Grave Designs (15 page)

Chapter Seventeen

“Enjoy the book?” Paul Mason asked. We were both having pancakes and coffee at the Main Street Cafe in Evanston. It was 8:15, Thursday morning. I needed the coffee. Preferably intravenously.

“Is it true?”

Paul shrugged. “Probably only the dull parts. There
was
a Canaan, Massachusetts. It was founded in 1679. Its minister
was
Winthrop Marvell. And it
did
die out at the end of the seventeenth century, like dozens of other Massachusetts villages. The rest of the story, however, has never been confirmed. Most historians treat Springer's booklet as pure fabrication.”

“How do you know that?”

Paul was wearing a dark blue Polo shirt and faded olive army pants. I had on a soft cotton blouse and a pleated skirt.

“Because I graduated from Barrett College in 1976,” he said. “As I told you, if you attended Barrett College between 1950 and 1980, chances are you either took Henry Abbott's course in Colonial American history or attended his lecture on Canaan, which was the high point of his course. He gave it in Plimpton Chapel, and hundreds of students used to sit in each year.”

“What was the Canaan lecture?”

“It was about the dangers of relying on secondary sources. Ambrose Springer's booklet is a secondary source, which means it's an interpretation or description of primary sources—diaries, letters, and the like. The point of Henry Abbott's lecture was that you couldn't write history by relying on secondary sources.”

Paul smiled. “A basic lesson for beginning historians,” he continued, “but not exactly a titillating topic for a general audience. But Henry Abbott wasn't a typical professor of history, if there is such an animal. He was an enormous, vigorous man, with thick bushy eyebrows and a walrus mustache. His Canaan lecture was mesmerizing. He presented it as a mystery story, with himself cast as the detective. Abbott started by telling Springer's version of the Canaan lottery, including that little Colonel Shaw twist at the end—the suggestion of a lottery surviving through the centuries, operating in secret, controlling the destinies of millions of Americans. Marvelous fodder for college students.”

“And?”

Paul chuckled. “Henry Abbott would pause to let the enormity of it all sink in. The audience would be hushed. Most of us who heard it for the first time just sat there stunned, trying to grasp the implications, trying to figure out if and when our lives had been touched by the lottery of Canaan. And then Henry Abbott would destroy the illusion.”

“How?”

“Ambrose Springer starts off, if you remember, with a description of the records he found in the attic of the South Hadley home of one Jonathan Frye. In his lecture, Abbott re-created his own search through the South Hadley real estate records. What he discovered was that there never was a Jonathan Frye in South Hadley—never even anyone named Frye who lived in South Hadley. Then Abbott read us the first entry from Reverend Marvell's journal, the excerpt about the storm that destroyed the small church. And then he read it again, or at least that's what we in the audience thought. Only it turned out that the second time he was reading from the journal of Governor Bradford. Springer had apparently copied the entry from Bradford's journal almost word for word, including all the odd spellings. As for the alleged quote from Cotton Mather, it's probably a fabrication. All of Cotton Mather's diaries have been preserved. Although he's known to have visited Canaan, his diaries contain no reference to the village.”

“What about the stuff on Colonel Robert Shaw's widow?” I asked.

“Wonderful stuff,” Paul conceded. “But very dubious. Henry Abbott would read aloud to us from two different newspaper accounts of the dedication ceremony. He also read us an excerpt from the diary of William James, who was on the platform that day. According to James, Mrs. Shaw was never near the sculptor during the ceremony, and she left the platform on the arm of the governor of Massachusetts. All in all, Professor Henry Abbott's performance was a tour de force. Each year it ended with a standing ovation.”

“More coffee?” the waitress asked.

“Please,” I said. “But what did Abbott find out about the author? About Ambrose Springer?”

“Apparently not much. It's a good question. I've looked into the whole thing since then. More accurately, I've had some of my students look into it. It's an excellent teaching device. And it gives them a chance to play detective. I hand them a copy of Springer's book cold and tell them to investigate the story. Most of them discover at least one or two of the fabrications Henry Abbott discovered. A few years back one of them tried to dig into Springer's life.”

“Did he find anything?” I asked.

“Not much. Springer graduated from Barrett College in 1884. He was a recluse for the rest of his life, living in a small cottage on his family's estate in Quincy, Massachusetts. This was his only book. He published less than fifty copies of it, one of which Henry Abbott had discovered in a secondhand bookstore in Springfield, Massachusetts. When Abbott died, he donated his copy, along with the rest of his books, to Barrett College. As far as I know, no other copy of the original has survived.”

“Do you think there's any truth to the lottery?” I asked.

Paul smiled. “I don't know. There are just enough confirmed facts to make it possible. And you know how I love mysteries.”

“I don't understand the mechanics of it,” I said.

“The mechanics of what?”

“Of the lottery. I understand how they could draw someone's name. That part's the same as one of those drawings for a door prize. But the rest I don't get. How could a lottery drawing end up with someone's barn burning or a gem being buried in a garden?”

“As I see it,” Paul said, “one way would be to have two boxes. In one box would be slips of paper with the names of all the villagers. In the other box would be slips of paper, each with a different scenario or fate. Draw a name from box one and a fate from box two.” Paul snapped his fingers. “Just like that. Another way would be more complicated. They'd still have the name box. After they drew the name, though, there could be a series of drawings, or even spins of a wheel to decide things. Would there be a good fate or a bad one? That could be the first draw or spin of the wheel. If a bad fate, would it involve the person himself or someone or something related to the person? That would be another drawing. Et cetera, et cetera. Sort of a Puritan version of
Wheel of Fortune.”

“That could get pretty complicated,” I said.

“Well, long, maybe, but still fairly simple. You'd have a series of binary draws. Sort of like computer language. Off, on. Yes, no. Over and over and over until you had reached a specific outcome. You could run that lottery today on a computer with a fairly simple program.”

“On a computer,” I mused.

“Sure,” Paul said. “But what does all this have to do with Graham Marshall?”

“I don't know.” I studied Paul. I was definitely in over my head on this Canaan assignment. Paul had plenty of free time. His classes wouldn't start until after Labor Day. He could be useful. Maybe. I decided to take a chance on letting yet another person in on the investigation. “Well, I've been trying to solve a mystery.”

“Great.” He leaned forward. “Tell me about it.”

“Only if you can keep your big mouth shut. If this gets back to Ishmael Richardson, he'll be very upset. And you can't go blabbing this to your buddy Kent Charles.”

“My lips are sealed.”

I was selective about what I told him. I explained the codicil, described the four newspaper articles from 1985, and the little I knew about the grave robbery. But I omitted last night's adventure on the el train. I wanted to mull on that on my own for a while.

“Fantastic,” Paul said, his eyes gleaming. “You think Graham Marshall was running his own Canaan lottery?”

“I don't know what to think. It could all be just one of his practical jokes. Take a look at today's newspaper. Or yesterday's. Or any day for that matter. There's at least one freaky event reported each day. Graham could have picked four articles at random and then set up the codicil as a joke. After all, they say he had a pretty perverse sense of humor.”

“Maybe,” Paul said, leaning back in the booth. He scratched his beard. “But why steal the coffin? And what the hell was in that coffin in the first place?”

“I've got a hunch,” I said. “I'm going to run it down. I'll let you know if I come up with anything.”

“How ‘bout a hint?” Paul said.

“Wait.”

“Rachel Gold, you're getting to be a real tease.”

I snorted. “Serves you right, Casanova. Anyway, I've already told you too much. Give me time.”

“How about dinner, then?”

“Paul, let's hold off on any dinners for a while, okay? You help me solve this and dinner will be on me.”

“That sounds delightful,” Paul said with an impish grin. “Which part of you is dinner going to be on?”

“Very funny.” But I knew I had to hold myself in check. We were both behaving as if nothing bad had ever happened between us. As if we were still lovers. I forced myself to remember that shattering moment when I had walked in on that girl in his bedroom. You've been burned once by this guy. Don't forget it, Rachel.

Over his protests, I grabbed both bills.

As we were leaving the restaurant, Paul tried to stifle a big yawn.

“Tired?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I didn't get much sleep last night.”

“Oh? What's her name?”

“C'mon, Rachel. That's not fair. There's no girl. I have a paper due for a conference in September. My deadline's Monday. I was up all night typing a draft.” He peered at me. “You don't exactly look well rested yourself.”

I studied him for a moment. “Have you ever tried to sleep on an el train?” I finally said.

“Right,” he said, forcing a laugh. But he still looked puzzled when I left him.

Chapter Eighteen

When I got down to my office, I found a pile of unopened mail and a stack of telephone message slips on my desk. By noon I had plowed through my correspondence, returned most of the telephone calls, and dictated some interrogatories in a copyright case I was handling. For lunch I had two more aspirin with a large mug of coffee. The caffeine helped a little, as did the walk across the Loop. But my head was still throbbing from lack of sleep as I rode the elevator up to the offices of Abbott & Windsor.

My first stop was Helen Marston, who told me Marshall's dictionary was still missing. “I am quite troubled by this, Rachel,” she said. “Someone apparently stole it.”

I made a mental note to mention the theft to Ishmael Richardson, and headed down two floors to the firm's library. The assistant librarian at the front desk—a new face—told me Lynn was back by the Supreme Court Reports. I walked along the stacks of state and federal case reporters. There was an associate in every study carrel, most behind a bunker of case books, yellow legal pads, and photocopies of court decisions.

The library at Abbott & Windsor is the training ground for new associates, and like the rest of A & W, it's open twenty-four hours a day, 365 days of the year, and there are always dozens of associates at work there, no matter what the hour. Basic training at Abbott & Windsor lasts about four years and consists of thousands of hours researching in the library or reviewing documents in tiny windowless offices.

I found Lynn Rapp walking back down the aisle toward her office. “Rachel Gold! What a wonderful surprise. What brings you back here?”

“A favor, Lynn.”

“My pleasure, kiddo. Come on into my office.”

I followed behind her. “Hurt your foot?” I asked. She was limping.

“Twisted my ankle again,” she said, turning back with a smile. “It's all this darned weight. My doctor told me that if I don't lose fifty pounds by Thanksgiving, he's going to personally enroll me in one of those fat farms.”

Lynn Rapp is short and very overweight, although she minimizes both with a cleverly selected wardrobe. She is the firm's head librarian, and has held that position for more than a decade. Cheerful, energetic, and a terrific resource for any research problem, Lynn has always been a favorite among the associates.

She settled herself into the large swivel chair behind her desk. “How've you been, Rachel?” she asked as she pushed her blond bangs back off her forehead. Lynn has large blue eyes and the sort of face that frequently evokes the comment of how pretty she would be if she only lost some weight. She is approaching forty and still lives at home with her mother.

“Things are going well,” I said. “I've got enough work to keep me busy, and the firm has been good about sending me referrals.”

“They ought to be. You were our best associate, Rachel.”

“Don't make me blush.” I smiled.

“You survived Mr. Marshall. Not many do.” Lynn shook her head. “So what can I do for you, kiddo?”

“I‘m helping the firm with a little matter and I need to run down some info on a book and an author.”

Lynn picked up a pen and pulled out her pad. “Shoot.”

“The book is called
The Lottery of Canaan.
It was copyrighted back in 1903 by the Springer Trust. It's a little book—only thirty-one pages long. The author is Ambrose Springer. What I need is some more information about the book and the author. Who was he? Did he write anything else? That sort of thing. Apparently, Barrett College in Massachusetts has a copy of the book in its rare book collection.”

“No problem. I'll get on it right away. Check back in about an hour.”

I thanked Lynn and took the spiral staircase up one floor.

My next stop was Harlan Dodson, the partner handling Marshall's estate. On my way down the hall I passed Cal Pemberton, who was standing by the door to one of the conference rooms. He was dressed in his usual state of mild dishevelment: The right side of his shirt was untucked in the front and his bow tie was skewed at a forty-five-degree angle. Apparently lost in thought, he didn't respond to my greeting.

I took the spiral staircase up to Harlan Dodson's office. Harlan is the head of Abbott & Windsor's trusts-and-estates department and occupies a corner office on the firm's top floor—closer to my dearly departed clients, he likes to joke. An office in the sub-basement would better serve that purpose.

Dodson's door was open, and he was on the telephone when I poked my head into the office. He waved me in and pointed to a chair in front of his enormous walnut desk.

Like his desk, Harlan Dodson is squat, massive, and ornate. He looked even fatter than when I had last seen him a couple of years back. The telephone, cradled between his shoulder and neck, was half buried in flesh. Dodson had pinky rings on each hand—a fat diamond on one and a ruby on the other—and a gold chain bracelet around one thick wrist. His black pinstripe suit was freshly pressed, as was the starched white shirt that covered the wide expanse of chest and belly.

The polished effect Dodson strove for with his attire was ruined by an indefatigable set of sweat glands. Dodson perspired constantly and heavily. As I sat there listening to the rasp of his breathing and watching him wipe his shiny face with a handkerchief, I thought of Barney Sonderman, the fat boy who sat across from me in my high school Spanish class—he came to Spanish directly from gym class, unshowered, dripping sweat onto his desk and notebook.

Dodson concluded his telephone conversation and turned to me, forcing a smile. “Hello, Miss Gold. What can I do for you?”

“I have a few questions about Graham Marshall and his will.”

Dodson sat forward. “Very well. But before you start, I think it only fair to tell you that I do not share Mr. Richardson's concern over this…this ridiculous codicil. The trust can, should, and will be broken. The sooner the better.” Dodson flipped through some papers on his desk. He picked up a stapled court document stamped Draft in red on the first page. “I have already prepared the necessary probate papers. As soon as you conclude your investigation, I plan to file them. Today is Thursday. I would like to file the court papers Monday.”

“There's been a slight problem,” I said.

“Oh?”

“Someone robbed the grave and stole the coffin.”

Dodson stared at me from beneath hooded eyelids as he mopped his face with the handkerchief. “All the more reason to break the trust,” he finally said. “The whole thing is ludicrous. An embarrassment to Marshall's family, and, frankly, to this firm. A textbook example of why people need attorneys to plan their affairs. No one wants to die. That's a given. They come to me to find a way to cheat death, to control things from the grave. I personally prepared Graham Marshall's will, Miss Gold. That will is impregnable. It achieves exactly what Graham Marshall properly wanted to achieve. And nothing more. And then, after his death, I discover that ridiculous codicil.” Dodson shook his head in disgust. “No competent estates lawyer would ever have permitted such a legacy. For a pet's grave? Forty thousand dollars? My God!” Dodson sat back, his breathing labored and raspy.

“I want to wrap it up quickly too, Harlan. But I need some more information. Maybe you can help.”

Dodson stared at me and then turned to the window. “Go ahead, then. Ask me.”

“Who else knows about the codicil?”

Dodson turned to me. “Just Mr. Richardson, you, and me.”

What about the rest of the Executive Committee?” I asked.

“I seriously doubt that. Mr. Richardson chairs the Executive Committee. I asked Mr. Richardson not to tell anyone else yet. He agreed.”

“Kent Charles said you told him.”

Dodson's eyes narrowed. “Mr. Charles mentioned that he heard you were working on the estate. I merely confirmed that fact.” He paused. “I may have mentioned a problem with a codicil. But I can assure you that I made it quite clear that I had no hand in its preparation.”

“How well did you know Graham Marshall?” I asked.

Dodson lifted a pencil and studied it, rotating it between his thick thumb and forefinger. “I spent hours with him on estate planning matters. For him. For his wife.” He rapped the pencil on his desk. “People disclose confidential matters when you plan their estates.”

“Did he ever talk about his genealogy? About who his ancestors were?”

Dodson stared at me. “Why do you ask?”

“I saw the bequest to the Massachusetts Historical Society.”

Dodson frowned. “Graham told me his family traced its roots back to Boston. Back to the time of the Puritans. Back to someone named…let's see…” Dodson ran his stubby fingers through his sparse brown hair.

“Benjamin Marshall?” I said.

Dodson looked up. He adjusted his tie as he studied me. “Yes, I think that's who it was. Benjamin Marshall. I prepared a bequest to the Massachusetts Historical Society. Fifty thousand dollars. Nothing unusual about that, I assure you. Done all the time.”

I asked him a few more questions about the codicil, listened to another diatribe on the importance of getting the matter resolved quickly and quietly, and then stood up. “Thanks for your time, Harlan.”

“Very well, Miss Gold. Remember, I want to put this embarrassment behind us. Promptly.”

“So do I.”

***

“Are you sure you saw that book?” Lynn Rapp asked me again. I had returned to the library after leaving Harlan Dodson.

“I saw a photocopy. I read it last night.”

“Well, I can't find much on the book or the author. First I checked the Chicago Public Library. Nothing. I called the Library of Congress in Washington. My college roommate works in the reference department. They're supposed to have a copy of just about every book ever published. She looked into it and called me back. They have records that show that an Ambrose Springer wrote a book called
The Lottery of Canaan.
It's apparently the only book Springer wrote. And it's the only book copyrighted by the Springer Trust. The Library of Congress doesn't have a copy of the book. I confirmed that the only known copy”—she looked down at her notes—“is at Barrett College in Massachusetts. I talked to the librarian of Barrett's rare books collection. He said they've advertised for additional copies, hoping that a private collector would sell one. They think that some copies are still out there. But no owner has ever come forward.” She shrugged. “Sorry I couldn't find anything else about it.”

“You found plenty, Lynn. And you helped close some doors.”

“Good. Where did you get the book?”

“It was a photocopy of the one at Barrett College.”

“Well, I can't add much to that,” she said.

“Maybe you can help with something else. Frankly, I wouldn't know where to start. I think it has something to do with Canaan. It's an odd phrase I came across. Maybe it's from a court decision.”

“What is it?” Lynn asked, reaching for a pencil.

I recited the epitaph on the Canaan tombstone.

“‘A nickname for Providence'?” Lynn repeated.

“I'd be grateful if you could find what it means, or where it comes from.”

Lynn tapped her pencil on her notepad. “Well, I could start by running it through the Lexis terminal. If I don't turn up anything there—” She paused and raised her head, her ears cocked. “I think they just paged you, Rachel.”

“Me?”

I listened. A few seconds later I heard it: “Rachel Gold. Please call the switchboard.”

“Here,” Lynn said, handing me the telephone receiver as she dialed 0. The firm's switchboard operator came on and told me to call my office immediately.

Mary answered. “Good afternoon. This is the law office of Rachel Gold.”

“What's up, Mary?”

“Thank God they found you, Rachel. Your neighbor Linda just called. Something's wrong with your dog.”

“With Ozzie? What?”

“She doesn't know. She went up after lunch to take him for a walk and she couldn't wake him up.”

“Oh, my God. Is he…?”

“No. But he won't wake up. And he isn't breathing right. She's taking him to your vet.”

“I'll get over there right away. Thanks.”

“Good luck, Rachel.”