Jack considered the question as he chewed on his birthday candy bar. “When my dad was fifteen or so. He’d been raised as if he were one of her children, but when she died, he found out he got nothing. All of the inheritance went to the other three kids. Hit him hard.”
Before finding the trunk, Bailey hadn’t thought much of her family tree. They’d been ghosts, not important in her life or her future. But touching the items in the trunks had changed all that. Not to mention seeing that photo. “Then he joined the navy?”
“Nope. He joined the merchant marine.”
“What’s the difference?”
“During peacetime they work on ships that carry goods. Only in wartime are they called out to transport troops and equipment.”
“Huh. How did he end up in New Jersey?”
“He met my mother while at port in New York and they settled down here, where she’d grown up.”
“Then he opened up the auto shop.”
“That’s right. Why all the questions?”
She chose her words carefully. “I found this weird photograph in one of the trunks. It’s really old, but the woman looks like me.”
“Who is she?”
“Name was Sara Smythe. She worked in the Dakota, for a time. In the photo, she’s holding Granddad, and the other kids of Theodore Camden’s are standing next to her.”
“And she looks like you?”
“Yeah. The super of the building pointed it out. He’s right. Looks like you, too.”
He sat back and rubbed his belly with one hand, an amused grin on his face. Which made his right eyebrow stand up.
“Even more intriguing, she’s the one who killed Theodore Camden. And get this, before dinner, I noticed that sketch of the cottage at the top of the stairs. It’s signed by Theo Camden and in the drawing he’s written For Sara, kind of like Hirschfeld does his Ninas.”
“Who?”
“He’s this artist who draws Broadway stars and in every one . . .” She waved her hand. “Never mind. What if Sara Smythe killed him in a fit of passion because they’d been having some mad affair?”
He shook his head. “You’ve been reading too many romance novels. Christopher was a ward of the family, not a member of it.”
“How do we know? Did he know anything about his birth family?”
“Never mentioned it.”
She wished he were alive now so she could ask him all the questions that were burning inside her. “Because if Theodore had an affair, and had Granddad Christopher, who had you, who then had me, it means I’m related to Theodore Camden.”
Jack considered her for a moment. “You’d like that, would you?” His tone had turned cold.
She’d pushed too far. “I guess. I don’t know.”
He stared at his hands, studying the dirty fingernails and the cracked skin as if they belonged to someone else. “Your mother loved the few months she lived in New York City, and to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t sure that she’d be happy returning home, settling down. When she learned about the connection to the Camdens, she insisted we get back in touch. I think she imagined we’d be welcomed like long-lost relatives, invited over for cocktails and dinner parties. Little did she know.”
“Granddad hadn’t stayed in touch at all?”
“Nope. He felt rejected, orphaned twice over after Mrs. Camden’s death. Can’t say I blame him. The others, the ones we called our ‘cousins,’ had an easy life. While he was left to scrimp by.” He crumpled the Snickers wrapper in his hand, then took her wrapper and did the same before getting up and walking over to the garbage. “I’m not like them, and I’m proud of that. No need to be fancy.”
Meaning Bailey was. She twisted in her seat but couldn’t see his face.
He continued on. “Your mother wanted to be part of their family, to be accepted. She did this because she wanted better things for you. I guess that all worked out.”
“I guess so.”
Two thoughts struck her at the same time: That she hadn’t thought of drinking in more than three hours, a record to date. And that she really wanted a beer.
Christopher, her grandfather, had carried a chip on his shoulder all his life because he’d been brought up to believe he was an equal when really he was not. Jack had inherited that same chip.
To be perfectly honest, she had as well. She wanted desperately to be related to a killer, because then there was a chance she was really a Camden.
In which case, the circumstances that shamed her, growing up in a rundown neighborhood in a sad shore town, would not apply.
“Look, Dad. I’ve been having some trouble lately. Not now, not anymore. But earlier this year. That’s why I haven’t reached out.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“With drinking. That kind.”
“Your grandfather was a nasty drunk. Hope you don’t mean that kind.” His eyes were guarded.
A family history of alcoholism. She’d been told that was likely in rehab. It must’ve been bad if Jack had never mentioned it before. He obviously didn’t want to revisit the issue now.
“It’s no big deal. Everything’s fine.”
“I’m sure you have a lot on your plate.” He eyed the oven clock. “I have an early start tomorrow. What time do you want to get dropped off at the train?”
His dismissal landed hard, like a blow to her gut. She turned the conversation back to the auto shop and busied herself with the dishes. Her father was disappointed by her lack of fortitude, and her first response was to do something, anything, to assuage his discomfort. To smooth down her own rough edges in order to keep the peace.
In any event, he wasn’t interested in the story of her addiction. Or he knew what was coming and didn’t want to hear it without her mom by his side to soften the blow. Jack wasn’t that type of parent, never had been. Not interested in the hard stuff. Why should he be, since she’d not taken much interest in his life at all these past many years? She’d tackled the big world and figured he’d stay as he was, inaccessible and immovable as a figure in a snow globe.
She dried her hands with a dishrag. “Don’t worry about tomorrow morning, Dad. I’ll call a cab. I’m going to head upstairs now, dig around for some winter stuff to bring back to the city.”
“All right, then. Thanks for the birthday treat.”
“A sub and a Snickers. I’ll do better next year, I promise.” She crept up the stairs and rummaged around as he locked up the house. She could hear his heavy footfalls as he went from room to room, checking windows, closing latches, when the worst had already happened.
In the upstairs hallway, she lifted the drawing off its hook, wrapped it in a sweater, and stashed it in her bag. Jack wouldn’t even miss it, if he’d ever even noticed it in the first place.
Bailey retreated to her room and closed the door. Jack paused for a moment when he finally came up, but her soft “Hello” was answered by the click of his own bedroom door closing.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
New York City, January 1885
Something wasn’t right. The week prior, Sara had headed to the Westlakes’ apartment on the third floor only to find herself lost on the other side of the building, saved by Mr. O’Connor, one of the elevator operators, who pointed her in the right direction. The blunder had left her shaken. She knew the corridors of the Dakota better than anyone, save Theo and Fitzroy.
Sara’s stomach problems had only gotten worse, and she’d been unable to eat more than a few bites each meal, leaving her weak. The weakness made her even less inclined to eat, and around and around she went, a downward spiral of malaise. If she called for the doctor, she’d have to tell the truth about her condition, which would take her away from the Dakota and Theo and everything she’d worked so hard for. Her fragility compounded her confusion.