a wonderful Abe.”
I turned to see Liliane Bedsole standing in front of my picture.
“His daughter gave it to me,” I said.
“Look at that hair. I saw it from the sofa and told myself it couldn’t be, but it is. It’s incredible.”
“Thank you.” I wished Fred could hear this. I poured the tea, put the cups and the cookies on a tray, and took them into the den.
“How nice.” Liliane Bedsole came back and sat on the sofa. She picked up a cookie and looked at it. “My mother used to make these,” she said.
I sat down beside her. “An old Southern recipe.”
“Yes.” She took a bite of cookie and so did I. She took a sip of tea and so did I. She looked up at the rain running down the skylight.
And I blurted out, “You’re looking for Claire, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I have no idea where she is.”
Liliane sighed. “Claire’s my foster daughter, you know. I was hoping you might have heard from her. I know she came here yesterday and that you took her to the hospital.”
“Ms. Bedsole,” I said, “I have no idea why Claire came here. I taught her ten or fifteen years ago and hadn’t seen her again until night before last at the gallery.” I put my cookie down. “I was sorry to hear about your niece’s death.”
Liliane Bedsole studied her tea as if she were reading fortunes. “Thank you. I still find it hard to believe that Mercy’s gone.” She was silent for a moment. Then, “Tell me aboutClaire. The policewoman I talked to said she was in a state of collapse.”
I wished I could tell her what the paramedic had told me: Claire’s stress signals were stuck. That described her condition perfectly. But Liliane deserved more. I told her the whole story except the graffiti on Claire’s walls. Let Bo Peep Mitchell fill her in on that. I just mentioned vandalism.
Liliane Bedsole listened quietly and without a question. When I finished, she leaned over and put her teacup on the table. “What do you think about her condition, Mrs. Hollowell?”
“Not good,” I said. Another person asking me what I thought? Suddenly, I was angry. “You’re the one should know about her condition, Ms. Bedsole. She’s your foster daughter.”
Liliane Bedsole turned and looked at me. “She’s my niece, Mrs. Hollowell.”
“I thought Mercy was your niece.”
“She is. Was. They both are. Were.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, most of the people involved are gone, and in today’s society things that used to be skeletons in the closet don’t matter anymore.”
I looked at Liliane Bedsole and waited. I had no idea what she was talking about.
“Mrs. Hollowell, my brother, Amos Bedsole, ran off and married a girl he met when she was waiting tables at the Elite Cafe. He was eighteen. She was a pretty little thing. I only saw her once, the night Amos brought her home. Her father was a coal miner, not even American. Yugoslavian or something like that.
“Anyway”—Liliane sat forward—“the marriage was annulled almost as soon as they said ‘I do.’ Daddy probably paid them off, though I doubt that was what the girl was after. Amos went off to college and then he married Edna and they had Betty. Came into Daddy’s business and eventually was running it. To tell you the truth, I’d all but forgotten the girl. Her name was Dania. Pretty little thing,” she repeated.
Liliane was quiet for a moment, seeing a distant Dania. She took a deep breath and continued. “Then, sixteen, maybe seventeen years ago, Dania showed up in Amos’s office. She was dying of cancer and told him they had a daughter. You can’t imagine how Amos felt. He was a good man, Mrs. Hollowell, and would have been there for her if he had known. And then it turned out that Dania wasn’t there about her daughter, but her granddaughters. She’d been living in Florida for years so she hadn’t known the extent of the abuse in her daughter’s marriage. She told Amos she had called the juvenile authorities when
I turned to see Liliane Bedsole standing in front of my picture.
“His daughter gave it to me,” I said.
“Look at that hair. I saw it from the sofa and told myself it couldn’t be, but it is. It’s incredible.”
“Thank you.” I wished Fred could hear this. I poured the tea, put the cups and the cookies on a tray, and took them into the den.
“How nice.” Liliane Bedsole came back and sat on the sofa. She picked up a cookie and looked at it. “My mother used to make these,” she said.
I sat down beside her. “An old Southern recipe.”
“Yes.” She took a bite of cookie and so did I. She took a sip of tea and so did I. She looked up at the rain running down the skylight.
And I blurted out, “You’re looking for Claire, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I have no idea where she is.”
Liliane sighed. “Claire’s my foster daughter, you know. I was hoping you might have heard from her. I know she came here yesterday and that you took her to the hospital.”
“Ms. Bedsole,” I said, “I have no idea why Claire came here. I taught her ten or fifteen years ago and hadn’t seen her again until night before last at the gallery.” I put my cookie down. “I was sorry to hear about your niece’s death.”
Liliane Bedsole studied her tea as if she were reading fortunes. “Thank you. I still find it hard to believe that Mercy’s gone.” She was silent for a moment. Then, “Tell me aboutClaire. The policewoman I talked to said she was in a state of collapse.”
I wished I could tell her what the paramedic had told me: Claire’s stress signals were stuck. That described her condition perfectly. But Liliane deserved more. I told her the whole story except the graffiti on Claire’s walls. Let Bo Peep Mitchell fill her in on that. I just mentioned vandalism.
Liliane Bedsole listened quietly and without a question. When I finished, she leaned over and put her teacup on the table. “What do you think about her condition, Mrs. Hollowell?”
“Not good,” I said. Another person asking me what I thought? Suddenly, I was angry. “You’re the one should know about her condition, Ms. Bedsole. She’s your foster daughter.”
Liliane Bedsole turned and looked at me. “She’s my niece, Mrs. Hollowell.”
“I thought Mercy was your niece.”
“She is. Was. They both are. Were.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, most of the people involved are gone, and in today’s society things that used to be skeletons in the closet don’t matter anymore.”
I looked at Liliane Bedsole and waited. I had no idea what she was talking about.
“Mrs. Hollowell, my brother, Amos Bedsole, ran off and married a girl he met when she was waiting tables at the Elite Cafe. He was eighteen. She was a pretty little thing. I only saw her once, the night Amos brought her home. Her father was a coal miner, not even American. Yugoslavian or something like that.
“Anyway”—Liliane sat forward—“the marriage was annulled almost as soon as they said ‘I do.’ Daddy probably paid them off, though I doubt that was what the girl was after. Amos went off to college and then he married Edna and they had Betty. Came into Daddy’s business and eventually was running it. To tell you the truth, I’d all but forgotten the girl. Her name was Dania. Pretty little thing,” she repeated.
Liliane was quiet for a moment, seeing a distant Dania. She took a deep breath and continued. “Then, sixteen, maybe seventeen years ago, Dania showed up in Amos’s office. She was dying of cancer and told him they had a daughter. You can’t imagine how Amos felt. He was a good man, Mrs. Hollowell, and would have been there for her if he had known. And then it turned out that Dania wasn’t there about her daughter, but her granddaughters. She’d been living in Florida for years so she hadn’t known the extent of the abuse in her daughter’s marriage. She told Amos she had called the juvenile authorities when
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