Watch for the Dead (Relatively Dead Book 4) (23 page)

“Are you taking much cash with you?” Ned asked as he dressed the next morning.

“I’m not there to buy, just to pump people for information.”

“What if it turns out they have a family Bible going back to 1683 and think it’s just a musty old book?”

Did that really ever happen?
“Fine, I’ll take cash. At least the place should be easy to find. Are you going into the office this weekend?” The long holiday weekend. Well, he had taken a couple of days off to spend with Ellie and her on the Cape. But still.

“I don’t know yet—depends on how much I get done today.”

“You know, you
are
the boss. You can cut yourself some slack, can’t you?”

“I am endeavoring to set a good example for the rest of my faithful staff. But I won’t stay late, I promise.”

“Hey, before you go—how should I handle contacting Ellie?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, now that we don’t have any regular schedule for seeing each other, I kind of miss her. And I want to know how school’s going, and how Olivia is settling in, but I don’t feel that I can just call, or if I do, maybe I should ration myself?”

Ned sat on the bed to lace up his shoes. “Are you worried about how Leslie will feel about that?”

“Maybe. I’m not trying to take anything away from her relationship with Ellie, and I know she’s being pulled in six directions at the moment, with George, and work, and getting the kids back on some sort of schedule. I don’t want to add to that.”

“I understand, and I’m betting that Leslie will too, when things settle down. Give it some time.”

“I’ll try. But it’s hard.” Abby stood up. “So, you, get going. I want to get to this thing early, and there will be traffic.”

Ned stood as well. “Yes, there will be. Good luck!”

“Thank you. I need some. Now, shoo!”

As soon as Ned had cleared the driveway, Abby gulped down some toast, filled a travel mug with coffee, and headed out. She knew the way to the Cape now, and traffic wasn’t bad until she got to within a few miles of the bridge. At least she’d been prepared for it and was resigned to moving like a snail for a few miles. Once past the rotary beyond the bridge, the road opened up, and she found the exit for Osterville without any trouble. The town itself was small, and there were few turns involved in finding the house she was looking for. In fact, she probably could have found it without a map, given the number of cars already parked near it, despite the early hour.

She parked in the shade of a tree and started walking slowly, looking at the neighborhood. Mostly post–World War Two houses, nice-sized lots, well maintained. Not an affluent neighborhood, at least when it was built, but she didn’t want to think how much it would cost now to buy one of these. She thought she could see the ocean at the far end of the block. The house she was looking for—the one with tables and piles of stuff in the front yard—turned out to be in the middle of the block. No one there could claim an ocean view, unless you stood on the roof. There was a “For Sale” sign planted in the grass in front. A semicircular driveway led from the street to the front of the house, and the grass within it was crammed with articles for sale. A sign with a large arrow pointed around the side of the house: it said simply “MORE.”

Even though it was barely ten, the place was crowded. She wandered around, trying to identify someone who looked like they were in charge, and finally lighted on a rangy woman of about forty, who looked frazzled, running from one place to another and fielding questions as she went. It wasn’t going to be easy to hold a conversation with her about her ancestor Isabel, or more accurately, her father-in-law Franklin. On the other hand, if the place was for sale, she might not get another chance. She had to try.

Abby approached the woman briskly and said, “Is this your house?”

“Yeah. Want to buy it?” the woman said, counting out change for someone else.

“Are you Brenda Whitman?”

The woman stopped and glared at Abby. “Yeah. So?”

“I’m looking for Franklin Whitman,” Abby told her.

The woman pushed her hair out of her face. “He’s dead. My father-in-law. I’m married to his son Steven. Look, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of busy here. You want to give me a bill or serve notice or something? Or you’re welcome to buy whatever you like. Other than that, I’ve got stuff to do.”

“Was your husband’s great-grandmother Isabel Flagg?” Abby said desperately.

The woman fixed her with a glare that would have shattered glass. “What’s it to you? I told you, I’m busy. You want to talk about the past, it’s her you want.” The woman pointed to an older woman, seated in the shade of the garage, watching the melee in the yard. “My mother-in-law. I don’t care about old stories—I just want to get this place cleared out so I can get out of here.”

“Thank you for your help,” Abby said to her retreating back. She made her way over to the older woman, who was seated in a flimsy aluminum-and-strap yard chair that looked ready to collapse. “Excuse me—your, uh, daughter-in-law said you might know something about the Whitman family history?”

The woman looked to be in her seventies, but her eyes were sharp. “And why might you want to know?”

“I’m looking for information about Isabel Flagg, who married Bailey Whitman in Waltham. She was the adopted daughter of my great-great-great-grandfather William.”

The woman studied her face for a moment, then smiled. “Isabel wasn’t adopted, dear. She was William’s own child. Let’s go around back where it’s quieter. We need to talk.”

The woman stood up with relative ease, and Abby, struck dumb, followed her around to the back of the building. There were people rummaging through more piles of items, but it was less crazy than the front yard. The woman pointed toward a pair of white wooden Adirondack chairs tucked into a corner of the patio. “Sit, please.” Abby sat.

“We’d better start with introductions, I assume. I am Edna Whitman—Whitman was my married name. My late husband, Franklin, named for his father, and I bought this house when we married, and brought up our kids here. When my husband died I turned it over to my son Steven—that one’s husband”—Edna nodded toward the front—“and now they’re moving away. He’s taken a new job in Baltimore. They’ve got an offer on the house, which is why they’re dumping all this stuff in such a hurry. I don’t have room for it, where I am now—it’s a retirement community. Nice enough, but the apartments are small, and there’s not much storage. I just wanted to see it all one last time.”

“I’m Abigail Kimball—Abby. I’m descended from William Flagg and his wife, Elizabeth Reed, but I only found out last year, so I’m just starting out, putting the pieces together.”

Edna nodded, once. “I’ve got Reed ancestors too. Have you met William?”

Abby stared at her, stunned. “You mean William Flagg? The one who died in 1914?”

“That’s the only William in the family. He never had a son, you know.”

Abby swallowed.
Might as well tell the truth
. “Yes, I met him in Waltham, last fall.”

Edna smiled. “I thought so. You’re descended from Olivia. So you know that Isabel was a good bit younger than she was?”

“Yes, I noticed that. You’re saying she was William’s own child?”

“Nobody ever did the DNA stuff, but that was the story that came down through the family. How much do you know about William?”

“He sounds like an interesting person, someone I’d like to know.”

“He was that. Hardworking, determined. He dabbled in a lot of things, and some worked out better than others. He was smart—when he made a chunk of money, before 1900, he tied it up in a trust for the two girls. That’s where Olivia’s money came from. Not from her husband.” Edna sniffed.

“You don’t like Samuel?”

“Not much. He was kind of a parasite. And a whiner.”

Abby smiled. “I don’t like him either. But the money didn’t last long. Why do you know so much about all this?”

Edna shrugged. “When I was younger, women didn’t work so much, especially after the children came. Once they were out of the house I got kind of bored. You can’t read all the time, and I didn’t like to join women’s clubs and such, so I got interested in the family history. I’ve been working on it, oh, twenty years now—mine and my husband’s. Computers have been a big help.”

“That they have, which is how I ended up here. When’s the move happening?”

“Next week—anything that doesn’t sell today will go to the dump or a church jumble sale or something. You’re lucky you found us when you did. If it was luck.”

“You mean Olivia sent me here?”

“Maybe. Do I sound like a crazy old lady?”

“Only if that makes me a crazy young lady. I’ve found a few others, too. It seems to run in families. Like the Reeds.”

“You’re lucky. In all my years, I’ve only connected with a couple of others, and we could never really talk about it. Sad, isn’t it? Like ignoring the color purple just because other people can’t see it.”

“I know what you mean.”

“So, what brings you here today, Abby?” Edna asked.

Abby glanced around quickly, to be sure no one was likely to overhear what promised to be a very strange conversation. The coast was clear, since everyone was absorbed with trying to find treasures among the junk on the tables. “I just found out that Olivia owned a house in West Falmouth, toward the end of her life. By accident I ended up spending a few nights there, without even knowing it had been hers. While I was there, I saw her, during that big storm last week. She was sitting outside in the rain and crying. I wanted to know why—why she owned that house, what she was doing there, and mostly, why she was so sad.”

“They get under your skin, don’t they?” Edna said softly. “But I think I’m one of the few people in the world who can help you answer that. Come with me.”

Edna stood up, and Abby followed her through a back door into the garage, which, like the front yard, was piled with junk marked with price tags. Edna went directly over to one corner, where there was a stack of battered Bankers Boxes. Edna pointed. “This is all that’s left of the family papers. To be honest, I’d forgotten they were in the attic—or rather, crawl space up top. I hadn’t been up there for years. When Brenda went nuts trying to get everything out of the house, she found them. She was ready to throw them away, but I told her they were mine and to set them aside. You’re welcome to them.”

Abby looked at the boxes, incredulous. “I can’t take those—they belong to your family.”

“Well, I sure as heck can’t take them back to my place, and believe me, Steven’s sons aren’t interested. I’d ask that you don’t throw them away, in case anyone comes looking later, but I think they’d be a lot safer with you than getting thrown around in this move. If they don’t end up in the Dumpster while I’m not looking.”

Abby smiled. “Then I would be happy to have them, and I’ll take good care of them. I can scan the stuff, if you like.”

“Don’t worry about it now,” Edna said.

“Do you know what I’m going to find?” Abby asked.

“I’ve got some guesses. Olivia kept the painting, didn’t she?”

Abby was dumbfounded—again. “How do you know about the painting?”

Edna nodded toward the boxes. “The story’s in there. Where is it now?”

“The painting? My mother has it. It’s one of the few things that came down through the family from Olivia. Olivia’s daughter had a difficult life, so I guess a lot was lost. You probably know that William was a big supporter of the artist and his friends.”

“Yes, I do. There are some interesting flyers and ads and such in those boxes, about William’s exhibits.”

“Edna, I’m kind of overwhelmed by all this. You are incredibly generous, and I can’t wait to look at what’s in those boxes. Can we get together and talk after I’ve gone through them?”

“Of course, my dear. My place is this side of Falmouth. And where are you?”

“Lexington. Not far.”

“Then I’d be delighted to offer you tea when you come.”

“That would be lovely. One more thing—are there any other items I should rescue from this sale?”

“Why don’t we go look? I think there’s some old china, and other odds and ends.”

They spent a pleasant half hour poking among the piles of stuff—the residue of a couple of generations of Whitmans, all muddled together. Abby found a few small items that attracted her, including a pretty china cup and saucer that looked old. She looked at Edna, who winked at her. She took the cup and paid the cranky daughter-in-law, who handed her a plastic bag and went off to cajole someone else into taking something, anything off her hands. Abby wrapped the cup and stowed it in her purse, then went back to her car, to move it closer so she could put Edna’s boxes in her trunk. She lucked out when somebody pulled away close to the driveway. Edna was waiting at the curb, and went with her into the garage.

When Abby grabbed up the first box to take to the car, Brenda rushed over. “Hey, you haven’t paid for that.”

Edna stepped in front of Abby. “Brenda, those are my personal possessions, and I’ve given this young lady permission to take them. It’s only the boxes in the corner, and they’re mine to do with as I choose.”

Brenda gave her a dirty look but turned away. Edna told Abby, “You go right ahead and load them up.” Abby hurried to comply before Brenda changed her mind or decided to inspect the boxes. Did she really think Abby would be stealing tacky stuff from a yard sale? Did people do that kind of thing?

When everything was safely stowed in the car, Abby turned back to Edna. “Thank you so much, Edna. Give me your number and I’ll call you in a week or two, if that’s all right?”

“That’s fine, dear. Do you have a piece of paper?”

Abby rummaged in her bag and came up with a postcard from Falmouth. “Here, use this.”

Edna laboriously wrote on the card and handed it back to Abby. “Good luck, my dear. And please remember: don’t judge too harshly.”

Abby had no idea what Edna was talking about, but maybe the answer lay in the boxes. “I can’t thank you enough, Edna.”

“I’m just happy these are going to a good home.” Edna stepped back, and Abby pulled out of the parking space. Once back on the main road, she saw that traffic had picked up, mainly headed farther out the Cape, but she still wanted to take one more look at the house in West Falmouth, now that she knew so much more about it. And it was on the way, wasn’t it?