Designer Knockoff (21 page)
“That one was taken in the spring of 1944, right before she disappeared,” Willie said. “Of course, I wasn’t even born then, but I grew up knowing about her. Here’s another one.”
She handed Lacey a picture that must have been taken the same day as Mimi’s photo of the Three Musketeers: Mimi, Gloria, and Honey. Lacey had brought it with her, slipped carefully into a stiff envelope, and she pulled it out to compare them. Annette leaned in intently. Both photos had the same Great Falls background. But Honey was missing in this shot; instead the photo showed Mimi, Gloria, and another young woman, linked arm in arm.
“That’s Gloria and my aunt Mimi,” Lacey pointed out, “but who is the other woman?”
Willie just shrugged and Lacey turned over the photo. There was nothing written on the back of this one. The same dogwoods were in bloom, the light was the same, and Mimi and Gloria were wearing the same outfits as in Lacey’s photo. It had to have been taken at the same time. Lacey looked closely at the new woman. The third woman was small and she wore a faint smile between the grinning Mimi and the fierce Gloria, who may have been scowling at the sun in her eyes. She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, and was built like a squat fireplug, wearing a plain white blouse and blue jeans. There was something very pragmatic about her squared-off Dutch-boy haircut. So there was a fourth at that picnic, taking pictures in turn. Not just a passing stranger.
Did Honey really forget? And will she remember when I call her back?
Did Honey really forget? And will she remember when I call her back?
“Have you seen these?” Annette asked. She had a handful of news clippings on Gloria, including a few that Lacey hadn’t seen. But they all told the same story, and none had a satisfying conclusion. Willie also produced a small packet of letters from Gloria to her sister, Gladys. Willie said she might have read them once when her mother died. They meant nothing to her; she had read a few and then put the rest away. “Gloria wrote a lot about clothes and sewing, and I hated to sew. So if all the letters were about that, I just didn’t find them that interesting,” Willie said with apologies.
“May I copy them? I’ll bring the originals right back.”
“Well, I suppose it would be all right.” Willie sounded doubtful. She placed her china cup and saucer down. “Somehow I feel it’s rude to rummage through dead people’s things.”
“Dead?”
“Oh, surely by now. Don’t you think? Even if she just ran away and abandoned all of us. After all, Mother died ten years ago.” Willie wavered. “Maybe I should just burn them.”
“Wait a minute, Willie.” Lacey’s pulse raced. “Maybe there’s something important in the letters. What if there was some way to find out what happened to her?”
“Why do you care about Gloria?” Annette broke in.
“I’m not quite sure, except that my aunt cared about her and wanted to find out. And maybe I can find out more about Mimi and her life.” Lacey hesitated.
Be honest.
“And I’m a reporter. Curiosity is a real bad habit of reporters.”
Be honest.
“And I’m a reporter. Curiosity is a real bad habit of reporters.”
Willie looked at Lacey. “Do you really think it’s possible to find something in the letters?”
“I don’t know, but I’d hate to see you torch them without knowing for sure.”
“At least you’re honest.” She hesitated; then she handed over the photos and the letters.
Lacey felt terrible. Some days she wasn’t sure what honesty was. She was only sure that she wanted to know more. “And I’d like to write about Gloria and compare her story with Esme Fairchild’s.”
“Who on earth is ... ?” Willie was stumped, but Annette was showing definite signs of animation. In fact, she looked like she was about to jump out of her skin.
“Mother, that intern whose body was found this morning! In some park down on Route One. It was on the radio; I told you I heard about it. Lacey, were you there, did you see it?”
“Yes, I was. And Esme Fairchild was involved with Aaron Bentley, Hugh’s son.”
“Oh, wow,” Annette said, “the fatal-romance-with-a-Bentley angle, right?”
“Now, don’t get carried away, Annette,” Willie cautioned her daughter. “More tea, Lacey?”
Lacey suspected that Annette might be too shy to have much firsthand experience with romance, but her secondhand experience filled the room. Bodice rippers and romances of every stripe crowded the bookshelves by the fireplace, supported one end of the dilapidated sofa, and formed a pyramid of purple-tinged literature on a scarred mahogany end table. Annette came alive with the possibility of seeing her missing great-aunt Gloria as a tragic romantic figure in the same vein as a murdered Washington intern.
And if Annette can’t have fifteen minutes of fame for herself, perhaps a minute or two of reflected glory—or Gloria—would be enough.
And if Annette can’t have fifteen minutes of fame for herself, perhaps a minute or two of reflected glory—or Gloria—would be enough.
“I suppose if it keeps some other young woman from disappearing or getting killed it’s all right with me if you look at the letters—that is, if it’s all right with Annette,” Willie said. “There’s no one else left to shame in this family.” She sighed deeply. “Annette and I know the whole sad story about the scandalous affair with Hugh Bentley.” Willie stirred herself. “Oh, dear, look at the time!” She stood up and grabbed her purse. “I have to leave for choir practice.”
“I’m sorry,” Lacey said, and started to rise from her seat.
“You don’t have to leave,” Annette said. “Really.”
Willie made her apologies and left. Annette picked up the tea tray, and Lacey followed her through an arched door into a small kitchen. It was painted bright yellow in an attempt at cheerfulness, but had accumulated years of grime that scrubbing couldn’t obliterate. The kitchen was woefully behind the times, although a microwave oven took up most of the space on one countertop and appeared to be well used. The small refrigerator must have been fifty years old. As if reading Lacey’s thoughts, Annette said, “It’s the original GE.”
“They made them to last,” Lacey said.
“Good thing. It’s not like we could afford a new one.” Annette moved a few things aside to set the tray down on a yellow-and-chrome Formica-topped table for two. “I can take care of these things later.”
“What do you do, Annette? For work, I mean.”
“I work for the phone company in the District. It’s boring, but they have a pension plan. I don’t pay much attention to those things, but Mother does.” She rinsed her hands in the sink and dried them with a faded towel. “I just started there one summer and it turned into a full-time job after I finished my associate degree at NOVA. You know, the community college.”
“What’s your degree in?”
She shrugged. “I just took a lot of courses where I could read a ton. That’s my passion.” She pointed to another stack of books wobbling on top of the old GE.
The Tremains’ house felt small and stuffy, and Lacey had a sudden urge to get a breath of fresh air. Real air. “Hey, why don’t we run over to Kinko’s? I can make some copies of the letters and the clippings; then we can grab coffee somewhere. My treat.”
Annette looked surprised. “Sure.” Lacey wondered if she got out much with people her age. Annette didn’t talk like women her own age; she didn’t use current jargon or popular phrases. And she was dressed for a quiet afternoon at home with Ozzie and Harriet Nelson. I’m in a house where time moves
very s-l-o-w-l-y.In fact, I think I heard it just screech to a halt. Get me out of here!
very s-l-o-w-l-y.In fact, I think I heard it just screech to a halt. Get me out of here!
Over coffee and a caramel brownie, Annette revealed that Gloria’s disappearance had affected the family in many ways that her mother would never admit. It had taken away their interest in adventure, in expanded horizons, and replaced it with fear.
“I grew up listening to the tale of Auntie Gloria, who had great ambitions, and look what happened to her. She went to New York with dreams of glory and then disappeared one day. It was used to keep my mother in line ever since she was a teenager. And then it was used on me. I’m sorry to say it worked. My mother and grandmother could tell the story in their sleep.”
“Sounds like a real drag.” Lacey savored the aroma of the coffee and the air of the wider world beyond the Tremains’ constricted horizon. Their tea had been decidedly weak.
“I halfway hated Gloria Adams all my life. It’s not her fault, but she wrecked everything for the rest of us.” Annette picked up the brownie and threw Lacey a guilty look. “I wish I had the courage to run away to New York and do something exciting.”
“Did you read the letters?”
She nodded with obvious pleasure. “Sure I did. Gloria was having a big romance with Hugh Bentley, which I found fascinating. I skipped the boring parts about sleeves and hems and some damned clothing regulations. But Mother said Gloria was a liar and made it all up. So I don’t really know what was true. And Mother could be right. I mean, have you seen the pictures of Hugh Bentley? He looked like George Clooney.”
Gloria said he looked like Tyrone Power.
“He was very
handsome.”
“He was very
handsome.”
“And Gloria ... well, you’ve seen the pictures. Even though she looked better after she left here, she just wasn’t in his class.”
No wonder Gloria left home.
“Your family is really big on building self-esteem.”
“Your family is really big on building self-esteem.”
Annette ducked her head, embarrassed. “I know. I know. You’re right. Who knows, maybe he saw through her looks, you know? Maybe she really had something after all.”
Lacey thought about all the romances that Annette must have read. “Like Mr. Rochester and Jane Eyre?”
“That would be too much to hope for. But I like to think it was possible. She said they were going to get married, but it was a big secret because of Marilyn somebody.”
“Married? Sounds like you know the letters pretty well.”
“I found them when I was about sixteen. I was in my grandma Gladys’s house, looking through the linen closet for a fresh tablecloth or something. They were tucked in an old shoe box with the pictures and the news clippings.” Annette leaned toward Lacey in a conspiratorial manner. “I am so boring. I never did anything bad in my life. But when I saw those letters, I had to read them. I didn’t dare ask. I just jammed them into my pocket and took them home with me. There really aren’t that many, only five. But I felt so guilty and so excited ’cause I’d finally put one over on Granny and my mother.”
“Does Willie know you took them?”
“Of course not. It’s my one guilty secret and I cherish it. You can’t tell; promise me you won’t.”
“I promise. Did you put them back?”
“Yeah, a couple weeks later. After I’d memorized all the good parts, like ‘Hugh kissed me in the closet.’ Or, ‘We can’t tell anyone yet, because Marilyn is temperamental and he’s waiting for the right moment.’ After Granny Gladys died a couple years later, we got the box and Mother said I could read the letters if I wanted. I acted very blase. ‘Oh,
those
old letters.’ ”
those
old letters.’ ”
“What do you think happened to Gloria?”
“I used to tell myself stories about her.” Annette explained that she used to imagine that Gloria Adams one day simply decided to change her name and sail away to a new life in Paris or London or Madrid, where she was a spy during the war. “I always hoped she’d come back someday and take me with her. I knew she was nothing like my grandmother, Granny Gladys. Auntie Gloria would be one of those wild aunts who did crazy things, like in
Travels with My Aunt or Auntie Mame.”
Travels with My Aunt or Auntie Mame.”
Or Aunt Mimi,
Lacey thought. “Hugh Bentley also took my aunt out a few times.”
Lacey thought. “Hugh Bentley also took my aunt out a few times.”
“Get out of here!”
“Yeah. But after she found out he was engaged she stopped seeing him. And she blamed him for Gloria’s disappearance.”
“Really?” Annette leaned in close on her elbows. “I mean, my grandma and my mother always said it was probably some ‘rough trade’ who worked in the factory. Not even a man, just
‘rough trade.’ Scared me to death when I was little. I thought it was his name. Mr. Rough Trade, or maybe Ralph, Ralph Trade.” They shared a laugh. ”My family blamed Gloria’s fate on her decision to work in a factory, even though it was a garment factory. It wasn’t like it was bombs or torpedoes or airplane parts.“Annette wiped the crumbs from her hands, then opened the envelope and looked at the photos again. ”Your aunt was really pretty.”
“She was a lot more than that,” Lacey said, fondly looking at the young, indomitable Mimi. “I’ll return the photos as soon as I can. I’ll get professional copies made at the paper.” She sorted out the copies of the letters, giving Annette the originals. She dropped Annette off at the Tremains’ home, where time was still stuck in molasses, and decided to swing back into the District. Parking in front of Honey Martin’s perfect yellow-and-white house, she climbed the twenty steps to the front door. Ruby opened it.
“I’m not sure I should let you in, Ms. Smithsonian. She’s been one cranky old white woman since you visited.”
“I’m so sorry about that. Do you think she’ll see me?”
“Sure, she will. Follow me. Her bark’s worse than her bite. She wears dentures these days.”
Ruby led the way into the front sitting room, tastefully appointed in dark wainscoting and a cream-colored sofa and wing chairs. Sitting by the bay window was Honey Martin, today dressed in lemon yellow and working on a needlepoint. She turned to Lacey in surprise. “I don’t recall that we had an appointment. Ruby?”
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