The Address, page 27
She tiptoed down the stairway to the west side of the building. When she turned the corner to their hall, she froze. A ghost of a small child stood in the middle of the hallway about twenty feet away. Sara stifled a scream and the ghost did as well, the two of them terrified by each other.
Peering through the dim light, Sara recognized one of the twins, Lula. She wore only her nightdress, and gave a small hiccup.
Sara wasn’t seeing things, this was indeed an actual human being. As she drew near, she noticed that the girl’s face was red and streaked with tears.
“Lula? What are you doing out here?” She knelt down and took the girl’s hands in her own.
The girl shook her head, unable to speak, and fell sobbing into Sara’s arms.
“What’s wrong, where’s your mother?”
“Inside. She’s sick. She told me to get help, but I don’t know where to go.”
“Why didn’t you fetch a servant or ring downstairs?”
“They’re all gone out tonight. And after Mother caught me playing with the electric bell, she told me never to use it again.”
“Poor girl. There now, I’m here.”
Sara held Lula’s hand as they entered the front door. Only a few lamps were lit, and the place was full of gloom and shadows. From the far rooms came the sound of a baby crying.
“Show me where your mother is.”
An eerie tableau greeted Sara when she opened the door to the main bedchamber. Mrs. Camden lay on the bed, her skin as pale as the pillow. Emily and Luther stood around her silently, patting her arms. They barely moved as Sara drew closer.
“Mrs. Camden?”
The woman opened her eyes and tried to speak, but her breath caught in her throat.
“Don’t talk, I’ll call for the doctor.”
“Thank you.” Her lips were chapped and her eyelids fluttered and then closed.
Sara went to the kitchen, Lula trailing behind her like a dutiful sheepdog. Why was there no one home? And where was Theo? She rang the bell for the night porter and met him out in the hallway to tell him to call for a doctor right away. The baby’s wailing had grown louder by the time she returned.
Lula shrugged. “He won’t stop crying. He wants Mother.”
A lump caught in Sara’s throat. She didn’t want to see or make any kind of contact with Theo’s new ward. This boy that was now part of his family, when the boy she should have had was gone, buried in an unmarked grave on that hellish island. But she couldn’t stand the desperation that grew with each cry.
The child had thrown off all his bedclothes and was circling his arms and legs, such chubby limbs, like he was trying to swim to the surface of a pond. His peony-pink mouth was open in a big O, while his eyes were closed tight. She leaned over and picked him up. He weighed more than she’d expected. She sat on the rocking chair next to the crib and tucked him into her, bouncing him softly in her arms.
Lula spoke with a reverent hush. “He’s hardly ever quiet.”
“He’s hungry, perhaps.”
Lula just shrugged.
“Where is your nanny?”
“Not here this week. Traveling to some place or other.”
“Your mother is alone with you?”
“Yes.”
“Has she been ill long?”
The girl sighed. “Forever, it seems.”
Theo should have been back, taking care of his family, who obviously needed him. Needed someone to take charge.
Sara rose, the baby still in her arms, and walked back to the bedchamber. Mrs. Camden opened her eyes and looked up at the ceiling, as if she were trying to remember where she was. Her head slowly turned in Sara’s direction and she stared for several moments without blinking. Her expression was neither grateful nor hateful. But she knew everything, of that Sara was certain.
When the doctor arrived, followed by a nurse as well as Mrs. Haines, Sara reluctantly put the boy back down in his crib. He was fast asleep and didn’t stir, although she waited a few moments in case the lack of human contact brought him out of his slumber. Part of her wished it might.
Unnoticed, she slipped out of the Camden apartment and back up the stairs to her own.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
New York City, September 1985
The work on Melinda’s apartment reached a feverish pitch over the next week, swarmed by painters who transformed the dark walls and columns into swaths of faux marble and stucco. Melinda had insisted they paint a long trompe l’oeil “crack” in the living room wall, so that it resembled a Parisian apartment she’d seen in a French movie, the kind that were once grand but had gone to elegant seed.
In the meantime, Bailey successfully distracted herself from beginning each day with a shot of vodka by going to an AA meeting in Midtown before hitting furniture showrooms. She’d even found a sponsor, a retired theater publicist named Lydia who had a deep-throated laugh and a wicked intuition. Bailey hadn’t been back to the Sixty-Ninth Street meeting, and on the few occasions she ran into Renzo, she tried to be polite but not too forthcoming. Melinda had warned her to stay away from him until the lawyers came to an agreement.
They were deep in negotiations with the co-op board and the Met to determine who owned the rights to the sheath, all dependent on the completion of the DNA testing.
While Melinda had warned her away from Renzo, she hadn’t said anything about the Camdens’ family advisor.
Bailey had located him using the Yellow Pages and gotten an appointment two days later. The offices, as expected, were formidable for a firm that handled generations of clients’ money: mahogany walls, a mid-century sofa in the waiting room, and a receptionist who looked as if she sucked on lemons in between phone calls.
“Miss Camden?”
An older man in a well-cut suit beckoned her into his office. He had a long face and chin that reminded her of Dick Van Dyke, whom she’d developed a mad crush on as a young girl. “I’m Fred Osborn; very nice to meet you.”
“Yes, thank you for seeing me.” She took a chair opposite his desk and looked about. Behind him, on the window ledge, were dozens of trophies, the kind that children receive for signing up for a soccer league. He caught her looking at them.
“My grandchildren’s. Their rooms were overrun with the things and they insisted I display them here.”
She liked him already. “Mr. Osborn, I won’t take up too much of your time, but I want to be tested to find out if I am a true Camden. Not only in name but in blood.”
He studied her, no reaction on his face. “First off, please call me Fred. Now, what makes you think you might be? I know about the ward, your grandfather. But you think you’re related to Theodore and Minnie Camden?”
“Not exactly. Theodore Camden, yes. I believe he had an affair with the woman who killed him, Sara Smythe, and that Christopher Camden was the result.” She explained what she had discovered, and dug into her handbag to show him the cottage drawing, the letter, and the photo. “You see, I discovered the sheath and bone. I think it’s only fair that I be included in the DNA testing.”
“What do Melinda and Manvel think of this idea?”
“I don’t know about Manvel, but I know Melinda isn’t too pleased.”
“I can imagine.” His eyes were guarded, but she got a hint of impatience in his face at the mention of Melinda’s name. “I have to warn you, at this point the provenance of the sheath is hazy. You would think the government of Tibet might be interested, but they’re being bullied by China, who are trying to destroy Tibetan culture. The Rutherford family, who owned it in the 1880s, when it was stolen, has died out and there are no descendants. At this point, it may indeed end up in the hands of either the co-op for the Dakota or Melinda and Manvel.”
“I don’t understand why the co-op is trying to stake a claim. I mean, it was found in the man’s trunk, along with his finger bone.”
“Mainly for the sake of precedence. Not to mention the finances of the co-op are consistently in the red.” He shrugged. “And my guess is that Melinda Camden isn’t high on the list of their favorite shareholders.”
“I know Melinda is concerned about the sheath, but as far as I’m concerned, it belongs in the Met with the knife. I’m more interested in the DNA sampling. When is the package being sent out?” she asked. “Or has it already?”
“It goes out Monday. They’ll be sending along the bone you discovered and the blood samples from the plans and the sheath. Turns out the bone is the key to the testing. Without that, Melinda would have had little chance of getting back any results either way.” He rubbed his chin. “I’ve learned more about the science behind this testing than I’d have thought possible, this past week. Fascinating stuff.”
“I’d like to know if I’m a Camden for real or not. I hope you can understand my position.”
“I do, Miss Camden. The evidence you’ve assembled, if we may call it that, is quite interesting. The trust was set up, as common in that era, for the ‘descendants by blood’ of the trustor, Theodore Camden. Today, with all these scientific breakthroughs, we can take that quite literally. My duty as trustee requires that I distribute equal portions of the funds held in trust to all living heirs of Theodore Camden on their thirtieth birthdays. I could make the argument that, in my capacity as trustee, I’m honor bound to test you, to determine, once and for all, if you are entitled to be brought into the trust. But even if I were so inclined, I’m afraid it wouldn’t be possible.”
Her heart dropped. “Why’s that?”
“The testing has to be done via the male line. For example, we can connect Theodore Camden to Melinda’s twin, Manvel, by way of Luther Camden and their father. In which case, along with all the newspaper accounts of the murder and such, we should be able to prove that the sheath was part of the family’s items. But you can’t be matched, being a female, I’m sorry to say. Unless you have a brother.”
So close. “No luck there. But what about my father? What if he agreed to be tested? His father was Christopher Camden, so that would be a direct line, if Christopher is indeed Theodore Camden’s son.”
“That would work. He’s still living?”
She nodded.
“In that case, we’d test him, and if it’s a match, he would be added as a beneficiary of the trust. You would inherit what is left, and so on, down through your descendants. Would your father agree to be tested?”
“I’ll ask him.” Maybe, if she explained it the right way, he’d agree and take part in her crazy plan. He had to see that it was for her future, and for their family name, their rights.
“Luckily for the heirs, the architect Henry Hardenbergh took over the firm after Theodore Camden’s death, and a significant portion of the profits went into the Camden trust each year. My family’s company has handled the estate since the very beginning, and been strategic in our investment strategy, which has paid off nicely over the past century.”
“And way back when, they set it up so my grandfather, Christopher, couldn’t inherit anything?”
“I’m afraid not, as he wasn’t a blood relative, and they didn’t make any other accommodation for him.”
“I wonder if Theodore might have set aside something for him, if he’d lived?”
“We’ll never know, I’m afraid. Such a tragic death, and quite early in his career.”
She rose to go, eager to get Jack on the phone. But Fred raised a hand to stop her.
“One more thing. If you do get your father to agree to be tested, I won’t be allowed to use any of the Camden family money to cover the expenses, as you can understand.”
“Right. Of course. How much would it cost?”
He did the figures on a notebook on his desk, using an old fountain pen. “Somewhere around a thousand dollars.”
A thousand dollars. She didn’t have anything close to that on her. Even if she did get Jack to agree, she had no chance of raising that much money so fast.
She closed the door behind her before slinking away.
The phone at the house in New Jersey rang and rang, so Bailey tried the repair shop. Her dad had stepped out but she left a message with Scotty, asking him to call her back right away.
“He’s out fishing, probably back in a few hours.”
Great. Right when time was of the essence, her dad was out on a boat fishing.
To keep herself occupied, she headed down to Kenneth’s apartment, where he was holding what he called a “high tea.” Inside, a dozen or so men and a few women were chatting away in groups, nibbling on cucumber sandwiches and macaroons. Kenneth gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before heading back to the kitchen to refill the trays.
Bailey curled up in a nook in one of the large window seats facing Central Park, with a cup of tea and a scone, and let her mind wander. She was so close to finding out the truth. But although she had yet to speak with her dad, there wasn’t much point of getting her hopes up. Even if he agreed, there was no way she could afford a thousand-dollar test.
A familiar, deep growl broke her out of her reverie. Renzo stood near the fireplace, listening intently as Mrs. Stellenbach, who lived in a studio apartment up on eight, explained some kind of repair job in great detail, barely pausing for breath.
He caught her eye and she smiled quickly, then looked away, pretending to be absorbed by a young man plucking away at “You Are My Lucky Star” on the piano. After a few minutes, Renzo put his hand on the woman’s shoulder and made his excuses, then joined Bailey on the window seat. It was the first time they’d been face-to-face since the debacle in the basement with Melinda and Tony.
“I assume you can’t go to a tea party without being monopolized about a clogged sink.”
“Clanging radiator, in this case. Hazard of the job. I try not to socialize too much with the tenants, but I couldn’t pass up Kenneth’s scones.” He leaned back against the wall and studied her.
She blushed. To distract him, she asked the question she’d been wondering for weeks. “How did you get your unique name?”
“Is Lorenzo Duffy unique?”
She laughed.
“My father was Irish and my mother Italian. Deadly combination, as the probability of turning into a boisterous drunk increases twofold. At least that’s my theory.”
“You seem to be doing all right.”
“I’m hanging on. How about you?”
“Meetings every day.”
“I haven’t seen you.”
He’d been looking for her. Her heart skipped over a couple of times. “Melinda warned me, well, to steer clear. Until things have been decided one way or another.”
“Steer clear of me?”
She nodded. “Although you were right to stash away the sheath in the safe the way you did. Melinda and Tony were ready to sell the thing on the black market. The fact that it’s an artifact, an important one, means nothing to them.”
“To you it does?”
“Of course.” She looked out the window, the view a sea of sparkling leaves. “Okay, I did think about the value. How could I not? But to me, the most important items from those trunks were the letter and the photo. And, in a weird way, the finger.”
“What’s the latest from the battle of the basement?”
“The co-op agreed to allow the results of the DNA test to determine who it belongs to. If the DNA from the finger bone and blood match that of Manvel Camden, it’s his and Melinda’s.”
“How are they certain that what’s in the tube belonged to Theodore Camden?”
“The plans are dated the month he died, and there are newspaper accounts about how his finger was never recovered, grisly details like that.”
“It all sounds kind of hocus-pocus-y.”
She couldn’t agree more. “I know. It’s a crazy mix of old evidence and cutting-edge science. The results will be in by the end of the month. But I don’t think I’ll even get a chance to get my DNA tested, although not for lack of trying.”
“Why not?”
She didn’t want to go into it. The money, the fact that she wasn’t a male. “Long story. It’s probably not going to happen.” She paused. “Look, I’m sorry if I’ve kept my distance. I wasn’t sure where you stood.”
“I don’t stand with Melinda and Tony, I’ll tell you that much. I hear the apartment is a disaster.”
She frowned. “God, it’s getting worse every day. It sucks that I have to do her bidding.”
“You don’t, actually.” Something dark brewed behind his slate-gray eyes.
“Until I get paid next month, I’m stuck. At that point, I’ll have enough to get me through.”
“Seems to me that you’re making excuses, staying in a poisonous relationship because you don’t have the courage to break out of it.”
She hadn’t asked him for his advice, and the implication infuriated her. As did his audacity to analyze her decisions and motives. She’d put herself out there by approaching Fred Osborn, and now having to ask Jack for a favor that she was sure he would deny. “You have no idea what I’ve been trying to accomplish the past couple of days. It’s taken every ounce of courage I have.”
“That’s great. Because I couldn’t stand the way Melinda and Tony treated you down in my office, like you were beneath them.”
He might as well have thrown a bucket of cold water over her. She felt attacked, exposed. He’d seen her prostrate herself before the two of them, and was calling her out. “What exactly was I supposed to do? Tell them to include me in the testing or I’ll quit? Melinda would have laughed in my face. The power is all theirs; I’m working with reality here.”
“You don’t see in yourself what I see. You have more power than you think.”
