The Sirena Quest Page 4

  Lou nodded. “Okay.”

  Ray glanced around and then raised his eyebrows. “Think about it. There he is, puttering around the house, carrying in his head the answer to the biggest mystery in the history of his college. What’s the fun of a secret like that if you can’t share it with at least one other person? But who? He’s got no wife. He’s got no kids. He’s got no lover. Who’s left?”

  Lou pursed his lips and nodded. “It’s possible.”

  “Good a guess as any.”

  “Was he close with his sister?”

  “Don’t know. But she was his nearest living relative.”

  Lou thought it over. Henry Washburn had not merely been a president of Barrett College. He was the president on May 29, 1959, which is when Sirena made her final appearance. That was the night of the senior banquet for the Class of 1959. Midway through the evening’s festivities, a team of freshmen, accompanied by several armed Pinkertons, burst into the banquet hall and abducted her. During the ensuing automobile chase through the hills of western Massachusetts, one of the cars overturned. Its two occupants—both seniors—were killed, instantly, and gruesomely. One was decapitated. His head was never found—presumably carried off in the night by a wild animal.

  The police brought Sirena back to the college the next morning, and there she remained, under heavy guard, until the wee hours of June 17, 1959. Out on the quad the following day, Henry Washburn opened his commencement address by announcing Sirena’s departure. She had not been destroyed, he assured the buzzing audience. Instead, she was in transit at that very moment, heading toward her final resting place. She was gone, he declared, and she never would return.

  After a heated debate at a special meeting later that day, the board of trustees affirmed Washburn’s actions in a resolution that now hangs in the foyer of the Plympton Administration Building. It decrees that Sirena shall be and is hereby removed from the premises of the College to her final destination, her location known only to President Henry Emerson Washburn and, upon his death, to none other.

  Lou asked, “When did Washburn die?”

  Ray pointed to the date above the obituary. “Six years ago this July.”

  Lou began to smile. “So Abigail lives in St. Louis?”

  “In Lemay Gardens.”

  “Which is?”

  “A nursing home. In the south suburbs.”

  “How’d you track her down?”

  “Easier than you’d think. Took one of my guys just two hours.”

  Lou finished his beer and set the mug on the table. “And she’s willing to talk to us?”

  Ray shrugged. “Don’t know. Haven’t asked. Visiting hours are one to four tomorrow. I thought maybe we’d just kind of show up and introduce ourselves to the little lady.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Sure.” Ray smiled. “We’re talking mega-bucks for the school, dude.”

  “And don’t forget the money for the finders,” Brandi said.

  Lou sat back in his chair and stared at Ray. “Henry Washburn’s sister, eh?”

  Ray gave him a wink. “I got a good feeling about this one.”

  Chapter Seven

  By the time the Soulard Blues Band took their second break, Brandi was yawning. Big gasping yawns. She was entitled. The night before she’d done her three regular shows at the Seahorse plus a night-owl special for a San Diego Padres bachelor party. She didn’t get to bed until after four in the morning. They flagged the waitress and paid the bill.

  In the hotel lobby, Brandi gave Lou a big hug.

  “It’s so wonderful to see you, Louis.”

  Ray turned to Lou. “Wait here a sec.”

  Lou watched them walk toward the elevators. They were a wonderful pair, he thought, and wonderfully improbable. They’d met at a United Jewish Appeal Young Leadership event in San Diego. Ray was there because he’d heard that the UJA program was a good place to meet nice Jewish girls. After a series of miserable relationships with shiksas, he’d decided it was time to find a nice Jewish girl and settle down. Brandi was there in search of a nice Jewish man, having just walked out of a grisly two-year affair with a Vegas pit boss. She’d heard from one of her girlfriends that the UJA was filled with eligible, housebroken Jewish attorneys, doctors, and CPAs.

  And thus two lapsed Catholics—Ray from St. Joseph’s parish in Pittsburgh, Brandi from Sacred Heart in Peoria—found themselves seated next to each other during the UJA Young Leadership main event that night: a talk by the Israeli consul on West Bank settlements. Both affected keen interest in the speech while sizing each other up. Ray fit Brandi’s stereotype of a nice Jewish boy: black curly hair, broad nose, dark eyes, platinum Rolex. As for Brandi, although her blonde hair and blue eyes didn’t quite fit Ray’s stereotype, her nametag (B. Wine) assuaged his doubts. After all, he reminded himself, wasn’t Goldie Hawn Jewish? It wasn’t until their third date that they discovered their unexpected kinship. It was not until their sixth date that Brandi revealed the precise nature and venue of the “modern interpretive dance” that she performed for a living.

  Over by the elevators, Ray said something to Brandi. She glanced over at Lou, back at Ray, and nodded. The elevator doors slid open, and Ray gave her a quick kiss before she got on. She waved good-night to Lou as the doors closed.

  Ray came back to Lou. “Where’s your car?”

  “In the garage down the street,” Lou said.

  “Come on. I’ll keep you company.”

  They walked to the end of the block. Busch Stadium was directly ahead. To their left was a multi-story concrete parking garage. The wind had picked up—a warm summer breeze that rattled the flagpoles in the plaza in front of stadium. The huge bronze statue of Cardinals legend Stan Musial—Stan the Man—shimmered in the moonlight. Lou looked up into a clear night sky. A crescent moon hung just above the ridge of the stadium. They crossed the street and stopped when they reached the parking garage.

  Ray said, “Do me a favor.”

  “What?”

  Ray was studying Busch Stadium.

  “I was out of the loop all those years,” he said. “First I heard was last year when you came to San Diego.” He turned to Lou. “I want to say good-bye to her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tonight.”

  Lou looked away. “It’s probably closed.”

  “Maybe not.”

  Lou stared at Stan Musial—bat cocked, head tilted at that trademark angle. Stan the Man appeared to be staring back, studying Lou, waiting for his response.

  “Come on,” Ray said. “I haven’t been to St. Louis in more than twenty years, and with any luck I’ll never come back to this shithole.”

  ***

  They parked near the main entrance. The front gate was closed but Ray found an open service entrance around the side.

  The moon and stars illuminated the pathways, although Lou could have found his way blindfolded. The first year he’d come here every Saturday morning after saying Kaddish at the synagogue. He’d tell her things—about the kids, her parents, her girlfriends. Sometimes he’d try to tell her about himself—his cases, crazy stuff at the firm, a book he was reading. Sometimes he’d try to apologize. Often, though, it was just too hard to talk.

  As they approached her grave, Lou slowed his pace to scan the ground. He spotted a white stone about the size of a walnut and bent to pick it up. He straightened and pointed down the aisle.

  “This way,” he said.

  They walked along the grass between the headstones. The wind was stronger now, the trees swaying and rustling, casting moon shadows over the graves.

  Lou gestured toward the headstone.

  The two of them stood side by side at the foot of the grave, facing the headstone. Lou tried to focus on the rustling of the leaves and the shifting shadows of the trees. In the moonlight, the eng
raved words were clearly visible:

  ANDREA KAPLAN SOLOMON

  1953 – 1990

  Beloved Daughter, Wife, Mother, Friend

  Lou stepped around the grave toward the marble headstone and placed the stone on the level top surface. He laid it near the one he’d placed there two weeks ago. He studied the new stone for a moment, and then slid it across the marble surface until it was touching the other one. He took a step back. His moon shadow fell at an angle across the headstone. He stared at his shadow as he listened to the rhythmic grinding of the crickets.

  The past year he’d been to her grave about twice a month—several times with his children, once with her parents, other times alone, usually on his way home after work. He still talked to her. Not as much as before, but he made sure she knew about her kids, how they were doing, how they were growing up, how so much of her was in each of them. And, always, how much he missed her.

  But tonight was the first time he’d brought an outsider. Lou glanced back. Ray was still at the foot of the grave, staring at the headstone.

  Ray met Andi freshman year when he came home with Lou for winter break. Andi and Ray hit it off immediately and stayed in touch even after Ray had drifted away from the rest of them. They had a special simpatico—as if they had been siblings in another lifetime. During Ray’s junior and senior years—when he was living off campus and completely out of touch with his freshman year roommates—he visited Andi at Wellesley whenever he went to Boston. They remained pals throughout.

  Ray looked up. The branches overhead rustled and swayed in the moonlight, sweeping shadows back and forth across the plot.

  “She was a helluva gal,” Ray said.

  Lou nodded.

  Ray took a last look at her gravestone and turned to Lou. “Let’s go.”

  Part 2: Picking Up The Scent

  $25 million. That’s the ransom for Sirena, Barrett College’s infamous kidnap victim. $23 million for the college plus $2 million for her rescuers, but only if they are alumni. This is strictly a Barrett College affair.

  The two checks will be waiting inside an armored car on the fifty-yard line at the college’s graduation ceremonies next week on June 17th. Sirena will turn 100 that day, Barrett College will turn 150, and the Class of 1959—the last class to hold her—will celebrate their 35th reunion. The alignment of those numbers caught the attention of Silicon Valley billionaire Robert Godwin, the wealthiest member of the Class of ’59. His foundation has pledged $23 million to the college—to be known as the Sirena Endowment—and another $2 million reward to her rescuers, but only if she returns in time for the June 17 celebration.

  No Sirena on June 17, no $25 million.

  “The Ransom of the Century”

  Newsweek Magazine (June 10, 1994)

  Chapter Eight

  Abigail Washburn, spinster sister of the late Henry Washburn, became a time traveler during her ninth decade on the planet. Although her body continued its journey down the narrowing rails of time, her mind occasionally jumped the track. Some days it was terrifying—lost in the woods, stumbling through the underbrush, strange voices in the shadows, searching for a gap in the thicket, a way back to the rails. But on days when she came upon a clearing—oh, that was almost too marvelous. Emerging into sunlight, eyes blinking, watching in wonder as a rerun of a favorite episode of The Life and Times of Abigail Washburn began unreeling. And always with her in the lead role.

  Yesterday, for example. Oh, yesterday had been almost too grand for words. To be eighteen again, shopping at Stix, Baer & Fuller with her mother for that lovely white formal she would wear to the Veiled Prophet Ball.

  Today was almost as splendid: planning her parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary. Oh, what a simply marvelous party it would be. Top notch. Everything perfect, if only she could firm up the details with these two dim-witted caterers.

  She gave them a stern look. “Good veal is the secret to Swedish meatballs,” she repeated. “You do appreciate that, do you not?”

  Ray turned to Lou, his eyes narrowing. The vein throbbing over his right temple eliminated any doubt that Ray’s patience was about to run out. Lou stared at him with a barely perceptible but clearly translatable frown that said, Cool it.

  After a moment, Ray looked down and shook his head.

  Lou turned to her with a comforting smile. “I can personally assure you, ma’am, that we use only prime cuts of veal in our meatballs. That’s what makes ours so special.”

  She wagged a crooked index finger at him. “And only lean pork, young man. I will not tolerate fatty meatballs.” She closed her eyes and shuddered. “I absolutely loathe fatty meatballs.”

  Lou glanced at Ray. “We trim all the fat, don’t we, Mr. Gorman?”

  Ray was still staring at the floor.

  “Don’t we, Mr. Gorman?” Lou repeated.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Trim the Fat. That’s our slogan.”

  Abigail leaned back against her pillows and nodded in satisfaction. With her unkempt white hair, gnarled fingers, and fierce brown eyes, she reminded Lou of a fairy-tale crone.

  “Now that we finally have that item settled, gentlemen, shall we go over the canapés again?”

  “Lord deliver me,” Ray mumbled.

  Brandi had dropped them off at the nursing home with a promise to pick them up in an hour. Lou checked his watch. Just twenty minutes to go. Thank God.

  Although he didn’t know the proper medical terminology, Abigail Washburn was batty. For the past forty minutes they’d been going over a menu for an imaginary anniversary party, apparently for the poor woman’s parents. When their initial efforts to convince her that they weren’t caterers sent her into a rage, Lou decided to play along, partly out of pity, but mostly in the hope that she might return to the present long enough for them to raise the subject of Sirena. After the first twenty minutes, Lou tried to nudge her in the right direction by asking whether her brother Henry would be attending the party. Abigail had sighed, shaken her head, and explained that his teaching commitments at Barrett College prevented it. When Lou tried to follow up, she refused to discuss the subject any further.

  “Oh, yes,” she continued, raising her index finger in the air, “you must make your oyster Roquefort canapés. Father absolutely adores them. I want three dozen. No, make that four. Yes, four dozen of the little darlings would be perfect, don’t you agree?”

  “Yep.” Ray checked his watch. “We’ll make sure you got oysters out the ol’ wazoo.”

  “Oh, how could I forget?” She clasped her hands over the front of her faded robe. “Shrimp vegetable kebabs. With tomato wedges and bacon. They are simply divine.”

  And so it went. Like some bad Monty Python routine, the appetizer list grew to include cocktail frankfurters with barbecue sauce, deviled ham pastry snails, asparagus cheese fingers, stuffed mushrooms, salmon mousse, egg salad triangles, and so on. By the time Abigail Washburn reached the desserts, Lou and Ray were both slumped forward in their chairs.

  “Mother adores meringue. But you must be careful to beat the eggs until…until…”

  The pause stretched into silence.

  Lou looked up.

  At first he thought she’d had a stroke. The old woman was sitting rigid in bed, eyes wide, mouth open, staring beyond them toward the door.

  Lou turned.

  Brandi Wine stood in the doorway, dressed in a flowery peasant dress and sandals.

  She smiled at Abigail. “Hello, Miss Washburn.”

  Abigail was still gawking at Brandi, dumbfounded. Finally, she whispered, “Melinda Bennington.”

  Another long pause. Abigail shook her head in wonder. “My heavens, dear, we all thought you were dead.”

  Brandi glanced over at Ray, who rolled his eyes.

  “No, ma’am,” Lou said. “Miss Bennington is alive and well.”

  Abigail looked shar
ply at Lou. “And just who in Sam Hill are you, buster?”

  Lou gave her a friendly smile. “A friend of Miss Bennington’s.”

  Abigail frowned at Lou, but after a moment her attention shifted back to Brandi.

  “My dear,” she said to Brandi, her voice gentle, “everyone thought you were on that train with your parents. It said so in the newspaper. We thought you perished with them. My heavens, there is even a gravestone for you in the family plot. I have been there. I have seen it myself.”

  Brandi smiled and curtsied. “But here I am.”

  Abigail nodded, pensive. “Henry thought you were killed. Oh, my, the poor boy has been so distraught, Melinda. So brokenhearted. But you are alive, dear!” She clasped her hands and pressed them against her chest. “Thank goodness.”

  Her eyes widened and she put her hand against her mouth. “Oh, wait until I tell Henry this glorious news! I shall write him today. Oh, you must write him, too, Melinda. You must! My heavens, Henry will be so gratified.”

  Brandi sat down on the edge of the bed. “Does he ever mention me?”

  “Oh, yes, in many of his letters.” She took Brandi’s hand in hers and patted it affectionately. “He still loves you, my dear. He loves you so much. Of that I am quite certain.”

  Brandi smiled. “I used to adore his letters. Do you still have any?”

  “Do I still have them?” she asked with feigned irony. “Of course, dear. I saved them all.” She leaned back in bed and gave Brandi an appraising look. “I declare, Melinda, you look marvelous. I am positively rapturous that you are still alive.”

  “You have all of his letters?” Brandi asked.

  “Oh, yes. Every last one of them.”

  Lou watched in wonder as Brandi actually blushed. She moved close to Abigail. “Can I read what Henry says about me?”