Sheila Connolly - Relatively Dead 02 - Seeing the Dead (24 page)

“I’ll see what I can work out for a visit, Mom. Say hi to Dad for me.”

“And you give our best to your … friend. Ed, was it?”

“Ned. I will. We’ll all get together sometime soon. Love you, Mom!”

After they’d both hung up, Abby was reminded that she hadn’t done anything with her father’s family tree. That could wait until tomorrow. Unless she decided to brave going into Cambridge and looking for land records. Where had Henry Perry lived? Would it make a difference if she knew? And where had he died? She had yet to find a record for that; a few sources suggested a general date, but only because others had found no mention of him after a certain point. One more small, frustrating problem.

The phone rang again, and this time it was Ned. “How’re you holding up?”

“I’m keeping busy and making lists. But I can’t say I’ve found anything earthshaking. Oh, and my mom called. I kind of promised we might all get together this summer, but I kept it pretty vague.”

“Abby, you don’t have to hide me from your parents, and I’d be happy to meet them, as long as you’re comfortable with that.”

“I know—I’m just being weird about it. You have anything new? Have you talked to Leslie?”

“No. I’m not going to try to call her yet, and she hasn’t called me. I’m not surprised. What’s on your agenda for tomorrow?”

“More of the same. If I’m feeling brave I’ll look for land records in Cambridge, but I think I’ve got enough else to keep me busy.”

“Why don’t I come over after work tomorrow and we can compare notes?”

“I’d like that. I’ll go food shopping.”

“Good idea,” Ned said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “I’d hate to find your shriveled corpse, after you’d starved to death.”

“I’m not going to let that happen. Besides, I’ve got other plans for you.”

Ned chuckled. “See you tomorrow.”

24

The next day was much the same, although at least the rain had stopped, and Abby was beginning to go stir-crazy. Damn it, she liked having a job. And while for the moment she had a project that occupied her time and most of her mind, she still felt like it was a little self-indulgent. And then she corrected herself: she and Ned had stumbled on a problem that went beyond themselves, affecting Ellie and who knew how many other people. Leslie might not like what they had to tell her when they met again, but she couldn’t just wish it away. Or, heck, maybe she could, with the right psychotherapist for Ellie and the right medication. Wasn’t that what people did with kids these days? If a pill could control ADD, was there a pill that might work for seeing dead people?

She shook her head, although there was no one to see. This was not a matter for jokes. She poked around the Internet, looking for additional useful genealogical information, but all she found were snippets—nothing that explained anything, although there were some nice stories. In between she looked at listings for apartment rentals and was horrified at the rents. At that rate she’d have to live in a cave in the woods, if she didn’t have a job. Even if she did have a job, maybe. Not encouraging.

She called up the lovely colored maps of local towns that she had already downloaded. Looking at them, both for the region and for the individual towns in the immediate area, she was reminded once again of what a newcomer she was. She hadn’t even realized where the towns were in relation to one another. Mostly Ned had driven her around the area, or she had gotten in her car and followed a main road or GPS instructions without paying any attention to whether she was going north, south, east or west. With the old maps in hand, now she could see the lay of the land—and as a result, some of her research into various family lines made more sense. Ancestor A and Ancestor B might have lived in different towns (each with their own sets of records), but in reality they had lived only a mile or two apart.

She pulled up one image for Littleton in 1856 and looked at the details. One of the nicest things about the older maps was that they actually named who lived in which house—although the names could be read only if you had very sharp eyes or a magnifier. Or could zoom in on your computer screen, which Abby did. The map probably didn’t show everyone who lived in town, since only homeowners, not those who merely rented, would have been included on the map. But at least it gave Abby a snapshot of who was where for the mid-nineteenth century.

She pulled up another website and looked through censuses for Littleton. Henry appeared in 1810, but not in 1820, which had led to the inference that he had died between those dates, absent a death record, something she had not been able to find. However, his son Reuben appeared up until 1860. In the same place as his father? Abby checked the adjacent listings for other names, then compared those to the 1856 map, and discovered that several of the near neighbors from the census did appear on the map.
Gotcha!
Abby said to herself.
Maybe you didn’t own land, but I know where you were.
Funny—the location was right around the corner from the historical society. She could check it out tomorrow. And she promised herself she wouldn’t touch anything.

That small discovery was the high point of her day. After that she hit a long series of dead ends, and by mid-afternoon she decided to give up and go grocery shopping, as she had told Ned she might. Maybe she’d pick up a bottle of wine, too. Maybe she’d find a complicated recipe online and make that as a surprise for Ned—to keep her busy with something that had nothing to do with anybody’s family, past or present.

Shopping took up another hour, and then she started cooking. She was still at it when Ned arrived, also bearing a bottle of wine. “Great minds think alike,” Abby said, laughing, as she opened the door to him, “or maybe we both want to get drunk. Come on in.”

He hung up his coat and followed Abby to the kitchen. “Sit,” she commanded, pointing to the table. “I’m running behind with dinner, but it really doesn’t matter, does it? Tomorrow’s Saturday. You know, with this much time on my hands I could make sure every vegetable cube measures exactly one-quarter inch per side.”

“That sounds important,” he said. “Want me to open the wine?”

“Please.”

While he wrestled with a corkscrew, Abby swept the chopped vegetables and herbs into a simmering stewpot and set the lid on it. “There. Done for now. Where shall we sit?”

“Most people use the living room,” Ned said.

“Do you know, I don’t think I’ve spent more than ten minutes total in the living room here? I feel like an intruder. I once checked through the vinyl records on one of the shelves—we seem to have similar tastes—but other than that I keep thinking I should tiptoe in there. I just don’t feel right.”

“Give it a try—you might be missing something,” Ned said.

“Why not?” Abby led the way to the tastefully furnished, spacious living room, which looked like it had been bought as a package from a catalog. Sure, people who knew that their home would be occupied by others for a part of each year might not leave all their precious personal mementoes scattered around, but this room felt curiously impersonal. She sat in an overstuffed armchair, and Ned selected another one. After a couple of moments of silence, he asked, “Not exactly your style, is it?”

“Not at all. I guess that’s good to know, in case I ever get the chance to decorate a place of my own.” She took a sip of her wine. “So, did you hear from Leslie today?”

Ned shook his head. “No, I didn’t. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

Abby wasn’t sure either. “She’s got a lot to work through, and I doubt our peace of mind is her main concern.”

“I know. I’d just like to know what’s going on. I’d hate for this to drag on, particularly for you.”

“I agree, but I think we have to wait for Leslie to make the next move. On my end, I’ve been going crazy staring at a computer screen all day, tracking assorted ancestors.”

“Anything useful?”

“I think I’ve figured out where Henry Perry—you know, the guy I saw at the Littleton green and you didn’t—lived in 1800, and his son after him. I’m not sure that helps us much. Mostly it’s my own curiosity. That and having the luxury to actually dig into the searches, not just skim the surface. But I wanted to be ready for tomorrow, when I’m going back to the historical society in Littleton.”

“What do you hope to find there?” Ned asked.

Abby sighed. “I’m not sure I know anymore. I’ve been trying to figure out Ellie’s background. Of course, it’s entirely possible that her ability is just a coincidence, but given her link to you, I don’t think so. It’s too bad the two of you can’t spend more time together—maybe you could figure out if you both see the same people. But either way, working at the local level is fun—you never know what you might find. There’s always the chance that things or papers that somebody stuck in the attic a century ago and forgot about, then gave to their local historical society—rather than throwing them out, thank goodness—may hold an important clue. But if I come up dry there, I have no idea what I’m going to do next. And I won’t have any answers for Leslie. You and I share a common link; you and Ellie must; and so far I can’t link Leslie to anyone. What about you?”

“I haven’t had time to do much digging. Or thinking, for that matter. I’m sure you’re doing a great job covering the online research, but I don’t know where else to look either. If my mother had been more tuned in to this all along, she might have collected information, but she wasn’t and she didn’t. I’m sorry—that doesn’t help you much.”

“Help
us
,” Abby corrected him gently. “We’re in this together.”

“So we are. Thank you.”

A timer went off in the kitchen, and Abby jumped up. “Time to add the next installment of chopped whatever.”

“When is this going to be finished?”

“This week, I hope. The recipe suggests cooking it for five hours, adding ingredients at intervals, but I think we can compress that a bit. More wine?”

“Great.” Ned followed her into the kitchen and resumed his earlier seat. “Anything else we can talk about while we wait? World affairs? Good books?”

As Abby stirred the pot she said, “I looked at rental listings today and got depressed. Everything is so expensive around here. If I’m not working at the museum, I can’t afford to stay in this neighborhood. Well, without a job I can’t afford to live anywhere, so ‘where’ is kind of irrelevant.”

“Abby, I can help,” Ned said.

Abby replaced the lid on the pot and turned to face him. “But I don’t want your help! I don’t want anybody’s help! I’m a competent adult. I’ve got a good education, and I’ve got relevant experience, and references—well, maybe not from the museum—and I want to work. I want to prove that I can live on my own.”

“What about me?” Ned said, his voice low.

“I … don’t really know how to answer that, Ned. And I’m not being coy or asking for any declaration from you. Are you offering me money? Or are you asking, what happens if I find a great job six states away?”

“Both, I guess. If you’re worried about staying independent, I can make you a loan, with documents and everything. But maybe I’m missing the point.”

Abby sat down across from him and refilled her wineglass before answering. “Maybe you are. Look, we’ve got something special going on between us, but because of this ‘seeing the dead’ thing, we kind of leapfrogged over a lot of the normal steps for a relationship, like getting to know each other, meeting the parents, charting a course for the future. Okay, it’s been six months, but there are still things I don’t know about you.”

“What do you want to know?” he asked.

“For a start, where do you work? I’ve never even called you there. I’ve only got your cell number.”

Ned looked briefly embarrassed, and Abby wondered why. Was he going to tell her he was unemployed and dead broke? Or that he’d been pretending to go to some office every day? Maybe he was a pimp and didn’t want one of his “girls” to pick up the phone. Finally he said, “About ten years ago I started a small company called Newhall Analytics in the suburbs west of Boston. We were one of the first labs around here to do detailed analyses, mainly of DNA, for a variety of purposes.”

“You mean, CSI kind of stuff? Medical? What?”

“Some of each. We have contracts with some of the state agencies to look at things that might affect criminal issues, and they pay pretty well. You’ve probably read some of the news coverage about the shortcomings of the state-run labs, and sadly enough, we’ve benefitted from that. The income from that side of the business supports our research efforts. We undertake some studies that the pharmaceutical companies have passed on because they couldn’t see a big enough payout down the line.”

“You founded this company?” Abby said slowly. “Just you, or were there other people? Friends? Investors?”

“Yes, to both. But it was my concept, and I still retain a majority of the stock.”

“There’s stock?”

“Yes. We went public a few years ago.”

“Uh-huh.” Abby tried to figure out how to phrase her next question. “What’s your net worth, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Since you haven’t bothered to volunteer even a hint of any of this until now.

“Eight figures, last time I checked.”

“I see.” Well, that wasn’t exactly true. In fact, it wasn’t true at all. Abby did
not
see. Ned had, from the beginning, presented himself as an ordinary guy. He wore khakis and plaid shirts and volunteered to give tours of old houses. He drove an ordinary car. He wore an over-the-counter watch. He got up and went to an office somewhere every day. Now he was telling her he had millions?

He was watching her anxiously. “Abby, say something. Anything.”

Much to her surprise, what Abby found herself saying was, “You’ve been lying to me, all along. Not telling lies, but lying by omission.”

“I suppose I have. I figured you—like a lot of people—would see me differently if you knew I had a lot of money in the bank.”

He was probably right, Abby thought. “Maybe. To your credit, you haven’t thrown it around, trying to impress me. What does Leslie know?”