Back Bay (32 page)

For a moment, he didn’t think that she would let him in, but finally she closed the door and released the chain lock.

It was dark in the hallway, and Fallon’s eyes needed a few seconds to adjust after the bright sunlight. Evangeline was wearing a cotton shift which did nothing to conceal her breasts or the patch
of dark within the roundness of her hips. When he got used to the light, he realized he was staring. She pulled the shift more tightly around herself and folded her arms over her breasts.

“Do you have something to tell me, or did you just stop by to look at my tits?”

He apologized. “I couldn’t sleep this morning. I had to see you.”

She walked into the living room, which overlooked a walled-in patio. Fallon stood in the doorway and admired her home. The walls had been stripped to reveal the brick. Oak beams crossed overhead. Hardwood floors glistened. Plants crept, crawled, and hung everywhere. The furnishings were strictly the most expensive: brown sofa, leather swivel chair, chrome lamps sweeping out of the corners of the room on graceful aluminum arcs, a glass coffee table, modern teak cabinets containing television and music equipment, and colored textile prints swirling across the walls. Everything about the room said taste, money, and careful attention.

Angrily, she paced back and forth. “You couldn’t sleep, so you decided to wake me up. Last night was the first night since Christopher died that I’ve had any sleep at all.”

“I’m sorry, but right now, you may be the only person who can help me.”

“Mr. Fallon, yesterday my brother was buried. I’m in no mood to be helping anyone today.”

“I was one of the last people to talk to your brother. I really wish you’d listen to me for a few minutes.”

She stopped pacing and put her hands on her hips. “All right, talk.”

It was more than Fallon could stand. He was staring again.

She wrapped the shift around herself once more and headed for the stairs. “I’ll be right down. Don’t steal anything.”

“Can I make coffee?” he asked.

“It’s in the kitchen.”

When she came down, she was wearing a tight, rose-colored jersey and a pair of cut-off jeans. Her hair was pulled straight back and held with a single barrette. Looking fresh, despite her mood, she sat down, and Fallon poured her a cup of coffee.

“You’ve made yourself right at home,” she said.

“It’s a beautiful place.”

“Don’t get too comfortable.”

“I never get too comfortable.”

“Now, how can I help you?” From the tone of her voice, she wasn’t offering her services.

“I’d like you to come for a ride with me.” Fallon sat down opposite her. “We’ll go up to the North Shore. Drive through Gloucester and Rockport, stop in Newburyport for some fried clams, and go out to Plum Island for a swim.”

She almost liked the idea, but she knew he had come for something more. “Then what?”

“We stop at Marblehead and visit your grandmother.”

“No.” She stood angrily. “You try to make me think that you’re here to see me—not that I care particularly—when all you’re doing is just smelling around again. Leave my grandmother and my family alone and mind your business.”

“You said you’d help me,” he said softly. “I haven’t come here to use you or to take advantage of you. I rarely ask anyone for help of any kind, and I know you’re still upset about your brother. I’m just asking you to hear what I have to say. Then, if you want, you can throw me out.” She sat down again, poured cream into her coffee, and stirred. For a long time, she studied the little eddies which spun through the cup in the wake of the spoon. She was hoping that Fallon might disappear. Without looking up, she said, “I suppose the only way to get rid of you is to listen to you, so finish your speech.”

“Thank you.” He poured himself more coffee and described the Dexter Lovell note. With growing excitement, he told her about the death of an anonymous black and the drowning of Pratt’s grandson in the Back Bay. Then, he paused. He realized that although she was listening closely, the events were too distant to have any meaning for her.

“The tea set disappeared for a hundred and sixty years,” he continued. “According to one story, it was floating around in England. In 1973, it reappeared in the hands of a young art dealer named Lawrence Hannaford.”

She interrupted. “He’s a distant cousin of ours.”

Fallon stopped. The surprise sank in, and he laughed softly. “It gets more complicated.”

“Maybe you’re making it complicated.”

“Or maybe it’s the phantom newsman, a guy named Jack C. Ferguson. He charged that Hannaford’s tea set was a fraud. He couldn’t say any more, however, without the permission of a woman I’m willing to bet is your grandmother.”

With her left hand, Evangeline began to massage the bridge of her nose as though she were getting a headache.

“I’ll be done in a minute.” Fallon knew he was losing her. “After the newsman wrote the article, he started drinking heavily, and no one’s been able to find him since.

“Then, an innocent graduate student visits the ancestral home. I run across Lovell’s note, and a moment later, I’m thrown out of the house, with you close behind. When I see your brother, I ask him about the Golden Eagle, and for just a moment, he’s off balance. He steadies himself quickly, but I’m left wondering.”

She was following the story closely now, but he couldn’t tell if he was convincing her of anything.

“I become more interested, and when I return from your brother’s funeral, I find that people are breaking into my apartment, going through the bookcases, and leaving muddy footprints on the floor.”

“Maybe some student was trying to find the exam question for next semester,” she cracked.

Fallon smiled. “It was the newspaperman. I saw him leave my apartment.”

She stood, suddenly angry. “I don’t buy any of this. It’s all coincidence. Are you trying to tell me that my brother died because of all this nonsense?”

“I don’t know.” He sipped his coffee. “But I believe there’s a connection between what happened in 1814 and what’s been going on the last few days.”

“And you want me to ask you how I can help?”

He told himself she was entitled to her sarcasm. “I’d like you to come with me to Searidge. Help smooth the way so I can talk to your grandmother. Help me get into the attic again.”

She leaned against the sink and folded her arms. “Why don’t you go back to your library and stop wasting your time?”

He shrugged. “I was hoping all this would intrigue you.”

“What intrigues me is getting from one day to the next with as little hassle as possible.”

“That doesn’t sound too exciting.” He laughed.

“Listen, you don’t know anything about me, and I don’t know anything about you. I didn’t ask you to come in here and wake me up and interrupt my life, and I’ll be very happy when you leave.” She turned and tossed her coffee into the sink.

He realized he shouldn’t have come so soon after her brother’s death, or so early in the morning. His own insensitivity surprised him. He got up and walked over to her.

She didn’t look at him. She concentrated on the blank brick wall outside her kitchen window.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess this isn’t the kind of distraction you want just now. I won’t bother you again.” He started to leave.

“Mr. Fallon.”

“He stopped.”

“Are you still going to Searidge?”

“Eventually, but it can wait.” He leaned against the doorjamb between dining room and kitchen. “You know, if you’re interested in a drive up to Plum Island, the offer still goes, and I promise I won’t mention the tea set.”

Her expression softened. She hadn’t decided yet that she liked him, but she was beginning to find him less abrasive. She smiled. “You didn’t wake me up this morning, because I didn’t sleep all night. I started to think about my brother, and I got to feeling pretty bleak. I guess I could use some company right now. The beach sounds nice.”

He thought he had wasted whatever chance he might have had with her. He was happily surprised. “If we leave now, we can beat the crowds to Plum Island.”

She didn’t move. Once she had decided to go with him, it didn’t seem so difficult to stop at Searidge. “I promised my grandmother I’d visit her sometime today. What exactly are you looking for?”

He told her about Abigail Pratt Bentley’s diaries.

“If I help you get those diaries, and there’s nothing in them,
will you go back to your dissertation and forget about the Golden Eagle?”

He hesitated. If she was offering her help, he would not discourage it, but he didn’t want it to seem that he was using her. “Don’t do this unless you’re certain it won’t upset her.”

She had made up her mind. “My grandmother seemed to like you, and she might enjoy a little distraction herself. Tell her your little story about Pratt and the tea set, but no mention of Christopher.”

“What about your aunt and the butler? Can you convince them to let me in?”

“On Wednesdays, Harrison drives my aunt to market at ten o’clock, and they come back around eleven-thirty. I can keep my grandmother and the maid occupied while you go through the attic.”

They drove to Searidge in Evangeline’s red Porsche convertible. On the way, they talked about their occupations, the heat, the Red Sox, and the mutual acquaintances they had at Harvard and Radcliffe. Fallon thought they sounded like two undergraduates making small talk at a college mixer.

They arrived early in Marblehead, so they stopped for breakfast at a restaurant a short distance from the house. Over pancakes and coffee, Evangeline talked about her childhood at Searidge. She had lived there for nine years. In 1952, she explained, her father had been killed by a burglar at Searidge. After that, Katherine Carrington had insisted that her daughter-in-law and grandchildren move in with her. When Evangeline’s mother had remarried in 1961, the family had moved to Exeter, New Hampshire, but Evangeline still considered Searidge her home.

As they turned up the driveway to the house, the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. The lawn, the trees, and the house itself blotted up the humidity, leaving the air on the bluffs crisp and dry.

Fallon felt his stomach muscles tighten. Searidge was as impressive the second time.

They pulled up in front of the house and got out of the car.

“We’re in luck so far,” Evangeline said. “On Wednesday mornings, the Rolls is parked in front of the house between nine-thirty, when Grandmother returns from her piano lesson, and ten o’clock, when Isabelle leaves. The car isn’t there. Isabelle must be gone.”

“Are you certain?”

“Most Pratts and Carringtons are creatures of immutable habit,” she said. “I broke the mold.”

They mounted the porch, and Fallon rang the bell. No one answered. He rang again. No answer. Evangeline was concerned. She didn’t like the Harrisons, but they were the most efficient couple the family had ever had. Usually, one of them was waiting at the door before a visitor was out of his car.

She tried the door. Locked. She looked around at the windows. The shades weren’t drawn, but there seemed to be no life inside.

“Maybe they’ve all gone somewhere together,” said Fallon.

“My grandmother goes to her lesson at eight, returns at nine-thirty, takes tea and toast in the living room or on the back veranda, and reads the
New York Times
until ten-thirty.”

“No variations?”

“Not in the last twenty years.”

They walked through the tennis court to the back of the house. The ocean was crashing on the rocks below, but Katherine Pratt Carrington was not on the porch to enjoy the view, nor, it seemed, was she in the house.

“No
New York Times
and the shades are pulled tight,” said Fallon. “You don’t get too many nosy neighbors driving back here. There’s no sense in letting the sun in the house to fade the oriental rugs.”

“This is all very strange,” said Evangeline, just loudly enough to be heard above the surf.

“Stranger things have happened in the last few weeks. Let’s go inside.”

“I… I don’t know. I feel funny breaking into my grandmother’s house.”

“You’re not breaking in. You lived here for nine years.” Fallon was too close to turn away now.

She hesitated. “I think we should be looking for my grandmother.”

“Your grandmother may be off on a cruise or something. There’s no reason to think she’s disappeared.”

“My grandmother hates the water unless she’s sitting on the veranda three hundred feet above it. She’s not on any cruise.” Her voice was suddenly harsh.

Fallon approached her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Give me one hour in that attic, then we’ll find out where your grandmother has gone.”

As they climbed through a window on the first floor, Fallon noticed a timer connected to the lights in the living room. It was set to turn on at seven and off at eleven.

“They probably have these things all over the house,” he said.

On the third floor, they moved the Winthrop desk aside, opened the panel, and climbed the narrow stairs into the attic. If the house was absorbing heat, it was storing it up here. The room was stifling.

Fallon took a few steps toward the corner of the attic and stopped. “Shit.”

“What’s wrong?”

He looked around the attic. Almost everything was as it had been a week before. The saber still hung from one of the eaves, military uniforms were protected in a large garment bag in the corner, and the rest of the attic junk still clogged the room.

“What the hell is wrong?” demanded Evangeline.

Fallon shook his head in disgust. “I don’t know where your grandmother was going, but she took along all the good magazines to read on the trip.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The box containing Horace Pratt’s papers is gone.” He pointed to a space in the middle of the room. “And right there was a metal box filled with letters, papers, and records. Under the eaves was another box that contained the A.P.B. diaries.” He paused to let it all sink in. “Tell me now that it’s all coincidence.”

Evangeline said nothing. Fallon sat down on the floor next to her. He folded his hands on his knees, put his head on his hands, and studied the floor between his legs. Then he looked at the
dust-free rectangle of floor where the box had sat for decades. As if to satisfy himself that it was gone, he crawled closer. His eyes brightened. A six-inch opening ran all around the attic between the floorboards and the eaves. Fallon scrambled quickly into the little wedge and jammed his hand under the floorboards.