FORGET ME NOT (Mark Kane Mysteries Book One) (8 page)

“Yes,” I said patiently.

“So, if I wanted to answer ‘no’, and it was
an untruthful answer, but I didn’t want my blood pressure to go up
I would ask myself a silent question in my head to which the
truthful answer would be no before I gave the answer. Like ‘is your
name Mickey Mouse’.”

“And the point of all this is?”

“I’m smarter than the average bear,” she said
in a passable imitation of Yogi, the cartoon character.

“Well we won’t be using any polygraphs in
this case.”

“Just as well, because by the sound of her
Susan would be able to fake it.”

“I’ll bear it in mind for the future.”

It was not uncommon for Lucy to spin off at a
tangent. I had discovered that it was best at these times to say as
little as possible.

“So you’ll check about the plane crash?” I
said.

“We don’t even know where and when the crash
took place.”

“Idaho,” I said. “In the fall.”

“Idaho’s a big place,” Lucy said, “and the
fall’s a long season – I’ll have to trawl through hundreds of
newspapers − it’ll take ages. There wasn’t any internet in those
days you know?”

“I don’t suppose there were that many plane
crashes in the fall of 1989
−
even in
Idaho,”

“Am I to be paid overtime for this?”

“Lucy, there are vast tracts of the day when
you sit there doing nothing at all. It’ll give you something to do.
You know, help to pass the time. Plus it’ll be an interest for you;
stop you getting bored.”

“So the answer’s no?”

“Is this an interrogation?”

“Don’t answer a question with another
question, counselor.”

“I’ll be off home then.”

“There’s no need to dash off. I’m going to
make some popcorn.”

“Okay, shall we let the Susan matter drop for
the time being? I’m on my break time.”

We sat eating popcorn, but not before I’d
nipped back to my place for a beer. I even persuaded Lucy to have
one.

“Doesn’t taste the same without beer, does
it?” I said.

Lucy was lost in a little world of her
own.

“I was thinking: do you really need an office
at all?” she said. “I mean why don’t you work from home? Lots of
people do that now; you’d save lots of valuable and potentially
productive time and you’d save on rent, too.”

A little illuminated light had suddenly
appeared over my head like in cartoons when an obvious truth
suddenly hits home. I should have guessed the popcorn was a prelude
to something else.

“And what would you do? You’d be out of a
job.” I said.

“I could work at home too.”

“Was this plan conceived before or after you
inveigled me into moving almost next door to you?”

“You mean before I gave you the golden
opportunity of being my neighbor?”

“I need an office. It creates the right
impression for clients.”

“You mean the wrong impression,” she
chuckled, “the impression that you can afford a prestigious
address.”

I had to admit she’d got me that time. I
tried to counter it anyway.

“We can afford it, we just have to share the
overheads,” I said.

“I still think my idea’s a good one. I mean
we’re not like a hair salon. We don’t get people walking in off the
street.”

“As long as I’m paying your wages I’ll make
the decisions.”

Lucy went into an exaggerated sulk.

“And now, there being no further matters on
the agenda, I shall take myself off to bed,” I said. And I did.

It was Thursday morning as I made my way back
to see Greg Philips in Boylston again. An easterly wind blew the
clouds away so that the sun was shining brightly as I made my way
up the gently curving driveway. As I drove towards the Philips
house I opened the Chevy’s windows in anticipation of the
invigorating scent of freshly mown grass and wasn’t disappointed.
Everything looked exactly the same as before, as if the house and
grounds were enchanted and frozen in time. Even the weather seemed
to have adjusted itself accordingly. I parked on the wide sweep of
the drive in front of the garage and rang the doorbell. Philips
looked as dapper as ever. The cravat was back in favor today,
complimented by a shirt of cerulean blue. His white hair
accentuated the slight tan on his face. He looked happy to see
me.

“Come in Kane, I think you’ll be pleased.
I’ve managed to find some hair samples. Please, come through to the
living room and take a seat. I’ve got some coffee brewing and I’ll
be with you in two ticks.”

I walked through to the living room, noticing
for the first time that I was leaving footprints in the pile of the
living room carpet. There was a florid scent in the air. I went
over to the glass doors to admire the grounds again. In the
distance the leaves on the trees were gently waving in the light
breeze and shimmering in the sunlight. Greg came in and set the
coffee cups, cream and sugar down on the table. The coffee smelled
like an expensive Italian variety.

“One of Gloria’s hairbrushes was still in the
bedroom. I used to brush her hair for her you know towards the end;
it was really the only intimacy that was possible. Fortunately that
bedroom hasn’t been occupied since Gloria passed away. It was a
guest room and I haven’t actually had any guests. Sally, my
daughter in law, left it in the room on purpose. She’s very
thoughtful. She said it was too personal a thing to give or throw
away. I haven’t touched it. I thought it better for an expert to
examine it first to see if it’s any help. I would like the brush
back afterwards though, if possible.”

He walked over to the credenza and picked up
the brush, which he had already placed in a zip lock bag.

“I had all the carpets professionally cleaned
yesterday. After what you told me on Tuesday I couldn’t get it out
of my head that things might be lurking in there.”

“You’ve done well,” I said. “I’m afraid I
didn’t fare too well with Susan.” I told him the gist of the
paucity of information that I had been able to obtain from her.

“It doesn’t really help one way or the
other,” I said, “because there’s little I can do to research her
background. Everything she told me may be true, or there may be no
truth in it at all. Copies of the amended birth certificate, ID
card, and social security number don’t prove anything; they would
be easily accessible to someone who wanted to assume the identity
of the real Susan. I really needed something concrete from her
background that I could check. I’ve got my assistant checking the
newspaper files at the public library and on the internet to see if
we can verify the plane crash which Susan said killed her parents,
although the details were a bit vague; but even if that turns out
to be true there’s still no way of verifying that she was the one
who was adopted by the Grangers. Still, if there is a report of
such an event then the article will probably contain details of the
unfortunate victims which will at least be a start.

“Obviously Gloria had a daughter who was put
up for adoption,” I said, “but whether it was Susan is still a
matter of conjecture. I’m sure you’ve heard of identity theft. It’s
pretty difficult to get away with nowadays if the person whose
identity is stolen is still alive; it’s normally only a matter of
time before it’s discovered, usually by the person whose identity
has been stolen. But theft of a deceased person’s identity is still
difficult to establish, particularly if it occurred a long time
ago. Have you ever read Forsyth’s ‘Day of the Jackal’, where the
hit man assumes the identity of a dead man?”

“Yes, ages ago. I think I was in college
then. I read once that the author had difficulty finding a
publisher because they thought no-one would buy a book in which the
outcome was obvious from the start.”

“Well, that’s publishers for you, what do
they know? But suppose Susan is not the real Susan. If she knew, or
knew of, the real Susan, and the real Susan died, then assuming her
identity would be relatively simple once she got hold of the birth
certificate. The problem is that we have no point of reference. I
will try to find out where she went to school, perhaps even find an
old school photograph, but a person’s appearance may change
considerably over the years. If I knew where she grew up I could
check police files, but even if she’d been in trouble as a juvenile
it’s unlikely her prints would still be on file. They probably
haven’t got that far back with their computer records yet
anyway.

“I still have matters to discuss with her and
I may hit on something which helps. She’s promised to give me
copies of her birth certificate and other documents. In the
meantime let’s hope that the hair yields DNA. If it does then we
can dispense with the rest. I’ll say this though, if Susan isn’t
telling the truth she’s rehearsed her story very thoroughly and
knows what can and cannot be verified. After I’d talked with her I
had the distinct impression that she was mentally reviewing what
she had told me. That’s not something people ordinarily do when
they’re telling the truth.”

“Well I’m grateful for your efforts. Let’s
hope the lab technicians can help us draw a line under this whole
thing.”

“Even if it turns out that Susan is genuine
it still leaves the question of Gloria’s mental capacity at the
time the will was drawn up. Can you give me a copy?”

“Yes, of course.” He took out his cell phone
from his shirt pocket and dialed a number. “Bill Saunders please.
Thank you. Bill, its Greg. Can you fax me another copy of the will
for Mr. Kane? Yes, he did. Not really, no; not yet anyway. Thanks,
I’ll be in touch.”

“That was Gloria’s attorney. He’ll attach a
copy to an email and I should have it in a few minutes. Shall we
have another stroll in the garden while we wait?”

“Perfect. I’ll have a few more questions for
you once I’ve seen the will.”

Greg took me to see his vegetable garden and
a greenhouse. The greenhouse was at least twelve feet high and the
size of a modest family home. It abutted the house at one end and
there were wood-framed glass doors leading to a small family room.
It was hot and humid and bursting with color, the air thick with
the scent of bougainvillea, orchids and other flowering plants that
I was unable to name. The sun’s rays were beating against the
arched glass ceiling trying to find a way inside.

“Those are African violets and over there
some Chinese hibiscus,” said Greg. “I should have planted them
outside by now but I’ve been a bit preoccupied what with one thing
and another.” Greg noticed me running my hand over the back of my
neck. “The air is kept moist in here with two humidifiers,
otherwise the plants would wilt. “Now,” said Greg, “these beauties
thrive on stress.” He was referring to a thick tangle of
bougainvillea which was growing alongside one side of the glass,
the highest of the tendrils perhaps ten feet from the ground. The
almost impenetrable thorny foliage was softened by the delicate
rich color of the numerous bracts. “They flower best when the soil
is dry and need very little water. They love the sun too.”

“They’re beautiful,” I said. “You must have
green fingers.”

“Perhaps you’d like one or two orchids to
take home with you. They make wonderful house plants, or if you’ve
got a yard you can graft them onto the trunk or branches of a tree.
Did you know that orchids were the first flowering plants on the
planet?”

I didn’t know that and I briefly wondered how
anybody could know that, but I didn’t say anything.

“They’re the most diverse flowering plants in
the world today, too” Greg paused and without looking in my
direction said, “They’d make a rather nice gift if you have a
special lady friend.” He stole a sideways glance at me to see my
reaction to this last remark. .

“That’s very kind. I could do with a bit more
color in my life.”

Greg selected half a dozen orchids of varying
colors and placed them in a wooden box. He carried the box back to
the wrought iron table on the deck and motioned me to sit. He
excused himself and disappeared for a minute or two, returning with
a chilled bottle of Chardonnay and some glasses. He acted the wine
waiter again to perfection.

“I hope you’ll like this; it was one of
Gloria’s favorites.”

I sensed his loneliness. This was probably
the highlight of his day. I couldn’t picture him alone at the bar
in the Boylston country club. I said so to him.

“No, even when I used to go there regularly
with Gloria we pretty much kept ourselves to ourselves. I still go
there quite often to eat − cooking for one is such a depressing
thing − but I’ve never been one of the crowd. Let me see if that
email has come through.”

He reappeared a few minutes later with a copy
of Gloria’s will. There were several small bequests, one to an
ornithological society and some items of jewelry to her
daughter-in-law, Sally; but my attention was mainly drawn to the
witnesses. Beneath the usual preamble about perjury were the names,
addresses and signatures of two witnesses.

“Do you know who the witnesses are?”

“No, their names aren’t familiar to me; I’ll
have to make some enquiries.”

“How about the date; was that before or after
the dementia was problematical?”

Philips thought about it for a while. “It was
more than a year after she was diagnosed, probably about three or
four months after Susan arrived on the scene.”

“Well, as I said earlier, irrespective of
Susan’s identity there may be a question of whether Gloria was
mentally fit to make this will.”

“Yes, it’s difficult to be sure. During that
time her symptoms varied a lot. Some days she was perfectly fine.
I’ve been thinking about Susan. I mean when she first came to see
Gloria it was before she became noticeably ill, before her symptoms
became fairly obvious. So there really couldn’t have been any
planning on her part. Nobody knew that she was going to succumb to
the final stages of dementia so quickly. I wonder if I’m being over
cautious about the whole thing.”