inundated with claims from so-called Mallory heirs. I’m trying to help sort out the bogus from the real, and at the same time find out the true story of Poppy Mallory.”
“Do you think I’m bogus, then?”
“Not bogus, Lauren,” he said carefully, “but your story is, well … a bit thin.”
She nodded. “It’s all just hearsay really—you know, a story handed down in the family. Except for the family Bible with all the names in it. We’re Mallorys, all right,” she said, shrugging, “but then I guess so are thousands of others. Anyhow, I never knew my great-grandmother or my grandmother, but my mom always said that my great-grandmother had been brought up on a big ranch near Santa Barbara.”
She stared down at her empty plate and he noticed, surprised, the sudden look of fear that crossed her face.
“They said that after she got married Great-grandmother wasn’t quite right in the head,” she continued, her voice very low. “She had a baby and then ran away from her husband and so her baby was put out for adoption. That baby was my grandmother.”
“Are you saying your great-grandmother was Poppy Mallory?”
“No,” Lauren said simply, “she couldn’t be. She wasn’t old enough. But maybe she was Poppy Mallory’s daughter.”
“I see.” He looked at Lieber’s notes thoughtfully. “Yes, that would make the dates about right. Poppy was born in 1880, and the daughter was probably born around 1898 or 1900 … we’re not sure yet.”
“You’re not sure? But I thought you knew; I thought you would be able to tell me ….”
“It’s not that simple, I’m afraid. But that’s where I come in; I’m gathering all the information and hoping I can sort out Poppy’s story, so then we’ll know who the heiress—or heir—is.”
“I’m sorry I’ve not been much help,” Lauren said wearily. “I don’t think I stand much of a chance.”
“There’s always a chance, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. There are lots of other stories that didn’t even warrant looking into. You’d be amazed how many people replied to that ad.”
She looked suddenly tired and dispirited. “I have to get home. The baby-sitter will be anxious. Thanks for the meal, Mr. Preston.”
“It’s been nice meeting you, Lauren,” he said, meaning it. “Take care of that baby of yours.”
“She’s not my baby,” she said abruptly. “She’s my sister.”
“Your sister?”
She nodded. “Mom had only been remarried a year. Doug was an attorney in San Diego, and we were supposed to move down there to live with him, but I wanted to finish Redlands High first—I was doing my college exams, you see, and I had all my friends …. Anyway, Doug would commute and sometimes Mom would go with him while I stayed with a friend. She was pregnant and real happy about it. Usually she’d fly down to San Diego to be with him, but she was eight months and the airlines don’t allow it. They were driving down there one weekend and I was going off to some party and sleeping over at my best friend’s. The police came by later that night to tell me the car had been struck sideways by a drunk driver on Route 101. Doug was killed instantly and Mom was on a life-support machine.
“I went to the hospital to see her. She looked so pretty, and sort of peaceful, and she was breathing into one of those ventilator things—it pumped her lungs up and down, I guess … I don’t know. They said the baby was still alive and they’d have to do a cesarean. The baby was all right …. But after she was born they turned off my mom’s life-support machine.”
Her blue eyes were tearless and her voice matter-of-fact as she went on. “They wanted to give Maria away to be adopted. They said it would be no problem at all, that there were lots of loving couples longing for a baby, with good homes, money, everything she’d need. But I wouldn’t let them do it. I fought and fought and finally they couldn’t dispute that she was my half
“Do you think I’m bogus, then?”
“Not bogus, Lauren,” he said carefully, “but your story is, well … a bit thin.”
She nodded. “It’s all just hearsay really—you know, a story handed down in the family. Except for the family Bible with all the names in it. We’re Mallorys, all right,” she said, shrugging, “but then I guess so are thousands of others. Anyhow, I never knew my great-grandmother or my grandmother, but my mom always said that my great-grandmother had been brought up on a big ranch near Santa Barbara.”
She stared down at her empty plate and he noticed, surprised, the sudden look of fear that crossed her face.
“They said that after she got married Great-grandmother wasn’t quite right in the head,” she continued, her voice very low. “She had a baby and then ran away from her husband and so her baby was put out for adoption. That baby was my grandmother.”
“Are you saying your great-grandmother was Poppy Mallory?”
“No,” Lauren said simply, “she couldn’t be. She wasn’t old enough. But maybe she was Poppy Mallory’s daughter.”
“I see.” He looked at Lieber’s notes thoughtfully. “Yes, that would make the dates about right. Poppy was born in 1880, and the daughter was probably born around 1898 or 1900 … we’re not sure yet.”
“You’re not sure? But I thought you knew; I thought you would be able to tell me ….”
“It’s not that simple, I’m afraid. But that’s where I come in; I’m gathering all the information and hoping I can sort out Poppy’s story, so then we’ll know who the heiress—or heir—is.”
“I’m sorry I’ve not been much help,” Lauren said wearily. “I don’t think I stand much of a chance.”
“There’s always a chance, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. There are lots of other stories that didn’t even warrant looking into. You’d be amazed how many people replied to that ad.”
She looked suddenly tired and dispirited. “I have to get home. The baby-sitter will be anxious. Thanks for the meal, Mr. Preston.”
“It’s been nice meeting you, Lauren,” he said, meaning it. “Take care of that baby of yours.”
“She’s not my baby,” she said abruptly. “She’s my sister.”
“Your sister?”
She nodded. “Mom had only been remarried a year. Doug was an attorney in San Diego, and we were supposed to move down there to live with him, but I wanted to finish Redlands High first—I was doing my college exams, you see, and I had all my friends …. Anyway, Doug would commute and sometimes Mom would go with him while I stayed with a friend. She was pregnant and real happy about it. Usually she’d fly down to San Diego to be with him, but she was eight months and the airlines don’t allow it. They were driving down there one weekend and I was going off to some party and sleeping over at my best friend’s. The police came by later that night to tell me the car had been struck sideways by a drunk driver on Route 101. Doug was killed instantly and Mom was on a life-support machine.
“I went to the hospital to see her. She looked so pretty, and sort of peaceful, and she was breathing into one of those ventilator things—it pumped her lungs up and down, I guess … I don’t know. They said the baby was still alive and they’d have to do a cesarean. The baby was all right …. But after she was born they turned off my mom’s life-support machine.”
Her blue eyes were tearless and her voice matter-of-fact as she went on. “They wanted to give Maria away to be adopted. They said it would be no problem at all, that there were lots of loving couples longing for a baby, with good homes, money, everything she’d need. But I wouldn’t let them do it. I fought and fought and finally they couldn’t dispute that she was my half
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