“Bernard and Irma,” Quinn murmured. “Those were the original owners of my house.” It was taking her a bit to catch up, but she knew those names. They were everywhere in 696. In the paperwork and in dusty, warped photo albums. “But he went by Bernie”—she said it as more of a question—“I think?”
“Bernie, yes,” Bertie confirmed, laughing. “That was the funny thing—Mother hated for me to go by Bertie, and Father said she only hated it because of Bernie Carlson. Bernie and Irma. Just insufferable people. They moved away years and years ago. To Detroit, I heard. One or the both of them was sick.” She huffed, but her expression softened.
Quinn was lost. “Why? Sick with what?”
Bertie replied, “I think it was cancer. I regret to admit this, but no one much cared. Like I said, they weren’t well loved here. Of course, Irma was worse by a mile. But ol’ Bernie’s association alone cost him local favor. Anyway, whoever it was who got sick, well, it happened after they lost Jeanette.”
“Their daughter?” Beverly was writing in strange, looping symbols that reminded Quinn of her senior literature teacher in high school who sometimes taught secretarial notetaking.
Quinn nodded as she recalled that name, too. Less common in the home, but still present. Some photos had emerged of a young girl who appeared to turn into a teenager over the years. But, again, the photos were in such poor condition, it was hard to peg down much information about the girl. Sure, a child’s bedroom had been left behind, buried beneath mounds of plastic-bagged clothing with plastic hangers poking through the tops. A pink quilt on a sturdy iron-frame bed. Matching white dressers, their edges worn in a way that was only now suggestive of a shabby-chic style, though clearly that wasn’t the original intent. Time and hoarding had worn the furniture raw. Not an intent furniture designer.
Bertie confirmed Beverly’s remark. “Jeanette Carlson. Died in a car crash out of town. Of course, Jeanette had married off by then. Even had a child of her own. I don’t know who she married or who the baby was. Anyway, Jeanette was Bernie and Irma Carlson’s one and only child.”
Jude mumbled, “Lots of us here.”
Quinn cleared her throat. “Just like you, Viv.” She elbowed her daughter playfully, but Vivi grunted.
“I’m not an only child, though.”
Setting her jaw, Quinn contemplated ignoring the comment. Vivi was right. Technically, she did have a half sister in the world. Matt’s doing, not Quinn’s. But were the two really like sisters? No. Had they even known about each other before last year? Also, no.
Beverly turned the focus on Jude. “You don’t have siblings?”
Jude flushed under the attention. She shook her head and picked up her glass of juice, downing it fervently.
Quinn watched as Beverly turned to Annette. “And you’re an only child, too, aren’t you?”
Annette shook her head. “Sister on Drummond Island. She never did have an interest in leaving home.”
Quinn could tell she was up next for this odd, sidebar inquiry. “I have a brother.”
“And I’m an only,” Beverly noted lastly.
Bertie chuckled vulgarly. “It wasn’t for lack of effort.”
“Mother,” Beverly hissed, and conversation returned to Bernie and Irma.
“Do you know anything about these two?” Annette asked Quinn, pinning her elbows to the table and folding her hands beneath her chin. “Bernie and Irma?”
Quinn blinked. “Oh. Um…not a lot. I’ve just seen some paperwork…” Her voice trailed off.
“What kind of paperwork?” Beverly dug.
Shrugging, Quinn stole a glance at Vivi. “I mean, you know. Bank statements. Tax returns. Some photos, too.”
“Photos?” Bertie cut in, staring hard at Quinn. “So, you’ve probably seen pictures of that woman.”