Red Lily
Page 34
“Not saying otherwise, just wondering what we do with it.”
“First, I’d like to know how he came by it. Mitchell,” Roz said with growing impatience. “Don’t make me hurt you in front of the children.”
“So.” Mitch pushed back from the keyboard, took off his glasses to polish them on his shirt. “Reginald Harper owned several properties, including houses. Here in Shelby County, and outside it. Some were rented, of course, investment properties, income. I did find a few, through the old ledgers, that were listed as tenanted through certain periods, but generated no income.”
“Cooking the books?” Harper suggested.
“Possibly. Or these residences might have been where he installed mistresses.”
“Plural?” Logan took another glass of tea. “Busy boy.”
“Beatrice’s journal speaks of women, not woman, so it follows. It also follows, as we find him a shrewd, goal-oriented type that as he wanted a son, whatever the cost, he maintained more than one candidate until he got what he was after. But the journals also indicate Amelia was local, so I concentrated on the local properties.”
“I doubt he’d list a mistress as a tenant,” Roz said.
“No. Meanwhile, I’ve been scouring the census lists. A lot of names, a lot of years to cover. Then a little lightbulb goes off, and I narrowed it to the years Reginald held those local properties, and before 1892. Still a lot to cull through, but I hit in the 1890 census.”
His gaze scanned the room, landed on the cart. “Are those cookies?”
“Jesus, David, get the man some cookies before I have to kill him. What did you hit in 1890?”
“Amelia Ellen Connor, resident of one of Reginald’s Memphis houses. One that generated no income from the later half of that year, through March of 1893. One, in fact, he’d listed as untenanted during that period.”
“Almost certainly has to be her,” Stella said. “It’s too neat and tidy not to be.”
“She knows her neat and tidy,” Logan commented. “In spades.”
“If it’s not our Amelia, it’s one hell of a coincidence.” Mitch tossed his glasses onto the table. “Reginald’s very careful bookkeeper noted on Reginald’s books a number of expenses incurred during the period the property was supposedly empty, and Amelia Connor listed it as her residence on the census. In February of 1893, considerably more expenses were noted dealing with refurbishing in preparation for new tenants, paying tenants. The house was sold, if you’re interested, in 1899.”
“So we know she lived in Memphis,” Hayley began, “at least until a few months after the baby was born.”
“More than that. Amelia Ellen Connor.” He slipped his glasses back on and read his notes. “Born 1868 to Thomas Edward Connor and Mary Kathleen Connor née Bingham. Though Amelia listed both her parents as deceased, that was only true of her father, who died in 1886. Her mother was alive, and very possibly well, until her death in 1897. She was employed by the Lucerne family as a housemaid at a home on the river, called—”
“The Willows,” Roz finished. “I know that house. It’s older than this one. It’s a bed-and-breakfast now, a very lovely one. It was bought and restored oh, twenty years ago at least.”
“Mary Connor worked there,” Mitch continued, “and though she listed no children for the census, a check of vital records shows she had a daughter—Amelia Ellen.”
“Estranged, I suppose,” Stella said.
“Enough that the daughter considered her mother dead, and the mother didn’t acknowledge the daughter. There’s another interesting bit. There’s no record of Amelia having a child, just as there’s no record of her death.”
“Money can grease wheels or muddy them up,” Hayley added.
“What’s next?” Logan wondered.
“I’m going to go back over old newspapers, again, keep looking for any mention of her death—unidentified female, that sort of thing. And we’ll keep trying to find information through the descendants of servants. I’ll see if the people who own The Willows now will let me have a look at any documents or papers from that time.”
“I’ll smooth the way,” Roz offered. “Old family names grease wheels, too.”
SHE WAS OUT on a date for the first time in . . . it was really too sad to think about how long. And she looked pretty good, if she did say so herself. The little red top showed off her arms and shoulders, which were nicely toned between hauling Lily, yoga, and digging in the dirt.
There was a great-looking guy sitting across from her in a noisy, energetic Beale Street restaurant. And she couldn’t keep her mind on the moment.
“We’ll talk about it,” Harper said, then picked up the glass of wine she’d ignored and handed it to her. “You’ll feel better getting it out than working so hard not to say anything.”
“I can’t stop thinking about it. Her. I mean she had his baby, Harper, and he just took it. It’s not so hard to see why she’d have this hard-on about men.”
“Devil’s advocate? She sold herself.”
“But, Harper—”
“Hold on. She came from a working-class family. Instead of opting to work, she opted to be kept. Her choice, and I got no problem with it. But she traded sex for a house and servants.”
“Which gives him the right to take her child?”
“Not saying that, by a long shot. I’m saying it’s unlikely she was a rosy-cheeked innocent. She lived in that house, as his mistress, for what, more than a year before she got pregnant.”
She wasn’t ready to have it all taken down to its lowest level. “Maybe she loved him.”
“Maybe she loved the life.” He jerked a shoulder.
“I didn’t know you were so cynical.”
He only smiled. “I didn’t know you were so romantic. More than likely, the truth of it hits somewhere in the middle of cynicism and romance, so we’ll split the difference.”
“Seems fair. I don’t always like being fair though.”
“Either way it falls, we know this is one screwed-up individual, Hayley. It’s pretty likely she was screwed up before this happened. That doesn’t mean she deserved it, but I’m betting on a hard edge. It takes one, doesn’t it, to list your own mother as dead when she’s living a few miles away?”
“First, I’d like to know how he came by it. Mitchell,” Roz said with growing impatience. “Don’t make me hurt you in front of the children.”
“So.” Mitch pushed back from the keyboard, took off his glasses to polish them on his shirt. “Reginald Harper owned several properties, including houses. Here in Shelby County, and outside it. Some were rented, of course, investment properties, income. I did find a few, through the old ledgers, that were listed as tenanted through certain periods, but generated no income.”
“Cooking the books?” Harper suggested.
“Possibly. Or these residences might have been where he installed mistresses.”
“Plural?” Logan took another glass of tea. “Busy boy.”
“Beatrice’s journal speaks of women, not woman, so it follows. It also follows, as we find him a shrewd, goal-oriented type that as he wanted a son, whatever the cost, he maintained more than one candidate until he got what he was after. But the journals also indicate Amelia was local, so I concentrated on the local properties.”
“I doubt he’d list a mistress as a tenant,” Roz said.
“No. Meanwhile, I’ve been scouring the census lists. A lot of names, a lot of years to cover. Then a little lightbulb goes off, and I narrowed it to the years Reginald held those local properties, and before 1892. Still a lot to cull through, but I hit in the 1890 census.”
His gaze scanned the room, landed on the cart. “Are those cookies?”
“Jesus, David, get the man some cookies before I have to kill him. What did you hit in 1890?”
“Amelia Ellen Connor, resident of one of Reginald’s Memphis houses. One that generated no income from the later half of that year, through March of 1893. One, in fact, he’d listed as untenanted during that period.”
“Almost certainly has to be her,” Stella said. “It’s too neat and tidy not to be.”
“She knows her neat and tidy,” Logan commented. “In spades.”
“If it’s not our Amelia, it’s one hell of a coincidence.” Mitch tossed his glasses onto the table. “Reginald’s very careful bookkeeper noted on Reginald’s books a number of expenses incurred during the period the property was supposedly empty, and Amelia Connor listed it as her residence on the census. In February of 1893, considerably more expenses were noted dealing with refurbishing in preparation for new tenants, paying tenants. The house was sold, if you’re interested, in 1899.”
“So we know she lived in Memphis,” Hayley began, “at least until a few months after the baby was born.”
“More than that. Amelia Ellen Connor.” He slipped his glasses back on and read his notes. “Born 1868 to Thomas Edward Connor and Mary Kathleen Connor née Bingham. Though Amelia listed both her parents as deceased, that was only true of her father, who died in 1886. Her mother was alive, and very possibly well, until her death in 1897. She was employed by the Lucerne family as a housemaid at a home on the river, called—”
“The Willows,” Roz finished. “I know that house. It’s older than this one. It’s a bed-and-breakfast now, a very lovely one. It was bought and restored oh, twenty years ago at least.”
“Mary Connor worked there,” Mitch continued, “and though she listed no children for the census, a check of vital records shows she had a daughter—Amelia Ellen.”
“Estranged, I suppose,” Stella said.
“Enough that the daughter considered her mother dead, and the mother didn’t acknowledge the daughter. There’s another interesting bit. There’s no record of Amelia having a child, just as there’s no record of her death.”
“Money can grease wheels or muddy them up,” Hayley added.
“What’s next?” Logan wondered.
“I’m going to go back over old newspapers, again, keep looking for any mention of her death—unidentified female, that sort of thing. And we’ll keep trying to find information through the descendants of servants. I’ll see if the people who own The Willows now will let me have a look at any documents or papers from that time.”
“I’ll smooth the way,” Roz offered. “Old family names grease wheels, too.”
SHE WAS OUT on a date for the first time in . . . it was really too sad to think about how long. And she looked pretty good, if she did say so herself. The little red top showed off her arms and shoulders, which were nicely toned between hauling Lily, yoga, and digging in the dirt.
There was a great-looking guy sitting across from her in a noisy, energetic Beale Street restaurant. And she couldn’t keep her mind on the moment.
“We’ll talk about it,” Harper said, then picked up the glass of wine she’d ignored and handed it to her. “You’ll feel better getting it out than working so hard not to say anything.”
“I can’t stop thinking about it. Her. I mean she had his baby, Harper, and he just took it. It’s not so hard to see why she’d have this hard-on about men.”
“Devil’s advocate? She sold herself.”
“But, Harper—”
“Hold on. She came from a working-class family. Instead of opting to work, she opted to be kept. Her choice, and I got no problem with it. But she traded sex for a house and servants.”
“Which gives him the right to take her child?”
“Not saying that, by a long shot. I’m saying it’s unlikely she was a rosy-cheeked innocent. She lived in that house, as his mistress, for what, more than a year before she got pregnant.”
She wasn’t ready to have it all taken down to its lowest level. “Maybe she loved him.”
“Maybe she loved the life.” He jerked a shoulder.
“I didn’t know you were so cynical.”
He only smiled. “I didn’t know you were so romantic. More than likely, the truth of it hits somewhere in the middle of cynicism and romance, so we’ll split the difference.”
“Seems fair. I don’t always like being fair though.”
“Either way it falls, we know this is one screwed-up individual, Hayley. It’s pretty likely she was screwed up before this happened. That doesn’t mean she deserved it, but I’m betting on a hard edge. It takes one, doesn’t it, to list your own mother as dead when she’s living a few miles away?”
