CHAPTER THREE.
Andrea Martha Reeve's funeral was a solemn affair, attended by a few close friends, Dr Patrick O'Shea, representatives from her firm of lawyers, and of course, Josephine Grayson.
The cemetery was a cold, bleak place, fresh snow having been moved to make access to the grave easier for the mourners, but the ground was as hard as iron, as they lowered the casket containing Andrea Reeve's frail remains into the grave.
Only Patrick O'Shea and Walter Jenkins, her mother's aged attorney accompanied Josephine back to the house after the ceremony, and Jenkins stayed only long enough to fulfill his duties in the reading of Andrea's will.
No surprises there.
Andrea had left everything to Josephine, and named Patrick O'Shea as executor.
There were a few token legacies to the household staff, a few larger donations to Andrea's favorite charities.
But, in the main, the majority of the estate went to Josephine, along with a letter, penned in her mother's bold, flowery hand, instructing her on how she wished Josephine to divide the spoils between herself and her half brother, should she find him alive and well.
"God, I don't think I'll ever be warm again," Josephine shivered, tipping a large balloon brandy snifter to her lips. Patrick too had accepted her offer of a snifter to chase away the chill, after Attorney Jenkins had left them, and they had sat quietly, both lost in thought, in the cozy armchairs on either side of the fireplace in the drawing room.
"Go easy with that, Josie," Patrick advised sagely. "I know that you're not used to it ...."
"Correct. I have absolutely no tolerance for alcohol at all. It should be an interesting evening ...."
"Can't you tell me what weighs so heavily, my dear?" He asked casually, but she could see the concern in his watery blue eyes.
"Well Patrick, hang on to your hat, because I have something to tell you ...."
"Go on," he invited, watching as she took another sip of the warming dark amber liquid.
"I .... I have a brother ...." It came out in a rush. "Actually, I have .... a half brother .... if we are being precise .... He'll be forty in about three weeks time ...."
Josephine could feel the alcohol seeping in to her blood, driving the chill from her bones at last.
"I know that Andrea had a child before you, my dear, but, I don't know any of the details."
Josephine regarded him with obvious surprise for a moment then merely nodded.
"You were her doctor, of course you would have known. As to the details ...." She paused briefly, pondering on whether to tell him the truth, or the half truth that her father had always believed. "She was raped .... by her stepfather .... She was only seventeen at the time," she confided then, setting down her half empty brandy glass on the mantelpiece.
"Oh Lord! Poor Andrea. No wonder .... What happened to him .... the child?"
"She .... gave him to someone else to care for .... someone .... I don't know .... some kindly stranger .... I guess she wasn't exactly thinking straight ...."
That was as close to the truth as he needed to know.
"Why are you telling me this, Josie?"
"Well, the letter that Mr Jenkins gave to me earlier contains certain instructions, which you will need to know about later, but the main reason is because I made a promise, to mother, that I would try to find him ...."
"But surely that's going to be next to impossible ...." He pointed out, draining his brandy glass. "You know that I will help you as much as I can, but, you must know that it's almost impossible ...."
"Yes ...." She conceded softly. "But I did promise, and you know me, when I make a promise ...."
"Don't do it, Josie. You could be letting yourself in for a lot of pain and heartache."
"Maybe, but I can't just let it go, Patrick. Don't you understand? I'm not alone in the world anymore. I have a brother. He may have a family. I could have lots of nieces and nephews running around out there ...."
"And there are also several hundred thousand cranks and weirdo's and nut cases out there. If any of those get a whiff of the kind of money you're sitting on .... No. I think you're just asking for trouble ...."
"Thank you for the warning, and I hear what you are saying .... but ...."
"You're still going to try to find him," Patrick concluded for her on a soft sigh, rising stiffly from his seat beside the cheerful fire now, to press a soft kiss to her flushed cheek.
"I wish you the best of British luck, Josie. You're certainly going to need it."
"Thank you, Patrick, and goodnight."
She made to rise then, but he stilled her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"I'll see myself out my dear, but promise me that you will be careful."
"I promise."
"Call me if you need anything."
"I will Patrick, and thank you again, for today. Your being there made it so much easier."
"You're welcome. I'll stop by and see you sometime next week. We'll talk about your plans for the house .... the rest of the estate .... and honey .... maybe you should have another brandy, and then get a good night's sleep ...."
"Doctor's orders?"
"Yes," he smiled softly.
"All right, but I'd rather have cocoa than the brandy," she smothered a small yawn with the back of her hand.
"Goodnight, Josie."
"Goodnight, Patrick."
/a\
The following day, Thursday, found Josephine Grayson hitting the streets of New York, her mind made up to pursue her quest to discover her half brother.
Firstly, she called in at the offices of an old friend of her father's Arnold Baker, a private investigator of high principle and good reputation that her father had sometimes used.
He was a large, rotund, red faced man with a fast receding hairline and a penchant for fat Cuban cigars and strong liquor.
His big, meaty hand swallowed her smaller one in a friendly handshake, as he invited her to take a seat in a battered old dark brown leather wing backed chair.
His office was old and shabby, having lacked a woman's touch these past twenty years, and smelled of old cigar smoke and even older whisky spills, and was lined with dusty old shelves full of even dustier old law books, which probably hadn't been opened since the end of the second world war, which was probably when Arnold had taken up residence.
Of course, it had been twenty years since her father had dealt with him, and although his standards in office cleanliness were none of her business, she did not think that his reputation as an investigator had changed. Her father had always spoken very highly of him, had both liked and respected the man in a professional capacity, and had found him a rather interesting character outside of their working relationship.
Arnold Baker eyed her with undisguised interest until she explained who she was, gently reminding him of the distant friendship with her father, whom he immediately remembered with fondness and equal respect, before going on to explain what she wanted, telling him only the barest details, and asking him candidly how he could help her to achieve her goal.
"Well, for starters ...." His accent was thick Queens, a fat, unlit cigar sticking out of the side of his mouth as he spoke, drool running down his grey stubble covered chin. "I can get someone to check out this John and Anna Pater. Check the register of births, deaths and marriages. Who knows, we might just get lucky. One of them might even still be alive ...."
"I guess that's a start, but I would prefer you to handle this personally, Mr Baker."
"Okay ...."
He rolled the cigar to the other side of his mouth before continuing.
"Then we can try to check the records of adoption agencies. If the Pater's didn't legally adopt the child themselves, someone else might have ...."
"Good idea ...."
"But, you know what I would suggest? If you don't mind throwing a little money around ...."
"How little money?" She asked dubiously.
"Enough to say, put up a small reward for information, then flood the streets with fliers, and run a major campaign in the newspapers ...."
"I'll have to think about that, Mr Baker. I don't want all and sundry banging on my door in the middle of the night ...."
She thought about what Patrick O'Shea had said about cranks and weirdo's and nut cases, and knew that he had been right.
"You wouldn't need to see or speak to anyone that you didn't want to doc. You could set up one of those anonymous hotline numbers or, if your in no particular hurry, there's always a good old fashioned post office box number ...."
"I will still need to think about it, Mr Baker. Do you have any suggestions as to how much reward I should offer?"
"Maybe ten grand ...." He plucked a number out of the air, chomping down on his cigar.
"Ten thousand dollars?" Josephine stared at him in disbelief.
"Yeah. Sounds reasonable. Not too much, and certainly not enough to encourage your major players and scam artists, but just enough to maybe coax someone with tight lips to open up a little, and be friendly ...."
"Ten thousand dollars is a lot of friendly, Mr Baker, but I guess it's worth a try. After all, it's only money."
"You want I should start looking into these Pater people?"
"Yes, and I'll want a daily report, Mr Baker, even if you haven't found anything. I want to see you. Don't come to my home. I will meet you wherever you want, but, I don't want you coming to the house."
"Okay. You're the boss."
Next, Josephine went to see her mother's attorney, Walter Jenkins, to set up a special fund for payment of the reward, and any other accumulated costs. He solemnly advised her against the good sense of embarking on such a venture, but in the end, agreed to do as she wished.
Her next stop was a printing establishment, where she ordered ten thousand copies of a reward flier which she designed herself, and then organized for their distribution throughout Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan, Harlem, The Bronx, China town and the lower East Side, and then she took a sample of the flier to every newspaper in the city, and placed it in the personal column asking for it to be run every other day for two weeks.
If that didn't get someone's attention then nothing would, she thought with satisfaction, back home now, kicking off her shoes and rubbing her aching feet, as she curled up in an armchair beside the fire in the drawing room with a cup of tea.
At least it was a beginning.
And if that didn't work?
She would try again.
And again ....
And if the fliers and the newspaper campaign didn't work?
She would just have to think of something else.
Nothing short of a nuclear war could detract her from her path now.
If her brother was alive ....
She was determined that she would find him.
/a\
THIS IS NOT AN ADVERTISEMENT
REWARD:$10,000
TO: ANNA PATER.
(OR TO PERSONS WHO CAN PROVIDE INFORMATION AS TO HER WHEREABOUTS).
INFORMATION URGENTLY REQUIRED ABOUT - AND WHEREABOUTS OF - INFANT ENTRUSTED INTO YOUR CARE ON JANUARY 12, 1955 - OUTSIDE ST VINCENT'S HOSPITAL - NEW YORK CITY.
All information treated in the strictest confidence.
CONTACT:
DR J. GRAYSON ON:
555 – 6281
OR WRITE TO:
P.O. BOX: 22385
NEW YORK,10046. N.Y. U.S.A.
/a\
Amos Buckley absently reached out for the cup of coffee that his wife Alice had just refilled, and flicked over the page of his morning newspaper.
"Ouch! Damnation!" He suddenly exclaimed, having poured the scalding liquid down his pristine white shirt front, distracted by the bold lettering of a declaration of an offer of a reward on the page before him.
"Amos?" Alice frowned at her husband. He wasn't usually so clumsy. "What is it, honey? Did we win the lottery?" She asked, only half teasing.
"No such luck!" Amos mumbled, using a dish towel to dry off the excess moisture from his shirt. "I have to see Jacob ...."
"But it's not our day to take vegetables," she reminded, then followed his gaze to the large notice, taking up a whole page in the newspaper. "Oh my ...."
"Yeah. How'd you like them apples?"
"Be careful Amos," she did not challenge his need to make the journey, only that he use the usual caution.
"I will."
/a\
A subway train thundered through the station, ground to a screeching halt, and disgorged its passengers, before moving off at speed.
The Great Sebastian was sucking on a Styrofoam carton of black coffee, washing down a stale bagel and cream cheese, before beginning his daily performance of magic and slight of hand, when he became aware of a small knot of people gathering around one of the concrete support panels along the station, their attention drawn to a new notice being pasted to the pillar by a small dark haired man in scruffy dark brown overalls.
Ever curious, Sebastian sauntered over to join the edge of the small group to see what all the fuss was about, and almost choked on the last morsel of his bagel as he read the notice printed in large, bold black letters.
He soon spotted another, then another, further down the station platform, and with years of practice at slight of hand, picked up one that the janitor had dropped and secreted it about his person.
This morning's performance would have to wait. The world weary commuters other amusement to find, for The Great Sebastian suddenly found that he had urgent business elsewhere.
/a\
Leah Talbot, a petite, slender woman in her late fifties, graying hair styled neatly in a tight bun at the back of her head, dressed stylishly in demure dark blue suit and pale blue blouse, tan stockings and sensible black leather shoes, alighted from a yellow cab and walked the short distance to the storefront, her key in her hand.
TALBOTS BOOK STORE wasn't the most jumping joint on the block, but her father had managed to make a good living from good quality second hand books and so was Leah.
Books had always been her life, her friends, and her family. Her children.
She loved all of them. Every genre. Every style.
Sometimes it broke her heart to part with these old friends, but, she always knew that they were going to people who would love them as she had.
She had her mind on a request for a special volume of poetry that Jacob Wells had sent for, via another helper called Gladys Bishop. He wanted something extra special for Vincent's fortieth birthday.
Leah pushed open the glass fronted door with the bold gold lettering, and stumbled over the mail and the morning newspaper lying on the door mat. She bent very carefully to pick up the pile of brown and white envelopes, giving the newspaper headlines only the most cursory glance, before engaging the lock on the door. She did not want customers walking in while she was out back making coffee, not that anyone would be interested in buying a book this early in the morning ....
Coffee mug in hand now, shoes slipped off for comfort, perched on a rickety old stool behind the counter next to the cash register, Leah slowly sipped her coffee and absently flicked through the newspaper, THE NEW YORK TIMES, wondering why she still bothered to have it delivered, when she saw the reward announcement. It shouted at her, in bold black print, taking up a whole page just before the lonely hearts, situations vacant and accommodation to rent and her thoughts instantly returned to Jacob.
Without further thought, Leah ripped the page out of the newspaper, jammed her feet back in to her shoes, heedless of the corns and bunions which had been giving her so much trouble of late, and turning the sign around to CLOSED on the front door, slipped out to the back room and down the stairs to the cellar ....
/a\
Josephine Grayson sat back from her untouched breakfast with a satisfied little smile, her concentration on the full page announcement of the reward in THE TIMES, THE HERALD and THE TRIBUNE.
It certainly commanded attention.
Now, all she had to hope was that somewhere out there in the city, someone's memory would be jogged and someone would come forward with some vital piece of information.
The fliers had been posted overnight and early this morning, in bus stops, subway stations, on hoardings, police bulletin boards, in libraries, museums and on the bases of every street light in the five boroughs, and she had even persuaded one cab company to post them in the backs of their cabs.
It was a start, for now.
She reached out for her coffee cup and took a sip. It was cold and very bitter, and she pulled a face, replacing the cup in its fine china saucer, just as Mrs Ludlow, her mother's, now her own housekeeper entered the room to remove the breakfast dishes.
Josephine got the distinct impression that the old woman, short, red faced and rotund, did not approve of her, her manner toward her cool, polite but aloof.
Still, she ran the house with almost military precision, and was a more than adequate cook. Her husband looked after household maintenance, and was also expected to drive her mother's Mercedes, chauffeuring the lady of the house around town.
The elderly couple had not been employed when Josephine had lived at home, but they appeared to be well ensconced when she had returned at her mother's bidding at the end of September.
Maybe, in time, Mrs Ludlow would accept her, but in the meantime, Josephine wouldn't hold her breath.
"There is a telephone call for you, Dr Grayson," her tone was cool as she imparted this piece of information. "A Mr Arnold Baker."
"Thank you, Mrs Ludlow."
"Something wrong with the food, doctor?" The elderly woman surveyed the barely touched food on the table.
"No. I'm just not very hungry. Thank you, Mrs Ludlow."
Out in the hallway, Josephine picked up the telephone receiver, her heart hopeful that he might have some good news for her.
Of course, it was still early days.
Give the man a break, Grayson, he's only been on the case a day! She scolded herself silently.
"Good morning, Mr Baker."
"Doctor. I see you took my advice after all. Nice spread."
"Thank you. Do you have any news?"
"Maybe."
"Where shall we meet?"
He gave her the address of a deli close to his office, and asked if they could meet there at noon. Josephine readily agreed.
"Any response to the announcement?" Baker asked around a mouthful of cigar.
"I don't expect anything in the mail just yet, but I am hoping that someone will call the hotline number I had set up."
She had hastily rented a grimy little office, just off Central Park South, over a Chinese restaurant, and had hired two middle aged ladies to man the telephone line.
These ladies would take details from callers and pass on the information to Josephine, who would then weed out the cranks and the chancers and the time wasters, until, hopefully, she came across someone who could genuinely help her.
"Good luck. See ya at noon," he hung up abruptly, and Josephine let out a long deep sigh of frustration.
It was a long time until noon, and she knew that she wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything until she had heard what Baker had to say.
"Will you be wanting luncheon, doctor?" Mrs Ludlow asked in a soft voice, her hands full with coffee pot and china cup and saucer.
"Not today, thank you, Mrs Ludlow."
"Very good, doctor."
"But I will be in for dinner. Something light I think, this evening, Mrs Ludlow, and Dr O'Shea may stop by ...."
"Very well, ma'am."
Josephine went back in to the drawing room then, and sat at the Mahogany writing bureau, staring out of the window at the street outside.
The temperature had gone up, and the snow was beginning to thaw, a constant, steady dripping coming from the eaves and the window sills.
She let out a soft sigh.
There were a hundred and one things that she could be doing, sorting through her mother's belongings, papers, writing brief messages of gratitude to the people who had attended the funeral, sent flowers and good wishes, even donations to Andrea's favorite charities ....
But it was still too soon.
If she didn't have this business of seeking out her half brother to occupy her mind, she knew that she would have gone crazy.
And Christmas was only a couple of days away.
It meant nothing to her this year.
She had no-one but Patrick O'Shea to buy gifts for, and no-one to buy her gifts in return.
There was nothing worse than being alone at Christmas.
Half the suicides recorded in a year happened over the holidays, like Christmas, New Years, and Thanks Giving.
At least she had a small hope that this would be the last Christmas that she would spend alone.
