“Yes! Exactly! A happy accident.”
“You know, I did wonder if you were making it up, the research bit. I thought perhaps you had another reason for nosing around.”
“Ha!” Annie yapped again. “I can see where you might’ve thought that!”
She laughed some more because what else could she do?
“All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you who Pru met in the garden. But not now. I really must go. Can you meet me tomorrow?”
“Sure! Yes! Of course! Tomorrow would be perfect.”
Gus eyed her warily, his brows cocked and crooked. He’d likely never encountered a literary researcher with such a spastic level of interest.
“Meet me in the morning,” he said. “Is eight o’clock too early for you?”
“Too early for a bar?” Annie said and glanced around. “Uh, yeah.”
“Give me some credit. I do go other places. Tomorrow we change locations. Eight o’clock. Meet me at the Grange.”
Twenty
GD: Of course my father shot Coco.
WS: Why do you say “of course”?
GD: The man was with my mother, when she was four days postpartum, having just birthed a child that was probably the visitor’s and not the husband’s! Coco was unbothered by Father’s anger and so Father had to make a show. He shot Coco right through the couch.
WS: Do you mean “through the crotch”?
GD: Did you not hear me say “couch”?
WS: Is that a euphemism?
GD: No it’s not a euphemism! I’d say pecker or nads or twigs and berries if that’s what I meant.
WS: Yes, I suppose you would.
GD: It went like this. Coco hid behind the couch. My father shot him, three times. He died. There was a trial.
WS: Of worldwide fame.
GD: I’m not sure about “worldwide” but Henry James wanted to pen a book with Father as the primary character. After the trial, Daddy spent some time in prison. He was released and everyone eventually moved on. Everyone except dear old Dad. He died in a lunatic asylum, driven mad by remembering what he’d done. And as for me, mais en fin je suis la fille de l’assassin. That, dear writer, is how my story goes.
Twenty-one
THE GRANGE
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
NOVEMBER 2001
“Mais en fin je suis la fille de l’assassin.”
Was this a stab at humor by Gladys Deacon? Or an excuse for her boorish behavior? One could hardly condemn the woman for her wild capers and socially devastating blunders. Poor thing, it was part of her destiny.
Mais en fin je suis la fille de l’assassin.
But in the end I am the daughter of the murderer.
—J. Casper Augustine Seton,
The Missing Duchess: A Biography Annie stood near the gate, heaving as sweat trickled down the backs of her thighs. She was hot right then but the running shorts and windbreaker weren’t going to cut it if she stopped moving. Her legs and arms were already goose-pimpled from the chill in the air.
Hopping in place, Annie checked her watch. Suddenly a voice shouted her name. Annie looked down Banbury Road and spotted Gus waving from around the bend.
“Over here!” he called. “I’ve gone round back!”
“I can see that,” she said, running toward him. When she reached his side she grabbed a tree to catch her breath.
“Hello,” he said, smiling dryly.
“Hi.”
“I didn’t take you for a casual runner.”
“I’m not. I’m a most formal runner.”
What Annie was, was somebody in need of a reason to leave the hotel when Laurel wanted to sit around and sip tea. And wasn’t that just her luck? The one time Annie had plans her mother did not. Laurel was too confused to question Annie’s unexpected spurt of activity. Like Gus, she didn’t take Annie for a casual runner, or a runner at all.
“Why are we all the way back here?” Annie asked, sides cramping as she suffered the consequences of her lack of exercise regimen. She really should’ve visited the college rec center at least once. “Is this a secret entrance or something?”
Without a reply, Gus turned and marched down the alley. Annie followed dutifully, like a puppy, her sneakers rolling over the gravel and rocks.
“You’re awfully out of breath,” he noted. “For a ‘most formal’ runner.”
“It’s the backpack’s fault,” she said, pointing behind her. “Brought it for, you know, snacks. Water. Provisions.”
“Provisions?” Gus cranked his head to look at her. “Where exactly did you jog from?”
“The Banbury Inn?”
“That’s not a kilometer away!”
“But it’s up a slight incline.”
She raised her forearm in a much steeper pitch than the road ever dared be.
“Yes,” Gus said. “Slight. Very slight. Ah. Here we are.”
He paused next to a narrow limestone building the color of toast.
“The rumored former abode of Tom himself,” he said.
Annie peered into the windows, which were broken through, just like at the main house. Inside, the cottage was bare save the various spider colonies camped out in the corners of the room.