On Turpentine Lane(81)

“No need. Couldn’t anyway. Both men were very conveniently cremated.”

“And how did Jeannette piece this together?” Nick asked.

“She didn’t have to piece it together. Tindle confided in her. And if you thought it was a confession, unburdening herself, forget it. She was bragging! You hated my mother? I hated her worse! I did her this big favor, made it look like an accident, and what thanks did I get? She sent me away to a home for bad girls, so you and I, sis—neither one of us had it so great.”

“So now I know who I bought my house from: a teenage murderess.”

Leslie said, “But if you hadn’t bought this house, you and Nick might never have become housemates, let alone objects of each other’s affections.”

Nick said, “Oh, I think we would have, regardless.”

I said, “Ten Turpentine Lane’s best work.”

Patty asked, “Think you’ll stay here?”

I said, “Murder times two? By four hands? I could sell tickets to this place.”

“Let’s change the subject,” said Brian. “Too much shop talk.”

“It’s our turn to toast the happy couple,” said Patty.

“L’chaim, right?” her husband asked.





48





Nancy Knows


IT WAS JEANNETTE Pepperdine who called to tell me that Mrs. Lavoie had died. What did one say to the unwanted birth daughter of an alleged criminal and sociopath? Consolation would sound hollow. I asked Mrs. Pepperdine how she was taking it.

“I’m taking it by functioning as the next of kin, making the arrangements.”

“Not Theresa?”

“She has an ankle bracelet, if that’s what it’s called. She can’t leave her apartment.”

“How did you hear that Anna died?”

“The warden called her lawyer. Somehow, from some list of contacts, it trickled down to me. An officer came to my home.”

“That’s nice. Like police on TV do.”

“Nothing is nice about this,” she said.

I asked what Mrs. Lavoie died of.

“Probably old age. She went to sleep and didn’t wake up.”

“No autopsy? Wouldn’t that be the usual protocol when someone dies in prison?”

“How and why would I know what prison protocol is?”

“Sorry. Of course you wouldn’t. Well . . . thank you for letting me know.”

“There’s something at O’Donnell’s Funeral Home on South Main at eleven a.m. tomorrow.”

“A funeral?”

“A service, we’re calling it.”

“Not at a church?”

“I tried. I called Sacred Heart and Saint Stephen’s. No one returned my calls. Apparently priests read the newspaper.”

I said I’d try to attend, but it was a work day. I’d have to ask the head of my department.

Next to me in bed, Nick said, “Go. It could be fascinating. I’ll hold down the fort. But I can think of an obvious plus-one for this occasion.”

I called my mother. “Delighted,” she said. “We’ll make a day of it.”



She was dressed for a celebrity’s funeral in an Ascot-worthy black hat and a black suit with a lavender silk rose pinned to her lapel.

“Dad didn’t want to come?” I asked.

“He’s painting.”

“Here?”

“At the studio, night and day. Or so he says.”

“?‘So he says’? That doesn’t sound very friendly.”

She shrugged. “He thinks all he had to do was come home. He says that if you look at all the years we’ve been together his time with Tracy was just a grain of sand passing through the hourglass of life.”

“Dad said that?”

“It’s from some song. I said, ‘Henry, it’s me. I’d prefer if you didn’t wax poetic.’?”



There was no man or woman of the cloth presiding. The first person to speak was the warden of the county jail where Mrs. Lavoie had spent her final months. He was red faced, chubby, barely contained in a suit and tie. He said, “Welcome friends, family, neighbors. I was asked by Anna Lavoie’s family to say a few words—not only was Mrs. L. in my Golden Age unit, but from what they tell me, I knew her at her most . . . cooperative. And a sharp cookie! Oh, boy, was she ever. She had visitors, too, not just her lawyer. And she taught some fellow inmates to crochet. Because she had a cell to herself, by which I don’t mean she was in solitary, she got to decorate it the way she wanted. Was she happy? She wasn’t miserable. I guess all that’s left to say is rest in peace, Mrs. L., no trial to worry about now. You made a nice dent in paying your debt to society.” He checked a sheet of paper on the podium. “Okay. Next you’ll hear from Mrs. Jeannette Pepperdine. Thank you.”

Jeannette, in a not-particularly-somber paisley dress, began, “I didn’t know Anna Lavoie for most of my life. She gave birth to my twin sister, Josephine, and me after what she liked to call a liaison with our birth father. For obvious reasons, we were her big secret. She didn’t raise us, didn’t want to, but something wouldn’t let her give us up entirely. I think I have a better appreciation of that now. We were able to talk about it for the first time on my last visit. I can’t absolve her of her sins or pardon her crimes, but I can say”—she turned to the coffin—“I don’t think growing up under your care and under your roof would have been right or godly for any of us. Ironically, you did what was best for Josie and me.” She turned to Theresa in the front row, seated next to plainclothed Brian Dolan. “I’d like to take this opportunity to speak to my half sister . . . Theresa? I know you’re furious with me, but I had to tell the authorities what you told me about your role in your stepfathers’ so-called accidents. I have to sleep at night. And maybe, with the truth finally out, you can, too.”