Everyone must leave something behind when he dies.
—Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451
BY THREE O’CLOCK on Saturday afternoon, our event space was filled to capacity. Even the shops along Cranberry Street closed so the owners and their employees could be present for this local historic event.
The Bulletin sent a reporter (editor Elmer Crabtree’s fifteen-year-old nephew, Scotty), and every member of the city council attended.
The big reveal started slowly, with Leo Rollins using an arc welder to soften the metal and carefully pry the ruby loose. Then Bud Napp used a handheld circular saw to cut through the box’s ancient hinges.
My sister-in-law, Ashley, fidgeted impatiently beside her husband, Bertram, ready to pounce on any discovery of value.
That’s why we asked Seymour’s attorney, Emory Philip Stoddard, to preside over the opening. Aware of the legal maneuvering swirling around this event, I was glad Mr. Stoddard agreed to officiate.
When the power saw stopped, we all waited in rapt silence as the iron lid was pulled off. At last, the contents were unveiled—
A few yellowed sheets of paper and an envelope.
Brainert leaned close and whispered. “I fear it’s another Al Capone’s vault.”
Jack agreed. Unless those papers are the deed to Fort Knox, this Easter egg hunt has been a bust.
Amid groans of disappointment, Emory Stoddard called the room to order and within minutes proceeded to prove Brainert, Jack, and the groaners wrong.
“These papers provide a signed, written testimony from Mrs. Verna Tripp, a midwife from Quindicott. She states that on January 22, 1923, Harriet Alice McClure gave birth to twins at Marsh House on Stone Turnpike. Mrs. Tripp delivered a girl and a boy.”
“That explains the two baby heads on Harriet’s portrait,” Seymour whispered. “And Brahms’ ‘Lullaby.’”
“The twins were born out of wedlock,” Stoddard continued. “The father was Jacob Ezra Marsh, captain of the trading ship Mariner. Marsh died on Christmas Day 1922, when his ship sank with all hands. The tragic news took time to reach Harriet. When it did, the grief induced an early labor.”
“What happened to the children?” Colleen called, starting a chorus of women demanding an answer to the same question.
“The girl died within hours and is buried in Marsh Cemetery—”
Moans of sorrow filled the room.
“And the boy?” This time a single, booming voice wanted an answer. Ashley’s husband, Bertram Sutherland.
“According to Mrs. Tripp’s testimony,” Stoddard continued, “Harriet believed it would not be fair to raise a son with the stigma of being born out of wedlock and without a father, so she turned the boy over to a childless couple to raise as their own. This couple was close enough for Harriet to watch the boy grow up, though she vowed never to tell him that she was his real mother.”
Stoddard paused before unleashing the firestorm. “The boy was christened Ezra, and he was raised by Malachi Finch and his wife.”
Barney Finch’s eyes went wide in shock.
“He’s talking about your grandparents, Barney!” Fiona cried. “That means your father, Ezra, was really Harriet’s son, which makes you Harriet’s grandson. You’re a McClure!”
Our friend almost fell out of his chair. Seymour caught the man and slapped his back.
“Congratulations Finch-no-more. You’re richer than King Croesus now—”
“I object!” Bertram Sutherland bellowed loud enough to be heard in Providence. “Those documents are forgeries! A pack of lies!”
“Now, where have I heard that before?” Seymour cracked, throwing a glance Barney’s way.
Stoddard displayed the envelope.
“Harriet McClure provided proof, though she could not have known it at the time. Here is a lock of Ezra’s hair—and her own. If Mr. Barney Finch will oblige us with a DNA sample, I believe a simple lab test can clear this family matter up.”