The Last of the Stanfields(55)

There was no arguing with that logic. Despite having been woken up ridiculously early, Maggie listened intently to the latest in the family saga: the letter Michel slipped in my pocket, the picture on the wall at Sailor’s Hideaway, the woman with whom Mum had a relationship thirty-six years ago, and most of all, the encounter with George-Harrison and all that followed. The story was so riveting, Maggie didn’t interrupt, not even once.

“What does he look like, this carpenter?”

“Don’t tell me that’s the first question that comes to mind.”

“Even if it was, it shouldn’t stop you from answering it.”

I laid out a vague description of the man.

“So . . . you’re saying he’s hot. And George-Harrison is his real name?”

“Well, I didn’t make him show me his driving license or anything, but that was the name on the letter. I took him at his word.”

“So I see. Considering our mothers were so close, you really think the names are a coincidence?”

“The two of us are pretty much the same age. There could be something there, maybe.”

“I’d call it more than a maybe. She did call Mum ‘my love’ in that letter, in case you missed it. Although that could be because she had already started losing her marbles. You know, I can’t picture Mum roaring down the road on a motorcycle, not for the life of me. The same lady who put on her seat belt religiously every time she got into the Austin? Can you see her as a biker chick?”

“Honestly, that’s the last thing on my mind right now. I’m having more trouble picturing her as a thief! And I’d like to know more about what they stole, what this whole ‘tragedy’ was all about . . .”

“Well, it does seem to give the anonymous letter some credence.”

“Yeah, some parts of it are starting to make some sense. The shadowy parts of Mum’s past, her relationship with George-Harrison’s mother, the mysterious fortune she once had, but didn’t inherit, and, of course, the Independent.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the newspaper Mum launched with her friend May—George-Harrison’s mother. Dad can fill you in on some of the details.”

“Are you sure this is our mother we’re talking about here?”

“I had the same exact reaction when I heard.”

“And this ‘precious treasure’ thing. Did this George-Harrison person have any info on that?”

“No. That was a total surprise to him. He said the letter from his mother was the first time he had ever heard of it. Apparently, there are other letters out there as well. She and Mum went back and forth for years and years.”

“And what if he’s been playing you from the start? I mean, the sequence of events that brought you two together contains a hell of a lot of coincidences. What if he’s your poison-pen?”

“Why go to such trouble?”

“To bring together all the puzzle pieces! Years of correspondence, you said. Let’s say he already has all of Mum’s letters and wants to get his hands on his mother’s, too. The poison-pen encouraged us to find proof of his claims, didn’t he? There you have it!”

“I don’t buy it. If you’d seen how dumbstruck he looked at the sight of that photo in Sailor’s Hideaway . . . not to mention, he received an anonymous letter of his own.”

“Which he could have absolutely written himself. And why was he so shocked at the picture if he knew about all the letter writing?”

“He didn’t know about that; I learned about it from Michel. And you have to make sure not to tell him any of this. I promised I would keep it a secret. I’ve been trying to get in touch with him—I’ve called him at least ten times since I got here. I want him to send me the rest of those letters.”

“Jesus. Why are there so many bloody secrets in this family, and why am I always the last to know? Dad tells you about Mum’s newspaper, Michel tells you about these letters, and no one tells me anything. Do I have the plague or something?”

“Dad didn’t mean to tell me a thing. We were out for ice cream and he just sort of ended up with his foot in his mouth.”

“Ice cream? Unbelievable,” my sister sulked. “If you say it was Ben & Jerry’s, I am hanging up, I swear.”

“As for Michel, I went to see him the night before I left. I don’t even know why he slipped the letter into my jacket pocket.”

“Great. You run over to say goodbye to Michel in person, and you say goodbye to me through Dad . . . Isn’t that sweet! I’m surprised you even bothered calling me for help.”

“Come on. You’ve already helped a ton by telling me to keep my guard up with George-Harrison.”

“Damn right you should! If our mothers really do have some buried treasure out there, you’d better find it before that clown does. Especially considering that my bank won’t budge on the overdraft thing.”

“If you want to make sure you have money in the bank, you could just try getting a job.”

“I can’t do everything! I’m going back to college.”

“At thirty-five?”

“Excuse me? Thirty-four! Anyway. Are you going to see him again, or what?”

“Tomorrow morning, for breakfast.”