TWENTY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Caitlyn.

“Hmmm, no, my girl was a blonde.”

“You know who else was in?”

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

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

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

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

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

“No, of course not.”

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

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

Hands shaking, I turned to the page.

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

Elihu Bloodworth, 1832–1901.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hope you found what you needed.”

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

*   *   *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mmmmm.” My eyes closed. Not that I’d ever had a professional massage so I didn’t really have anything to compare it to, but I wondered if it could be any better than this. Jack bent down, moved my hair aside, and brushed his lips against the nape of my neck. I gave a delicious shiver.

“As much as I’d like to continue this, we should probably get to work.”

Work? What work? Oh, right. The artifacts. Duty called. “Let’s get it done,” I said.

Once the leftover pizza was stored in the fridge and the plates and utensils were thrown away, I wiped down the table with a spritz of cleaner and a paper towel, then ran the towel over the counters as well. Jack poured me another glass of wine and set the box of paperwork on a spare chair.

“So this was the only thing the intruder disturbed? It doesn’t make sense. Why would somebody go to the risk of breaking in for this?” I took a sip of my wine and set the cup on the table, as far from the paperwork Jack was pulling out of the box as possible. I could just see myself spilling liquid all over and ruining everything.

“I know,” Jack said, stacking loose papers in a pile. “I can’t imagine what could be in here that anyone would want. Arrowheads turn up all over the North Country, all the time.”

“So what’s the system here?” The papers all seemed to have a numbered label affixed to the back. The file folders had similar labels. There were photos too.

“I’m pretty sure all we have to do is check the numbers and refile everything into the corresponding folder. It shouldn’t be more complicated than that.”

“Sounds easy, and mindless enough after a long day.” I rolled my head around my neck, luxuriating in the feel of the loose, warm, pain-free muscles.

“I’m sorry. If you want to just go lie down, I’ll do this.”

Tempting as that was, I shook my head. “No, I want to help.” I grabbed a handful of loose papers and began to stack them into number order. They seemed to be detailed notes about what Monty had found, where he’d found it, and when. And there were several photographs associated with each file. In each case the artifact had been photographed, as had been the hole or surface where the item was found, as well as the surrounding countryside. The number labels that had accompanied each of the actual artifacts we’d boxed up would presumably match these file numbers. The work was not difficult, and it didn’t take long to put everything back into its proper file.

I reached for another stack. “So when does your sister expect these?”

“I need to drive them to her in Albany tomorrow.” He hesitated. “We haven’t seen each other in a while and she’s leaving for Arizona on Sunday. I was thinking about taking her out to dinner and staying over, then driving her to the airport and coming back Sunday morning. But I don’t want to leave you alone.”

My Jack-induced warm-fuzzy feeling intensified. As much as I wanted to beg him to stay, I wasn’t ready to put myself out there and ask for what I needed. I’d been a caretaker, the fixer, the smoother-overer, for too long. Maybe, just maybe, an ability to depend on someone else would come in time.

“No, no. I’ll be fine.” Sort. File. Sort.

He raised an eyebrow at me.

“No, really. I won’t be alone at all tomorrow. I’ll go visit Melanie at the hospital, then there’ll be lots of people in and out of the Bonaparte House all day till we open for dinner.” I smiled. “And Melanie’s got a police guard, and Chief Moriarty and his wife have a dinner reservation. I’ll be fine. Really, I want you to go.”

A shadow passed over his face, and I reached for his hand. “That’s not what I meant, silly. Go have fun with your sister.”

He relaxed. “Okay, then. If you promise me you won’t try to investigate anything by yourself.”

Me? Investigate? I wouldn’t call what I did investigating. More like stumbling onto the truth. “Okay.”

I hoped that was a promise I’d be able to keep.

It didn’t take long to get through the pile. I put the folders back into numerical order, then began to reinsert them into the file box.

“That’s odd. There’s a file missing.” Folders were marked 55 and 57. No 56.

Jack frowned. “We didn’t misfile it, did we? Monty was so meticulous.” He fanned his thumb slowly through the files from front to back.

“Did it fall down to the bottom of the box under the rest of the files?”

He pushed the files against the back wall and slid a hand underneath. “Nothing.”

“Is that what your intruder came for? Maybe he got it.”

Jack nodded. “The last folder is labeled Index.” He withdrew it and spread the pages on the table in front of us. “Here it is: fifty-six. Bartlett Farm, September 1966.”

The blood drained from my face. “My maiden name was Bartlett,” I whispered. “And it’s Melanie’s birth name and it would have been her parents’ name as well.”

Jack’s lips were set in a thin line.

“Doreen’s farm,” I said simply. “Jack, where are the artifacts? Did you check those?”

He rose. “I looked at them quickly, but I didn’t open the boxes. Come on. They’re in the bedroom.”

Under other circumstances I would have been delighted to follow Jack to the bedroom, any bedroom. But right now my brain was working overtime and it had nothing to do with love. How did a Native American artifact figure into this increasingly complicated scenario?

Jack dropped to his knees and lifted the simple beige bed skirt. “Reach in that night table drawer, will you? There’s a flashlight.”

I found it and handed it to him. He switched it on. “I’m going to have to ask the cleaning lady to do a better job. There’s dust.”

I leaned down for a look. “Those boxes have been moved,” I said. “See the trail that was left amid the dust bunnies?”

“You’re right.” He pulled the six boxes out and began to open them until he found the one containing the artifacts numbered in the fifties. The lid flew off with a flourish and landed on the floor.

“Damn!” he said. “Fifty-six is gone.”