Louise's Dilemma (8 page)

My heart began to race. ‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘Maybe someone introduced us at a bar, or at restaurant? I don’t remember you, but I’ve met so many new people since moving to Washington.’

‘Maybe,’ he said, losing interest in the conversation as he navigated the still icy roads of Massachusetts Avenue.

Sure enough we motored through St Leonard uneventfully, turning down the rough track that led to the Martins’ home.

‘If you see Leroy’s truck,’ Williams said, ‘duck down and I’ll back out as if I took a wrong turn.’

The truck was gone. Williams abandoned the FBI dress code long enough to exchange his fedora for a wool cap.

Anne Martin opened the door to my knock. ‘My husband’s not here,’ she said.

‘That’s okay,’ I said, ‘but I came to speak to you. This is Mr Williams, my driver, do you mind if he comes inside with me? It’s awfully cold.’

‘I have no idea what else you might need from me, but of course you can come in, both of you,’ Anne Martin said.

Williams doffed his cap and said, ‘Thank you, Ma’am.’

Anne led us to the sitting room but didn’t offer us any refreshments. I sat on the couch with her, and Agent Williams took a chair at the table and removed a pulp novel from his coat pocket to read. The man was a good actor. Still, I wasn’t sure that a cap and a dime Western transformed him from an FBI agent into a bored workingman. Anne kept glancing at him.

‘I don’t understand why you’ve come back,’ Anne said. ‘Didn’t we answer all your questions the last time you were here?’

‘Just following up,’ I said. ‘The postcard originated in a, shall we say, sensitive part of France.’

‘I’m not comfortable talking about any of this without my husband,’ she said, crossing her arms.

‘Well, then, perhaps we could arrange to return sometime when both of you are here.’

‘No!’ she answered, more strongly than necessary, but then subsided. ‘My husband wouldn’t like that. Go ahead and ask your questions. Let’s get it over with.’

I wondered if Anne’s husband treated her badly. I saw no physical evidence of manhandling. Her manner was relaxed and direct, and she seemed cheerful enough. Perhaps she just wanted to avoid Leroy’s chronic unpleasantness.

Williams crossed his legs at the ankle and turned a page of his novel.

‘You’re from South Africa originally, is that correct?’

‘Yes. I came to the United States with my grandmother. After the Boer War.’

‘What about your parents?’

‘They died. And we lost all our property during the war.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

Anne shrugged. ‘It was a long time ago. I’ve put it behind me.’

‘You and your husband met this Richard Martin only once?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Before the war. His ship was docked in the Potomac, and he had time off, he said. He came to visit Leroy. Leroy had no idea who he was until Richard drew him a family tree.’

‘Didn’t you think that was odd?’

‘Of course. But he seemed eager to make contact with us. He said he had few relatives.’

‘And he talked about his mother?’

‘He said he had a mother living. That’s all I remember.’

‘Do you have any idea why he sent you a postcard from France? It’s expensive.’

‘None at all. Why would I? And I don’t care, either! My husband and I aren’t responsible for some distant relative who sent us a silly postcard!’

‘Just one more question, I promise,’ I said. ‘Why do you think he mentioned the date of your birthday?’

‘I have no idea! He visited us the day after my birthday, his only visit! We served him leftover cake. And no, I don’t remember what kind of cake! Don’t you people have anything else to do than ask me all these questions, over and over again?’

‘Mrs Martin—’ I said.

‘I want you to go now,’ she said. ‘I need to go to work. I open our little library several afternoons a week. And please don’t bother us again!’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Williams, time to leave.’

Williams stuck his paperback in his pocket and followed me to the door, where we bundled up in our heavy coats. Anne removed her apron and stood with her arms crossed, waiting for us to leave.

‘Thank you—’ I began.

‘You’re welcome,’ she interrupted, opening the door for us.

Williams touched his cap and we left the house.

Once in the car, as we crunched down the track towards the road, Williams asked what I thought of the conversation.

‘She makes sense,’ I said, ‘but …’

‘But what?’

‘I sensed that she was defiant, not just irritated. And she was not at all frightened.’

Williams nodded. ‘I agree. I think this matter requires a little more thought.’

Just before we reached the bridge that crossed the little creek, Williams turned off the road to the right, bumping over a sand and crushed oyster shell path into the shelter of the woods that ran down to the inlet. He parked the car in a small clearing across the road from the cottage and near the head of the inlet.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

‘Getting out of sight until Anne leaves.’

A few minutes later we saw Anne peddle by on a bicycle, so bundled up that she looked like a bear riding a tricycle at the circus.

‘Let’s go,’ Williams said.

‘Where?’

‘We’re going to search the house.’

Williams opened the rear door of the Woody and retrieved two torches and a Colt revolver. He handed me a torch, put one in his pocket, and shoved the Colt into a shoulder holster I hadn’t noticed before.

‘If you need to use the torch, shield it as much as possible,’ he said to me.

We hiked down the track to the Martins’ house. Anne had left a light on in the kitchen. I looked back in the direction of the Woody, but couldn’t see it. The thick, low branches of the cypress trees hid it completely.

‘Here’s hoping she left the door open,’ Williams said.

He turned the knob, and the door quietly opened into the foyer. He quickly closed it.

‘I’d like it if you searched the bedrooms and bathroom,’ he said. ‘I think a woman would be more likely to notice anything unusual there. I’ll take the sitting room and the desk.’

I kept my gloves on and mentally reviewed the search techniques I’d learned at the Farm.

The cottage had only one bedroom, occupied by a double brass bed with a side table and a double dresser. I opened every drawer, patting down the contents and sliding my hands between the folds of underwear, sweaters and nightwear.

Pulling out the drawers I felt every surface for documents that might have been taped there.

The top of the dresser appeared to be Leroy’s territory. It held a man’s brush and comb, an ashtray with a few coins, a ring with several keys and a cheap ballpoint pen.

The side table next to the bed was Anne’s. It contained a library book, Mary Roberts Rinehart’s
The Wall
. I shuffled the book’s pages, looking for notes, before placing it back exactly where it had lain. The other objects on the side table surprised me. One was a lovely crystal carafe with a water glass perched on top of it. I pulled off a glove and tapped it with a finger. It rang out – quality lead crystal. The brush, comb and mirror set were silver, polished until they gleamed.

Next I opened the small drawer in the little table. A leather jewelry case rested on a photograph in a silver frame. I opened the case, and the contents took my breath away. These were real too, I was sure. A lovely strand of fat pearls with a diamond clasp rested on black velvet. Why would Anne own such things? I wondered if her family in South Africa had been wealthy. It made sense that Anne’s grandmother would have brought only portable valuables from South Africa when they emigrated. I couldn’t imagine that Anne had the opportunity to wear them during her current hardscrabble life.

The faded black and white photograph showed a large whitewashed farmhouse porch in an alien landscape. I had no idea what Africa looked like, but this scene conjured Africa in my imagination. Five people sat on the farmhouse porch in a wicker furniture set, wearing their best clothes for the family portrait. They were clearly a husband, wife and three children: a teenaged boy, a young girl, and an even younger boy. They appeared to be prosperous. The man had a heavy chain hanging from his watch pocket. The woman was wearing a pearl necklace, though I couldn’t tell if it was the one in Anne’s drawer. Ruffles cascaded down the girl’s dress. A lace collar covered her neck and shoulders.

I turned the photograph frame over and read the five names written in ink on the back.
Mama, Pappa, Peter, Christiaan, Anne
. This had to be Anne’s family. It must have been taken before the war and before her parents died. I wondered about the boys and what had happened to them. For all I know they’d stayed in South Africa. Anne had told me she barely remembered those times, but this photograph and the pearls were mementos. I felt guilty for disturbing her memories. Anne’s unhappy past could have nothing to do with a postcard from her husband’s French cousin.

I slid under the bed, flicked on my torch and examined the underside of the mattress. Nothing. The closet contained both men’s and women’s clothing, all ironed to perfection. A shotgun and a Remington rifle leaned up against the back of the closet.

I finished my search with the tiny bathroom; it was spotless and smelled of bleach. A big cast-iron bathtub, a small sink and a toilet furnished it, with barely enough room for a standard sized human to move around. The medicine cabinet contained toothbrushes, toothpaste, aspirin, witch hazel, an unopened package of Ivory soap and a jar of Vicks VapoRub.

I found Williams in the sitting room, carefully replacing papers in a roll top desk. ‘There is nothing interesting here,’ he said, ‘except what you’d expect. Pay stubs and a ledger. Leroy is an oysterman, but he works for the cannery when he can’t dredge. I’ve been through an envelope of receipts, his checkbook, and a calendar. That’s it. Find anything?’

‘Anne’s past,’ I said.

‘Tell me later,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘We need to finish. Anne could get home any time. I’d like to get a look in the storage shed, but I can see a big padlock on the door from here.’

‘There are some keys on Leroy’s dresser,’ I said.

‘Get them,’ he said.

I retrieved Leroy’s keys, memorizing the position of the ring, and met Williams outside. He unlocked the heavy padlock.

‘Put the keys back,’ he said. ‘That way if we hear Anne’s bicycle we can quickly latch the padlock and take off through the woods.’

Back in the house I carefully replaced the keys, and then instinct suggested I search the kitchen. The stollen Anne had made the first time I came here, the sugar in the bowl for our tea, made me wonder. Sure enough in the icebox I found meat – a roast and two steaks – and plenty of butter. There was a two-pound bag of sugar in the cupboard.

Of course, in the country it was easier to avoid rationing.

Back out in the cold I found Williams in the shed.

‘Take a look at this!’ he said, lifting two gas jerry cans up for me to see. I could hear liquid sloshing inside.

‘And over there,’ he said, nodding towards a corner. Two tires, with at least half their tread remaining, leaned up against the clapboard wall.

‘Hoarding,’ I said. ‘Their refrigerator is full of meat and butter.’

‘I could confiscate this now,’ Williams said. He set the cans down, careful to line them up with their outlines in the dust. ‘But I don’t think I will. I don’t want to get Leroy’s wind up, at least not until we’re sure the postcard business is harmless.’

I glanced around the rest of the storage shed. It was full of the usual tools of an oysterman, at least as far as I knew – baskets and ropes, chains and buckets. A crab cooker sat in a corner.

‘Let’s go,’ Williams said, dusting off his hands. ‘We don’t want Anne to find us here.’

We reached the shelter of the trees seconds before Anne came down the driveway on her bicycle.

Williams dropped me off on a corner two blocks from my boarding house. It was late; Williams and I had stopped for a fried chicken dinner on the way home. I walked cautiously over icy streets through an iron grey dusk, so cold I could hardly feel my feet, grabbing at streetlights and mailboxes to keep from slipping and falling.

It was strange that I thought of ‘Two Trees’ as my home now. I felt sort of guilty about it. Wasn’t home the sun-faded white clapboard house in Wilmington I’d lived in for most of my life? Or the tiny apartment over the Wilmington Western Union office I’d shared with my husband before he died?

My life in Washington, at OSS, at ‘Two Trees’, over the past year, felt more real to me than all the years that had gone before. The world was in the midst of a great and terrible war. Civilization itself was endangered. Friends and relatives were dying far from home. Great nations had already been conquered. It all reminded me of Revelation, which my pastor at home preached to us constantly, about the final battle of good and evil. I was a part of it all in my own small way. Maybe that was why I felt everything more intensely than I ever had before. From eating a good meal to dreaming about lovemaking with Joe, life took on a new intensity. I was alive, when so many had died, and I felt it every day.

‘I was raised on this,’ Dellaphine said, ‘but I never thought I’d be serving it for Sunday dinner in Miss Phoebe’s dining room. I about fell out when I saw the recipe in that Betty Crocker booklet the ration people give out.’

‘Gave out, Momma,’ Madeleine said. Madeleine was Dellaphine’s twenty-year-old daughter who worked as a typist at the Social Security Administration, punching out Social Security cards on a special typewriter. She was a graduate of Washington’s best colored high school, and she couldn’t help but correct her mother’s grammar.

‘Hush,’ Dellaphine said. ‘I’m too old to change the way I talk. You understood me, didn’t you?’

Madeleine shrugged and went on turning the pages of the Sunday edition of
The Afro-American
. Thanks to the big cooking range, the kitchen was the warmest room in the house, which was why Madeleine and I were both sitting at the kitchen table watching Dellaphine make scrapple for our Sunday dinner. Phoebe insisted on the old Southern tradition of a big meal after church, though she and Dellaphine were the only people in the household who went to church much. Dellaphine went to an early service so she could get back to cook. She still wore her church outfit, a black and red checked dress with a wide belt that made her look even skinnier than she was.