I took Robbie back to the office and made up a story about needing to return to the farm to check on my cats. I promised to return in the afternoon.
The farm I inherited from Reilly had once been an institution modeled after the workhouses of England. A poor person received food and shelter in return for sweat labor. The original farmhouse was a modest stone building. A second story was added in the twenties, and bunkhouses were added during the Great Depression. Only one remained.
The kitties greeted me at the door and took turns trying to trip me as I walked. My cats are a motley collection of strays that have taken up residence at Heartwood House. I brought them to the farm when Heartwood House was being renovated to accommodate Jamie’s wheel chair. A week after returning them to their original home, all four arrived at the farm hungry but no worse for their travels.
Rocky, a twenty pound Siamese, is the leader. Second in line is Van Gogh, a medium sized gray tabby, who is missing part of an ear. The local vet surmised that someone removed it with a knife. And while Van Gogh likes to complain about his deformity, he is remarkably trusting of humans. The smallest of the four is Molly, a small black and white kitty who purrs a lot and looks at me through squinted eyes when she wants to be picked up. Last is the irrepressible trouble-maker Atisha, a female orange tabby apparently named after a Buddhist master and scholar before her true nature had been revealed as a kitten.
I cleaned their food bowls and filled them with fresh canned food.
With starvation of the farm’s feline residents prevented, I made a cup of hot cider and headed to the attic. What I found were half a dozen unmarked boxes, any one of which could have held the photograph. I set up a table in a downstairs guest bedroom and brought the boxes down from the attic. I waded through stacks of administrative records and found two albums of black and white photos. The albums looked to have been made from pages of black construction paper, now brittle, mottled, and bound together with a shoelace.
The pictures of Harry, Cecil, Carrie, and Jamie brought back lots of memories of summer days riding horses and driving an old Ford tractor. While the photographs were interesting, I couldn’t find the picture that Harry had described.
I was certain there was another box of records, photographs, and stories that had been assembled by Terry McAdams, the last administrator of the farm when it was still operating as an institution for the homeless and destitute. Terry had been writing a history of the farm for nearly a decade but couldn’t find anyone to publish it.
After searching the closets and hutches for the box, I reluctantly headed for the cellar. I found a flashlight with fresh batteries. As a kid, I’d been told that residents of the poor farm had been tortured in the dark cavern beneath the main farm house and that the ghosts of the victims still inhabited its damp and gloomy environs.
I flipped the switch at the top of the stairs and descended slowly. The basement extended the full width and length of the house. A single light bulb dangled from a wire in the middle of the abyss and cast a small globe of light that seemed unable to penetrate more than a few feet. An antique coal-burning boiler sat in the middle of the rectangular space, its pipes and valves extending outward like arms from a subterranean monster.
Next to it was a slightly younger, but functional, oil furnace. I was startled when the oil furnace rumbled to life, its metal duct work creaking against the sudden influx of hot air. A heavy bouquet of petroleum joined the smell of mildew and earth. It gave me another reason to keep my visit as short as possible.
I used the flashlight to scan the room from the perceived safety of the last stair tread. The walls were stone, held together by ancient mortar. The floor was dirt, but the well-trodden Virginia clay may as well have been concrete. Old bed parts and furniture lined the basement walls that ran under the front of the house. Shelves lined the back wall. I imagined the shelves full of wild strawberry and blackberry jam that the residents made in the early summer. Not seeing a shackled corpse, a rat, or a snake, I stepped carefully toward the center of the room.
I stand about six foot four. The space between the dirt floor and the lowest joists was less than six feet. I hunched over around the furnace and the old boiler while walking and scanning the wall with my light. I had hoped to find Terry’s box and make a quick retreat. After two passes, I was satisfied that the box wasn’t there, yet I wasn’t inclined to leave.
My attention shifted to the wooden beams that ran from the front wall of the house to the back wall. These were massive timbers, probably oak at least eight inches wide and more than a foot tall. To my eye, it appeared that the beams toward the back of the house were sagging. The deviation was most noticeable right under the kitchen.
I inspected the back wall and found a small crack that ran almost the length of the foundation about four inches from the floor. Water had seeped through the wound, turning the clay below it the color of dried blood. I couldn’t determine whether the crack was new or just old damage that had gone unnoticed, but the water seepage was new and worrisome.
My inspection was interrupted by the ringing of my house phone. I ran upstairs and managed to pick it up before it went to voicemail.
“You sound like you’ve been running, or perhaps I interrupted a hot date,” said Robbie.
“I was in the basement looking for Terry’s old papers.”
“That’s funny because they’re in your office where I put them”
“You have Terry’s papers?”
“I do. Last fall, I was looking for some information about Reilly’s purchase of the poor farm. I would be happy to bring the box to you in exchange for a late lunch.”
“I guess I could throw something together.”
“I think I’ll order Chinese. Given that this is a house call, I’ll charge it to your account.”
I hung up the phone and set the kitchen table. Thirty minutes later, I heard Robbie’s car and met her at the porch. She carried a large box inside and placed it on the table in the guest room. While I was eager to see if the missing photo was in the box, I was drawn to the smell of Kung Pao Chicken from Brown’s Chinese and American Restaurant. We ate in a comfortable silence, sharing smiles of satisfaction. The relaxed atmosphere came to an abrupt end when Robbie took a long slow breath and said, “We need to talk.”
The words “we need to talk” when uttered by a female are powerful cues that a male should not take lightly.
“Whatever you think I’ve done, I didn’t mean to do it,” I said cautiously. “And of course, I’m extremely sorry and will never do it again.”
“It doesn’t matter whether you meant it or not. But, for once this isn’t about you doing something stupid. It’s about Eric.”
“Eric? And who is Eric?”
“Who he is is not important. He called and asked if I wanted to go scuba diving with him in Belize.”
“Really? Belize? So is there a question?”
“No. I just wanted you to know that I may be taking some time off.”
I forced a laugh. “I’m a bit hurt that I wasn’t invited.” Robbie’s cold stare indicated that my attempt at humor was not well received. “Okay. It’s none of my business. If you want to go, you should go.”
Robbie nodded. “Good.”
“So, do you want to go?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I’m sorry I mentioned it. Besides, as you said, it’s really none of your business what I do. So, can we drop it?”
“Come on, Robbie. I don’t know what you want me to say.”
She took my hand. “I’m sorry. I know how things are with us. Sometimes, I wish they were different.”
“How are things?”
“I love you dearly,” she said, “but I’m not in love with you, however tempting you make it. This may sound cruel, but we’re just too damaged for either of us to think we fit together. The good times are great, but sometimes you fall into a darkness that threatens to swallow you up. I went through that with my dad. I’m not going to go through it with you. We may have our moments, but there’s no future in it. I need to know that you’re good with that. I don’t want to hurt you, and I don’t want to be hurt either.”
A silence ensued, which prompted another comment from Robbie. “Please don’t sulk.”
“Why is it that women brood and are viewed sympathetically, but men sulk and are derided for it?”
“The very fact that you don’t know the answer means you wouldn’t understand the answer if I chose to provide it to you.”
I stared into her eyes. “You’re right. But here’s the thing. There are only a handful of people I care about and trust. You’re one of them. I know I’m damaged goods. I get angry and sad. Sometimes, I drink too much. You can’t fix me, and I don’t want you to try. So, I think we’re saying the same thing. But don’t think for a moment that I take you for granted. That will never happen. Part of me doesn’t want to hear about Eric, but most of me wants you to be happy.”
The kiss was sudden, soft, and slow. Robbie pulled away, resting her forehead on mine, her breathing rapid and wanting. “God, sometimes being around you is like walking into a pastry store when I’m on a diet.” She lingered for a moment, then said, “Let’s just look at photos.”
We cleared the table and went into the guest room where I had deposited the box.
“You could afford to fix this place up, you know.”
Robbie was referring to the aging wallpaper and furniture I had inherited and still used. She was right, of course. My father, Reilly Heartwood, was a world-famous country singer. He left me more than twenty-five million dollars in assets and a continuous stream of royalty payments from his recordings. Prison took away my ability to support myself. Reilly’s money took away the need to support myself. I have yet to master spending money that I didn’t earn. So inheriting Reilly’s money has left me in limbo—between the social order I knew in prison in which personal decisions were made for me, and the social order of the outside world in which one must make dozens of decisions every day. The house remains as I received it and, like me, stuck in a time warp waiting for something to change.
“This spring for sure,” I said. “Now, focusing on the task at hand, we’re looking for a picture of Doc by the barn with a woman with long blonde hair.”
We divided the contents of the box into two piles and each sorted through one of them. Despite having pointed out that we were looking for a particular photo, Robbie was constantly asking questions about who was who and what each person was doing. I sat next to her and we went through the pictures together. A half hour later, I tossed a picture into the box that Robbie quickly retrieved.
“Did you look at this? That’s us. Aw, we’re holding hands.”
I examined the picture closely. “You’ve got straw in your hair”
“I can’t imagine why,” she said.
Twenty minutes later, Robbie pushed a photo in front of me. Doc Adams was pointing his finger at the woman with long hair. She was, as Harry had said, quite pretty, despite a face etched with sadness. Whatever Doc was telling her was not what she wanted to hear.
“What do we do now?” asked Robbie.
I sighed. “As much as I would prefer not to, we need to ask Doc about the woman in the picture.”
“He isn’t going to like it. He’s still angry with you for hunting down Reilly’s killer.”
“I know. But right now he’s the only lead we have.” I put the rest of the photos back into the box. “It’s league night and beer is half price. I’m sure we’ll find him at the bowling alley. Maybe if he’s had a few, he’ll be civil.”
When we arrived at the Bowlarama, we found the parking lot to be plowed and sanded and the sidewalk to the front entrance scraped to bare concrete. It’s nice to visit a place where the priorities are firmly established.
As the owner of the Bowlarama (another bequest from Reilly Heartwood), I have certain privileges, the most important being that I don’t pay for food. Apparently, that privilege extends to anyone in proximity to me when they order. Robbie ordered burgers and beers without offering to pay, then took a seat at an empty table.
Before I could search for Doc Adams, I felt a presence behind me. The presence revealed itself to be Sarah Mosby, Reilly Heartwood’s older sister and my aunt. In her seventies, Sarah had long ago lost patience with the human animal, especially males. If she has an opinion, she expresses it. Otherwise, she isn’t one for idle chatter.
She sat down, grabbed my beer, and took a long drink. “Hey, Robbie.” Chester arrived with two orders of burger and fries. He placed one in front of Robbie. But as Chester lowered the second plate toward the table, Sarah followed it with her eyes.
Chester looked at me, and I nodded. “I’ll have turkey on whole wheat,” I said, “and another beer.” He placed the plate in front of Sarah and walked away.
“I’m supposed to tell you that Doc is waiting in the office behind the bar,” said Sarah. “He knows you’ve got a bone to pick with him. He’s none too happy about it, but then it doesn’t take much these days to set him off.” Sarah laughed. “Getting old will do that to you. Course, I’d have thought Doc would be used to being old by now.”
Robbie and I slipped behind the bar and opened the office door. Doc was seated on a sofa opposite an ancient desk. Mounted on the wall above the desk was a deer head, a stuffed owl, and a large mouth bass. The room smelled of tobacco and beer, and for a moment I thought Robbie was going to gag.
Doc glanced up at us through sad, fightless eyes, then fixed his gaze on the floor. “Frieda told me what you’re up to, so no need to give me a history lesson.”
I had anticipated a verbal brawl with Doc and found his demeanor worrisome. I handed him the picture that Harry had taken. Doc studied it, his index finger rubbing his lips as the image stirred old memories.
“Do you know her name?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I never heard Ruth call her by her name, and the woman never offered it. Do you think she was the woman who was murdered?”
The question seemed odd, apparently prompted more by guilt than logic.
“We don’t know. We have no reason to think so.”
“The woman who was killed. Was there a record of her having any children?”
I shook my head. “No. But we don’t have the police file. We aren’t actually involved in investigating the victim or the person who killed her. Our only interest is in finding out who the woman was and how she had a baby that wasn’t hers.”
Robbie knelt in front of Doc, her hands on his knees. “What is it, Doc? What’s wrong?”
When Doc lifted his head, his eyes were flooded with tears. I have experienced heart wrenching moments, but the grief on Doc’s face at that moment almost undid me.
“I could have helped her,” he said. “She asked me to examine the baby to make sure he was healthy and to teach her how to take care of him. She wanted to save it from a future in the welfare system that she and Ruth understood better than me. She loved that baby, but I called the police. I did the right thing according to the law, when I should have done the right thing for that child. A day doesn’t go by when I don’t wonder about them.”
I pulled up two chairs and offered one to Robbie. “Where did she get the baby?”
“How the hell should I know?” he snapped. “She and Ruth promised me they tried to reunite the baby and the birth mother. They explained again and again what would happen to a colored child in a social welfare system operated to help white babies. The woman in the photo pleaded with me to help her, but I was too mule-headed to listen. I called the authorities and the woman made a run for it.”
The story Doc related was compelling but not terribly helpful. Without a name, we’d reached a dead end. Doc apparently sensed my disappointment.
“I didn’t help her, and I can’t help you,” he said, “so can I go?”
I looked at the photo of the nameless woman, then at Doc. “What happened to Ruth?”
“She was angry and let me know it,” replied Doc. “The cops came and she denied everything. She told them that some of the people staying at the farm had mental problems, and that I was most likely told a tall tale that only a city boy would believe. The investigator took a look at the poor folks on the farm and decided it wasn’t worth the effort to ask any questions. About a month later, Ruth had a stroke that left her with mental problems. She was admitted to Lady of Comfort nursing home. I heard that she lived another ten years or so, but we never spoke again.”
Doc shook his head and waved his hand as if engaged in an internal conversation. After a moment, he looked at me with pleading eyes. “I was a son-of-a-bitch back then. I know I’ve been hard on you about meddling in things that are none of your business. But I’m asking you to do whatever you can to find out what happened to that woman and child. Just don’t go getting shot.”
Doc pulled himself from the couch and seemed about to leave when I stopped him. “One last thing: Is there anyone still alive who might have known Ruth at the nursing home? Someone Ruth might have talked to?”
“She had a caretaker who looked after her from the day she arrived at Lady of Comfort until she died. Ruth Littleton’s daughter might know. Last I heard, she was still alive. You understand she may not want to talk to me dead or alive.” He stopped at the doorway, and said, “Good or bad, I want to know.”
“Sure, Doc.”
He shuffled out of the office, leaving me alone with Robbie. “I don’t ever remember seeing Doc like that,” she said.
“Maybe we should let this go,” I said. “We’re just stirring up a lot of old feelings, and I don’t see it leading anywhere.”
“I know you’re just saying that for my benefit, but it’s too late for that. I want to know. Doc wants to know. Everyone at Heartwood House wants to know. You want to know.”
As I drove back to the farm, I tried to imagine the events that had unfolded there a half century earlier. How many lives had been touched by the arrival of the woman with a camera and a baby? Even today, Harry’s broken heart had not fully healed, and the usually stoic Doc Adams was still riddled with guilt because of a decision that, under the circumstances, was both rational and justified.
I fed the kitties and tried to watch a movie. I lost track of the plot and turned it off. It was almost eleven when I decided to call Gus Jaynes. Gus is a former FBI agent whose testimony helped send me to jail. Later, he identified the witnesses who had lied at my trial and brought the matter to the attention of the court. I was released, but Gus was kicked out of the Bureau. The institutions of justice are seemingly fond of one-way doors. They don’t like admitting to a mistake and don’t suffer those who believe that the truth should set you free. Gus now runs a private investigation firm in Washington, D.C.
The phone rang twice before I heard Gus’ voice. “Tell me you’re not shot or arrested and I’ll go back to bed.”
“Not yet, but if you hang up, that could change”
“So who was murdered and why do you care?”
I gave Gus a summary of what I knew of Jennifer’s murder and how I was connected to it. When I was explaining the part about the baby, Gus cut me off.
“It’s late and I’m sleeping off a few too many scotches, so why don’t you tell me what you want from me, and then we can talk in more detail in the morning.”
“I want you to find out what you can about Jennifer Rice. She wrote travel books and was pretty good with a camera. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that a woman shows up at the poor farm and takes pictures. So, it’s possible that Jennifer was the woman with the baby. If that’s true, then maybe the baby is connected to her murder. I would also like information about a World War II photographer named Seymour Van Dyke. Jennifer had some of his photos in her house. I don’t think there’s any connection between the Van Dyke photos and the murder, but we might as well see if there’s a personal connection between Rice and Van Dyke. I guess that’s it.”
“Are you sure you want to chase another rabbit down a hole?”
“I’m no expert, but I doubt that many house burglars are prone to beating old women to death. Reggie’s in trouble, and there’s the question about the black baby. Yeah, I’m sure.”