

"I doubt you're going to want to read this right now, but I brought the book like you asked." Olive set the book down and studied her friend.

As usual, there was more going on in Libbie's head than she could ever decipher, but her friend looked troubled and not at all well. "Perhaps some ginger tea would help. Shall I get Juliana to make you some, dear?" She sat and put an arm around Libbie, who was trembling.

"That would be nice," Libbie said with a weak smile.

"I won't be a moment." She slipped out of the room, intent on making Libbie feel better.

As soon as Olive left the room, Libbie's fears could no longer be shelved. She flipped through the book, looking for some clue as to what her illness might be. At last, as she turned pages near the women's anatomical section, she found information regarding puberty, reproduction, and gestation. There, her growing fear was confirmed.

" _Nausea gravidarum, also known as morning sickness, frequently occurs in women who are with child. Nausea and vomiting are an early indicator of pregnancy and may begin around the sixth week."_

Libbie felt faint. In fact, she thought she might pass out. Could this be how it worked? That the need that had kept her going back to Tom was the one that had put her in this position? How could she have been so stupid? They'd been making love for weeks. If only she had attended some of the nursing seminars, perhaps she might have learned how having babies worked. When during her carefree summer had she become a woman with child? And even more important, how the hell could she once again become a woman without one? Her life was all planned out. The fancy dinner parties, being a senator's wife, summer trips around the globe—they would all be a dream if she couldn't figure out how to end this nightmare. If Stephen found out, everything would be ruined. She had to tell Tom. Together, they could figure this out.

When Olive brought the tea back upstairs, Libbie took a grateful sip, the seed of an idea forming in her head. Only after Olive left did Libbie allow herself the luxury of sobbing into George's soft neck.

### Chapter 26

Ithaca, New York

August 1986

August 27, 1916

Dear Diary,

The courtship with Tom has run its course. He has to know, of course, but it will be difficult to tell him. Stephen and I are practically betrothed, and he returns to town soon. All good things come to an end, as they say, and in a situation like mine, I have no other option. Stephen does not know of our courting or anything else, thank goodness, since he has been in New York City so much of the time. And he will not know. I'm determined of it. What a horror. The slightest misstep could spell trouble for me. I'll meet with Tom tomorrow.

L.

Frank re-read the diary, this time with Linda helping him look over everything. Once again, they'd gotten take-out from Ling's Pagoda, and as they sat finishing up their Mu Shu, they pored over the entries together, second guessing themselves.

"Or anything else..." Frank trailed off. It was unclear whether Libbie was being dramatic or if something else was going on.

With a woman's eye, Linda suddenly sat bolt upright, chopsticks poised in mid-air.

"Frank, look at this. Her situation. Could Libbie have been pregnant? Obviously, she's involved with two guys, so that's complicated, but you said LaBarr saw them in a car, going at it like rabbits," she said.

Frank felt like a fool for not seeing it before. Leave it to a woman to pick up on the nuance he couldn't.

"Now, normally, girls in that 'situation' years ago just married the boy who'd put them in the awkward position of being pregnant before marriage," Linda continued. "Children arrived four to eight months after the wedding and were called premature. But try to imagine what it might have been like for her. For a rich girl being courted by real money like LaBarr, a pregnancy by a poor guy like Tom would have meant the end of everything. No engagement, no marriage, and maybe no parents. It sounds like they might have disowned her if they found out. She would have had to leave town, their good name protected with a story like 'visiting relatives back east' or 'staying with an aunt out west.' Now, we don't know exactly when Stephen saw them together, but she doesn't sound desperate here, just nervous. She didn't know yet that she'd been found out." Linda took a long swig of her Pepsi and looked at him with triumph.

"Here, she says she's going to break it off with him on August 27th, but we know they had to have met again," Linda said, pointing at the entry. "Probably on September 17th. But what happened in between?"

* * *

Ithaca, New York

September 4, 1916

As the flivver bounced along its regular route to Buttermilk Falls, Tom couldn't help but notice how quiet Libbie was. Usually, she prattled on and on about literature, poetry, nursing, her friendship with Olive, and school chums he would never meet. Tonight, she said very little at all. He concentrated on driving but wished he knew how to draw her out. Only heaven knew what kind of mood she was in. He had learned not to annoy her if he could help it.

As he pulled the car to a stop at their favorite spot, Libbie glanced over at him with glistening eyes. He could see that she was fighting not to cry.

"Libbie, sweetest, what is it?" He pulled her close to him, wanting to offer her comfort, but felt himself growing hard right away. The location, the mood, her toilet water in his nostrils had all become a signal for him to leave common sense in the dust and ravish her. But now was not the time.

"I've been sick this week. And last," she said.

He searched her eyes to figure out what she was telling him.

"In the mornings," she continued.

He nodded, still not understanding. He stroked her hair and rubbed her back as he embraced her, not knowing what else to do.

"My cycle...is...stopped."

"Have you seen a doctor? I hope it's nothing serious, darling Libbie."

She reared back and glared at him. "Serious? Of course it's serious. I'm pregnant."

"Pregnant?" he repeated, stunned. "How? When?"

"We've been...doing it...for a month or two now. It happened during that time. But I don't know how it all works." It had been a physical need in her, but she wasn't sure about calling it love. In fact, she wasn't sure about anything anymore.

"I confess I don't know much either. There are devices you can buy, I believe, prophylactic devices, but I was ashamed. In case we had been seen together, I was afraid of compromising your honor."

"Because actually being pregnant doesn't compromise my honor at all," she snapped.

"Libbie, please don't be harsh. You were very forward with me, as you'll recall. It's hard for a man to resist such advances. From a woman as beautiful as you, it's impossible. It's not fair to blame me alone. We each share some responsibility in this. We must think of a way to handle it now that the deed is done."

"And what would that be?"

"Why, I'll marry you, that's all. We've discussed it before."

"We have? I think you mean you have."

Feeling as though he'd been punched, he nonetheless continued. "I've mentioned several times how much I adore you and how I plan on furthering myself at the clockworks. I could make a good life for us. Honest, I could."

She laughed bitterly. "And what of my parents? My friends? They'll all know. There is no way I can stay in Ithaca married to you. I'll be a laughing-stock. Everyone will know I was too stupid to wait until I married to have relations with anyone. 'There she goes,' they'll say. 'There's Libbie Morgan, who got knocked up by the poor boy at the clockworks. Look at the hovel she lives in. What a step down for her. Why do you suppose she was so stupid?' I'll be just like Gertrude Morel."

"So we'll leave. We'll elope. No one need be the wiser. We just won't return. I can find another job somewhere else. We could go to Buffalo, New York City, or even San Francisco. We can lose ourselves in the big city."

"And live in a filthy tenement with a passel of brats? You must be crazy. I won't lower myself to live in a cheap apartment with you."

"You have so many more appealing options right now." His nerves were fraying. Here he was, offering the way out that any respectable girl would jump at. Yet, she still clung to her rich girl's arrogance about his station.

"I have plenty of choices," she lied. "None of them involve slums and poverty."

"If we stay in Ithaca, everyone will know you've been giving yourself to me like a common tramp for months. Is that what you want?" he asked, finally reaching the end of his patience.

The blow caught Tom by surprise, an open-handed slap that made his teeth vibrate and his entire cheek throb. Massaging the reddened area, he looked over and saw her glaring at him.

"I was your tramp? Is that what you think?" Her eyes blazed.

"You can't help yourself," he stated. "It's like a sickness with you."

"One which you very much enjoyed," she spat.

"A man does not say no to a beautiful woman who throws herself at him. One who wants it multiple times a night. One who persists in remaining a lady to all of society but is a harlot in the bedroom." So this was how men ended up doing stupid things for pretty women. He was in a ridiculous position because of her and because of his own weakness. Now she had all but taken a knife and cut out his heart with a doctor's precision.

"What do you mean, bedroom? We've been doing it in a car," she said. Her haughty manner was infuriating.

"Yes, and what does that say about the rich girl, so convinced of her place in life that she gives herself to a poor man every other night in a car?" At this point, he was happy to give back at least some of what she was giving to him. "Jimmy was right about you."

"What do you mean?" Her eyes narrowed to slits.

"He could see the real you, just from the way you walk and talk and act—that you were no lady. He goes to Miss Rosie's all the time. So I suppose he knows something about whores."

"You miserable bastard. You would have done anything for me. Anything. Just like any man in this town would do anything for me. I can have anyone I want with a snap of my finger. But stupid me, I ended up with you instead."

"Correction. You could have had anyone. But no one will want you in your present condition. Which is why my offer is still the best one you'll see."

She snorted. He could see she was angry at herself but furious at him for putting her in this position.

"I know what we can do..." she said. Once again, she moved in close to Tom, tempting him.

"What are you doing?" he asked. It was like flipping a switch. Five seconds before, she'd been an iceberg, lambasting him for everything that had gone wrong in her life. Now, she was once again luring him in with her kittenish voice and hot breath in his ear.

"Making love can sometimes cause things to happen. Bad things. But in reality, good things," she said.

Tom was shocked at how matter-of-fact she sounded. Although he pushed her hands away, she released the buttons on his trousers and manipulated him with her hand until he was ready, then she pushed her skirts aside and rode him with new assurance. She would be rid of this thing soon, and no one would be the wiser.

Dizzy beneath her, Tom rode the crest of his climax as she beat his head against the car's seat cushion in her intensity. She had no conscience. Here he was, talking of marrying her, and she was determined to destroy the life inside her by pounding it to oblivion. He had never seen her quite so intent on what she was doing. It frightened him.

"There," she said, climbing off him as nonchalantly as if she had just sewn on a button or set a pie in the oven. She grabbed a corner of the blanket to wipe herself, then straightened her skirts. "A few more times like that should do the trick," she said. "Now, take me home."

* * *

To her dismay, Libbie discovered that the life inside her was far more determined to be born than she gave it credit for. She supplemented the trauma from the flivver meeting with multitudes of steaming hot baths where she scrubbed so much that her skin turned red and raw. The nausea continued, and her appetite increased until she could barely fit into her skirts and shirtwaists. She snapped at Maude, at Juliana, and even poor George, who would gaze up at her with his sad chocolate eyes and let out a heavy sigh before lying down to doze once more. A few days later, the rumor was confirmed. Stephen LaBarr had neglected family bonds and promises in Ithaca and found himself a debutante in Manhattan instead, and they had become engaged. At that, she was close to despair.

The worst part was that she heard the news from that nasty Phoebe Hill, who had always been jealous of her. She'd been headed downtown to return some library books and had run into the unpleasant girl outside the semi-Romanesque style building on Tioga Street.

Phoebe was the daughter of the town librarian, a plain sparrow with dishwater hair, unremarkable gray eyes, and a figure that would surely run to fat in her later years. She wore a shapeless dress in the most unflattering shade of orange imaginable. How could she think that awful rusty tone would be attractive with her coloring? Even in her present condition, Libbie knew she was far more beautiful than this drab friend of Maude's.

"Oh Libbie!" the girl said in a wheedling voice. "How are you? Have you been busy since graduation? Wasn't the ceremony delightful?"

"Hello, Phoebe," Libbie said, trying to contain her irritation. "Yes, it was. I've been busy. Olive and I will be leaving soon for William Smith's."

"Did you hear the big news?"

"What news?"

"Why, it's shocking! Stephen LaBarr is engaged! To a debutante in Manhattan! Can you imagine?"

Libbie tried to hide her shock by remaining quiet for a moment. She wanted to smack the cloying smile off Phoebe's face. She wondered if Maude had put the little prig up to this. But then she thought twice and realized that if she knew, Mousy Maude had to be crying into her pillow at that very moment. Stephen with a Manhattan debutante meant that Maude would never see him again. And that had to be the hardest of all for her to swallow.

Phoebe clearly watched her for signs that her little arrow had hit the mark. It smarted even more when she added the solemn, "Oh dear Libbie, I'm so sorry. He was all but promised to you, wasn't he? What sort of cad is he to do something like that, with your fathers being in business together and everything?"

Libbie couldn't resist at least one barb in return. "Oh dear, indeed. That poor deb. What a boring life she'll lead. The man is as dull as dirt."

"But look at all the money she'll have to be bored with. I'd not mind at all being bored like that. Ta-ta, Libbie!" Phoebe called as she sashayed the rest of the way down Cayuga Street, leaving Libbie fuming in front of the library.

Libbie was lucky that when she returned home, she did it to an empty house. Several pieces of china bric-a-brac met violent ends when she hurled them across the room in her fury. A collection of porcelain shards littered the corner of her room.

Juliana couldn't help but notice her mistress's deep despair and wondered what could be the cause, until the servants' grapevine also came alive with stories that the master's daughter would not be marrying Mr. LaBarr. No one could imagine why. But Juliana had a sneaking suspicion. After all, she washed the young mistress's linens.

Out of desperation, Libbie met with Tom the next day, and they agreed to run off to Cortland to complete the deed the day after the big church picnic. They could obtain the license and be married on Monday. Tom told her he would head to Newfield in the morning, enjoy himself at the picnic, and then drive by the front of Platt & Colt's and pick her up. She would have packed a bag, and then they would be off to Cortland. By Monday, they would be man and wife.

Before they separated at the corner, she leaned back into the flivver and her face hardened. "Don't you say a word to anyone about this."

### Chapter 27

Newfield, New York

September 1916

"Tom! Tom! Over here!"

Della waved to her brother as her husband Raymond carried over a basket full of tasty treats. She had spent the entire previous day preparing potato salad, tomato salad, roast chicken, and coffee cakes. Raymond and several other townsmen of the Newfield congregation started setting up the long tables in the shade where the ladies could place the food. They had decided weeks ago on this pleasant grove of sumac close to Pony Hollow, close to Newfield. Nearby, a burbling stream emptied into the Cayuga Inlet and then into Cayuga Lake. All in all, it was a perfect location and a bright, balmy day for a picnic. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. A light breeze blew through the leaves of the trees and ruffled the cloths beneath the food. The faint "bok bok" sound from the bushes signaled chipmunks defending their nests. The delicate scents of native asters, goldenrod, and wild grapes provided a pleasing backdrop for the festivities, as did the accompanying hum of bees.

Across the grove, other helpful parishioners set more tables with gingham fabric and put out mismatched china plates from the villagers' kitchens. A huge metal tub held gallons and gallons of fresh lemonade.

Hi's sisters, Alice and Lucy Gordon, had been busy, too. Despite their reduced circumstances, they had still contributed the bounty from their strawberry patch, serving it with fresh cream from the cows that had not yet been sold. Their mother, Mary Gordon, although still mourning the recent loss of her husband, carried an apple pie to one of the tables and accepted the further consolation of the townspeople. Tom watched her with the greatest of respect. Aunt Mary was one of the strongest, most wonderful women he knew. When she set the pie down, he enfolded her in a huge hug, and she nestled under his arm with her head on his chest. He could feel some of her exhaustion ebb, and he felt better knowing he could relieve her of some of her sadness.

Reverend Bliss, Newfield's newest clergyman who had taken Reverend Savercool's spot at the church, strolled about, greeting the congregants and meeting friends and relatives from out of town who were joining them for the day.

Della's chickens joined with a large side of beef and a huge suckling pig, both of which someone had butchered for the occasion. In addition, there were shucked peas, loaves of fresh bread with apple butter, and another huge tub of cider. Thomas counted twenty pies, from strawberry to rhubarb, and ten alone that were apple.

Hi greeted him in a bear hug. Tom could tell Hi was trying to hold himself together for the sake of his mother and sisters, but they were all having a hard time seeing everyone for the last time before they left. Tom would have given anything to be able to help them.

"How's the car running?" Hiram asked.

"Fine. I can't thank you enough for it, Hi." Tom so wished he could tell Hi how useful the car had been for making love to the girl of his dreams.

But now that she was beginning to show her fangs, he wondered what wedded life would be like. He would have to work hard to keep her living in even tame squalor, compared to what she was used to. But he would continue to advance and succeed, he was convinced of it. As of Monday night, he would be a married man, and their life together would begin.

"Everything okay?" Hi asked.

"Good," Tom said. He so wished he could tell Hi more. He wanted to let him know about the upcoming marriage, the soon-to-be-born child he just knew would be a son, and how his life was going. But he dared not yet. After the nuptials, he could tell the world of his good fortune.

The boys caught up for a few minutes, then Tom went to greet Jimmy. It was only a formality, since he was still angry at Jimmy for his behavior at Uncle Zeke's wake. Jimmy stood with several of his siblings, watching an impromptu baseball game that had sprung up. As Tom neared, they shook hands.

"Tommy! How the heck are you?" Jimmy stepped back a bit so they could speak alone, without the Devenport sisters listening in.

Tom crossed his arms over his chest and watched one of the Ayers boys strike a batter out. "Good. You? Great day for a picnic, isn't it?"

"Sure is. Didja have some of Aunt Mary's apple pie? Best in the county, I'd wager."

"I did. She sure knows her way around a pie plate," Tom chuckled.

"Will you be down again before they leave, do you think?" Jimmy asked Tom, looking over his shoulder at Aunt Mary. He rubbed his boot in the dirt.

"I don't know," Tom said. "I'm going to try. I have a lot going on right now."

"With your rich little amour?" Jimmy said.

"Jimmy, why does everything with you have to be ugly and mean lately?"

"Maybe because I'm sick of seeing you get everything that I have coming to me, that's why."

"What the hell are you talking about? When have I ever gotten everything? My parents are dead, I'm just scraping by at the clock factory, and my best friend is moving away. How is that everything?"

"Well," Jimmy said, "for one, you're driving that fine Model T, and you've got the prettiest girl in Ithaca on your arm. I'd say that's a good start."

"It's not like that."

"Oh yeah? How is it?" Jimmy said. "I coulda used that flivver too, you know."

"Did you have any money saved for one?"

"Of course not. You know we're broke."

"Well see, that's where we're different. I had some savings that I paid Hi for that car. He didn't just give it to me. What? No answer? Maybe if you put some money into an account at the bank instead of heading to Mulligan's Tavern on Friday night or to Miss Rosie's every weekend, you might have had enough to purchase that flivver. But you didn't. Hi wanted it to go to someone he cared for, but he also needed some money for it."

"She'll never have you, you know. Not for good," Jimmy said. He snorted.

"Wrong again, Jimmy. She's as good as mine. You'll find out just how wrong you are next week."

"What's next week?"

"You'll see. Gotta go see my sister now." Tom clapped Jimmy on the shoulders and gave him a slight push so Jimmy would know who was in charge. Then he went to visit with Della.

"Hello, dear," he said, greeting her with a hug. "How are you?"

"Hi, Tom," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "I've missed you. How handsome you look." She smiled up at him and gave him an affectionate squeeze.

The twins were near a group of older women who could keep a better eye on them while Della was busy helping to serve food. So she called them over.

"Frances, Dorothy, come here and see your Uncle Tom."

The cherubic tots waddled back to where their mother stood with Tom.

He leaned down to greet them with a big hug. They wore matching lace pinafores, with large pink bows in their pale, silky hair.

Tom clutched them both to him, thinking that in nine months, he would have his own baby to hold and cuddle. While he was convinced it would be a boy, his nieces were the most lovable creatures he'd ever seen. How could he keep such important news from his sister? How could he not tell her of his marriage until after the fact? He hoped she wouldn't be too angry at him for eloping. But it couldn't be helped. Libbie had told him not to tell anyone. He would keep that promise.

While he was snuggling the girls, little Frances took a hold of his cap and tossed it to the ground, giggling as she did so. Pretending to anger, he comically chased the little girl as her squeals echoed across the picnic grounds. Della watched as her brother showed his silly side, and Dorothy clapped her chubby hands in delight.

Tom continued to get reacquainted with the townspeople; he was approached by Reverend Bliss.

"Thomas, my son! How are you? It's good to see you again. And not for such a solemn occasion." They had seen each other for Uncle Zeke's funeral, but Tom could not remember much about that awful day.

"I'm very well, Reverend. And yourself?"

"Marvelous. The Lord has blessed us with a stupendous day for this picnic, has he not?"

"He has indeed," Tom said, smiling.

The reverend carried a cup of cider. Reaching into his cassock, he pulled forth a small flask, which he used to accent the natural sweetness of the fruit. Tom watched as he uncapped, poured, and recapped the small flask all in a deft one-handed fashion.

"Reverend, is that accepted for the clergy?" he asked.

"Tom, haven't you heard the old saying? Anytime you see four Episcopal ministers, there's always a fifth?" He let out a hearty guffaw, slapping Tom on the back. "This is the day that the Lord hath made!" he proclaimed. "Let us rejoice and be glad in it!"

Tom wondered how many cups of cider the reverend had already enjoyed. He seemed pretty glad already. Wishing him a good day, Tom moved on among the villagers.

When the festivities had been going on for several hours and the parishioners sat on the grass chatting and napping, someone called out, "Hey, everyone! It's time for a photograph!"

The picnic-goers gathered in the shade of a golden poplar tree where Mr. Ayers, the photographer, had set up his tripod and camera. So on that afternoon of September 17, 1916, the parishioners of the Newfield Methodist Episcopal Church were captured in a historical photograph, preserved for posterity, to be included in several local history books. In it, Thomas Estabrook kneeled on the bottom row and smiled, thinking of his twin nieces and the thrill of being a father.

* * *

Ithaca, New York

August 1986

Pulling up outside his building, Frank grinned as he spotted the Karmann Ghia parked in one of the visitor spaces out back. It was becoming natural to see it there. Natural and very nice. When he rounded the corner by the obnoxious privet hedge, he saw Linda sitting on the back step, enjoying the breeze. She was flipping through a _People_ magazine and nursing a wine cooler.

"Hello, sailor," she said. "Have I got a find for you." She patted a paper on the pavement under her purse.

"Well, I have Italian takeout from Joe's for us. How's about you show me over dinner?" He gave the takeout bag a little shake.

"What are we waiting for? Let's mangia."

She followed him up to his place, where they shared a kiss while Linda plated their lasagna.

"I cannot wait another minute to show you this. Sit down. You need a deck, by the way. It's gorgeous outside."

"What is it?"

She handed him the subject of her excitement as she savored a bite of pasta.

"I decided to do a little more follow-up on our friend, Mr. Estabrook."

"Linda, my God. What's the date on this?"

"October 30th. We didn't look far enough ahead, but it's not our fault. It's hard knowing if there's anything else to find for old stories like this. I wondered if there'd been any other trace of him. Now we know."

" _Suspect in Disappearance Sought in Erie_

Mr. Thomas Estabrook, who was courting Miss Elizabeth Morgan before her recent disappearance, was previously reported to have left town. His landlady and employer were adamant that he had not been seen in weeks and shared everything they knew with police, as did his sister and brother-in-law.

In the last week, it has come to light that Mr. Arthur Cabot, clerk at the Ithaca train depot, remembered Mr. Estabrook buying a ticket the morning after Miss Morgan's disappearance. Mr. Harry Oliver, the clerk on duty the previous evening, remembered Mr. Estabrook trying to buy a ticket to New York, but due to a derailment on the eastern line, his attempt was unsuccessful. Mr. Cabot, who took over after a shift change, recalled that the man bought a ticket as far as Erie, Pennsylvania. A clerk at the Erie depot remembered seeing Mr. Estabrook, but police were unsuccessful in finding any more information about him in that city."

Frank hugged Linda, unable to believe the lead. "Erie, here we come!"

### Chapter 28

Erie, Pennsylvania

August 1986

Their elation over the good news from Erie did not last long. With Maude's condition uncertain, Frank hemmed and hawed. Then he ended up pulling stakeout duty for another drug operation in Enfield. That made his decision for him.

Her curiosity in high gear, Linda couldn't wait. She threw a couple days' change of clothes in a duffel bag, hopped in the Karmann Ghia, and headed to Erie. She promised to report back to Frank. She found a volunteer at the Erie County Historical Society and met with him regarding local cemeteries, the courthouse, and trying to find local records.

The library had a few lists of burials that had been compiled from local graveyards, but none of them contained the name Estabrook. None of the historic city directories included a listing for him, either. A visit to the local courthouse for any death or marriage records in the area also yielded nothing, since Pennsylvania didn't allow access to the records. She even checked at the library for newspaper articles not long after Libbie's disappearance to see if the Ithaca story had made the news there after the local police had put two and two together.

A small mention in the November third edition re-energized her search:

" _Ithaca Man Sought Here_

Mr. Thomas Estabrook, late of Ithaca, N.Y., has been sought by police there in connection with the disappearance of Miss Elizabeth Morgan, daughter of a local Ithaca attorney. According to a clerk at the railroad depot in Ithaca, Estabrook left the area late on the night of September 16 and has not been seen since. His ticket destination was Erie, but no other information is available. Mr. Estabrook has dark hair and brown eyes and, at the time of his departure, was wearing a brown jacket and trousers, and a black bowler and brogues. Anyone with information about the case is asked to contact the local authorities, who can relay information to the Ithaca police."

Although Linda stayed in Erie for a week, and managed to search microfilm from October through December, no other sightings occurred there. Exhausted, she dozed at the reader. She called Frank with the news but made sure to let him know she could find no other information. They agreed she should head for home.

* * *

As the Crown Victoria climbed along the steep incline to the east of the lake, Frank downshifted, aiming for one of the lakeside parks. He didn't even care where they were headed; he just wanted to spend some time alone with his daughter. They needed this moment together, and he had planned ahead, hoping he could get her to open up to him.

Sullen at being pulled away from an afternoon at the mall with her friends, Shannon sat grimacing at the Stones tape Frank had in

the deck. Appropriately, "Time Waits for No One" was playing, as he hoped to give voice to something important.

Frank observed Shannon's style of the week. This time, her hair was dyed black, with a jaunty Greek fisherman's cap over it. He wasn't sure what to make of the shirt—a white one with soldiers on the front that stated "Meat Is Murder" in bold green letters. Must be some new band she was into. And she wore skinny little black jeans that worked their way down to a pair of fake Doc Marten boots. He knew they were fake because he had seen the prices for the real ones, and if Allison had ever asked him for that much money for a pair of shoes for their daughter, he would have hung up on her.

"Dad, why are you taking me on a picnic?" she asked. "This is so dorky, I can't even believe it."

"Your old man can't just want to spend some time with you?"

"Yeah, but why here? Why now?"

"Why not? What better time is there?"

She sighed in that dramatic way only teenagers can truly master.

Frank hung a left into one of the picnic areas overlooking the lake. The panorama was stunning. It was a pretty day, but for some reason, the crowds weren't as bad at this bunch of tables. They'd have plenty of privacy in case she felt like making a scene. It happened so often these days. He hoped for the best, though. Pulling to a stop, he grabbed the blanket he'd thrown in the back seat, then popped the trunk.

Shannon shut her car door and waited for him as he retrieved the goodies from the back. Then together, they walked to one of the concrete slab tables, where Shannon spread the blanket and unpacked the basket.

"Where did you get a picnic basket?" she asked, laughing.

"That is a secret, young lady. I have a cool factor to maintain," he said, grinning.

"It's Linda's, isn't it?"

"Unpack the stuff."

He chuckled as she set out the matching plastic dishes, cutlery, and miniature cups. As she pulled out sub sandwiches, her favorite macaroni salad from the local deli, a round of Gouda cheese, fresh strawberries, grape Nehi (which she had loved ever since she was three years old), and the makings for s'mores, she squealed. He congratulated himself on at least getting the food right. He caught himself putting his hands in his back jeans pockets, something he had always done when he was nervous.

And how much more nervous could a guy be than when trying to make things right with his kid?

"S'mores, too? Dad, I can't believe you went to all this trouble. This is so cool." She sat down on the cement bench with her leg tucked under her, now happy to have missed the mall.

He took her hands and held them from across the table, and instead of pulling away as she often did, she looked up into his eyes to see what was going on.

"Honey, I just wanted to bring you out here to talk a little. I messed up real bad letting you and your mom go. I know that. But there was a lot going on in my head, and the one thing that seemed to make it any better was booze."

She looked down at her lap, and he could see her hands shaking.

"I've been a crappy dad the last few years," he continued, "...and I'm so very sorry. I want to try to make it up to you, if you'll let me."

He had never seen his loquacious daughter speechless. Here was a first.

"Wow," she managed.

"I want to be a bigger part of your life again, Shan. Your mom was scared for a while to let you spend too much time with me, and I want to see that change. I've stopped drinking, and I'm hoping you can forgive me for some of the stupid stuff I did while you were growing up." Frank had to fight the growing lump building in his throat. He hoped to at least get the last few things out that he needed to say.

His heart broke even more at the sight of his daughter's beautiful blue eyes filling with tears. She smiled at him, wiping her face on her sleeve, which was difficult because it was a T-shirt.

"I love you, okay? You are the most important thing in my life, and I want to start acting that way. I want you to realize what a treasure you are to me."

"I love you too, Daddy." She darted around to his side, where she collapsed on the bench and into his arms.

He couldn't imagine anything more comforting at that moment than burying his face in her soft hair and smelling her strawberry shampoo.

* * *

Most of the picnic items had been packed away, with only the s'mores fixings still out on the table. Frank and Shannon sat gazing over the lake, licking the last of the chocolate off their fingers. She was nestled up next to him, curled under his arm. Frank couldn't remember the last time he had felt this close to her.

"Dad, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, honey. What is it?" he asked.

"Why the epiphany?"

"Where the heck did you learn a word like epiphany?" he asked, forgetting she was in Advanced Placement English. He looked down at her to see the satisfied smirk on her face.

"It was one of our vocabulary words last week. Cool, huh?"

"It isn't often you can actually see your tax dollars at work."

"Is it because of Grandma?" she said.

"Some. And part of it is this case. This lady we found had been dead seventy years. She would have been your great aunt. You asked me about her the other day, but I wasn't ready to talk about things yet. You don't usually have to solve your own aunt's murder, you know?"

She nodded.

"Shan, we think she was pregnant and that it had something to do with her death. I know you're at an age right now where you've got a lot of strong feelings and emotions and hormones running around in there..." He clasped her arm. "And they're all dancing around making life a little strange for you. I understand that. We all have to go through it. But I want you to know you can always talk to your mom and me about this stuff. We're not together anymore, but we're still your parents and we care for you. No matter how bad you think a situation might be, we won't be angry. I'd rather have you talk to me than not talk to me, you know?"

She smiled and blushed, and he knew she had to be thinking of Mike Thornton, an awesome senior she'd mentioned from her art class.

"If you've got any guys hanging around acting interested, I want you to let me meet them. I need to know who your friends are, because I love you, and I want you to be safe. I know it sounds intimidating to say your dad's a cop, but it's important to me."

"Daddy, you said she was pregnant, right? Do you know what happened yet?"

"I'm still trying to figure that out. Linda's helping me. That's kind of how we ended up spending all this time together. She's been wanting to write a book about the case, and it's my job, in addition to being personal. So it's become crucial to both of us. And now with your grandmother so sick, it's something I need to do for her before she dies."

"Dad, why doesn't Grandma ever talk about her sister?"

"It's complicated. I'll tell you later. After she's gone."

"What could be so awful that she can't talk about it, though?"

"Grandma kind of went through what you did with me. But worse. She had to follow her father around and clean up after him to make sure he wasn't drinking, see. Some people get so unhealthy from drinking that one more drink could kill them. It affects their liver that badly. Something called cirrhosis. That's what happened to your great-grandfather."

"Well, that's awful, but why won't she tell us anything about her sister?"

"Let's just make her last days good. Love her and care for her, and I'll tell you later."

* * *

Ithaca, New York

September 1986

"Russ, it's me, Frank," he said, playing with a pen on his desk as he gripped the receiver in his other hand.

"Frank! How's the investigation coming?"

"Linda and I have made a little headway, if you can believe it," Frank said. "But we're still hitting brick walls. I'm wondering. When we talked the other day, we discussed Libbie's family and friends, but we didn't mention much about Thomas Estabrook. What can you tell me about him?"

"So it is looking like he did it, then?" Russ asked.

Frank could hear the curiosity in his voice. "It's very possible. And I've got a theory or two I need to check out. Don't worry, you'll be the first to know when I find out."

"Let's see..." He could hear Russ's brain firing on all cylinders as he sorted through stacks of papers on his desk. At last he found what he was looking for. "Thomas Estabrook was the son of William and Naomi Estabrook, both dead of typhoid in 1914. He had a sister Della, who was two years older. She married Raymond Beardsley, and they had two twin daughters, Frances and Dorothy."

"And I'm figuring the sister's dead, right?"

"Gimme a second..." Frank heard Russ rifling through papers on his desk. "Yeah. About ten years ago," Russ clarified.

"How about the daughters? Are either of them still around?"

### Chapter 29

Frank let Russ work his magic for a moment.

"Another second..." More papers being rustled on the desk.

"Frances...married..."

Frank was still amazed just how much of this information Russ just knew offhand. Because of his constant interaction with the other historians and with genealogists from the area who used him for a source and then fed information back to him as they discovered their roots, Russ's knowledge was remarkable.

"Dayheart, that's it," Russ said, snapping his finger. "Frances married a guy named Dayheart, and I think they ended up in Groton. His first name is escaping me, though. Dorothy married a fellow from Corning. His name was...Merton. Ralph Merton."

"Russ, you're a wonder."

"Speaking of wonder, I'm wondering how I remembered this. My memory isn't what it used to be," he joked.

"You wouldn't happen to have any knowledge of these folks being alive or dead, would you?" Frank asked. "You're so on top of this stuff."

"Sorry. Corning's a little out of my scope of expertise. And Groton's still in-county, but somehow I missed anything on them. I'm sorry I can't be more help."

"Russ, I owe this entire case to you. Don't be silly."

"Well, that's what I'm here for. I'm looking forward to reading the book on this case when it comes out."

"We should make this a joint effort. You, Linda, and me."

"Funny you should mention that. I was thinking about trying to write some more local history." So far, Russ's published catalog included a look at Ithaca's film industry, a biography of Ezra Cornell, and a survey of historical architecture, with the help of Janet's amateur photo studies.

"This would be a great addition. Think we'll figure out what happened for real?"

"Keep your fingers crossed."

"Will do. I'll give you a ring if I remember anything else."

* * *

Ithaca, New York

September 1986

"Could I speak to Frances Dayheart, please?" Frank took the last few bites of his sandwich, a late lunch, as he made some phone calls. Washing the last bite down with a sip of Pepsi, he waited as the person at the other end of the line went and retrieved Mrs. Dayheart. In his anticipation, he doodled on a corner of the scratch pad in front of him.

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Dayheart, my name is Senior Investigator Frank Conley. I'm with the New York State Police."

"Is everything okay? Is it my daughter Kate? What is it? What's happened?" she asked in a panic.

"Everything is fine, ma'am. I'm calling about a very old situation that involved your uncle, Thomas Estabrook."

"My uncle? Good gracious, my uncle disappeared off the face of the Earth seventy years ago. No one knows where he is. We figure he's long dead. Why? What's all this about?"

"We think he may be connected to a very old crime I'm researching."

"He's connected to it? Or he did it?"

"I'm afraid I still don't know the whole story. But he may have had a part in it."

"Sure, I'll talk to you about Uncle Tom. My mother went to her grave broken-hearted that he just took off like that."

"Would you have some time to speak to me in the next few days? I'd like to drive up to Groton and see what you remember."

"Sure. I've got some time today. Will you be right up, then?"

"As fast as I can."

"If you come up 34, cut over on 34B, then hang a left on 38, which becomes Peru Road. We're off to the right. It's a gray house with black shutters. I'll be expecting you."

"Great. I'll see you in an hour or so."

Putting his desk in order, Frank made a beeline out to the parking lot. Frances had sounded suspicious, and he didn't blame her. It wasn't often a person was asked to provide information for a crime that was seventy years old—one that could end up incriminating a relative. One who might or might not be alive.

The view from the road was stunning, with the distant hills visible. Lake steamers full of tourists and locals alike glided across the waves, and a few hardy swimmers braved the cold water onshore a few miles away.

Instead of cutting east on 13 like he usually did and passing Pyramid Mall, he kept the car headed north, veering inland on 34, reaching Groton by mid-afternoon.

The Dayhearts' home was typical for the area. Built in an indeterminate year, it was closer to history than to the present, as so many houses in the Finger Lakes were. Frank imagined it being constructed as a tiny farmhouse and expanded over the years until it had reached its current footprint. The car braked over the rough driveway to stop at an L-shaped house. A narrow front porch wrapped around the entirety and boasted several plastic chairs for enjoying evening breezes. He expected the dove gray siding and charcoal shutters might have been somewhat dreary looking not long ago, but the addition of several late-season red peony bushes in full bloom lent the place a festive air. Off to the sides of the property, though, wildflowers and weeds encroached on what looked to have been once well-tended rosebushes.

He had no sooner heard the crunch of gravel under his tires when the front door opened and a woman he assumed was Frances stepped out on the porch. She was a farm wife, with the utilitarian short haircut that so many had. Her hair was a rapidly graying brown, and her eyes were a deep greenish-gold, but her out of control brows lent her face a cluttered look, like an office that needed straightening. She wore a pair of knit pants and a pink T-shirt with one of the Care Bears on it that said "World's Best Grandma."

As he stepped out of the car and approached her, she held out her hand, unsure of the protocol.

"Hello," she said.

"Mrs. Dayheart, it's nice to meet you. I wish it were under better circumstances."

She ushered him into a living room, and her gait suggested she had seen much time on horses. The stale smell of cigarettes combined with the cheery bouquet of a recent spritz of Renuzit, which he imagined was used when company visited. The living room was of negligible size, with a tufted gold velvet sofa, gold patterned occasional chairs, and beige carpeting that should have been replaced about ten years before. The connecting dining room was small, with almost no room for the cheap dinette set that had been placed there. White wallpaper with a gold filigree pattern was battered and peeling and needed replacing. On a battered coffee table in front of him, she had set an old photo album and opened it to the first page.

"So what is it that you need to know, Investigator Conley?"

"Please. Call me Frank."

"Okay, Frank. If I can help, I will."

"A few weeks ago, a hiker found some bones up at Buttermilk Falls. We have reason to believe they belong to a woman who dated your Uncle Tom years ago."

"Yes, Mom mentioned he had to leave town very fast." She reached into the back of the album. "She was so hurt, but she still saved this."

Out of a pocket in the back of the album, she pulled one of the same articles from the Ithaca paper that Frank had copied weeks before.

"I need to know everything you can tell me about your uncle. Anything your mother might have told you. Anything you yourself might recall about him. I know he left when you were very young."

She paused a moment to think.

"There was a picnic of some kind when Dorothy and I were maybe three or four, and I remember my mother saying, 'Come see your Uncle Tom.' He was a dark-haired man, and he played with us."

"Is your sister still living? I had trouble locating her."

"No," Frances said. "She had cancer. Passed away just this past February."

"I'm so sorry to hear that." Frank felt almost a physical blow to his gut. All he could think about was Maude in her bed and her eventual fate.

"It was hard," she said. "We were very close. You know. Bein' twins and all. Jasper and I still keep tabs on her husband, Ralph. I go over from time to time and help him with the housecleaning or make him a big pot of stew or a roast."

"That's very kind of you. I'm sure he appreciates that."

"Oh, he does," she chuckled. "We had a double wedding, you see. Back in 1933."

"I bet you made lovely brides," Frank said, being sociable.

"We sure did. Dorothy and I were lookers back in our day. In fact..."

She opened the photo album to a page close to the front, and Frank saw two younger versions of the woman speaking to him. They wore midcalf-length white dresses and beaded cloche caps and carried bouquets of roses. Their grooms attempted to look solemn as befitted such a serious occasion, but their eyes twinkled with mirth.

"What a beautiful photograph," he said.

"It was in Ithaca, at the Episcopal Church," she said. "Then, we had a reception at the Daughters of the American Revolution Hall. Just punch and cake. We spent most of our money on the dresses!" she chuckled.

Frank cleared his throat. "Not to change the subject, but back to your uncle. He just disappeared? Just like that? He didn't contact you guys before he left town or anything? Do you remember your mother saying anything about his departure?"

"I believe my mother told me Uncle Tom came up missing just after the big Newfield church picnic. The police searched the city for him. My father and mother had driven into Ithaca to look for him, but his landlady said he was gone. She'd seen him helping a drunk friend get home late that night, and then he just turned up missing the next day. My parents left their information with the landlady, but she never contacted them. It turned out that she cleaned out his possessions a few days later and gave them to the police. But they showed her a picture of that girl that disappeared, and she told them that she'd seen her at the rooming house looking for my uncle."

Frank had once again pulled out his notebook and scribbled down what Frances Dayheart told him.

"Mother couldn't understand why he wouldn't have gotten in touch when he left. She cried a lot. But my father tried to comfort her. Dad was convinced that whatever happened had been an accident. They knew Tom, and they knew he wasn't capable of hurting anyone. So, if something had happened, it hadn't been intentional. No one knew, since they never found the girl. Dad, being a hopeless romantic, was convinced they had eloped, that rich girl and Tom. He was convinced they had run away to get married and had changed their names when they moved away. He figured they just wanted to get lost in the big city somewhere. And he tried to tell Mom that they were both all right; they just didn't want to be found. I guess Dad was a bit too optimistic."

"Did anything clue your dad into a possible name change?"

"Well, yeah. The postcard."

"The what?" Frank leaned forward, his pulse picking up an extra beat.

"Mother got a postcard a few months after his disappearance. It might still be in with all this stuff." Frances reached into the back of the album again and pulled out a card, which she handed to Frank.

It was a pastel-tinted card from the turn of the century. On the front was the image of a pink brick hotel with flat top, turrets on either end of the facade, and an elaborate sign in some sort of Germanic-looking font high above the street. The label said, "Great Northern Hotel, Jackson Blvd and Dearborn St, Chicago."

Frank flipped the postcard over and read the note.

" _D—_

Miss you and the girls more than I can say. Can't tell you much more, I'm afraid.

But I love you and miss you all. Please don't worry, as I'm fine. I've found a new life, and I hope everyone can forgive me for just disappearing.

T."

The return postmark was also from Chicago. Tom must have been depending on his sister's loyalty because if the police had known to search in Chicago for him, they might have been able to unearth something years before.

"I wonder why no one at the post office picked up on the addressee," Frank wondered out loud. "There weren't many others residing at 'Beardsley Farm, Newfield.' Anyone paying attention would have been able to bring the information to the authorities."

"Not sure. But Mother never said a word. Guess she figured Uncle Tom had been through enough and it was her way of thumbing her nose at the police. They couldn't afford it, but Dad hired a private eye to check on him in Chicago. He never found a thing. That was why Dad was convinced he'd changed his name."

"Chicago," Frank mused. It explained a lot.

### Chapter 30

Ithaca, New York

October 1986

After speaking to Frances a bit more about her uncle, Frank headed home, picking up some pasta from Joe's on the way so he and Linda could brainstorm after some nourishment.

"One of these days, I'm going to cook you a real dinner," she joked.

After stuffing themselves on take-out spaghetti and meatballs and a couple of sodas, they read over parts of the diary again as it sat amongst the detritus of Libbie Morgan's life. Propping his feet up on the coffee table, Frank sat lost in thought as Linda read over his shoulder. He had to be overlooking something. Thomas Estabrook must have missed something in covering his tracks. Upon his return home, Frank had let Linda know that Estabrook had ended up in Chicago. He might not have stayed there, and he might have begun living under an assumed name. But Frank felt in his gut that Chicago was the key. Everything else had been a dead end.

"So at some point, he took the train there from Erie," Linda said.

Frank nodded. Months ago, he had begun filling out the standard paperwork to discover the possible last whereabouts of Estabrook, and he was beginning to get responses from the various agencies he had contacted. First, he had written to the Social Security Administration to find out if they had any records of Estabrook under that name. Yesterday, he had received a form letter back stating there had never been any application for social security filed for Thomas Estabrook. Likewise, the State of New York had no death certificate filed for him.

There were no local death records because Estabrook had not remained here. Frank had a feeling that if he requested anything now from the State of Illinois, he would also obtain a negative response. He was sure of it. The man was guilty, and he had fled seventy years before. He was probably dead and had been for years. But still, the case gnawed at Frank. What was he missing? With no records under his birth name, Thomas had to have changed his moniker to something else. His reference to "a new life" in Frances Dayheart's postcard lent that theory special credence. Plenty of men back then deserted wives and children and popped up miles away with new families. In 1916, anyone who wanted to disappear could do it for good. A new identity would explain everything. Now if they could just figure out what the new name might have been.

Reaching into the box again, Frank fingered the old photo of Estabrook. He studied the background for anything he could use. He wasn't even sure what he was looking for. On impulse, he removed the portrait from its card surround and saw something he never expected on the back.

"Linda look! The very respectable Mr. D. H. Lawrence," he read out loud. "I'll be damned. I wonder if it was supposed to be a joke."

"Well, you said you saw the guy in the other picture Olive had and it was Estabrook. He signed this photo to Libbie, and it matches the one she showed you. Since Libbie was, in effect, tutoring him, having him read literature, it must have been some sort of private joke between them."

"I've got an idea."

Calling the library's information line, he got Helen Ross, the main librarian, on the line.

"Hi, Helen. This is Frank Conley."

"Hello, Frank. What can I do for you?" she asked.

"You're gonna think I'm crazy, but I need this for a case. Can you tell me what the writer D.H. Lawrence's full first name was?"

"You're right. I think you're crazy," she said, chuckling. "I'll have you know that's one of the first things they teach you in librarian school," she said. "His first name was David."

"Helen, you're a gem."

"Does this mean I get credit in the paper when you solve the case and everything?" she joked.

"You know what? I think it does!" he said and bid her a hasty goodbye.

Turning to Linda, he began to make plans. "Linda, do me a favor. Wait here. I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?" she asked, sitting up.

"More information. I won't be a minute. Keep the couch warm for me."

He leaned down for a kiss. Then, checking his notes from Russ, he found Estabrook's birth date and stuffed the slip of paper in his pocket, in case he needed it. Hurrying toward the door, he grabbed his car keys and headed for the local social security office on State Street.

* * *

There was nothing like a federal office building to provoke mid-week doldrums in just about anyone. The pale green cast to the walls, bad fluorescent lighting, and industrial office furniture were depressing in the extreme. Was it any wonder that everyone brought loads of plants and doo-dads for their desks? They had to liven it up a little. Elaine Kennedy kept a small collection of stuffed animals on a shelf above her desk and a glass dish of Hershey's kisses on her credenza. She was contemplating her Swanson Salisbury Steak TV dinner from the work fridge when Frank Conley from the police station came running toward her desk, breathless.

"Elaine, I need your help."

"What is it, Frank?"

"I need a couple of searches. Right now."

"I was just getting ready to go grab some dinner..."

"Elaine, please. It won't take a minute, and this is huge. The biggest case of my career."

"Seriously? Wow. I suppose my dinner can wait. Hold on." She stuffed her pencil behind her ear, a look of grim determination on her face as she logged into her CRT. The green cursor blinked against the black background, waiting for input. "Okay, hit me."

"I need to see what you might have on a David Lawrence, birth date February eighteenth, 1898 in New York."

Her bright red nails clackety-clacked over the keys in a staccato rhythm.

"That gives me one-hundred results. Anything to narrow it down?"

"Any deaths in Illinois?"

Clackety-clackety-clack.

"No." She looked up expectantly.

"Try David H. Lawrence, same birth date."

Her fingers clicked speedily over the keys once again. "Twenty this time."

Frank thought a moment. "Okay, now subtract any you have with a last residence in New York."

"Four still alive. That's a little better. Here's what I got." She printed off a dot matrix copy of her find and handed it to him to study:

DAVID H. LAWRENCE 18 Feb 1898 (last residence Harvard, McHenry, IL)

DAVID H. LAWRENCE 18 Feb 1898 (last residence Lonaconing, Garrett, MD)

DAVID H. LAWRENCE 18 Feb 1898 (last residence Weslaco, Hidalgo, TX)

DAVID H. LAWRENCE 18 Feb 1898 (last residence Kissimmee, Orange, FL)

"So whaddya think?" she asked.

"Elaine, I think I love you," Frank said, hugging her then stuffing his paper in his top pocket and running for the door.

"You owe me dinner!" she called after him as he rounded the corner.

Back at his place, Frank showed the page to Linda. They had no sooner begun conferring when his phone rang.

"Conley."

"Hey, Frank. It's Doc. They told me at the office that you'd already taken off for the day."

"Doc, good to hear from you, man. Sorry I've been a little distant. Busy trying to figure out the finer points of 1916 Ithaca news stories. What's up?"

"I told you I'd let you know about the results of the poison checking I did on your...aunt. I checked for arsenic, strychnine, and thallium, which would have been the biggies back then. No poisons evident at all. But I did find something else that could help you."

"Right now, I can use whatever you've got."

"There are some serious nicks in a couple of the pelvic bones. Mostly around the coccyx and sacrum." At Frank's silence, Doc continued, "That'd be around the tailbone area for you un-medically initiated folk."

"Aah. Got it. So does that tell you anything helpful?"

"The interesting part is where I found the nicks. They were on the inside of the skeleton. Now, I haven't encountered much of this type of injury, but I'm thinking she may have had an abortion,

Frank." He paused, knowing it had to be difficult to hear. "A really bad one."

* * *

Equipped with the new information he had received from the Social Security office and from Doc, Frank and Linda made calls to directory assistance, and in a few hours, they had found what he was looking for. And he had also booked a flight into O'Hare, leaving the next day.

* * *

Harvard, Illinois

October 1986

Willowbrook Manor had such a pretty name. But it was such an ugly place—an old cinderblock building north of Harvard in the far reaches of Illinois near the Wisconsin state line.

Painted a stomach-churning mint green, it was a "senior care facility" in the way that prisons were "convict care facilities." Dozens of miserable old people were crammed in side by side, eating inedible food, rarely visited by their loved ones, with their needs barely seen to by the dregs of the nursing community. The cheap furniture was thirty years old, and the place reeked of Pine-Sol, unchanged bedpans, and despair. The only thing worse than living there would have been sleeping on the street.

Resident David Lawrence was an emaciated shell of a man. Age, emphysema, and diabetes had made a mockery of his long-ago virility and good looks. These days, he was unable to leave his wheelchair, and he longed for the outdoors. He could almost smell the fresh air as he looked out the window, watching the robins and red-winged blackbirds play near the pond outside. But the keepers never took them outside. He'd do just about anything to see his home again—a place full of steep hills, deep valleys, and majestic waterfalls. Though he hadn't experienced the real outdoors in years, he had always found Illinois too flat for his tastes. The prairies were dead boring compared to the beauty he had once known.

He had come to Chicago in 1916, finding work right away. After being drafted in 1917 like all the other able-bodied men around, he was lucky to return from the war with just a bayonet wound to the shoulder.

But life had not been kind to him. His wife Ethel had died with their newborn son in 1924. He considered it payback for his transgressions and had never cursed God for it. Somehow, he figured his creator was teaching him a lesson, so he called it even. After Ethel, he'd never found another woman with whom he wanted to settle down. Truth be told, he was afraid he'd be a jinx to any wife. And he didn't think his heart could stand to be broken like that again. The Depression had hit him hard. His father-in-law had been forced to close the factory, and he'd had to resort to odd jobs and selling apples to keep his cheap room on Halsted Street. His finances had picked up a bit after the war when he got a job as a die sinker at International Harvester, but it had been a struggle. The money he inherited from his father-in-law's death in 1946 had at least kept him eating with a roof over his head.

And now, he was here in this geriatric hell on Earth. Waiting to die like some pathetic sap. He couldn't breathe, and he couldn't feel his feet. When he could, it was either like they were on fire or he was walking on a bed of nails. He hated the thought of dying. The only thing he hated more was continuing to live.

So imagine his surprise to hear the nurse announce that crisp fall day that he had a visitor. He had no relatives left and no friends who visited. At least, he didn't think he did. He assumed his sister and brother-in-law were both gone, but he wasn't sure about his nieces. He wondered how they were and what they were doing now. He'd thought many times about contacting them, but fear had taken over and he'd decided not to. He hoped they could all forgive him.

He looked up, intrigued, to see a tall fellow with snapping blue eyes and silvering hair approaching him with confidence. The man wore a brown tweed jacket over a white T-shirt and pressed jeans over black boots.

"Mr. Lawrence? Mr. David Lawrence?"

"That's what it says on that plaque outside my room," he said, irritated.

He didn't know the man, and it was obvious the guy didn't know him, either. Probably trying to sell him some insurance. As if anyone would stand to benefit anything from his death. Let the state worry about it and bury him in a pauper's grave. He'd go to it laughing, his whole life a big, dark secret.

"My name is Senior Investigator Frank Conley. I'm from Ithaca, New York."

Lawrence lasered his eyes onto Frank's.

"Yeah?" he said, his voice wavering. "I think you're lost. Ithaca's that way." He pointed out the east-facing window.

"Aaaaah, I see you know it," Frank countered, pulling up his pant legs a bit as he helped himself to a seat across from the old man.

"Well," the geezer backtracked, "I know where New York is, for goodness' sake."

"Good. Because I have every reason to believe I'll be extraditing you there very soon," Frank said, smiling.

### Chapter 31

"Extradite?" Lawrence wheezed. "For what?"

"For the murder of Miss Elizabeth Morgan in September of 1916." Frank leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms so he could see the reaction.

The papery face in front of him seemed to collapse on itself. Tiny wrinkles became massive chasms in the face as it fell, the eyes lost any life they had, and the old man wept piteously. Frank had been prepared for anger, protestations, or regret, but not the utter despair he saw before him. Frank couldn't remember seeing a man cry before unless it was a father he'd just had to inform about a child's death. And this wasn't just crying. These were great keening sobs that looked like they could kill him before Frank even got him home to stand trial.

Panting and bawling, the old man gained some composure at last, but not before a nurse approached and checked his oxygen, exhorting him to please calm down and giving Frank the stink-eye for causing her patient such medical distress. Frank sat, trying to be patient as she got the situation under control.

She fetched the old man some tissues and helped him wipe his face and blow his nose. Turning, she cautioned Frank against upsetting him again. Then she retreated to the front desk and her conversation with another nurse.

"It's not what you think..." Lawrence whispered, wheezing.

"It never is," Frank said. "Why don't you tell me what happened...Tom?"

"We were in love, I thought. We were going to run away together."

* * *

Ithaca, New York

September 16, 1916

He gazed at Libbie in wonder when he picked her up in front of Platt & Colt's that evening. She looked beautiful as usual. Her dress was a black silk, which seemed unusual for a wedding day choice, but sometimes, there was no following Libbie's reasoning. He figured she was going for drama.

What had begun as a perfect day had now clouded over. However, nothing could get his spirits down. The sun was receding behind the hills to the west, streaking the sky with watercolor swaths of flaming gold and peach. Massing thunderheads loomed, and the wind whipped about in abrupt chilly gusts that shook the car.

The drive to Cortland would take about an hour. Once there, they would get a room at the Little York Inn and tuck in for the night. The next morning, he would make Libbie his bride at the courthouse. No one knew them there, so anonymity was assured among the clergy and the civil servants employed by the justice of the peace. They could take their pick.

"Come on, let's go," she said. "I want to go to our spot first."

"Libbie, it's all the way on the other side of town. It looks like the weather is turning nasty. We should head for Cortland now before the rain starts."

"I want to go to the falls first," she insisted, pouting.

Sighing, he put the flivver in gear and off they went, bouncing toward the road that led to their favorite parking location near Buttermilk. She must want to spend time cuddling a bit before the long journey to Cortland.

"Are you all right, dear?" he asked, caressing her arm.

"No, I'm not all right," she snapped. "I've been throwing up every morning for two weeks. My sister suspects something."

"Well, they'll all have even more of a surprise when we return from Cortland!" he said, slapping his knee as he laughed about it. He had to grab the wheel again with both hands when a large rut made him swerve.

She glared at him. He braked, unsure of this new mood of hers, and pulled in at the exit to the falls, their usual spot, sheltered by trees. Convinced it was the pregnancy making her cranky, he killed the ignition and reached over to hold her.

"Libbie, what is it? There's no need to worry. Plenty of people do this every day. We all know there are people whose parents haven't been wed the full nine months. It's just understood. I love you. This is what people do."

She shook her head at him, as if he were a small child.

"Tom, you don't understand. It was fun while it lasted. I enjoy making love. Other girls my age think it's shameful and awful and that ladies shouldn't do it. But it feels good. So I like doing it. I especially like doing it with you. But the thing is, I don't want to marry you." She shook off his arms and extracted herself from the embrace.

He felt his stomach take a sickening dive, and his head spun.

"What?"

"I said it was fun, but I don't want to marry you."

"Why not? What do you mean?"

She looked at him as if he were slow. "Because you're poor," she said, as if it was the easiest thing in the world to understand. "I won't do it. I've thought about it, and I don't want to."

"Is that all I was to you? Some fun in a car? Libbie, I love you. I've loved you from the moment I first saw you. Don't you understand?"

"We had some good times together. But that's not what I want forever. I never have. I need someone who can give me everything I want. Stylish clothes, a beautiful house, a maid...all the things I have now and don't want to lose. I have no desire to live in a run-down rooming house over on Linn Street, churn out ten babies in poverty, and have that be the end-all and be-all of my life. I'm better than that."

"Your life? That's the only one that matters here? What about me? What about this child?"

"What about you? You'll get on with your life without me, find some stupid farm girl to marry, and have loads of children, just like everyone you know. Remember? It's what you told me you wanted. You aspire to a pension, a wife, and babies. Well, I want more. And I can't have it until this is all over. All I want from you is to help me with this. And then we're done."

"Help you with what?" he said, apprehensive.

"I snuck some whiskey out of the house to make me a little sleepy, since I know this will hurt a bit."

"Libbie, what are you saying?"

"You're going to help me get rid of this thing!" she hissed.

As Tom looked on, horrified, she pulled a flask of whiskey and a buttonhook out of her bag, along with some clean white rags. She opened their blue blanket across the seat of the car, the one that had seen so much recent activity, and lay back upon it. Spreading her legs wide, she lifted her skirts and unhooked her garters as she had so many other times and gazed at him expectantly. Then, unscrewing the cap on the whiskey, she gulped down the entire contents of the flask and let out a delicate hiccup when she was done.

"Libbie, I can't do this. I can't kill our baby. I love you. I still want to marry you. The baby is part of us." Tears of hurt streamed down his face. Frustrated, he wiped them with the sleeve of his shirt. "Please don't make me do this," he pleaded. "I can't do it."

"You can and you will," she insisted. "I don't want anything to do with us. We don't exist anymore. This brat will ruin everything for me. I won't be branded a harlot just for doing something I like to do. If I'm going to have a bunch of kids, I'm going to do it with a lawyer for a husband and a maid to do all the work. Do you hear me?! Do it! I've already lost Stephen LaBarr, and it's your fault."

"Who the hell is Stephen LaBarr?"

"The man I was supposed to marry before I got involved with the likes of you. I found out the other day that he's engaged to some debutante in Manhattan. They can go be boring together, but now I'll have to find another doctor or lawyer instead. My father is furious. And my mother hasn't been able to leave her bed since she heard the news."

"How is that my fault?" he protested. "Making love requires two people, Libbie. And from my end, it was love. I'm not sure what it was for you."

"It felt good. That was all," she said. Then, through gritted teeth: "Now do it!"

Grasping the buttonhook, he squeezed himself into the area in front of her, gingerly grasping her skirts and pushing them above her waist. Now he knew why she'd worn black. To hide any stains. She'd had everything planned. And he'd been the perfect dupe. His hands shook as he held the buttonhook near her. He could not make himself go further.

"Come on. Let's get this over with," she slurred.

Still, he hesitated.

"You're yellow, I guess."

Another tear pooled in the corner of his eye, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, his eyes begging her to stop this insane quest.

"You're just a coward. You're poor, you're not very smart, and you're craven to boot. A big fat chicken. Boy, do I know how to pick them."

"Libbie, please..."

"What a spineless disappointment you turned out to be. Truth be told, I don't know if you were a good lover. Once I begin comparing, I'm sure you won't even rank in the pantheon of my favorites. But one thing's certain. In case this happens again, all the boys I sample from now on will have money. Lots of money," she said, tossing an arm across the seat in her inebriation.

Suddenly, as though it had a mind of its own, Tom's hand bolted forward, and the buttonhook found its destination inside her. Driven beyond all sadness and rage and frustration, he drove it to the hilt into her, grinding it and turning it violently as he did so.

Libbie grunted and doubled over, the hook still protruding from her.

She yanked it loose, panting from the effort and pain. Looking down, her eyes widened as she saw what he had wrought. A deep plum colored stain blackened the blanket beneath her, growing larger and larger.

"What did you do?" she demanded, fright now tinging her voice. "Take me to Doctor McKay, right away!" she said, looking up at him and clutching her damaged midsection. Her voice was slurred from alcohol and pain.

"Why, so he can clean you up and you can go marry your rich lawyer? Do I look that stupid to you?"

"I think you've punctured something!"

"Only your dreams for the future, dear." He leaned back on the bench seat and casually watched her suffer. In the distance, a looming black cloud let out a low rumble.

Over the next few minutes, heavy beads of perspiration broke out on her face, and it turned an unhealthy gray. Her lips lost all color.

"Get me...to...the doctor," she managed to squeeze out. "Something...wrong. Hurts..."

The blanket was now more plum black than blue. The back of the car filled with a slick, metallic odor. Yet still, he sat. In fact, a small smile played at the corners of his mouth. He was going to make sure she hurt as he was hurting now. He didn't know how long he sat there, observing her as she restlessly shifted positions, her feeble moans echoing through the car.

Her pallor was now a pale ashen, and her lips were pale blue. She clutched his arm and looked over at him, terrified. After a few minutes, her hand fell to her side, lifeless.

"Libbie?"

It wasn't fun anymore, putting her off and being cruel. It didn't come naturally to him the way it did for her, and he was tired of it. He tried rousing her to tell her he would take her to the doctor now. But she wouldn't respond.

"Libbie! Libbie, wake up!" he said, shaking her.

She fell to one side like an unbalanced sack of potatoes. Her eyes were unblinking, accusing.

"Libbie, oh God, wake up. Please wake up!"

He tried for what seemed like hours to revive the woman who up until two hours ago was going to be his bride. But it was no use. His mind shifted into high gear.

_No one will believe you_ , it said. _No one will believe that she told you to do this_. _No one will believe that you didn't mean to hurt her_. _You didn't want to hurt the baby. You just wanted to go and get married. She ruined everything. But no one will believe you._

He looked at her, dress and blanket soaked with blood, head to one side, eyes unfocused, and he started to sob. Throwing himself on her, he cried until he didn't think he had any strength left. Realizing his precarious position if he were discovered, he looked around the car. Seeing no one, he came up with a solution.

He wrapped Libbie in the blanket. Tighter and tighter, he pulled it around her, throwing in the buttonhook as he rolled it. Remembering their walk several weeks ago, he managed to push open the back door of the car and dragged the blanket and its grisly contents to the log several yards away, praying the entire time that he would not be interrupted. Sweating profusely, he pulled the body, a little at a time, behind the log until he could barely see it.

Good old Hi. Like any farmer, he had left a shovel in the back of the flivver. Grabbing the farm implement, he began to dig a grave. At first, it wasn't much, but finally, it fit the gruesome parcel he wanted to squeeze into it. It didn't have to be very deep; he only wanted to make sure it wasn't unearthed by woodland creatures before he was able to get out of town.

He rolled Libbie into the grave, blanket and all, and started filling the hole. When he'd packed the cavity with soil, he pushed with all his might, shifting the fallen log several inches so it sat over the bulk of the hole. Then he covered the top with anything he could find...large rocks, sticks, twigs, leaves, nests, whatever he could use to disguise it. As he did, he prayed that he'd be able to get a head start before the authorities stumbled upon the body. His chances were dwindling by the moment.

### Chapter 32

As he made his way back to the flivver, he noticed the drag marks on the ground. He rubbed a tree limb through the dirt all the way back to the log, obscuring them. Then he discarded it. Climbing behind the wheel, he pondered his next move.

Maybe he could head to Buffalo. Or even better, New York City. Farther away, and bigger, and he could get lost there among the masses of immigrants. First, he needed to get rid of the car. It was full of blood. The drive back through town was unnerving. As he reached the southern city limits, the rain began. Huge, fat droplets hit the windshield, inhibiting his view of the road. Tom kept the flivver at a nice respectable speed, and he drove with more caution than he ever had in his life. No need to give any town cop reason to pull him over. The blood in the car could send him to Auburn and fry him.

He followed the road as it led north out of town, skirting the eastern edge of the lake. Eventually, it met up with the turnpike heading east, but he didn't plan on driving that far. Near Myers Point, he downshifted and pulled the car off the road. Searching for the perfect spot, he idled for a moment as he thought, then found an outcropping with darker waves in front of it, signaling deeper water. It was difficult to see it in the dark. But he seemed to recall bathing here several years ago and suddenly having the ground

drop beneath him. This lake was famous for its depth. That could work in his favor now.

And to think, he had hoped the car would help him win Libbie. Why hadn't she just accepted him and let his love be enough for her? If he'd been a son of privilege, they'd be on their way to Cortland right now. Glancing down, he caught a glimpse of the sad, drooping flower from Mrs. Protts' garden that he had impulsively inserted in his buttonhole before he left the rooming house. Ripping it from the fabric in a fury, he tossed it on the lakeshore and crushed it to nothing with his heel, grinding it harder and harder into the rocky soil, crying as he did so, his tears mixing with the rain pelting his face. The harder he sobbed, the harder his shoe pulverized the bloom, now part of the mud underfoot.

He thought for a moment. The throttle would control the flivver's speed. The clutch would control the forward motion, and it would stay in high gear, even without his foot on the pedal. In high gear, the car would continue into the lake until the water reached the carburetor. The rear wheels would seize up, but by then, the car would be en route to its underwater grave. He wondered how long it might take to sink.

No matter. He needed to make quick time. Telltale bloodstains coated his sleeves and the front of his shirt. His trousers had to be bloody as well. He put on his jacket and buttoned it, hiding the worst of the gore. He'd worked up a sweat digging the grave, but now he was freezing. The ragged wind, combined with the cold rain, chilled him to the bone. He needed to change clothes; there was no getting around it. He would have to return to the rooming house. He dreaded the thought, wondering whom he might run into and if he could get in and out unseen. There was nothing else but to try.

Putting the car in gear, he jammed the shovel against the pedal for good measure. Then he stepped out of the way as he let the clutch go and the flivver sped toward the lake. After hitting the waves with a tremendous splash, it continued gamely forward until the carburetor stalled out and the car sank like a stone beneath the surface. Huge bubbles signaled the massive displacement of water as it began its journey to the bottom.

The task complete, Tom turned and started his long walk back to town, past the Cayuga Marina and the Tioga Tavern, head down, lost in thought, and soaked to the skin. How had he come to this? Several hours ago, he had been at a wonderful picnic, planning a joyous future with the woman of his dreams. Now, he was sopping wet, he'd become a murderer, and soon, he'd be a wanted fugitive. What the hell had happened?

He arrived back at Mrs. Protts's place just before eleven, slinked in the back door, and slid his key stealthily into the lock for his room. He only had time to throw a few things into a satchel—several shirts and pairs of pants, a pair of suspenders, his only other pair of shoes, a razor, his family photograph, and a few other personal possessions. He removed the bloodstained shirt and pants, then grabbed the small rag from his bowl and ewer and sponged off a bit. He changed into the one remaining clean outfit he had, jammed a bowler on his head, and softly closed the door.

In the common hallway, he stopped at the cast-iron woodstove that provided a modicum of heat on cool evenings. Someone had stoked the fire recently, and it was good and hot. After tossing his bloody clothes inside, he took the poker that leaned against the wall and nudged them farther into the flames to ensure that they were consumed.

Then he planned his strategy for when he arrived at the train station.

He wished he'd been able to contact Della and Hi before he left, but he couldn't. And furthermore, he wouldn't be able to tell them where he'd gone. He was sure the police would be speaking to them very soon. Right now, the trick was to disappear. He had a pretty good idea how he could do that, and Libbie's love of literature had provided his inspiration. Humming to himself to assuage his nerves, he caught the streetcar and hopped off near the train station, umbrella in hand.

* * *

Ithaca train station

September 1916

"What?" Tom cried. "What do you mean there are no departures for easterly routes?"

"Why, just what I said, sir," the station clerk told him with authority. "There are currently no trains for eastern destinations. There's been a derailment near Binghamton, and everything is jammed up because of it. They're hoping to have everything put to rights in a few days." He was a small balding man with a white beard and a weak chin, his little round spectacles magnifying myopic blue eyes under his green eyeshade. The man put his head down, and the glass between them muffled his voice to a barely discernible mumble. Tom felt like socking that chin.

Trying to keep his head about him, Tom protested with hat in hand. "But I need to be in New York City within a few days. Important business, you see."

"I'm sorry, sir. I'm afraid all our travelers are in the same situation. There are no trains from there coming west, and no trains from here going east for several days. It might possibly be a week

or more. Might I suggest checking in with us on Tuesday? Things should be back to normal by then."

"Yes, perhaps I'll do that," Tom said, turning on his heel and trying not to panic. He would have to go back to the rooming house and pretend like nothing had happened. He had a short time before Libbie's friends and relatives became suspicious. It did look a little strange that he no longer had the car, but he would think of an explanation for that. His brain hummed as he tried to switch from his original plan to a substitute. He could try to catch a train somewhere else, ending up in another big city, but right now, he was too frightened and too out of sorts to think clearly. He would go back to his room to plan his escape. Everything would be fine.

Head down, fighting overwhelming fear, he caught the streetcar back to Mrs. Protts's house in the rain and crept back to his room, trying not to wake any of his neighbors. Filling his bowl from the ewer, he rubbed cold water on his face to help him think. The night seemed never-ending. As he sat on his bed, not daring to move or breathe, he knew he had to pull himself together. It was then that an unexpected knock came on the door. He opened it to find Jimmy Devenport, shirt and trousers soaking, hair plastered against his head, smiling a crooked smile.

"Jimmy, what are you doing here? You should be home in bed."

"I could have said that about you as well, Tommy boy," Jimmy said, walking in uninvited.

"What are you talking about? Look, it's late and I'm tired. Not that I don't want to be hospitable or anything."

"Oh, I think you'll want to hear what I have to say."

"Why is that?" Tom asked.

"Because it involves a certain local girl, Tom." Jimmy closed the door behind himself and finished in a whisper, "In a certain local grave..."

Tom spun on his heel, his eyes narrowing, not daring to believe what he'd just heard.

"Oh, you heard me," Jimmy said, his smile a broad accusation. He leaned in close to Tom and continued, "I saw the whole thing, pally. Imagine. I was just out minding my own business, shooting some rabbits for supper near the falls, when I heard this awful commotion, and there I saw Hi's old car. And in it was my pal Tom and his oh-so-ladylike amour. You know, the honorable one who would never even consider something crass like spreading her legs for the likes of you? And wouldn't you know I was right! She was the most delicious little cherry in Ithaca, wasn't she, Tommy? You know how I know? Because I'd been up there before, hunting squirrels, and I saw you together. I saw her riding you like she was on the grand prize winner at Saratoga." Jimmy moved his hips suggestively, moaning in a falsetto the way Libbie had done.

"Sweet round little tits she had, and you were loving every minute of it, Mr. Honorable. Oh, and then came the best part. I heard from a little bird in the woods tonight that you'd knocked her up. And don't think I didn't laugh out loud over that. Her, marry you? It was never going to happen, my friend. How naïve could you be?"

Tom swallowed, terrified, as cold sweat collected under his armpits.

"Jimmy, it's not what you think."

"I think she freaked out and wanted to get rid of the thing, and you lost your mind a little. So I just want to be a civic-minded individual and let her loved ones know what happened to the poor dear. Unless you convince me otherwise." He leaned back against the wall, thumbing a suspender as he winked at Tom.

"What do you want?" Tom croaked.

"The car for starters. It'll come in very handy for all the farm chores I need to do. Oh, and squiring pretty ladies around town. It's been working very well for you. Up until tonight, I mean. But I'll be a bit more careful and visit an apothecary beforehand." He chortled.

"I don't have it," Tom said.

"What? You don't have it? That's unfortunate! Where is it?"

"It doesn't matter."

"I think it does matter, since there's blood inside, friend. That, you see, is what we gambling types call a trump card." His green eyes glinted with a frightening glow that Tom had never seen before.

"It's in the lake, Jimmy."

"Well, shit on a stick. You little rascal, you dumped the evidence. That complicates things a bit, since I had planned on only hitting you up for a little of this. But now, I suppose I'll have to get you to pay the whole thing."

"What whole thing?"

"Oh, you know, Tom. Debts I owe at the sporting house, mortgage, farm bills, the mercantile, tack. That sort of thing. Now, since there's no car anymore, I'll just have to stick you with more of the total, you see."

"Jimmy, how can you do this? We're friends."

"Friends? That's what you call it? You and Hi got everything I ever wanted and I got a big fat goose egg. I got a little tired of you milking your looks to do it, too. Everyone loves sweet little Tommy Boy. Oh, his poor parents died. Let's give Tommy a place to live. Here, we're leaving town; let's give Tommy Boy our car. Pretty girls fall madly in love with Tommy Boy and let him do whatever he wants with them. For FREE. Penniless, red-headed, farmboy sons-of-drunks like me never get anything because of pretty boys like you. Do you know what we got when my father died? Nothing! Not a damned thing! And I've been paying for it ever since!"

Jimmy's eyes were blazing now.

"Jimmy, stop this, please. We can talk about this. I don't have any money. You know I don't."

"I know you make a heck of a lot more up here than I do on that shithole of a farm of ours down in Pony Hollow. So share the wealth, young man. So much for your big news this week, huh? You actually thought that rich bitch would marry you. That's the saddest part."

Tom's brain began running through every possible scenario to rid himself of this suddenly malevolent presence of Jimmy Devenport. He had no funds to give Jimmy, and there was always the danger that Jimmy would tell someone what had happened to Libbie. What the hell could he do? He looked around in desperation, wondering what he could use against this evil, when his eyes lighted on his bowl and ewer set. It had been his mother's, but he hadn't planned on taking it with him anyway. The pitcher had a bit of heft to it, and he knew it would hurt.

As Jimmy rambled on, Tom silently picked the pitcher up from its spot on the side table and held it behind his back for a minute, waiting for the right moment to strike. When Jimmy got too cocky and turned his back on him, Tom brought it down on the other boy's skull with all his might. He heard the sickening noise of bone crunching, and then as Jimmy crumpled to the floor with blood seeping through his hair, Tom grabbed Jimmy's head and immersed his face as deep as it would go in the bowl of water until he stopped struggling.

### Chapter 33

It seemed like hours before he finally had the floor mopped up. He had stanched the bleeding on Jimmy's head, using a rag and water to clean the wound and then the floor. He'd scrubbed so hard that the boards almost sparkled. When he was done, he'd tossed the rags into the hallway stove to burn along with the clothing he'd placed there earlier. Now, he had to figure out what to do with the body. He wished he'd known what was waiting for him at home; if he'd held onto the flivver a little while longer, he'd have been able to dispose of Jimmy very easily. But now he was in a fix.

When he looked out the side window, he could see Jimmy's horse, Old Blue, hooked up to the Devenport buckboard at the hitching post next to the building. As near as he could figure, all he had to do was get Jimmy into the buckboard and then dump him in the lake. If he was lucky, it would be days or weeks until the body was found. He figured he had a solution to his train dilemma, as well. Cleaning Jimmy up a bit more, he rifled through the boy's pockets, not expecting much but hoping there might be something he could use. He found a dollar in change and a sterling silver pocket watch that had to be the only thing Jimmy still owned of any value. He might be able to hock it, if he was lucky. He tucked the watch into his front breast pocket, hoping for the best, then picked up his satchel, depositing it in the back of the buckboard.

On his second trip, he wrapped Jimmy's arm around his shoulders and made his way out to the horse and cart again.

"Oh, Mr. Estabrook! Mr. Estabrook!" came the voice of Mrs. Protts behind him, looking out her door. She wore a long striped nightdress and housecoat, and a nightcap covered her gray hair. "Is everything all right? I heard a noise."

Somehow, he kept himself from visibly flinching.

"I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Protts!" he called over his shoulder. "I must apologize for my friend and the commotion he's making. I must get him home. He's had a bit too much to drink, y'see."

"You do that, son. Get that boy home. He can't even walk upright, the poor dear!"

He struggled with the front door handle.

"Here, let me help you," she said, beginning to enter the corridor.

"No!" he said, trying to sound relaxed, although he knew his voice was shaking. "We're just fine..." he said, finagling the thing open with relief.

"Thank you, though. Good evening, Mrs. Protts!"

"Good evening, young Tom."

Tom heard her door shut, and slipped out the front door. As he bore his burden over to the buckboard, he saw with relief that the rain had lessened to a mere sprinkle. His clothes would remain in far better condition now. It took a bit of work, but he managed to dump Jimmy in the back and cover him with an old horse blanket. Thank goodness Mrs. Protts's apartment was on the other side of the building. Old Blue looked annoyed that the driving had been taken over by an unfamiliar master but swished his tail at a fly and obeyed the commands Tom gave him.

Tom drove to a spot not far from where he had pushed the flivver into the water. Seeing no one about north of Myers Point, he grabbed his old friend, lifted him as well as he could, and tossed him into Lake Cayuga. The waves took the body, and it floated away, eyes still open and glaring at his killer. Tom hoped to be far away by morning, when he was sure the body would be found.

Tom arrived back at the station, and with a new ticket taker in place, he was less worried about being remembered. He'd also pulled his hat lower and remained engrossed in the day's newspaper, which he held up for camouflage. He booked passage to Erie, Pennsylvania, in case anyone came checking around after him. Once he was in Erie, he could buy another ticket under a different name. Instead of heading east, which had been his original plan, he'd decided to use the extra dollar to strike out for Chicago instead.

* * *

Hackett and Flynn Pawnbrokers, Erie, Pennsylvania

September 19, 1916

Ephratus Hackett dusted a jewelry case near the front of his store, glancing out the window at the traffic passing on Sassafras Street. His store was around the block from the rail depot, so the people-watching here was always first-rate. The old man sported an impressive head of frizzy gray hair and mutton-chop whiskers.

He hoped business would pick up today. The last two days had been very slow. He and his partner, Isaiah Flynn, had barely managed to avert disaster the previous summer, when the Millcreek Flood had swept through their store, cleaning them out. Thank goodness they'd had insurance. He'd hoped for a better year in 1916, but it hadn't materialized. They were still scraping along, hoping for the next best deal.

Just seven months ago, Mr. Flynn had made a deal on a one-of-a-kind sapphire necklace. Its owner claimed it had been passed down from a great-great grandmother who had been a Lowell in Boston. According to her, the family, like many others in the area, had fallen on hard times after the flood. The woman wept as she pledged the piece, unsure if she would ever see it again. She didn't.

Four months ago, an exotic-looking woman introduced herself as Miss May Hayes and handed him a hairclip with tiny rubies surrounding a sizable piece of topaz. She claimed that it had belonged to Lemonade Lucy, the wife of the late president Rutherford Hayes. She had represented herself as a Hayes cousin, but the truth was later revealed that the barrette had been absconded with from the home at Spiegel Grove. Mr. Flynn had received a commendation from the police in Fremont, Ohio, and from the Ohio state police for his savvy work in ensuring the criminal was apprehended.

And two weeks ago, Mr. Hackett had taken the offer of an unusual comb, inset with jade and mother-of-pearl. The woman sacrificing it, a Miss Bergstrom, claimed that it had been the property of Miss Jenny Lind and that her grandfather had been the Swedish Nightingale's manager.

There was no limit to the number of outrageous stories he heard to make merely interesting items seem invaluable for the purposes of obtaining cash loans. He enjoyed his business, but he was growing tired after all these years.

Moving the dust rag over the wooden showcase, he glimpsed the comb on its velvet scarf within, sparkling under the glass. He hoped today would bring another piece as special.

The young man was non-descript. Hackett sized him up, seeing a handsome dark-haired fellow with somewhat shabby clothes but a shy smile.

"Good afternoon. Welcome to Hackett and Flynn, sir."

"Good afternoon," Tom said. "I'm interested in pawning this watch." He crossed to the large wooden showcase and set the watch on the glass, looking around him at the store. The pawnbroker wore a sober black vest over his brown wool trousers. His tucked white shirt lent him a professional air. Mr. Hackett picked up the antique and pulled his eyeglass into place.

After carefully examining the engraving and construction of the watch, he opened the cover, revealing the timepiece itself, and continued to assess its attributes.

"Very nice," he said.

Tom leaned on the glass of the showcase.

"A William Ellery model. Appears to be in very good working condition. Pure sterling silver, it is. Nice fob, as well. Do ya know what this G is for, son?"

Tom thought fast. "Why, that would be Gardner, sir, my mother's name. This watch was my grandfather's, y'see."

"What a shame to have to part with an heirloom like this. I'm afraid I see a bit too much of that these days. Hard times all around, you know."

"Yes, sir. We've had some bad luck the last few months."

"Have you then? You have my sympathies. Where do you hail from, young fellow?"

Tom's brain sped through a list of the depots they had passed between Ithaca and Erie and came up with Chautauqua, hoping the lie would suffice.

"Pretty area. Nice lake, beautiful scenery," the old man said, one eye still busy with the appraisal. "This William Ellery was a very popular soldier's watch for the men in the war between the states. Your grandpap a veteran, then?"

Thomas nodded, in solemn deference to his fake war hero kin.

"You know how they picked the name? William Ellery was one the signers of the Declaration of Independence. From Rhode Island he was."

"Is that so?" Tom asked, feigning interest in the watch, although the only thing on his mind was its possible value and the cash he could receive from it. When Mr. Hackett handed him a more-than-fair sum, his eyes bulged.

"I'm sure my grandfather will appreciate your generosity, sir," he stated.

"Well, you thank him for his service, young man."

"I will do that."

With some of the extra money he obtained from the watch, Tom purchased a sliced beef sandwich and a beer at a nearby pub, then strolled down 14th Street to buy his ticket to Chicago.

* * *

A train outside Ashtabula, Ohio

September 1916

The young man in seat 7A had been engrossed in the scenery, looking out the window for at least the last forty miles or so. He had dark hair combed to one side, a tweed jacket and trousers that were a bit on the shabby side, and a dark bowler hat, which now rested on the plush green frieze seat next to him.

"Stamp your ticket, sir?"

"Oh yes, here it is." David Lawrence handed his ticket to the gray-haired old man and watched him verify the passage.

"All the way to Chicago then, sir?"

"Yes, all the way."

"Very good." The conductor nodded. "And you, sir?" he asked, speaking to the seatmate across from him.

"Chicago for me, as well," said the big man, handing over his ticket. His cologne and gold pocket watch announced him as a man of the upper classes. He wore an expensive-looking suit with a carnation in the lapel, and his pomaded hair was the perfect shape.

The old conductor nodded as he looked over the ticket, then made his way farther down the car to inquire of the harried young mother sitting with two young boys three seats behind.

David continued to watch the scenery flowing by. Here in northeastern Ohio, it was an abundance of thick wooded forests. But as they followed Lake Erie, one could sometimes catch a glimpse of the water. His copy of Sabatini's _The Sea Hawk_ sat abandoned on the seat next to him.

"Heading west, eh?" asked his seatmate, making polite conversation.

"Yes, I'm seeking employment there."

"You don't say," the fellow said. "What is it you do, sir?"

"I design and build clocks," David said, embroidering his experience just a bit.

"Do ya, now? Well what do you know! This could be your lucky day. It just so happens, son, that I own the largest clock factory in the Midwest. Blackhawk Clock and Watch. Ever heard of it?"

"I must apologize, sir, but no."

"We're in the market for a talented young man such as yourself. I could sure use some more help in my business, if you'd be interested. I've got the market cornered in Chicago, and we're looking to expand. I would enjoy some new blood at the factory." Winking, he finished, "And I believe my daughter Ethel wouldn't mind meeting you as well. You're a good-looking fellow, sure enough."

"What is your name, sir?" David asked.

"Why, Smith's the name. Lafayette Smith!" The man held out a large paw for David to shake. "I'd be mighty pleased to offer you a position, Mr.—"

"Lawrence. David Lawrence. And I would be most pleased to accept, sir," David said.

"Lafe! Call me Lafe!" the big man insisted, lighting his pipe.

David had to admit things were looking up already.

### Chapter 34

Harvard, Illinois

1986

Frank had watched the old man's tale unfold, and he knew from the emotion that it had stirred up that he was telling the truth. Libbie had made the mistake of picking Tom as her unwilling abortionist.

Tears still oozing slowly down his cheeks, the old man grabbed Frank's hand and said, "I've wanted to tell someone for so long. I never meant it to happen. God, I loved her. We were going run away to Cortland to be married at last, the most beautiful girl in town and me. Can you imagine? But then at the last minute, she told me that she wouldn't do it. That she would never wed a poor man. I think she imagined she would end up like the mother in that book, marrying below her station. She told me she would never have a bunch of babies and live in poverty..." His voice faded off.

Frank pulled his hand away in disgust and watched the old man's face as he spoke.

"I was so frightened after it happened. I wasn't even that scared during the war when the Hun came up over the top of that trench and shoved the blade into my shoulder. But I was so afraid...of no one believing me, of going to the chair at Auburn. Of Della and her whole family being shamed by what I had done. I couldn't let Libbie keep laughing at me after the way she treated me. She teased me, saying I wasn't a man, that I was poor, that I was a coward...belittling me. She was evil, Investigator Conley. She was so casual about playing with people's emotions. It was like nothing to her. Like squashing a fly.

"She used me for sex, and then when she knew she was going to have to start looking to marry some respectable man with money, she was going to dump me. But she had this little complication pop up first. And then with Jimmy—I never meant that to happen. I loved Jimmy. For so much of my life, he was like a brother to me. But he was going to blackmail me. How could I live like that? I thought he was my friend, but I had no idea he hated me so much. I refused to go to jail for those two on top of everything else, but now I suppose that's where I'll be. And I deserve it." He let out a sigh of relief.

"Yes, you do," Frank said quietly. He wanted to tell Tom how his behavior had changed Maude's life—how it had destroyed a family—but the man was trapped in his own hell anyway. And Frank needed to keep his objectivity at all costs.

"Frankly, any change of scenery would be a relief after looking at these awful walls for ten years," the old man said, "even if they do have bars on them. But the joke's on you, son. I doubt my body will even last for the trip back to New York." Another violent paroxysm overtook him, and he shook with his coughs until he was able to tame them.

"I need to go make a phone call," Frank said. "Don't get any bright ideas."

The old man nodded as he watched Frank leave the room.

* * *

Willowbrook Manor, Harvard, Illinois

October 1986

Once he reached the nurses' alcove around the corner from the old man's room, Frank used his official phone card to put in a call to Linda.

"Hey, it's me."

"Hey, me. You still in Chicago?"

"Just outside. We found him. You and me. He's still alive at some nursing home here, and he's been living as David Lawrence for the last seventy years. Libbie was pregnant and wanted him to give her an abortion.

It ended up killing her." Frank took a deep breath. "Do you remember Russ talking about some friend of his? Jimmy something?"

"Yeah, Jimmy Devenport. He drowned around the time Libbie disappeared."

"No, he didn't. Estabrook killed him."

"Oh my God!"

Frank recapped everything the old man had related to him. "Linda, do you remember anything else about Devenport? This is my curiosity talking now, not even my cop sense."

"From what I remember, Jimmy had a head injury of some sort when they found him. I think the medical examiner at the time thought he might have hit his head on something and fell in. He was fully clothed, so they knew he wasn't swimming. He had a history with the bottle, like his father, so they just figured he'd been drinking. They found his horse hooked up to the family's buckboard somewhere between Ithaca and Newfield heading toward their farm, so nobody was completely sure."

"Well, we know now."

"When will you be home?"

"I'm heading to the airport as soon as I can. I'll try to get the first flight available."

"What about the killer?"

"We have a helluva tale to tell when we're ready to finish that book. I have to see to some extradition matters, then I can head back."

"I miss you."

"I miss you, too. I'll call you when I get home."

* * *

Willowbrook Manor, Harvard, Illinois

October 1986

After Frank left the room, the old man pushed his wheelchair over to a small cheap bureau near his bed. He opened the drawer, recoiling at the odor of mothballs that assaulted him. Then he pulled out an old Robusto cigar box that held what was left of his few possessions. Reaching past the obituary for his wife, an old boutonniere from their wedding, their marriage announcement, several pictures of her during their courting days in Chicago, and a few contraband Three Musketeers bars smuggled in by an orderly, he came to another photograph. Taking it from the box, he held it in front of him for a few moments, still marveling that any human being could be that beautiful. Libbie's haunting face glanced back at him from her sepia-toned world.

"Well, you finally won," he told her.

After seventy years of running from the past, his weakened heart had had enough.

When Frank returned to the room fifteen minutes later, Tom Estabrook still sat in his wheelchair, clutching the photograph, and he was turning cold.

* * *

Ithaca, New York

October 1986

Frank approached the metal bed and the frail figure in it. Diana stopped him before he got all the way to her side.

"She's been asking for you. Seth thinks she's been waiting for you to get here."

He took his mother's hand and stroked it, letting her know that he was there. She gazed up at him, the tube down her throat prohibiting her from speaking. Near the bed, Diana and Seth stood with their children.

Shannon approached the bed as well. Her mother stood back a bit, not wanting to intrude in a private family moment, since she was no longer a member. But she had always been close to Maude during her marriage to Frank, so she wanted to be there.

"I'm here, Mom," Frank said. "I got him. It was Tom. I found him in Chicago, living under an assumed name. He confessed.

Everything's fine now. Libbie would have forgiven you for all you said. You know that."

The relief in her eyes was unmistakable.

He leaned down a little closer to her and whispered, "I haven't had a drop in weeks. I promise."

It was hard for her to smile with the awkward tube there, but he could still see the joy radiating from the shrunken body.

Maude looked up at her children, her eyes bright with realization. When she knew that it was safe to go, she let herself drift away. Frank stood holding her hand for a long time afterwards.

Linda sat in the hallway, nursing a cup of water, waiting for the family to regroup after conferring with the doctor for funeral preparations. Frank joined her there, and they sat together for a moment, silently holding hands. After a few minutes, Shannon came and sat down with them.

"Hi, Linda," she said, holding up her hand in greeting.

"Hi, Shannon. I'm very sorry about your grandma."

"Thanks. I'll be all right, I guess. I...um...I'm glad you're going out with my dad."

"Me too," Linda said, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth. "Your dad's a good guy."

"He is, isn't he?" Shannon looked up at him with an expression he'd never seen from her before and was nervous about labeling. It frightened him a little, but he wanted to call it pride.

Shannon leaned over to him and whispered in his ear.

"That sounds like a good idea. Why don't you ask her?"

He could tell she was self-conscious when she turned to Linda and said, "Dad and I were thinking about going to Purity's for an ice cream. Can you come?"

"I'd love to," Linda said.

As they headed across the parking lot to the car, Frank turned to Linda with a sudden thought.

"Hey, do you like cats?"

THE END

### Acknowledgements

  * My husband Allan, who tolerates my binge and purge housekeeping, provides brilliant one-liners (and cool book covers!), and often makes my sides hurt from laughing. Everyone should have a combination muse/best friend like mine.

  * My editor, Ella Kennen, who turned this from a good book into a great one.

  * All my buds at the Absolute Write forum, for their support and camaraderie over the years. You guys are the best!

  * Melanie Franklin and Sally Good, beta readers extraordinaire. Melanie found huge kinks that could have been problematic, and Sally is the world's greatest cheerleader.

  * Sergeant Stephen Long of the New York State Police in Ithaca, who patiently answered my questions about cars, weaponry, investigations, and their local barracks.

  * Alan Chaffee, for giving me a tour of Newfield, showing me my GGG grandfather's house, the cemetery where my forebears are buried, and giving me great inspiration for Russ.

  * Bill Chaisson, who provided some fascinating local insight.

  * McLallen House B & B in Trumansburg, which made an excellent stand-in for Diana's house.

  * The patient, friendly folks at Starbucks Kingsway, who put up with me camping for hours on end, and even threw in a couple free lattes.

  * Bleeding Heart photograph on cover by Micky Zlimen. You can view her photography here at <http://www.flickr.com/photos/emzee> and <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/>

### ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Originally from the counterculture mecca of Austin, Texas, Laini discovered a love of reading early on, and when she was eight, decided to be Nancy Drew. She finished her first "mystery novel" (with custom illustrations) when she was nine.

Like most other writers, she spends most of her monthly budget on coffee and books. She lives with her husband and their two gray cats in Edmonton, Alberta.

