The Address, page 16
The silence stretched on. “Hey, Dad. I have an idea. Why don’t I come on down on the train and we’ll go out to the Lobster Shanty?”
“No, you don’t have to do that. I’m perfectly happy.”
The thought of him alone on his birthday was too much for her to bear. No matter how little they had in common these days. “I’ll be on the next train. You’ll pick me up?”
“All right. If that’s what you want.” His voice offered no hint of pleasure. But then, hers probably didn’t either.
She threw some clothes into an overnight bag and navigated the subway to the train, which then sat at the Newark station for more than forty-five minutes. By the time she disembarked at Point Pleasant Station, the sun was fading in the sky and her stomach growled with hunger.
Her father, Jack, was leaning against the hood of his ancient Volkswagen bug. She’d hated that car through high school, a jalopy that constantly broke down. He gave her an awkward hug. “Thought you’d got lost.”
The last time they’d seen each other was in the spring, when she was bursting with news of her many clients through Tristan. She’d walked around their house, pointing out small changes he could make to bump up the decor, knowing he wouldn’t do a thing but desperately wanting to impress.
Jack couldn’t care less about Moorish tiles or Laura Ashley linens. He ran an auto repair shop, for goodness’ sake, as his father had. He must have seen through her posturing as she dropped names of fashion and art world icons, then laughed at his ignorance. Her stomach curdled with shame and she wished she hadn’t offered to visit. They were so different from each other.
“Since you’re so late, I figured we’d just pick up a sub.”
Did he want her to insist on the restaurant, or was he just too hungry to wait for a table, like her?
“Sure. Sounds like a good plan.”
They drove along the main road, and she tried not to stare too hard at the spot where one of her classmates sophomore year had launched his car into a tree, killing himself and his passenger. Her first taste of the capriciousness of life. Jack’s hands gripped the wheel a little tighter until they were past, probably thinking of another car accident and her mother’s last moments. One that they would not discuss, not even on the anniversary of her death. She checked her watch. Twelve years ago today, at five o’clock in the afternoon, Peggy had been driving back from the mall, where she’d bought some last-minute gift for Jack, and had never come home.
Twelve years ago, at this very moment, Bailey had been sulking in her room because they wouldn’t let her skip the birthday dinner to go out with her friends.
How badly she still wanted to try to reverse time, to change the outcome. Because this outcome was unacceptable.
Jack turned down their street, at the corner of which stood Bob’s Beetle Shop. No one in the family was named Bob, but her grandfather had liked the alliteration, apparently. Or he didn’t want people to know who really owned it. It must’ve been a shock, growing up in a luxurious city apartment and winding up fixing cars in a New Jersey beach town.
“How’s business?”
“Same as always.”
“The shop looks good. Did you paint it?”
“Nope. Same as last time you saw it.”
This was going to be a titillating evening, she could tell.
He pulled up to their house, two stories clad with cedar shakes sporting powder-blue shutters on the upper-story windows, the color chosen by her mother. Squat summer beach houses with low-maintenance yards of round, white stones peppered the neighborhood. Old ladies down from Newark for the summer would sit and yell from their screened-in porches if the kids got too noisy in the after-dinner hours. No sidewalks lined their roads; instead, the asphalt crumbled into the sandy shoulder and the roots of stunted pine trees.
The stairs creaked as she headed up to her room. The upstairs hallway was lined with family photos and framed artwork from her high school days. She paused a moment, examining each one with a fresh perspective, looking for signs of Sara Smythe in their faces. At the very end, near the top of the stairs, was a sketch she’d seen a million times in passing but never really studied. Not one of her own. A pen drawing of a pretty cottage, like the kind you’d find in a fairy tale, with some kind of vine growing along the side. Even though the drawing was small, the details drew her in.
In the corner was scrawled Theo. Camden.
She lifted it off its hook and held it up to the light, examining every inch. Her grandfather must have taken it with him when he left, one memento to remember his family by. The leaves of the vine were exquisite, each leaf outlined and shaded in. Along the trunk, she noticed an irregularity and turned the drawing sideways.
For Sara.
The words were clearly scrawled inside the trunk, but only readable from an angle.
Theodore Camden had drawn this for Sara Smythe.
Bailey settled in at the kitchen table, her mind whirling with questions. Jack offered up local town gossip between bites of an overstuffed sub. She filled him in on the Dakota job, and together they muddled through another meal, painfully aware of the lack of her mother, who’d acted as the connective tissue between the two of them.
“Do you have cake mix? I’ll make you a cake,” she offered.
“No need. I bought a pack of Snickers bars. You can put a candle in it if you like.”
“Really?”
“No. I don’t have any candles. Just kidding.”
She went to the pantry and pulled out two Snickers bars. “Do you want me to sing to you? Because you know I will.”
He laughed as he unwrapped the candy. “Only if you want to encourage the feral cats that live behind the D’Agostinos’ house.”
When they used to go out in the family car, Jack would turn up the radio as loud as it could go to drown out Bailey’s voice, and she’d hit the wrong notes on purpose, egging him on as her mother screeched for him to turn it down.
His teasing softened her anxiety, lowered her guard. “You know, Dad, I’m sorry I haven’t been around.”
“You’re doing your own thing these days, as you should.” He shrugged.
“Actually, I’ve been digging around some of the old family trunks in the Dakota, ones that belonged to Melinda’s great-grandparents, Theodore and Minnie Camden. They’re the ones who raised Granddad, right?”
“I guess you could call it that. Theodore Camden died when he was a baby, so your grandfather was really raised by the wife.”
“Right. When did Minnie die?”
Jack considered the question as he chewed on his birthday candy bar. “When my dad was fifteen or so. He’d been raised as if he were one of her children, but when she died, he found out he got nothing. All of the inheritance went to the other three kids. Hit him hard.”
Before finding the trunk, Bailey hadn’t thought much of her family tree. They’d been ghosts, not important in her life or her future. But touching the items in the trunks had changed all that. Not to mention seeing that photo. “Then he joined the navy?”
“Nope. He joined the merchant marine.”
“What’s the difference?”
“During peacetime they work on ships that carry goods. Only in wartime are they called out to transport troops and equipment.”
“Huh. How did he end up in New Jersey?”
“He met my mother while at port in New York and they settled down here, where she’d grown up.”
“Then he opened up the auto shop.”
“That’s right. Why all the questions?”
She chose her words carefully. “I found this weird photograph in one of the trunks. It’s really old, but the woman looks like me.”
“Who is she?”
“Name was Sara Smythe. She worked in the Dakota, for a time. In the photo, she’s holding Granddad, and the other kids of Theodore Camden’s are standing next to her.”
“And she looks like you?”
“Yeah. The super of the building pointed it out. He’s right. Looks like you, too.”
He sat back and rubbed his belly with one hand, an amused grin on his face. Which made his right eyebrow stand up.
“Even more intriguing, she’s the one who killed Theodore Camden. And get this, before dinner, I noticed that sketch of the cottage at the top of the stairs. It’s signed by Theo Camden and in the drawing he’s written For Sara, kind of like Hirschfeld does his Ninas.”
“Who?”
“He’s this artist who draws Broadway stars and in every one . . .” She waved her hand. “Never mind. What if Sara Smythe killed him in a fit of passion because they’d been having some mad affair?”
He shook his head. “You’ve been reading too many romance novels. Christopher was a ward of the family, not a member of it.”
“How do we know? Did he know anything about his birth family?”
“Never mentioned it.”
She wished he were alive now so she could ask him all the questions that were burning inside her. “Because if Theodore had an affair, and had Granddad Christopher, who had you, who then had me, it means I’m related to Theodore Camden.”
Jack considered her for a moment. “You’d like that, would you?” His tone had turned cold.
She’d pushed too far. “I guess. I don’t know.”
He stared at his hands, studying the dirty fingernails and the cracked skin as if they belonged to someone else. “Your mother loved the few months she lived in New York City, and to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t sure that she’d be happy returning home, settling down. When she learned about the connection to the Camdens, she insisted we get back in touch. I think she imagined we’d be welcomed like long-lost relatives, invited over for cocktails and dinner parties. Little did she know.”
“Granddad hadn’t stayed in touch at all?”
“Nope. He felt rejected, orphaned twice over after Mrs. Camden’s death. Can’t say I blame him. The others, the ones we called our ‘cousins,’ had an easy life. While he was left to scrimp by.” He crumpled the Snickers wrapper in his hand, then took her wrapper and did the same before getting up and walking over to the garbage. “I’m not like them, and I’m proud of that. No need to be fancy.”
Meaning Bailey was. She twisted in her seat but couldn’t see his face.
He continued on. “Your mother wanted to be part of their family, to be accepted. She did this because she wanted better things for you. I guess that all worked out.”
“I guess so.”
Two thoughts struck her at the same time: That she hadn’t thought of drinking in more than three hours, a record to date. And that she really wanted a beer.
Christopher, her grandfather, had carried a chip on his shoulder all his life because he’d been brought up to believe he was an equal when really he was not. Jack had inherited that same chip.
To be perfectly honest, she had as well. She wanted desperately to be related to a killer, because then there was a chance she was really a Camden.
In which case, the circumstances that shamed her, growing up in a run-down neighborhood in a sad shore town, would not apply.
“Look, Dad. I’ve been having some trouble lately. Not now, not anymore. But earlier this year. That’s why I haven’t reached out.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“With drinking. That kind.”
“Your grandfather was a nasty drunk. Hope you don’t mean that kind.” His eyes were guarded.
A family history of alcoholism. She’d been told that was likely in rehab. It must’ve been bad if Jack had never mentioned it before. He obviously didn’t want to revisit the issue now.
“It’s no big deal. Everything’s fine.”
“I’m sure you have a lot on your plate.” He eyed the oven clock. “I have an early start tomorrow. What time do you want to get dropped off at the train?”
His dismissal landed hard, like a blow to her gut. She turned the conversation back to the auto shop and busied herself with the dishes. Her father was disappointed by her lack of fortitude, and her first response was to do something, anything, to assuage his discomfort. To smooth down her own rough edges in order to keep the peace.
In any event, he wasn’t interested in the story of her addiction. Or he knew what was coming and didn’t want to hear it without her mom by his side to soften the blow. Jack wasn’t that type of parent, never had been. Not interested in the hard stuff. Why should he be, since she’d not taken much interest in his life at all these past many years? She’d tackled the big world and figured he’d stay as he was, inaccessible and immovable as a figure in a snow globe.
She dried her hands with a dishrag. “Don’t worry about tomorrow morning, Dad. I’ll call a cab. I’m going to head upstairs now, dig around for some winter stuff to bring back to the city.”
“All right, then. Thanks for the birthday treat.”
“A sub and a Snickers. I’ll do better next year, I promise.” She crept up the stairs and rummaged around as he locked up the house. She could hear his heavy footfalls as he went from room to room, checking windows, closing latches, when the worst had already happened.
In the upstairs hallway, she lifted the drawing off its hook, wrapped it in a sweater, and stashed it in her bag. Jack wouldn’t even miss it, if he’d ever even noticed it in the first place.
Bailey retreated to her room and closed the door. Jack paused for a moment when he finally came up, but her soft “Hello” was answered by the click of his own bedroom door closing.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
New York City, January 1885
Something wasn’t right. The week prior, Sara had headed to the Westlakes’ apartment on the third floor only to find herself lost on the other side of the building, saved by Mr. O’Connor, one of the elevator operators, who pointed her in the right direction. The blunder had left her shaken. She knew the corridors of the Dakota better than anyone, save Theo and Fitzroy.
Sara’s stomach problems had only gotten worse, and she’d been unable to eat more than a few bites each meal, leaving her weak. The weakness made her even less inclined to eat, and around and around she went, a downward spiral of malaise. If she called for the doctor, she’d have to tell the truth about her condition, which would take her away from the Dakota and Theo and everything she’d worked so hard for. Her fragility compounded her confusion.
To make matters worse, two days ago, Mrs. Camden had reported an emerald necklace missing from her jewelry box. Mr. Douglas had insisted that Sara grill the staff, but she had to quit halfway through questioning the maids because she couldn’t seem to find the right words. The silly woman had probably mislaid it in any case. Surely, it would turn up on its own.
This morning she’d barely been able to rise from her bed and had had to steady herself as she splashed water on her face. She’d staggered into her office and remained there the rest of the day, unsure where the time had gone and petrified she would not be able to get back to her room. At four o’clock, Daisy popped her head into the office.
“You look rather green.” She closed the door.
“I’m not at my best,” admitted Sara. “Did your mother ever get confused when she was with child?”
Daisy shrugged. “Sure. With Mickey, I remember, she would ask the same question over and over.”
“What question was that?”
“‘What did I ever do to deserve such ungrateful children?’”
Sara laughed in spite of herself. She couldn’t imagine her own mother ever teasing like that. “You were lucky; she sounds like she was a charming lady.”
“Yes.” A flicker of sadness crossed the girl’s features.
Someone knocked on the door. “Come in.”
Daisy opened the door to reveal Mr. Douglas.
Sara stood. “Mr. Douglas, how may I help you?”
“I’m here to see the books, of course. It’s Tuesday.” He placed his hat and coat on the rack near the door and lumbered over.
She’d completely forgotten. “Right.” She yanked the ledger out of the top shelf of the bookcase, opening it up to the correct page.
“Don’t bother. I can do that myself. Daisy, fetch me a cup of coffee.”
Once Daisy had left, Mr. Douglas lowered himself into the chair behind the desk with a groan. Sara sat opposite him, hands in her lap, in case he had any questions. After ten minutes of turning pages, the only sound the scratch of his pen, he peered over his spectacles at her. “This is a frightful mess, Mrs. Smythe.”
She’d never been chastised by Mr. Douglas before. “I’m sorry, Mr. Douglas. Next week it’ll be much better, I promise.”
He leaned back in his chair. “I’ve adjusted the figures. Really, Mrs. Smythe. I’m surprised.” He scanned the top of the desk with irritation, looking for something. “Do you have blotting paper?”
“Of course. Lower drawer on the left.”
She heard the drawer slide open, followed by a wheezy exhalation from Mr. Douglas.
He looked up at her. “Mrs. Smythe.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You found Mrs. Camden’s necklace?”
She shook her head. Partly as an answer and partly in an attempt to clear the fuzziness in her mind. His words sounded like they came through water. Or maybe she’d misheard.
Instead of pulling out a sheet of blotting paper, a string of brilliant colors hung from his outstretched fingers like a waterfall.
The necklace. The craftsmanship was breathtaking: three tiers of pearls connected to a front piece with four large emeralds embedded in gold.
