Love Lies Bleeding (22 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

F
rank let Russ work his magic for a moment.

“Another second…” More papers being rustled on the desk. “Frances…married…”

Frank was still amazed just how much of this information Russ just knew offhand. Because of his constant interaction with the other historians and with genealogists from the area who used him for a source and then fed information back to him as they discovered their roots, Russ’s knowledge was remarkable.

“Dayheart, that’s it,” Russ said, snapping his finger. “Frances married a guy named Dayheart, and I think they ended up in Groton. His first name is escaping me, though. Dorothy married a fellow from Corning. His name was…Merton. Ralph Merton.”

“Russ, you’re a wonder.”

“Speaking of wonder, I’m wondering how I remembered this. My memory isn’t what it used to be,” he joked.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any knowledge of these folks being alive or dead, would you?” Frank asked. “You’re so on top of this stuff.”

“Sorry. Corning’s a little out of my scope of expertise. And Groton’s still in-county, but somehow I missed anything on them. I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”

“Russ, I owe this entire case to you. Don’t be silly.”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for. I’m looking forward to reading the book on this case when it comes out.”

“We should make this a joint effort. You, Linda, and me.”

“Funny you should mention that. I was thinking about trying to write some more local history.” So far, Russ’s published catalog included a look at Ithaca’s film industry, a biography of Ezra Cornell, and a survey of historical architecture, with the help of Janet’s amateur photo studies. “This would be a great addition. Think we’ll figure out what happened for real?”

“Keep your fingers crossed.”

“Will do. I’ll give you a ring if I remember anything else.”

Ithaca, New York
September 1986

“Could I speak to Frances Dayheart, please?” Frank took the last few bites of his sandwich, a late lunch, as he made some phone calls. Washing the last bite down with a sip of Pepsi, he waited as the person at the other end of the line went and retrieved Mrs. Dayheart. In his anticipation, he doodled on a corner of the scratch pad in front of him.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Dayheart, my name is Senior Investigator Frank Conley. I’m with the New York State Police.”

“Is everything okay? Is it my daughter Kate? What is it? What’s happened?” she asked in a panic.

“Everything is fine, ma’am. I’m calling about a very old situation that involved your uncle, Thomas Estabrook.”

“My uncle? Good gracious, my uncle disappeared off the face of the Earth seventy years ago. No one knows where he is. We figure he’s long dead. Why? What’s all this about?”

“We think he may be connected to a very old crime I’m researching.”

“He’s connected to it? Or he did it?”

“I’m afraid I still don’t know the whole story. But he may have had a part in it.”

“Sure, I’ll talk to you about Uncle Tom. My mother went to her grave broken-hearted that he just took off like that.”

“Would you have some time to speak to me in the next few days? I’d like to drive up to Groton and see what you remember.”

“Sure. I’ve got some time today. Will you be right up, then?”

“As fast as I can.”

“If you come up 34, cut over on 34B, then hang a left on 38, which becomes Peru Road. We’re off to the right. It’s a gray house with black shutters. I’ll be expecting you.”

“Great. I’ll see you in an hour or so.”

Putting his desk in order, Frank made a beeline out to the parking lot. Frances had sounded suspicious, and he didn’t blame her. It wasn’t often a person was asked to provide information for a crime that was seventy years old—one that could end up incriminating a relative. One who might or might not be alive.

The view from the road was stunning, with the distant hills visible. Lake steamers full of tourists and locals alike glided across the waves, and a few hardy swimmers braved the cold water onshore a few miles away. Instead of cutting east on 13 like he usually did and passing Pyramid Mall, he kept the car headed north, veering inland on 34, reaching Groton by mid-afternoon.

The Dayhearts’ home was typical for the area. Built in an indeterminate year, it was closer to history than to the present, as so many houses in the Finger Lakes were. Frank imagined it being constructed as a tiny farmhouse and expanded over the years until it had reached its current footprint. The car braked over the rough driveway to stop at an L-shaped house. A narrow front porch wrapped around the entirety and boasted several plastic chairs for enjoying evening breezes. He expected the dove gray siding and charcoal shutters might have been somewhat dreary-looking not long ago, but the addition of several late-season red peony bushes in full bloom lent the place a festive air. Off to the sides of the property, though, wildflowers and weeds encroached on what looked to have been once well-tended rosebushes.

He had no sooner heard the crunch of gravel under his tires when the front door opened and a woman he assumed was Frances stepped out on the porch. She was a farm wife, with the utilitarian short haircut that so many had. Her hair was a rapidly graying brown, and her eyes were a deep greenish-gold, but her out of control brows lent her face a cluttered look, like an office that needed straightening. She wore a pair of knit pants and a pink T-shirt with one of the Care Bears on it that said “World’s Best Grandma.”

As he stepped out of the car and approached her, she held out her hand, unsure of the protocol.

“Hello,” she said.

“Mrs. Dayheart, it’s nice to meet you. I wish it were under better circumstances.”

She ushered him into a living room, and her gait suggested she had seen much time on horses. The stale smell of cigarettes combined with the cheery bouquet of a recent spritz of Renuzit, which he imagined was used when company visited. The living room was of negligible size, with a tufted gold velvet sofa, gold patterned occasional chairs, and beige carpeting that should have been replaced about ten years before. The connecting dining room was small, with almost no room for the cheap dinette set that had been placed there. White wallpaper with a gold filigree pattern was battered and peeling and needed replacing. On a battered coffee table in front of him, she had set an old photo album and opened it to the first page.

“So what is it that you need to know, Investigator Conley?

“Please. Call me Frank.”

“Okay, Frank. If I can help, I will.”

“A few weeks ago, a hiker found some bones up at Buttermilk Falls. We have reason to believe they belong to a woman who dated your Uncle Tom years ago.”

“Yes, Mom mentioned he had to leave town very fast.” She reached into the back of the album. “She was so hurt, but she still saved this.”

Out of a pocket in the back of the album, she pulled one of the same articles from the Ithaca paper that Frank had copied weeks before.

“I need to know everything you can tell me about your uncle. Anything your mother might have told you. Anything you yourself might recall about him. I know he left when you were very young.”

She paused a moment to think.

“There was a picnic of some kind when Dorothy and I were maybe three or four, and I remember my mother saying, ‘Come see your Uncle Tom.’ He was a dark-haired man, and he played with us.”

“Is your sister still living? I had trouble locating her.”

“No,” Frances said. “She had cancer. Passed away just this past February.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that.” Frank felt almost a physical blow to his gut. All he could think about was Maude in her bed and her eventual fate.

“It was hard,” she said. “We were very close. You know. Bein’ twins and all. Jasper and I still keep tabs on her husband, Ralph. I go over from time to time and help him with the housecleaning or make him a big pot of stew or a roast.”

“That’s very kind of you. I’m sure he appreciates that.”

“Oh, he does,” she chuckled. “We had a double wedding, you see. Back in 1933.”

“I bet you made lovely brides,” Frank said, being sociable.

“We sure did. Dorothy and I were lookers back in our day. In fact...” She opened the photo album to a page close to the front, and Frank saw two younger versions of the woman speaking to him. They wore mid-calf-length white dresses and beaded cloche caps and carried bouquets of roses. Their grooms attempted to look solemn as befitted such a serious occasion, but their eyes twinkled with mirth.

“What a beautiful photograph,” he said.

“It was in Ithaca, at the Episcopal Church,” she said. “Then, we had a reception at the Daughters of the American Revolution Hall. Just punch and cake. We spent most of our money on the dresses!” she chuckled.

Frank cleared his throat. “Not to change the subject, but back to your uncle. He just disappeared? Just like that? He didn’t contact you guys before he left town or anything? Do you remember your mother saying anything about his departure?”

“I believe my mother told me Uncle Tom came up missing just after the big Newfield church picnic. The police searched the city for him. My father and mother had driven into Ithaca to look for him, but his landlady said he was gone. She’d seen him helping a drunk friend get home late that night, and then he just turned up missing the next day. My parents left their information with the landlady, but she never contacted them. It turned out that she cleaned out his possessions a few days later and gave them to the police. But they showed her a picture of that girl that disappeared, and she told them that she’d seen her at the rooming house looking for my uncle.”

Frank had once again pulled out his notebook and scribbled down what Frances Dayheart told him.

“Mother couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t have gotten in touch when he left. She cried a lot. But my father tried to comfort her. Dad was convinced that whatever happened had been an accident. They knew Tom, and they knew he wasn’t capable of hurting anyone. So, if something had happened, it hadn’t been intentional. No one knew, since they never found the girl. Dad, being a hopeless romantic, was convinced they had eloped, that rich girl and Tom. He was convinced they had run away to get married and had changed their names when they moved away. He figured they just wanted to get lost in the big city somewhere. And he tried to tell Mom that they were both all right; they just didn’t want to be found. I guess Dad was a bit too optimistic.”

“Did anything clue your dad into a possible name change?”

“Well, yeah. The postcard.”

“The what?” Frank leaned forward, his pulse picking up an extra beat.

“Mother got a postcard a few months after his disappearance. It might still be in with all this stuff.” Frances reached into the back of the album again and pulled out a card, which she handed to Frank.

It was a pastel-tinted card from the turn of the century. On the front was the image of a pink brick hotel with flat top, turrets on either end of the facade, and an elaborate sign in some sort of Germanic-looking font high above the street. The label said, “Great Northern Hotel, Jackson Blvd and Dearborn St, Chicago.”

Frank flipped the postcard over and read the note.

“D—

Miss you and the girls more than I can say. Can’t tell you much more, I’m afraid. But I love you and miss you all. Please don’t worry, as I’m fine. I’ve found a new life, and I hope everyone can forgive me for just disappearing.

T.”

The return postmark was also from Chicago. Tom must have been depending on his sister’s loyalty because if the police had known to search in Chicago for him, they might have been able to unearth something years before.

“I wonder why no one at the post office picked up on the addressee,” Frank wondered out loud. “There weren’t many others residing at ‘Beardsley Farm, Newfield.’ Anyone paying attention would have been able to bring the information to the authorities.”

“Not sure. But Mother never said a word. Guess she figured Uncle Tom had been through enough and it was her way of thumbing her nose at the police. They couldn’t afford it, but Dad hired a private eye to check on him in Chicago. He never found a thing. That was why Dad was convinced he’d changed his name.”

“Chicago,” Frank mused. It explained a lot.

Chapter Thirty

Ithaca, New York
October 1986

A
fter speaking to Frances a bit more about her uncle, Frank headed home, picking up some pasta from Joe’s on the way so he and Linda could brainstorm after some nourishment.

“One of these days, I’m going to cook you a real dinner,” she joked.

After stuffing themselves on take-out spaghetti and meatballs and a couple of sodas, they read over parts of the diary again as it sat amongst the detritus of Libbie Morgan’s life. Propping his feet up on the coffee table, Frank sat lost in thought as Linda read over his shoulder. He had to be overlooking something. Thomas Estabrook must have missed something in covering his tracks. Upon his return home, Frank had let Linda know that Estabrook had ended up in Chicago. He might not have stayed there, and he might have begun living under an assumed name. But Frank felt in his gut that Chicago was the key. Everything else had been a dead end.

“So at some point, he took the train there from Erie,” Linda said.

Frank nodded. Months ago, he had begun filling out the standard paperwork to discover the possible last whereabouts of Estabrook, and he was beginning to get responses from the various agencies he had contacted. First, he had written to the Social Security Administration to find out if they had any records of Estabrook under that name. Yesterday, he had received a form letter back stating there had never been any application for social security filed for Thomas Estabrook.

Likewise, the State of New York had no death certificate filed for him. There were no local death records because Estabrook had not remained here. Frank had a feeling that if he requested anything now from the State of Illinois, he would also obtain a negative response. He was sure of it. The man was guilty, and he had fled seventy years before. He was probably dead and had been for years. But still, the case gnawed at Frank. What was he missing? With no records under his birth name, Thomas had to have changed his moniker to something else. His reference to “a new life” in Frances Dayheart’s postcard lent that theory special credence. Plenty of men back then deserted wives and children and popped up miles away with new families. In 1916, anyone who wanted to disappear could do it for good. A new identity would explain everything. Now if they could just figure out what the new name might have been.

Reaching into the box again, Frank fingered the old photo of Estabrook. He studied the background for anything he could use. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. On impulse, he removed the portrait from its card surround and saw something he never expected on the back.

“Linda look!
The very respectable Mr. D. H. Lawrence
,” he read out loud. “I’ll be damned. I wonder if it was supposed to be a joke.”

“Well, you said you saw the guy in the other picture Olive had and it was Estabrook. He signed this photo to Libbie, and it matches the one she showed you. Since Libbie was, in effect, tutoring him, having him read literature, it must have been some sort of private joke between them.”

“I’ve got an idea.”

Calling the library’s information line, he got Helen Ross, the main librarian, on the line.

“Hi, Helen. This is Frank Conley.”

“Hello, Frank. What can I do for you?” she asked.

“You’re gonna think I’m crazy, but I need this for a case. Can you tell me what the writer D.H. Lawrence’s full first name was?”

“You’re right. I think you’re crazy,” she said, chuckling. “I’ll have you know that’s one of the first things they teach you in librarian school,” she said. “His first name was David.”

“Helen, you’re a gem.”

“Does this mean I get credit in the paper when you solve the case and everything?” she joked.

“You know what? I think it does!” he said and bid her a hasty goodbye. Turning to Linda, he began to make plans. “Linda, do me a favor. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” she asked, sitting up.

“More information. I won’t be a minute. Keep the couch warm for me.”

He leaned down for a kiss. Then, checking his notes from Russ, he found Estabrook’s birth date and stuffed the slip of paper in his pocket, in case he needed it. Hurrying toward the door, he grabbed his car keys and headed for the local social security office on State Street.

There was nothing like a federal office building to provoke mid-week doldrums in just about anyone. The pale green cast to the walls, bad fluorescent lighting, and industrial office furniture were depressing in the extreme. Was it any wonder that everyone brought loads of plants and doo-dads for their desks? They had to liven it up a little. Elaine Kennedy kept a small collection of stuffed animals on a shelf above her desk and a glass dish of Hershey’s kisses on her credenza. She was contemplating her Swanson Salisbury Steak TV dinner from the work fridge when Frank Conley from the police station came running toward her desk, breathless.

“Elaine, I need your help.”

“What is it, Frank?”

“I need a couple of searches. Right now.”

“I was just getting ready to go grab some dinner…”

“Elaine, please. It won’t take a minute, and this is huge. The biggest case of my career.”

“Seriously? Wow. I suppose my dinner can wait. Hold on.” She stuffed her pencil behind her ear, a look of grim determination on her face as she logged into her CRT. The green cursor blinked against the black background, waiting for input. “Okay, hit me.”

“I need to see what you might have on a David Lawrence, birth date February eighteenth, 1898 in New York.”

Her bright red nails clackety-clacked over the keys in a staccato rhythm.

“That gives me one-hundred results. Anything to narrow it down?”

“Any deaths in Illinois?”

Clackety-clackety-clack.

“No.” She looked up expectantly.

“Try David H. Lawrence, same birth date.”

Her fingers clicked speedily over the keys once again. “Twenty this time.”

Frank thought a moment. “Okay, now subtract any you have with a last residence in New York.”

“Four still alive. That’s a little better. Here’s what I got.” She printed off a dot matrix copy of her find and handed it to him to study:

DAVID H. LAWRENCE 18 Feb 1898 (last residence Harvard, McHenry, IL)

DAVID H. LAWRENCE 18 Feb 1898 (last residence Lonaconing, Garrett, MD)

DAVID H. LAWRENCE 18 Feb 1898 (last residence Weslaco, Hidalgo, TX)

DAVID H. LAWRENCE 18 Feb 1898 (last residence Kissimmee, Orange, FL)

“So whaddya think?” she asked.

“Elaine, I think I love you,” Frank said, hugging her then stuffing his paper in his top pocket and running for the door.

“You owe me dinner!” she called after him as he rounded the corner.

Back at his place, Frank showed the page to Linda. They had no sooner begun conferring when his phone rang.  

“Conley.”

“Hey, Frank. It’s Doc. They told me at the office that you’d already taken off for the day.”

“Doc, good to hear from you, man. Sorry I’ve been a little distant. Busy trying to figure out the finer points of nineteen-sixteen Ithaca news stories. What’s up?”

“I told you I’d let you know about the results of the poison checking I did on your…aunt. I checked for arsenic, strychnine, and thallium, which would have been the biggies back then. No poisons evident at all. But I did find something else that could help you.”

“Right now, I can use whatever you’ve got.”

“There are nicks in a couple of the pelvic bones. Mostly around the coccyx and sacrum.” At Frank’s silence, Doc continued, “That’d be around the tailbone area for you un-medically initiated folk.”

“Aah. Got it. So does that tell you anything helpful?”

“The interesting part is where I found the nicks. They were on the inside of the skeleton. Now, I haven’t encountered much of this type of injury, but I’m thinking she may have had an abortion, Frank.” He paused, knowing it had to be difficult to hear. “A really bad one.”

Equipped with the new information he had received from the Social Security office and from Doc, Frank and Linda made calls to directory assistance, and in a few hours, they had found what he was looking for. And he had also booked a flight into O’Hare, leaving the next day.

Harvard, Illinois
October 1986

Willowbrook Manor had such a pretty name. But it was such an ugly place—an old cinderblock building north of Harvard in the far reaches of Illinois near the Wisconsin state line.

Painted a stomach-churning mint green, it was a “senior care facility” in the way that prisons were “convict care facilities.” Dozens of miserable old people were crammed in side by side, eating inedible food, rarely visited by their loved ones, with their needs barely seen to by the dregs of the nursing community. The cheap furniture was thirty years old, and the place reeked of Pine-Sol, unchanged bedpans, and despair. The only thing worse than living there would have been sleeping on the street.

Resident David Lawrence was an emaciated shell of a man. Age, emphysema, and diabetes had made a mockery of his long-ago virility and good looks. These days, he was unable to leave his wheelchair, and he longed for the outdoors. He could almost smell the fresh air as he looked out the window, watching the robins and red-winged blackbirds play near the pond outside. But the keepers never took them outside. He’d do just about anything to see his home again—a place full of steep hills, deep valleys, and majestic waterfalls. Though he hadn’t experienced the real outdoors in years, he had always found Illinois too flat for his tastes. The prairies were dead boring compared to the beauty he had once known.

He had come to Chicago in nineteen sixteen, finding work right away. After being drafted in nineteen seventeen like all the other able-bodied men around, he was lucky to return from the war with just a bayonet wound to the shoulder.

But life had not been kind to him. His wife Ethel had died with their newborn son in nineteen twenty-four. He considered it payback for his transgressions and had never cursed God for it. Somehow, he figured his creator was teaching him a lesson, so he called it even.

After Ethel, he’d never found another woman with whom he wanted to settle down. Truth be told, he was afraid he’d be a jinx to any wife. And he didn’t think his heart could stand to be broken like that again. The Depression had hit him hard. His father-in-law had been forced to close the factory, and he’d had to resort to odd jobs and selling apples to keep his cheap room on Halsted Street. His finances had picked up a bit after the war when he got a job as a die sinker at International Harvester, but it had been a struggle. The money he inherited from his father-in-law’s death in nineteen forty-six had at least kept him eating with a roof over his head.

And now, he was here in this geriatric hell on Earth. Waiting to die like some pathetic sap. He couldn’t breathe, and he couldn’t feel his feet. When he could, it was either like they were on fire or he was walking on a bed of nails. He hated the thought of dying. The only thing he hated more was continuing to live.

So imagine his surprise to hear the nurse announce that crisp fall day that he had a visitor. He had no relatives left and no friends who visited. At least, he didn’t think he did. He assumed his sister and brother-in-law were both gone, but he wasn’t sure about his nieces. He wondered how they were and what they were doing now. He’d thought many times about contacting them, but fear had taken over and he’d decided not to. He hoped they could all forgive him.

He looked up, intrigued, to see a tall fellow with snapping blue eyes and silvering hair approaching him with confidence. The man wore a brown tweed jacket over a white T-shirt and pressed jeans over black boots.

“Mr. Lawrence? Mr. David Lawrence?”

“That’s what it says on that plaque outside my room,” he said, irritated. He didn’t know the man, and it was obvious the guy didn’t know him, either. Probably trying to sell him some insurance. As if anyone would stand to benefit anything from his death. Let the state worry about it and bury him in a pauper’s grave. He’d go to it laughing, his whole life a big, dark secret.

“My name is Senior Investigator Frank Conley. I’m from Ithaca, New York.”

Lawrence lasered his eyes onto Frank’s.

“Yeah?” he said, his voice wavering. “I think you’re lost. Ithaca’s that way.” He pointed out the east-facing window.

“Aaaaah, I see you know it,” Frank countered, pulling up his pant legs a bit as he helped himself to a seat across from the old man.

“Well,” the geezer backtracked, “I know where New York is, for goodness’ sake.”

“Good. Because I have every reason to believe I’ll be extraditing you there very soon,” Frank said, smiling.