Chapter Thirty

Kate thought about heading to the historical society to do a little research on Simmonds, but it had been so long since she’d spent a day at home, enjoying the warm late-June weather and the sunshine, that she opted for finishing up a few things around the house first.

Top priority was the stained-glass window for Phillip’s transom. She’d finally finished soldering the frame. All that remained was to rub on the patina that would give the solder lines their black charm, clean the window with neutralizing solution, and give it a final polish. The three steps took less than half an hour altogether, and Kate had to admit she was proud of the finished product.

She held it up so the sunlight would hit the orange letters of “Antiques” as she admired it. She’d used oranges in a variety of hues and textures that added depth to the simple design.

She wrapped the window in brown paper as before to take it to the store, then she gazed around her cluttered stained-glass studio and did a quick pickup.

When she’d finished, Kate glanced at her watch. It was only 10:00 AM. She decided to make a few loaves of homemade bread. She hadn’t made any in ages, and there was nothing like the smell of baking bread in the house to inspire creativity in solving a mystery.

Kate ran tap water until it was just the right temperature, warm to the touch. Too cool and the yeast wouldn’t activate, too hot and the yeast would be killed.

She added the powdered yeast and mixed it into the water until it dissolved. Then she put it and the remaining ingredients into the large mixing bowl on her stand mixer and let the kneading hook take over the job.

W.M. The initials continued to haunt her. Who was he, and what was that key for? Clearly he thought she could figure that out, or he would have offered a stronger clue.

The mixer bumped with the motion until the white dough was ready to be set on the back of the stove to rise in a greased glass bowl. Kate placed a warm, slightly damp cloth over it and turned to clean up the counter and dishes. First, she filled the sink with sudsy water and put the mixing bowl, dough hook, and measuring utensils in. She washed and dried each and put them away.

Then she pulled the envelope from her handbag and studied it as well as the key it held.

I SEE YOU THINK LIKE I DO. MAYBE WE CAN SCRATCH EACH OTHER’S BACKS. He was apparently taking her bait, but she had to discover where the key went. It was ancient. She tried to think of what kind of place would still use such a key. She finished wiping the counters, then sat on a stool, absently paging through the pages of her cookbook, her mind traveling back and forth.

W.M. had inserted the newspaper article no doubt to make sure she would connect him with the lost fortune. She chuckled at the irony, considering that she’d planted the mannequin in her car for that same purpose.

Kate turned another page. She noticed a recipe with a full-color photo on the opposite page with the caption “A Mexican Treat.” The picture was what stopped her: a shell-shaped pastry like the one she’d eaten not that long ago.

Conchas, Connie Rae had called them.

An old family recipe. But Connie Rae Loggins was hardly Hispanic. Even her maiden name, Simmonds, was in no way Latina. But her first husband’s name was: Jose Manuel.

Manuel! But was it just a coincidence? Or was the name Manuel her link to W.M.?

It would take a good hour or more before the dough was ready for the oven, so Kate plugged her laptop into the phone connection and dialed up the Internet.

Her home dial-up connection was much slower than the computers at the library, and she would have preferred to head there. But since she was in the middle of baking, she decided this was better than nothing.

After waiting several long moments for the browser to pop up, Kate finally typed in “Jose Manuel” and “Connie Rae Manuel.”

Up came the words Your search—“Jose Manuel” “Connie Rae Manuel”—did not match any documents. But on the side of the page was an ad that said, “Find Connie Now” with a Web site link to publicbirth-marriagerecords.com.

Kate clicked on the link, which sent her to a blank form. She filled out the information she’d written down at the library—their names, including Connie’s maiden name, Connie Rae’s father’s name, 1931 as the year of their marriage, and Harrington County as the place of the wedding.

1931. Kate considered that year while the next page took its time loading. It was the year after the bank robbery. How old would Connie Rae have been? She’d said she was born in 1915, so sixteen. Awfully young to be a bride, though Kate knew young marriages were commonplace during that time period when people often didn’t live past fifty.

Finally a page came up that listed records pertaining to Connie Rae Simmonds Manuel Loggins, along with those for Jose Manuel.

She clicked on the birth certificate for Jose Manuel, and what she read stunned her.

Under “mother” was the name Veronica Alanzo Manuel, and under “father” was the name Jack R. Leonetti.

Jack Leonetti had a son! And that son had married Connie Rae Simmonds.

Kate’s mind flew to the diary entry Horace had written of the fishing trip. He’d spoken of a teenage boy. Kate retrieved the small trunk in the living room and reread the section from the red notebook. Horace, it seemed, had no inkling who the boy had been in relation to Leonetti. At least his entry didn’t seem to indicate that.

Kate returned to the computer, still shocked that Connie Rae had married Jack Leonetti’s son.

But why didn’t the boy have his father’s last name? Why Manuel and not Leonetti? No doubt it was because Jack was wanted by the newly formed FBI. Kate typed the mother’s name, “Veronica Alanzo Manuel,” into the Google search bar.

Several articles appeared. The third listing captured Kate’s attention immediately. It was from an article in the archives of a Laredo, Texas, newspaper.

The February 3, 1914, headline read:

MEXICAN “ROYALTY” RUNS AMOK

Veronica Alanzo Manuel, daughter of one of the most influential men in the Mexican government, Carlos Manuel, adviser to the president, has eloped with famed gangster Jack Leonetti of the United States. Reports state that the couple was seen near Cabo San Lucas last weekend on their honeymoon. According to a resort patron, the young wife, no more than nineteen years old, was wearing a large diamond ring, showing it around to fellow patrons and calling herself Mrs. Jack Leonetti.

When asked if her father knew of the marriage, Veronica stated an emphatic yes, though Señor Manuel was not available to confirm or deny his knowledge of the union.

A marriage certificate was filed in Mexico City on January 27, 1914.

Kate tried to take it all in. If Jack and Veronica were married, why wouldn’t she have taken his name? The next article that popped up answered her question almost immediately. It was an annulment declaration for Veronica and Jack. The marriage had lasted a full two weeks before it was over.

With this information in hand, it wasn’t hard for Kate to discover that W.M. stood for Walter Manuel, Connie Rae and Jose’s only son, born in Taos, New Mexico, in 1932. But that would make the man in his mid- to late seventies. He couldn’t be the same person who’d broken Phillip’s store window and run from her. So, on a hunch, Kate searched to see if W.M. had any children. She scrolled down the page, and there it was, a son. Walter Manuel Jr., born in 1964, no doubt the grandson who’d called while Kate had been visiting Connie Rae.