Over the next few days, the tingling in his feet grew more intense and extended to his fingers. It was as if a thousand hot needles were repeatedly poked into his extremities. Soon, the stomach pains were accompanied by excruciating episodes of vomiting, leaving him weak and almost delirious.
Before driving himself to the hospital, Bellows struggled to take a shower and noticed that his already thinning hair was falling out in clumps. He looked in the mirror and saw the image of a sickly, middle-aged man staring back at him.
Doctors were baffled by Bellows’ condition and watched helplessly as he deteriorated rapidly and fell into a coma. Within a week, the archivist was dead, never regaining consciousness long enough to tell the doctors what he had been doing in the days leading up to his death.
Could the doctors or the coroner be blamed for not running a test to detect Thallium in Bellows’ system? After all, it was odorless, colorless and tasteless. No one had the least suspicion, certainly not Addison Bellows, when he poured ice tea containing less than a gram of the water-soluble drug from the pitcher in his refrigerator.
Because of its qualities of deception, Thallium was known as “the inheritance powder” after World War II, getting its moniker because it had been used not infrequently by anxious heirs who wanted to hasten access to their benefactors’ assets. The person who had laced Bellows’ tea with the lethal poison certainly wasn’t seeking an inheritance but was determined to tidy up loose ends.
RUNNING UP LARGE margins with the female vote, the shallow but charismatic Barrington Dumont squeaked by in his first Congressional race that Fall and, looking ahead, immediately set about ingratiating himself with the aging senior senator from Virginia. He made it a point to always consult the octogenarian solon before co-sponsoring any bill in the House which might be inimical to the old man’s interests.
Helga immersed herself in Barrington’s political affairs, hosting events at the Dumont estate while Augustus and Lucy hid away in the library. Helga had an uncanny ability to insert herself into photo opportunities with her son until some wag in the press suggested that the young Congressman ought to find himself a pretty young wife before voters got the wrong idea and labeled him a “mama’s boy”.
It would still be a few years after Barrington Dumont’s election to Congress until the United Nations war crimes files were finally opened. The list that had disappeared from Addison Bellows’ apartment before his death was only one copy of many that had been distributed to countries who were members of the war crimes tribunal. As it turned out, Helmut Brunner’s name was passed over quickly after a cursory examination. He was a small fish in a pond of deadly predators that archivists and investigators were intent on tracking down. And so, none of the researchers dug deep enough to make a connection between the German factory owner and the Dumont family.
It would not be until the next decade when the old Senator, now a few years into his senility, died and Barrington Dumont announced for his seat. When an enterprising political operative for the other candidate exposed the Brunner family connection, he ruined not just Barrington Dumont’ senatorial bid but all future political ambitions. Even the Brandenburg Commando was powerless to help.
WHEN THE DILAPIDATED munitions plant on the water metamorphosed into the Torpedo Factory Art Center, the gentrification of Old Town accelerated and Pudge McFadden’s was ideally situated a few blocks away as tourists flooded the area.
Pudge had mixed emotions about his success as he gazed up at the image of the traditional Irish shebeen that hung over the bar in his landmark saloon. But prosper he did and eventually opened three more Irish pubs in the area as it became fashionable to celebrate if not exaggerate one’s Irish heritage, no matter how tenuous.
VIOLA FINCH WAS devastated when she heard of Bellows’ death and eventually pled guilty to the lesser charge of manslaughter, the D.A. wisely concluding that no jury would look at this pathetic, diminutive creature, this crushed bird perched precariously on a chair in the courtroom, plucked of all her brilliant feathers, and convict her of anything more serious. Considerable sympathy started to build for the faithful little bird who would now be caged for many years.
No one knew for sure exactly what happened in that stairwell except for what Viola had told Det. Willoughby on the day of her arrest. Had Scatcherd really provoked her with those biting comments which caused her to fly into a rage? Had the act been premeditated? Viola made no excuses and offered no details. She would not allow her attorney to manufacture a temporary insanity defense and under no circumstances would she testify in her own defense. Bellows was dead and she was prepared to join him.
Viola’s mother died while her daughter was in prison but Det. Willoughby was diligent in visiting her every few weeks in the nursing home where she went after her Viola’s incarceration. Theda Finch took with her all the memorabilia of those war years at the Torpedo Factory but found very few sympathetic patients with whom to share those memories.
Willoughby wondered if had been unnecessarily cruel when he set up Viola’s confession in front of Bellows but at the time he could think of no other option. He told himself that he had to be certain but still carried this regret with him for years.
When she was released from prison years later, frail and timid, Viola stopped by Det. Willoughby’s house to thank him for his kindness over the years. He was retired now, and his hair and mustache were laced with gray. There were still a lot of Finches back in Littleton, West Virginia. It was the poor, desolate place that Brady and Theda Finch, with great hope in the future, had left behind. Now, Viola was going home to rejoin the flock.
IT WAS A few days after Viola’s confession when Nellie Birdsong walked into Pudge McFadden’s late in the afternoon. Pudge saw her first and said to Woody, “Now there’s a stunner. Pretty sure she hasn’t graced my saloon before.”
“It’s Nelly,” Woody said quietly, taking off his apron and walking toward the door. Pudge kept his head down and busied himself at the bar.
Furtive looks and nervous half-smiles were interrupted by Nellie’s comment that Viola Finch must be a fiery little thing. Then she added, “I caught that news item about some missing classified documents that were found and will be returned to the Torpedo Factory archives. Was that you?” Woody smiled weakly and said, “Yeah, that’s all over with, Nellie. The mystery, the threats, everything. I wanted to call you but didn’t have a number. I don’t know all the details but this Det. Willoughby figured it all out. Liz and you can relax and go back to your apartment.”
Nellie was looking down and said softly, “Liz is going to move back, Woody – with a new roommate. I quit my job and am moving home.” Her tone was ominous and Woody understood that there was more to come. “The truth is, Woody, I never really liked it here. My roots are small town. After my grandmother’s death, I realized I didn’t want to be so far away from my family, fearing that midnight call and rushing home too late.”
Woody nodded his head and tried to look sympathetic but all he felt was fearful anticipation. “Listen, Woody,” she went on, almost apologetically, “I can’t leave without being totally honest with you, giving you the false impression that my move is just about family and escaping the big city. Even if I had stayed here, we would not have developed a relationship although I would have been sorely tempted. You aren’t going to like what I’m about to say next and it may make absolutely no sense to you, but the brutal truth is that you are bad luck for my family and me. Twice over four years, first in Parlor Harbor and then in Washington, DC, I meet you by accident and evil immediately surrounds us. It frightens me to contemplate what might happen next and I simply can’t take that gamble. Better to put a stop to things now.”