“Of course not,” I said, doubting it would be so easy to level the memories of what had happened there. I thought again of Ivy, still uneasy over Jeff’s death a decade or more ago.

We sat down to lunch together-Aunt Emeline’s chicken salad. “It’s the best in the world,” Claire had said, and as far as I’m concerned, that was the truth. Claire didn’t seem to have much of an appetite, but no one fussed at her over it. Aunt Emeline led the conversation, which meant that it was centered on recipes, books we had recently read, people she had known back home, and gardening. I didn’t doubt that this woman could have held a conversation on almost any subject. I suspect she chose her topics with more care than was apparent in her easy manner. We didn’t talk about Ben or Lucas during lunch, which is probably why Claire managed to eat at all.

At the end of lunch, Claire asked Aunt Emeline to excuse us, but before we left she said, “We’re going to talk in the library, but don’t you do those dishes, now. It’s my turn.”

“What happened to your help?” I asked when we were alone.

Her mouth drew into a tight line. “Gossip became a problem. When certain people wanted to buy information, my housekeeper and cook each invented something to sell. None of it true in the least, mind you.”

“Did they live in?”

“No. That’s why they weren’t here when…they weren’t here that night, although the police questioned them anyway. And what they told the police was quite different from what they told the media. What they told the police was just what everyone else said. Ben talked of retiring. Never mentioned illness or suicide.”

She sighed. “I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. I never mistreated anyone who worked here, never even spoke sharply to them. But they actually hinted that I…that I could have…” She drew a shaky breath. “I’m so glad the police put an end to that, anyway. I know there will still be gossip. But I don’t have to have people like that in this house.” She looked up at me. “To be honest, I’d just as soon do the work myself. Aunt Emeline and I take turns fussing over each other. She’s been wonderful. She likes you.”

“Probably because she doesn’t really know me.”

“Nonsense. You said you had something to tell me?”

I brought her up to date on what I had learned from Lucas’s mother about the photographs, and what I had learned of Nadine from my conversation with Ivy. I didn’t mention Jeff, but Claire must have known the story.

“How could I have forgotten about Ivy? Her friend-what was his name?”

“Jeff.”

“Jeff,” she repeated absently, gazing out a window. “That’s right, Jeff.”

“I just learned the story today. I wasn’t living here when he died.”

“All these years. My God, how has she managed?”

“Maybe you should ask her someday. When you’re ready,” I added quickly. I was going to say more, but it was obvious that Claire didn’t want to dwell on it.

“I have something for you,” she said, going over to the desk.

24

THESE AREBEN’Sdesk calendars,” she said, lifting a set of three leather binders, each binder in its own slipcase. “Every night, he would come home, talk to me for a while, and then spend a little time in here, making notes about the day.”

She carried them over to me. The spines were labeled 1975, 1976, 1977. “They weren’t as difficult to find as I thought they might be.” She drew in a deep breath. “Ben apparently became nostalgic during those last few weeks. He must have gone through some of these. He was tying up loose ends, I suppose-he gave some historical photos of the bank to one of the men who worked there, did things like that.” She paused. “I guess I’m feeling nostalgic, too. Forgive me for keeping the one for 1974 aside. It’s the year we were married. If you need it, let me know.”

“Don’t worry about it for now,” I said, feeling the weight of the three I held.

“He was fairly religious about making entries,” she said. “When he was ill, or a little down, he might miss a day or two.”

“A little down?”

“He’d get depressed now and then. Not often,” she added quickly. “Not severely. I had no reason to believe…”

“Of course not,” I said, tracing my fingers along the spine of 1975.

“Before you open them, I have another request.”

I looked up at her.

“Promise me that you’ll just use these to help me find out why Lucas Monroe was contacting Ben. If you want to write a story about that, I won’t object. But there’s a lot of confidential information about customers of the bank in these calendars and some personal information as well. Can I trust you-as my friend-not to report on any of the rest of it?”

Her trust was all that had brought me this far, and she clearly wasn’t going to part with the calendars without my promise. I gave it to her.

“I think the 1977 calendar will be the most helpful,” I said.

“The one for the year Ben sold the boat?”

“Yes.”

“That reminds me,” she said, and went back to the desk. She opened the top drawer, searched through a thin sheaf of papers, and took an unsealed envelope from them. As she handed it to me, I saw that she had written my name on it. “This is the information on the boat.”

I removed the handwritten note from the envelope as Claire sat on the couch next to me. It read:

52’ Bertram sold to Andre Selman for $1000.00 on 8/15/77

“A thousand dollars! For a fifty-two-foot Bertram? Hell, was the bottom missing out of it?”

She didn’t answer.

“When Andre took me fishing,” I said, “it was on a little Boston Whaler. A fine craft for its purpose, but I don’t think it was fifteen feet long. A Bertram-what was the thousand for? Refueling it after a test ride?”

“It’s bad enough without your exaggeration, Irene.”

“I was wondering how someone making an assistant professor’s pay could afford a boat that size. It would strain his budget just to afford maintenance and taxes and slip fees. But the boat-Andre got himself a helluva deal, wouldn’t you say?”

“Andre got himself a helluva gift,” she muttered.

I watched her. Her eyes were lowered, her hands folded carefully in her lap.

“Why do you think Ben gave Andre such a bargain?”

She bit her lower lip, shrugged. “As I told you, the last time he went out on the boat, Ben got a bad case of seasickness. Came back late one day from a fishing trip with Andre looking awful. Ben said he didn’t want to set foot on it again, that he was going to sell the boat to Andre. I remember that much.”

“Come on, Claire. A man who is nobody’s financial sucker practically donates an expensive item to a college professor? Over a bout of seasickness? I know people who’dmake themselves throw up for the kind of money he lost on this deal. There’s more to this.” I watched her carefully. “No guesses?”

“I didn’t know he had sold it for so little! I know it looks bad,” she said, then added, “Maybe that’s why Lucas Monroe sent those photos-maybehe knew why Ben sold the boat for next to nothing! He worked for Andre, right?”

“Not by then. A lot of things had happened by August of 1977, Claire. I’ll tell you what I know so far. Around 1975, Roland Hill and a few of his friends had acquired some real estate in a seedy part of town. I haven’t checked into it yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the Bank of Las Piernas financed some of the purchases. Andre Selman was hired to do a study for the city, probably at Allan Moffett’s urging. The study was supposed to help the city target areas for redevelopment money, and to help the city plan for the future. Lucas Monroe was one of Andre’s assistants.”

“So he worked on this study?”

“Yes. He was going to include some of the work he did on the study in his master’s thesis. He had some disagreements with Andre about the way the study was being done, but they weren’t severe enough to damage his standing with Andre-or so he thought. Then Lucas turned the thesis in, and it was rejected.”