The Blue Bottle Club (15 page)

"Anyway," Franny said, brightening, "I'm sure you don't want to hear me ramble on about goats and allergies."

The understatement of the decade,
Brendan thought, but of course she didn't say so. She glanced at her watch, wondering what she'd have to do to extricate herself from Franny Carpenter-Claymaker. But before she had a chance to think up an excuse about some phantom appointment, Franny grabbed her arm and twisted it around. "Is it twelve-thirty already? My goodness! I'll bet you're waiting to meet someone for lunch!" She waved a hand toward the deli. "I do hope I'm not keeping you."

"No, not at all." Brendan's response came out automatically, before it registered that the woman was giving her the perfect out. She could have kicked herself.

"Well, then, how about joining
me!
I'd love to treat you—"

"That's not necessary," Brendan hedged.

"All right, we'll go Dutch, then. But at least let me buy dessert. The Park has the most wonderful pastries and pies—"

Before she knew what had happened, Brendan found herself seated on the upper level of the Park Deli, ordering a grilled chicken salad. Franny opted for the vegetarian lasagna—no surprise there—and spent the next nine minutes (Brendan timed it) chattering about the benefits of tofu and her personal aversion to eating anything that had once had a face.

"So," Franny said when their iced tea arrived, "what brings you down here? A follow-up story about the Sandburg home?"

"Not really." Brendan stirred artificial sweetener into her tea. "I'm doing background work, actually, for a future story. I'm looking for an elderly woman, and my last clue to her whereabouts was a postcard from the Flat Rock Playhouse. But I've been all over Flat Rock and Hendersonville and haven't found her—or anyone who knows her. I'm about ready to give up."

Franny gave a little squeal and gripped Brendan's wrist until the skin turned white. "I
work
at the Playhouse now!" she gushed. "Maybe I can be of some help—you know, see what we can track down together."

"I thought the Playhouse was closed for the season."

"Well, yes, the plays run through mid-October—you just missed our last musical, in fact. But during the off-season we're making preparations for the coming year. The offices are open, and planning is going on." The food arrived, and Franny attacked her lasagna as if it might scuttle away. "When we're done here, we'll go down and see what we can find."

Brendan picked at her own salad and silently urged Granola Franny to hurry. It might be a long shot, but it was the only shot she had.

"This is so much fun," Franny said as she waited for the computer to boot up. "Like detective work and television all rolled into one."

Brendan was tempted to ask if the woman even had electricity in her house, much less a television set. Franny seemed the type who would find intrinsic value in outhouses and oil lamps. But Brendan kept her mouth shut. Despite her eccentricities, this woman just might give her something to work with. At that moment, Brendan would have swapped her fine house on Town Mountain for a hillbilly cabin in the woods—if the trade would lead her to Adora Archer.

"Okay," Franny was saying. "We're ready to go. What's the lady's name?"

"Adora Archer," Brendan replied. "A-D-O-R-A."

"Odd name." Franny typed in the name and punched a few keys. "Nope. Nothing here."

"Where are you looking?"

"Ticket sales—both season tickets and individual."

Brendan thought a minute. Letitia didn't have much information about Adora from later years—only a few Christmas cards and the Flat Rock postcard. Maybe Adora had gotten married, taken her husband's name.

"I don't suppose the gift shop keeps computer records of sales," she suggested.

"For a postcard? I doubt it. Not unless it was paid for by credit card." Franny grinned at her little joke and tried again. "Nothing. Sorry."

"Can you run a search
on first
names? She might have gotten married."

"If we just knew more about her—"

"I don't know much more than what I've told you. She'd be in her eighties by now—82, 83, somewhere around there. She was originally from Asheville and left in 1930 to go to California. Wanted to become a movie star."

"An actress?" Franny warmed to the chase. "Why didn't you tell me? Let me check—"

"Check what?" Brendan interrupted, but Franny held up a hand for silence.

"Just a minute. I'll do a cross-link. There!"

Brendan felt her heart race with the clicking of the keys. "Did you find something?"

"I just thought—well, no. I guess not."

"What?"

"There is an Archer here, but it's a middle name, not a last. C. Archer Lovell. Bought two sets of season tickets the last three years in a row. Oh, wait. There's another Lovell."

"More tickets?"

"No, this one is in the actors' workshop—or was. Name: Addie A. Lovell. Date of birth, 1912. Had a bit part two years ago, apparently, in one of the crowd scenes in
Carousel."
Franny turned. "Not your gal, apparently, but can you imagine being eighty years old and still on stage?" She flipped her long hair away from her face. "Guess they do it all the time, though—look at George Burns."

Brendan turned away from the computer screen and sighed. "Well, thanks for trying anyway, Franny. I appreciate your time."

"If there's anything else I can do for you, Miss Delaney, just give me a call." Franny clicked a key, and the screen saver came up. "Want me to send you a brochure for next season? We've got a good lineup."

"That'd be nice," Brendan murmured as she closed the door behind her.

She sat for a long time in the 4Runner, with the cobalt blue bottle in one hand and the postcard Letitia had given her in the other. Brendan examined the postcard one more time, although she didn't know why—she had practically memorized it by now.
Old dreamers never die,
the message said. No signature, just that wavering, spidery hand. Postmarked Flat Rock, NC, April 9, 1992.

She turned the card over and looked absently at the photo. A stage scene, with the words
Flat Rock Playhouse
superimposed across the bottom. Rather dark, in fact—not a very good picture. The stage was crowded with costumed people, all circling around a life-size merry-go-round. . . .

Carousel!

Addie A. Lovell, Franny had said. Addie. Could it be . . . Adora? And the other Lovell, the person with the middle name of Archer, who bought season tickets—

Brendan shoved the bottle back into her bag and bolted for the office. "Franny!" she yelled as she slammed through the door. "Get those names back for me, will you?"

In the space of two minutes—an interminable two minutes, by Brendan Delaney's internal clock—Franny had the lists up on parallel screens: the season ticket holders on one side, the actors' workshop people on the other.

"Can you isolate Addie A. Lovell and C. Archer Lovell?" Franny nodded. "Now, what about addresses?"

Franny clicked the mouse on a pull-down menu and said, "Oh, wow."

"What?" Brendan snapped impatiently.

"Same address."She clicked on an icon in the upper left of the screen and poised her hand over the printer. A page slid out, and she handed it to Brendan. "I know this place. Take the road past the Sandburg house. After you pass the access drive that goes into the goat barns, it'll be the next driveway on the right."

"I owe you," Brendan called over her shoulder as she dashed for the door.

"The juiciest porterhouse in town." She stopped and grinned at Franny, who was making a face. "Or a big hunk of hummus. Your choice."

15

GRANMADDIE

B
rendan held her foot on the brake and peered through the windshield at the house to which Franny Granola had directed her. It had to be a mistake.

The long driveway, flanked by ancient oaks, evergreens, and rhododendron, had shrouded the home with a living curtain of privacy until she came around the last curve and broke into the clearing. Then the full impact of the place assaulted her senses, as the architect and landscaper had obvi-Dusly intended. The house stood like a magnificent pearl against the green
of
the lawn. Three stories high, all white, with massive turrets, twin spires, and Victorian gingerbread, it was a palace, not a private house.

Brendan looked around for some kind of historical marker, some indication that the place was open for tours. But she saw nothing. Only a silver-blue BMW convertible parked next to a three-tiered fountain at the end of the front walkway.

She drove forward another hundred yards, stopped, and got out. The estate was totally secluded, surrounded by gardens and woods, and so hushed that it gave her the odd sensation that she should tiptoe up the brick walk to the door.

She took a deep breath, shouldered her bag, and rang the bell.

A pleasant-looking young woman answered the door, dressed in faded jeans and a Vanderbilt sweatshirt. "May I help you?"

Brendan fumbled in her bag and handed over a business card. "I'm Brendan Delaney with station WLOS."

"I see. I'm sorry, Miss Delaney, but you see, I simply don't give interviews."

Brendan regarded the young woman. She seemed like a gracious, well-brought-up girl in her twenties—a college student, perhaps. She had straight blonde hair cut very short and brown eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses. There was nothing pretentious about her, either in her tone or her manner. And she was smiling—but she clearly did not want a reporter on the premises.

"I—I'm sorry," Brendan said. "I'm afraid I didn't make myself clear. I'm not here for an interview. I'm looking for someone, and I was given this address. An elderly woman, in her eighties. Perhaps I've made a mistake. Forgive me for disturbing you."

"Wait." The girl stepped out onto the porch and peered at Brendan. "What's her name, if I might ask? The woman you're looking for?"

"Archer. Adora Archer."

The brown eyes flitted away for a moment. "And why are you looking for her?"

Brendan considered her answer. Gut instinct told her that this young woman was more likely to be swayed by personal motives than professional ones. Never mind the story. She could get to that later. "Letitia Cameron sent me. She's a very old friend of Miss Archer's, and she—"

A transformation swept over the girl's face, a look of wonder, almost awe. "I can't believe it. After all these years. Please, come in, Miss"—she looked at the card again— "Miss Delaney."

Brendan followed the girl through a marbled foyer into a high-ceilinged room on the left. A library, with tall bookcases flanking an enormous fireplace. Comfortable, overstuffed chairs and a love seat circled around the hearth, and the girl waved a hand. "Have a seat. Would you like something to drink? Coffee or iced tea?"

"Not right now, thanks." Brendan sat down and placed her bag on the oriental rug at her feet.

"Letitia is alive, then?" the girl said eagerly. "Granmaddie will be so thrilled."

"Granmaddie?"

"My grandmother. Adora Archer. Or, rather, Adora
Lovell."
She took one look at the expression on Brendan's face and began to laugh. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't introduce myself, did I? I'm Dee Lovell."

For a minute all Brendan could focus on was the truth that Adora Archer was still alive. That she was sitting across from the old woman's granddaughter. That even if Adora didn't live here, this young girl obviously kept in touch with her and could set her on the right track.

Then her mind came to attention.
Dee, the girl had said.
Her name was Dee. But the receipt for the Playhouse tickets had been under a different name. C. Archer Lovell. Who, then, was C. Archer, the mystery Lovell whose American Express Gold card had paid for the tickets? Not this fresh-faced youngster, surely.

The reporter in her kicked in. "You live here? Not just you." This house had to be eight thousand square feet, minimum. Brendan had seen whole apartments smaller than the library they presently occupied.

"Some people would consider this a little excessive, I realize," Dee admitted. "But I wanted a peaceful place, somewhere I could write and not be disturbed. And when I found this on the Internet, in the very mountains where Granmaddie grew up, well, I just fell in love and couldn't resist it. It gives me"—she grinned broadly— "a sense of place, you know?"