that, Fenella was located, and inherited Dr. Nell’s estate. Fenella was pregnant too—their babies were born about an hour apart on November second. Fenella’s was Rufus. Marm died falling down the grand staircase when Rha was a few months old. Fenella took Rha and raised him with Rufus as a brother, so my contacts with the child Rha were limited. I was stuck in Little Busquash with Ivor and his current beautiful young lover—sometimes a female, more often a male.”
“Which beautiful young man did you love?” Delia asked. “You may be statuesque, Ivy, but you’re extremely attractive. If Ivor was bisexual, it’s certain some of his young male lovers were too.”
“Right on!” Ivy cried, striking her hands together. “His name was Lance Goodwin, he was as beautiful inside as he was on the outside—dark hair, dark eyes, an olive skin, a magnificent body. And a gentle, loving soul, Delia, that was what I really fell for! Of course he had aspirations to go on the stage—that was usually how Ivor caught them. People are so naive, especially beautiful ones. Lance’s personality attracted Ivor even more than his looks did—he liked corrupting the innocent, so most of his young men were inexperienced. Perhaps that accounted for Marm as well? Ivor trying to corrupt someone infantile?”
“Yes, it’s possible,” Delia said, “but not provable.”
“He succeeded in corrupting Lance, who ended in spurning me in favor of my father. Horrible, isn’t it? I was devastated at the time, and cut my wrists. I was slow to recover.”
“But eventually you did, except for visits to Busquash Manor.”
“It helped that Ivor died in 1934.”
“When did you get to know Rha and Rufus?”
“After Ivor died, though Fenella never loved me, and didn’t encourage sibling intimacy. Really, I didn’t get to know Rha and Rufus until after Fenella died in 1950. Since then, we’ve more than made up for the lost years.”
“It must thrill you to be a part of Rha Tanais Inc.,” Delia said, “not to mention the weddings.”
“I could write a book about weddings,” Ivy said, laughing.
“Why don’t you?”
Ivy looked shocked. “No, never! The worst tragedies would make the most interesting reading.”
“One doesn’t think of weddings as tragedies, Ivy dear.”
“I’ve seen two girls widowed before they could leave the church. One poor groom died of a heart attack at the altar, and one was shot dead by his wife’s ex-boyfriend.”
“Brr! The grubby side of life can intrude anywhere.”
That set Ivy chuckling. “Delia dear, beneath the surface of the glossiest, most gorgeous wedding there simmers God knows what, from the groom’s mother’s resentment of the bride to the maid of honor’s despairing she’ll ever be a bride. For all that, I love my work, I adore my brother and his world, and I pity the grim compulsion in Jess that leads her to flog herself for, I suspect, few thanks.”
“And how do you feel about Delia the Detective, who winkled your story out of you?”
“I love her, but I don’t pity her.”
And that, thought Delia after Ivy left in mid-afternoon, is a compliment. Interesting, that she pities Jess.
MONDAY, AUGUST 11, 1969
A wed and astonished, Abe Goldberg stared at the four acrylic portraits on the slanted drawing table. Depicting head, neck and base of the shoulders only, Hank Jones had made them the size of Rha Tanais’s head, more generous than the customary 8 × 10-inch photograph. And how right the quirky young guy was! In color, opaquely rendered by what Abe suspected was a masterly hand, the four Does were dramatically different from each other despite the obvious similarities.
“James Doe’s natural hair color had enough red in it to hint at freckles,” Hank was saying, “so I gave him a powdering of them—not the awful freckles of a carrot-head, just the fainter ones of auburn hair. John Doe Three and John Doe Four both had a few strands of fair hair embedded in
“Which beautiful young man did you love?” Delia asked. “You may be statuesque, Ivy, but you’re extremely attractive. If Ivor was bisexual, it’s certain some of his young male lovers were too.”
“Right on!” Ivy cried, striking her hands together. “His name was Lance Goodwin, he was as beautiful inside as he was on the outside—dark hair, dark eyes, an olive skin, a magnificent body. And a gentle, loving soul, Delia, that was what I really fell for! Of course he had aspirations to go on the stage—that was usually how Ivor caught them. People are so naive, especially beautiful ones. Lance’s personality attracted Ivor even more than his looks did—he liked corrupting the innocent, so most of his young men were inexperienced. Perhaps that accounted for Marm as well? Ivor trying to corrupt someone infantile?”
“Yes, it’s possible,” Delia said, “but not provable.”
“He succeeded in corrupting Lance, who ended in spurning me in favor of my father. Horrible, isn’t it? I was devastated at the time, and cut my wrists. I was slow to recover.”
“But eventually you did, except for visits to Busquash Manor.”
“It helped that Ivor died in 1934.”
“When did you get to know Rha and Rufus?”
“After Ivor died, though Fenella never loved me, and didn’t encourage sibling intimacy. Really, I didn’t get to know Rha and Rufus until after Fenella died in 1950. Since then, we’ve more than made up for the lost years.”
“It must thrill you to be a part of Rha Tanais Inc.,” Delia said, “not to mention the weddings.”
“I could write a book about weddings,” Ivy said, laughing.
“Why don’t you?”
Ivy looked shocked. “No, never! The worst tragedies would make the most interesting reading.”
“One doesn’t think of weddings as tragedies, Ivy dear.”
“I’ve seen two girls widowed before they could leave the church. One poor groom died of a heart attack at the altar, and one was shot dead by his wife’s ex-boyfriend.”
“Brr! The grubby side of life can intrude anywhere.”
That set Ivy chuckling. “Delia dear, beneath the surface of the glossiest, most gorgeous wedding there simmers God knows what, from the groom’s mother’s resentment of the bride to the maid of honor’s despairing she’ll ever be a bride. For all that, I love my work, I adore my brother and his world, and I pity the grim compulsion in Jess that leads her to flog herself for, I suspect, few thanks.”
“And how do you feel about Delia the Detective, who winkled your story out of you?”
“I love her, but I don’t pity her.”
And that, thought Delia after Ivy left in mid-afternoon, is a compliment. Interesting, that she pities Jess.
MONDAY, AUGUST 11, 1969
A wed and astonished, Abe Goldberg stared at the four acrylic portraits on the slanted drawing table. Depicting head, neck and base of the shoulders only, Hank Jones had made them the size of Rha Tanais’s head, more generous than the customary 8 × 10-inch photograph. And how right the quirky young guy was! In color, opaquely rendered by what Abe suspected was a masterly hand, the four Does were dramatically different from each other despite the obvious similarities.
“James Doe’s natural hair color had enough red in it to hint at freckles,” Hank was saying, “so I gave him a powdering of them—not the awful freckles of a carrot-head, just the fainter ones of auburn hair. John Doe Three and John Doe Four both had a few strands of fair hair embedded in
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