41
O N SATURDAY, THE CORONER MADE A SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT. HE WAS placed in the embarrassing position of admitting that further examination of the bones had shown them to be those of a small dog believed to be Katy Ducane’s pet. Lefebvre later told me that he had talked his partner, Matt Arden, into being the bearer of bad news. I had a feeling Arden was often the ambassador for Lefebvre.
Woolsey blamed an assistant for the error. The Express and the rest of the fourth estate did not go easy on Woolsey, but it would have been worse if he had tried a cover-up.
Max stayed in touch over the weekend, calling me a couple of times each day, usually just to ask if I had learned anything new. I gave him my home number, and he called me there a few times, too, always careful not to call too late. More than once, I got the feeling that it was more difficult for him to be “possibly-the-kidnapped-one” than “not-the-kidnapped-one.”
The reward was published. Lots of calls came in, both to the paper and to the police. I didn’t see a lot of promise in those made to the Express.
One call, from a woman, might have been an exception. Within a moment after she asked if I was Irene Kelly, something made me believe she knew something. Exactly why I was so sure she wasn’t another crank, I can’t say. Maybe it was her nervousness, when other callers had been cocky, more eager to know about the conditions attached to the reward than to tell me anything. She said she didn’t want the reward money. She just wanted to talk to me. Just me, not the police. She sounded upset. I found myself praying I could keep her on the line long enough to get her to tell me her phone number. But she hung up before I could respond with more than, “I’d love to hear whatever it is you have to say…”
I stayed off my phone for two hours, hoping she’d call back. I pissed off everyone near me because I used their phones instead. That was all I got out of that.
On Monday, I learned that the Baer house was sold-apparently over the weekend-but the real estate agent would not reveal the name of the buyer to me. Telling her I would eventually see it on county property records did not make the least impression on her.
I talked O’Connor into going over more of his notes from 1958 with me. We talked about the property records for the area near the cabin where Gus Ronden’s body had been found. He mentioned that Katy Ducane, Lillian and Harold Linworth, and Thelma and Barrett Ducane owned cabins not far from Baer’s. Katy’s was then bequeathed to Jack Corrigan. Helen owned it now.
I gave her a call and asked her if she remembered a guy named Griffin Baer living near her mountain cabin. She said no. I asked about the enclave of folks from Las Piernas; she said the Vanderveers had owned two or three cabins and a lodge up there for as long as anyone could remember, and the Ducanes were merely trying to keep up with them. A few members of Lillian’s social circle had bought cabins after visiting hers. “And naturally, there were friends of friends, too.”
“Why did Katy give her cabin to Jack?”
There was a long pause before she answered. “To be honest, I was surprised about that. Jack and Katy were very close. She called him ‘Uncle Jack,’ but the truth is, Jack was more of a father to her than Harold. Harold Linworth wasn’t home more than two days out of seven, and he never paid much attention to Katy. Jack spent a lot of time with her. She probably realized that he’d never have enough money of his own to afford a second home. She was a generous girl. Jack loved to go up there, although at first, I think it was hard on him-he missed her.”
“O’Connor said she made the will just a day or two before she died. Do you know why?”
She seemed to weigh her words carefully. “No one knows what was on her mind with any certainty, of course. I believe Mitch Yeager said something to upset her.”
“What do you mean?”
“She tried to talk to Jack about it at the party. Gave him a note. Didn’t O’Connor tell you about it?”
“No,” I said, looking over to his desk, where he was typing a story.
“I’m sure it just slipped his mind.”
“Helen, I can handle it if he lies to me, but not if you do, too.”
There was a brief silence. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“So tell me about this note.”
“Katy worried that Mitch might be her father.”
“What?”
“Irene, it was a lie. I will never forgive Mitch for upsetting her. She should have had a happier birthday. She should have…” She broke off.
She was crying. I felt terrible. “I don’t mean to upset you, Helen-”
“I know, I know. I’ll be all right. I thought I had accepted the fact of her death years ago. I guess I didn’t.”
“It hasn’t been so long since you lost Jack,” I said. “That can’t make this any easier.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she said. I heard her take a steadying breath. “You were asking about Mitch and Katy.”
“Mitch said that to her at her birthday party?”
“No. Mitch wasn’t at the party. You should call Lillian. She may be able to tell you more about it.”
“I will,” I said.
She seemed to be doing better by the end of the call, but I felt so bad, I almost forgot to be angry with O’Connor for not telling me important facts.
Almost.
I asked him to go to lunch with me. We told Geoff where we could be found and went to a little café that was about half a block from the paper. We talked over the weird and basically useless calls we had received from people trying to collect the reward. We ate our sandwiches. I waited until we were done with all of that before I confronted him.
He wasn’t bothered in the least. “Mitch lied to her. Why am I obliged to repeat his lies?”
“Gee, because maybe it’s important information all the same?”
He shrugged. “How could it be?”
“For God’s sake, O’Connor-”
“I talked to Wrigley again. He said if your friend really wants to lose an editorial position to work news side, it’s up to her. But he wants thirty days to find a new food editor. And he wants to be the one to tell her.”
I stared at him a moment. “You are trying to change the subject.”
“I am trying to make amends.”
Before he could say more, a man walked up to us and said, “I’ve been looking all over for you.” The remark was directed to O’Connor.
This guy was a little older than me, tanned, muscular-and handsome, I suppose, but there was something about him that I disliked immediately. He was wearing a tight-fitting T-shirt, blue jeans, and work boots. He knew exactly how good he looked in them. Maybe he overestimated on that score. Spoiled brat, I thought.
“Irene,” O’Connor was saying, “this is my son, Kenny.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, holding out a hand he glanced at, but didn’t shake.
He returned his attention to his dad. “Look, about that car loan-”
“Let’s not discuss that here,” O’Connor said, folding his arms across his chest.
Kenny opened his mouth to protest, then seemed distracted. He was looking toward the entrance of the café. I was seated facing the other way, but at the radical change in his expression, I turned around-just in time to see disaster approaching.
Kenny was staring in adoration at a tall, good-looking redhead with big green eyes. I was looking at my sister, thinking that she always did have shitty timing.
I introduced her to everyone. Kenny suddenly found his manners and shook her hand-holding on to it a little longer than civility required. As for Barbara, I strongly suspect she hadn’t planned to be as polite to me as she was. O’Connor and I exchanged a glance.
“Barbara,” I said, “we have to get back to the paper, but I’d like to talk to you. Want to walk with us?”
“I haven’t had lunch yet,” she said, in a voice you might hear from a starving kitten, if starving kittens could talk.
Kenny had the charm turned on full blast by then. “Hey-I need to talk to my dad, you need to talk to your sister. Let me buy you lunch, then I’ll walk with you over to the paper and we can talk to them there.”