Of Dubious and Questionable Memory (4 page)

Miri smiled at us. “And of course I used the opportunity to inquire after the lady detectives Martha had told me so much about.”

Miri's clipped, polite responses and strained smiles made me feel weary. I almost wished we were back in Toronto having it out with Jasper and Ray. At least then the emotions flowed as freely as George's brandy did to his glass.

After the dishes were cleared and tea served, Miri led us to the room Delphina occupied during her visits.

“Del's things are still exactly as she left them the morning before she… before she disappeared,” Miri said. “I wish the police would take the case more seriously. You see, Del is a bit of a free spirit. My husband, too, thinks it might just be a grand ploy to evade her engagement.”

Merinda's ears perked up. “Engagement?” Here, finally, was a new detail.

“Del is promised to Robert Hutton. One of the New England Huttons.” Miri's inflection led me to believe I should know who the New England Huttons were. “She comes into her inheritance on her birthday next week, provided she goes through with the engagement.” She smiled. “It must seem a rather archaic type of arranged marriage to two metropolitan detectives such as yourselves, but the Huttons and the Bartons—my name before marriage—enjoy a rich history together.”

Miri took her leave, wishing us a pleasant night, and Merinda positively jumped alive. “The New England Huttons killed her to get the inheritance! Or she was kidnapped by someone who wanted the inheritance! Or she signed a forged paper and took out the inheritance herself and—”

“One more thing, ladies.” Merinda clamped her mouth shut midsentence as Miri returned to the open door. “Forgive me, but I don't know what you might need. In the detective stories George enjoys it's usually some unimportant trifle that leads to the conclusion.”

“That's right,” I said. “Any detail could be crucial.”

“Del lost a necklace a few days before she disappeared. A gift from our grandmother. And worth very much indeed.” Miri looked down, playing with the cuffs of her sleeves absentmindedly.

“Is there more?” I asked.

“Robert and Del have not had the most amicable relationship,” Miri said in one breath. “They fight quite a lot. They did the other night. On the telephone. She said she needed some time to reflect on their engagement.” Miri coughed. “He's been so helpful, though. He came by the morning after we noticed she had gone missing. We of course reached out to him, thinking that maybe they had reconciled.”

“Where was he when she went missing?”

“Now, please don't think Robert had anything to do with it. No, he is determined to right their relationship.” A shadow passed over Miri's face, and Merinda and I took the ensuing silence as an opportunity to exchange glances.

Miri left to retire, but not before telling us when breakfast would be served downstairs and informing us that she had arranged our
transportation to the North Station and our Concord train the following morning.

We immersed ourselves in Del.

The missing girl's luggage consisted mostly of books. Her library revealed that she was very much interested in the work of Emma Goldman, the anarchist who was rumored to be coming to Toronto in the next months. The open case was full of pamphlets, and we uncovered a notebook in which were written quotations from Emerson and Thoreau, and a few from Bronson Alcott on a movement called Transcendentalism. I noticed a leaflet for a twice-weekly meeting of the Labor Federation Movement at the Wright Tavern in Concord, and was about to mention it when Merinda sniffed. She'd pulled out a well-thumbed copy of
Little Women.

“One minute she's reading about Emma Goldman and Thoreau, and the next about homemaking and babies.”

“That book isn't all romance,” I said, defending a well-loved story. “
Little Women
is so much more than that.”

But Merinda didn't acknowledge me. Her cat eyes had narrowed on the scrap of paper in my hand. “ ‘Love is the essence of God.'”

“Pardon me?”

“Look, it's scrawled on the bottom of that leaflet. The Labor Federation one.”

We examined the brochure more closely. “Well, Jemima, it looks like we're to attend our first radical meeting!” cried Merinda. “Better ensure our bowlers and trousers are in with our luggage for Concord!”

On the train the next morning, I stole peeks at the landscape whizzing by: broad, towering maples over glassy blue lakes. I wanted to bottle autumn and put it in my pocket—the spicy scent of pumpkins, the smoke and crackle of the burning leaves.

All of this was lost on Merinda as she studied Miri's handmade map. The map showed us the main streets and sites of Concord, and penciled stars noted the places the sisters had visited on the day Del disappeared.

Orchard House.

The Colonial Inn.

The Emerson House.

Wright's Tavern.

Sleepy Hollow Cemetery.

Excitement swelled in my chest. How fortunate to be able to explore all these famous places while in pursuit of our mystery!

Merinda let me examine the map, looking once more at the pamphlet Del had left in her luggage. “Do you think she planned on attending the meeting this evening before she disappeared?” Merinda wondered aloud, reading the fine print. “Lure her sister for a day of boring
Little Women
and Thoreau and sneak out after dinner to a meeting at the Wright Tavern?”

I shrugged. Merinda peered more closely at the paper, and then lifted it, almost touching her face. “Look here!” she exclaimed, waving me in.

See Mac $ owed
was written in nearly completely faded pencil marking, as if someone had tried to vehemently erase it.

“We'll have to find out who Mac is.” Merinda folded the paper and tucked it in her vest pocket as the train squealed into Concord Station.

The train stop was a short walk from the main stretch, which was rimmed with quaint shops and cafés. A popular spot for tourists on account of its rich literary history, shopkeepers stocked all manner of interesting trinkets, books, and souvenirs. As Merinda guided me to the opposite side of the street through slow traffic, I tried to imagine what it might have been like fifty years earlier when Louisa May Alcott wove in and out of the carriages, lifting her skirt over the muddy walk.

After quickly dispensing of our bags at the Colonial Inn, we decided to begin our investigation at Orchard House. According to Miri, Del had wanted to explore the wooded grounds around the homestead. They had visited the site just as evening began to fall, Miri told us, before wandering back for dinner and to stay at the Colonial Inn. The next morning, Del was gone.

A jaunt of a walk later and on a slight slope we saw it: Orchard House, rich and brown, with its eponymous apple trees canopied about
it. Though my head knew this was merely the home of a famous American author, my heart and my imagination appropriated it for fictional purposes.

I looked up at the shuttered windows. Might that have been snobbish Amy March's room? My eyes moved still upward. Or that! The attic window! That must peer into the bower where Jo would spend hours eating apples and scribbling by candlelight, her fingers as black as Ray's when he came home from a long day at the
Hog,
stamped with words.

Merinda's long legs strode briskly toward the back of the house and to the tree-lined forest. The farther she got behind the brush, the less I saw of her beyond the occasional flash of her bright blond bob as it caught the glare of the sun.

A few carpenters and handymen worked at their trade, perfecting the place before winter set in, ensuring that its old structure was well protected against the raging elements. Some painted the sides, another saw to the well. As they caught my eye, they smiled and tipped their caps.

One young handyman hopped down from a stepladder and approached me. He removed his hat, and I admired the almost-white hair that fell around his handsome face.

“Beautiful day for a walk,” he said cordially, his smile reaching his blue eyes.

“Indeed.”

“You must be an admirer of the Alcotts.”

“Oh, yes!”

“I am quite sorry that the house isn't available for you to visit.” He motioned toward the blocked doorway. “You will have to come back in the spring when we open to the public. It'll be a fine museum then.”

“I bet hundreds of people come to walk and peer around,” I said, hoping to gain insight into Miri and Del's visit.

“There are always people coming in and out. Children. Parents. Pretty young women like yourself clutching at their beaus or husbands.” He looked directly over my shoulder. “But you are alone.” He frowned.

“I'm with my friend. She's exploring the woods yonder. Do you
work here every day on the house?” I tried to keep my tone casual even as I hoped he would open a window on the mystery. He might have seen something or remembered Del.

“Three days a week. I help keep up some of the oldest and most significant buildings in Concord. Mostly I work here and at Wright's Tavern.”

“We passed that,” I remembered. “Bright-red building.”

“It was a gathering place for the Minute Men back at the start of the Revolution.” He warmed to his subject as he wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Now it hosts meetings and collectives. A few church services now and then.”

I decided to cut to the chase. “You haven't heard anything about a young woman who went missing here, have you?”

“Disappeared?” He looked around me. “Surely the police would've said something about that. Or I would've heard it in town. Concord is so small.”

“It is odd, isn't it?” I didn't want to connect us directly to Miri in case we needed to investigate more with this young man and his other workers, so I fibbed: “We heard a woman talking about it on the train.”

“Hey, Nick! We need you back over here!” A brown-haired burly man with a long beard bellowed.

“Bo, have you heard anything about a missing woman?”

“Not a thing,” the man grumbled.

“I'm Nicholas Haliburton, by the way.” He turned back to me, taking my hand.

“Mrs. Jemima DeLuca.”

“If you have any questions about the house, I hope you will let me know, Mrs. DeLuca.” His finger crooked into his cap, and he turned back to his work again.

Mrs. DeLuca.
Rats. I hadn't telephoned Ray as I promised to. Why, I had been exhausted after our dinner and our initial investigation the evening before. At least that's what I told myself. In truth, I just wasn't sure what to say, nor was I ready for his frustration at my fleeing off to Boston in the middle of an argument.

Merinda broke me from my reverie. “You look so glum, Jem. I
thought you were excited to see Orchard House.” She looped her arm in mine.

“I didn't leave things so well with Ray, Merinda. I feel guilty.”

“Cracker jacks! He can live two days without you, you know.”

“I met a young man,” I said quickly, changing the subject. “These men are all working to get Orchard House ready for the museum opening next spring.” I looked over and saw Nicholas busily hammering at a ground-level window. “I asked him if he had heard anything about a missing woman. He and his worker friends are here near every day. I was careful not to give any specifics.”

“And what did he say?” Merinda asked, her eyes bright.

“He hadn't heard anything of the sort. There is something bizarre about this, Merinda.” I kept my voice low as we began a slow stroll and circled the homestead.

After we had taken a turn around Orchard House, of which nothing was upset or untoward, we crossed the street and explored grassy, overrun fields. Trees trickled bright reds and oranges from their leafy canopies to the ground below. “Did you find anything in the woods?” I asked Merinda.

“Only a trail. It leads from the back of the house and goes straight into the woods.”

“And where do the woods lead?” I wondered, thinking of how one might steal a woman from her exploration of the Alcott home and lead her into the dark unknown.