Jubilee's Journey (Wyattsville #2)(27)

“Maybe we could ask Barbara Conklin,” Olivia suggested. “I brought over a lovely chocolate cake when her daughter came to visit, so she should be willing to help.”

“Of course she will,” Clara said. “Fred will too.”

Caught up in the moment, Olivia said, “If we ask all the neighbors to help out, I’ll bet we could find this Aunt Anita in no time.”

“I wouldn’t go asking everybody,” Clara warned. “Jim Turner’s on the Rules Committee, and he’s still complaining about Ethan Allen running through the hallways. If Jim finds out you’ve got another kid in here…” She didn’t have to finish the sentence.

“I see what you mean. We’d best keep it quiet.”

Once it was decided who would be asked to help, Olivia said she would take Jones A through F and Clara agreed to divvy up the remainder.

Olivia looked at the clock. Six-fifteen already. The A through F Joneses were longer than a page, so it would have to be a quick dinner. Then she’d start calling.

As she hurried through the living room, she heard Ethan Allen and Jubilee talking.

“Three tens beats your kings and queens ‘cause they ain’t matching,” Ethan said.

“You sure?” Jubilee then asked how much she owed him.

Before he could answer, Olivia interrupted the game. “Ethan Allen, are you and Jubilee playing poker?”

He shrugged and gave a sly grin.

Jubilee looked up with smile. “Ethan’s learning me how.”

“I bet he is!” Olivia began gathering the cards from the table. “Ethan, get that set of checkers. Poker is no game for little girls!” Olivia could already imagine Aunt Anita tsk-tsking the thought of her niece learning to gamble. She made a mental note to pick up something more appropriate. If they wanted to play cards, it would have to be Old Maid.

“Jeez, Grandma,” Ethan complained, “it ain’t like we was playing for real money.”





Once supper was over, Ethan settled down with his homework and a tired little Jubilee slipped her new nightie over her head and climbed into the spot where Charlie once slept. That’s when Olivia started telephoning Joneses. She was only halfway through B when the clock struck ten and she shooed Ethan off to bed.

By eleven-thirty two people hung up the receiver before she could ask about Anita and the F.L. Jones on Oak Street said there ought to be a law against ringing the telephone late at night and scaring people to death.

“I thought for sure somebody died,” F.L. said, and then he slammed the receiver down like an exclamation point.

It was eleven-thirty-five when Olivia dialed the number for F. M Jones; by then she’d already decided this was to be her last call of the evening. The rest of F could wait until tomorrow morning. A woman answered with a hello somewhat like the croaking of a frog.

“Is this F. M. Jones?” Olivia asked.

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“My name is Olivia Westerly Doyle, and I’m trying to find—”

“Olivia Westerly? You used to work for Southern Atlantic Telephone?”

“Why, yes, I did, but that’s not why I’m calling.”

“Well, I’ll be,” F.M. said. “Frances Margaret here. Accounting, remember?”

“Yes, I remember,” Olivia replied, even though she really didn’t. She simply thought it would help to move the conversation along. “What I’m actually looking for—”

“You still live in Richmond?” Frances Margaret asked.

“No, when I married Charlie, I moved here to Wyattsville—”

“So you got married, huh? I never would’ve thought it. I figured for sure—”

“I’m calling because I’m trying to locate a woman named Anita Jones,” Olivia interrupted. “Do you know anyone by that name?”

“Is this for a company reunion?”

“No, it’s not,” Olivia replied impatiently. “I’m trying to help a little girl who’s looking for her aunt, a woman named Anita Jones or maybe Anita Walker.”

“I can’t recall anybody named Anita working for Southern Atlantic.”

“Not just at the company,” Olivia said, “anywhere. Do you know an Anita Jones?”

“Can’t say as I do. I used to know a Bartholomew, but he didn’t work at Southern Atlantic. Him and his wife rented the upstairs flat in my sister’s house.”

Growing desperate for even the smallest clue, Olivia asked, “Did Bartholomew or his wife have a sister named Anita?”

“I don’t think he did, but his missus might’ve. There was a bossy sort who visited every so often. That one was nothing like Bartholomew’s missus. She was a sweet little thing.”

“What was Bartholomew’s wife’s name?”

“Can’t say that I recall,” Frances Margaret said. “Shoot, that was nearly twenty years ago, when I lived in Norfolk.”

“Did Bartholomew and his wife come from Norfolk?”

“Hmm, not to my recollection. He was a Navy man, but I think she came from someplace a ways off. I recall her talking about how, as a kid, she loved swimming in the bay.”

Olivia’s heart jumped. “Do you know what bay?”