The Last of the Stanfields(57)

“Did you know she lived in Baltimore in the late seventies?”

“No, not at all. She only talked about New York. But if I asked even the slightest thing about the period just before she had me, she would clam up or lash out and we’d end up at each other’s throats. Where exactly are you going with this?”

“I don’t really know, just a tangent.”

“Is the treasure what you’re after?”

“I didn’t even know it existed until about halfway through the flight over here. Crazy as it may sound, I found your mother’s letter in my jacket pocket while I was going through security.”

“Well, if your poison-pen can manage to slip a letter in your pocket, you should turn around and go look for him in London.”

“The poison-pen didn’t slip me the letter—my brother did. And what are you after in all this?”

“I just want to find my father, like I told you.”

“Any idea where to find the letters my mother wrote to yours?”

“Not a clue. Maybe they’re gone. How about the rest of the letters from my mom?”

“Same story,” I fibbed. “No clue where to find them, or if they even still exist. And to be honest, I have no clue about what to do next either.”

A long silence followed, with both of us staring down at the table, until George-Harrison asked me to sit tight for a minute and got up. He went outside and I caught sight of him through the window opening the door to his pickup. If he hadn’t left his jacket behind, I would’ve been afraid he was about to make a run for it. But he came back soon after, sat down, and slid a framed picture onto the table—the photo of our mothers from Sailor’s Hideaway.

“The owner doesn’t know the first thing about any of the photos on the walls. They were already hanging there when he bought the place. The kitchen is the only part that ever got updated. Aside from a fresh coat of paint, the rest of the place hasn’t changed.”

“Is this supposed to be a lead?” I asked, sighing with exasperation.

George-Harrison put two other photos in front of me. “These were taken that same night. Look. You can clearly make out the faces of two other people.”

“How did you even manage to steal those? I didn’t see a thing.”

“You really assume the worst about people, don’t you? I went back last night. I don’t know about you, but I couldn’t get to sleep. When I got there, the owner was closing up, and I explained that it was my mother up there on the wall.”

“So, he just took it down and gave it to you, throwing in two more as a bonus, all because you batted your eyelashes?”

“You flatter me,” he said. “Truth is, I offered him twenty bucks and didn’t really have to twist his arm. He told me he’s renovating the main space this winter. Remind me—what’s the name of that newspaper?”

“The Independent.”

“Well, I guess that’s as good a place as any to start. If the paper was published in Baltimore, there’s gotta be something out there.”

“I’ve already done some serious digging online, and couldn’t find a single trace.”

“Isn’t there some kind of archive where old newspapers would be stored? You’re a journalist, shouldn’t you know this kind of thing?”

I was. And I should. Yet my first thought was of Michel. “The public library! If there’s even one copy out there, that’s where we’d find it. Just the masthead alone could be a gold mine . . .”

“Remind me what a masthead is again?”

“It’s usually on the editorial page, where you can find all the editing and publishing credits.”

We climbed back into the pickup, and George-Harrison waited behind the wheel while I dug up the address.

“Four hundred Cathedral Street,” I said, scanning the screen on my iPhone, smiling at what I read.

“What’s got you so chirpy all of a sudden?”

“Just the library we’re headed to. It has a whole collection of Edgar Allan Poe stuff, original editions donated by his family.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

“Maybe not for you, but for me? Definitely. Step on it!”

We got to the library in no time and strode right up to the front desk. Unfortunately, it quickly became clear that the woman working there had no idea how to navigate the maze of books and archives for something so specific. But I knew someone who might. I glanced at my watch—still just three in the afternoon in Croydon. Vera picked up straightaway, faithfully stationed at her post as always. After some polite small talk, she offered to go and get Michel, but I told her not to bother; she was the one I was calling for. Vera was flattered and eager to help. I told her I needed to know how the archives would be organized at a library like hers, or at a similar one that was a bit larger. Specifically, how one would go about finding a weekly newspaper published in the late seventies.

“For that, your best bet is microfiche,” she explained. “That’s how newspapers were archived in those days.”

I would have kissed her, had we been in the same time zone.

“Are you sure you don’t wish to speak to Michel? I know he’d be delighted to hear your voice. Ah, and here he comes right now. Just a moment, please.”