His honest, open, frank face was full of compassion. “Young people—and old—make mistakes. Mitchell was his mother’s darling, handsome, vigorous, daring, brave. Unfortunately, he was equally reckless, defiant, and hot-tempered. The weather was icy that December night. Adelaide’s hills began to glaze before the party was over. Mitchell and the girl he’d brought to a party quarreled. Mitchell slammed out of the house. His sister Ellen ran after him and managed to jump into the passenger seat before he gunned out of the drive. He lost control on Indian Hill Road.”
I remembered a twisting road with a steep drop.
“The car made a full turn and slammed into an evergreen. Mitchell’s door opened. He hadn’t fastened his seat belt so he was thrown clear, landed in a snowbank. The tree splintered and the car fell.”
“Ellen?”
Wiggins shook his head. “Ellen’s seat belt was fastened. They found the crumpled car at the bottom of the drop. Ellen was dead from massive injuries.” Wiggins reached down, picked up a clump of leaves, and the dank smell rose on the cold air. “The road was treacherous that night. The police report concluded that the wreck was a result of weather conditions.”
“Was Mitchell driving too fast?” Was he too furious from the quarrel to think? Had he pushed on the gas pedal when he should have slowed? A few times I recalled being swept by such a rush of anger that later I scarcely knew what I had said or done.
Dried leaves drifted down as Wiggins opened his hand. “His father thought so. Thomas Flynn adored his daughter. He turned away from Mitchell, said he’d killed Ellen because of his damnable temper. He told Mitchell he never wanted to see him again.” Wiggins brushed his fingers against his overcoat. “And he didn’t. The day after Ellen’s funeral, Mitch disappeared. The Flynns did everything they could. Mitchell was sought as a missing person. They hired private detectives. They found no trace. Thomas Flynn died two years ago, a broken man. I think he grieved himself to death. Susan withdrew, had less and less contact with the outside. She has congestive heart failure, the result they say of a virus. How vulnerable to illness the body becomes when there is no will to live. From the day after Ellen’s funeral to the day military officers arrived to tell her that Mitchell died a hero in Ramadi, Susan Flynn had no inkling of where her son had gone and what he had done.”
I flung out my hands, outraged. “How could he do that to his mother?”
Wiggins looked past me, but he wasn’t seeing graves and winter-bare trees and, in the distance, the cross of St. Mildred’s. He was looking into a past filled with faces I’d never seen. “Mitchell bore the heaviest burden of all, anguish that is harder to bear than sorrow. Guilt crushed him. Guilt kept him from coming home until he came home for his final rest. He could never see past the guilt to understand the heartbreak his disappearance brought.”
“No wonder Keith’s arrival means so much to Susan.” I reached out and gripped the sleeve of Wiggins’s overcoat. “Thank you for letting me help.”
His genial face folded in a frown. “Bailey Ruth, I never doubt your desire to be of help.” His eyes glinted. “However, maneuvering the directory back and forth by the secretary’s window was reprehensible.”
“Mea culpa.” I tried to sound contrite. Possibly the more formal Latin assumption of responsibility would please Wiggins. I hoped my look of regret touched his heart, which apparently was feeling pretty stony right this minute. “Wiggins, I will do my best to remain in the background, but Keith might be at risk. Surely I can stay until his grandmother has made provision for him.”
He put one hand in a pocket, jingled coins. Finally, he sighed. “Someone must be on the spot to look after Keith. And”—he didn’t sound overwhelmed with delight—“you are here. Very well. Remain on duty.” He looked at me. A tiny smile tugged at his generous mouth. “Have you sung ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ for Keith?”
“I will. I promise.” I broke into a vigorous version.
Wiggins laughed aloud. “You do that. And keep a careful eye on him. You shouldn’t have to be here much longer.” That prospect seemed to bring him great cheer.
“Probably not.” I tried to sound pleased as well, but I was sorry to see my hours in Adelaide dwindling. Once Keith was firmly established in Pritchard House as Susan Flynn’s grandson, my task would be done. I hoped I could dawdle a bit. I wanted to hug close the sights and sounds of Christmas, smiling faces, children’s awe, twinkling lights, carols rising on a frosty night. Perhaps I’d be in Adelaide long enough to attend the children’s Christmas Eve service, the boys in bathrobes as shepherds, the girls with angel wings and halos.
A shadow touched Wiggins’s face. “Be sure and keep guard over—” He stopped as if jolted by a shock. “Oh my goodness! I must be off.” His eyes widened. “To Tumbulgum. An emissary seduced by…oh dear…never in my experience…shocking…”
Abruptly, he disappeared.
I tried to squash an uncharitable hope that the emissary was in a big fat pickle and would absorb Wiggins’s attention for a good long while. I had no idea where Tumbulgum was, but hopefully it was very, very remote. If so, perhaps when Wiggins once again considered my actions, a penchant for appearing would seem rather minor in comparison. Of course, we all know that taking pride in being less sinful than another doesn’t get your ticket punched. I would never do that. Certainly not. But I felt less constrained than before.
Tumbulgum. Hats off. Wherever you are. I was reprieved for yet a while. I would attend to my duties and enjoy the season. I gazed around the cemetery at the wreaths and poinsettias and caroled “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.”
Still humming, I hurried back to the Pritchard mausoleum, tucked the precious directory behind Hannah’s tomb, and disappeared.
Wade Farrell’s office was old-fashioned, three windows with faded red velvet drapes pulled wide for the pale December sunlight, a cotton braided oval rug with red and beige circles, a mahogany desk with ash inlays, legal bookcases full of golden beige law books. Face folded in thought, he wrote vigorously on a legal pad. He stopped and checked his watch. He punched the intercom. “Kim, I’ve finished the general revisions.” He clicked it off.
In a moment, his office door opened and a poised brunette with feather-cut hair stepped inside. Her oval face was remarkably pretty, but her brown eyes were cool and remote.
I nodded in approval at her zebra-striped silk chevron blouse and black pencil skirt made stylish by large black buttons on the left front.
He pushed the legal pad to the edge of the desk. “The Flynn will. I don’t know when you can get to it. It’s more important to pin down the facts about the little boy. Are you making any progress?”
“Faxes from all over. We have to get a money order in German.” Her voice was brisk and commanding. She looked intelligent, perhaps even a little intimidating.
“Try to get confirmation of the birth certificate and the name of the hospital and when and where Mitch Flynn was married. Work all night if necessary. Susan Flynn wants to know by tomorrow.”
She nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
Farrell tapped a pen on the bare desk. “Thanks for being a sport, Kim. I hope this isn’t ruining an evening for you.”
She waved a hand in dismissal. “I didn’t have anything special planned.” She closed his office door behind her and walked to her desk. I followed her. She slid onto her seat, muttered, “The rich get richer, the poor get poorer; he’ll go home whenever he chooses, I get to work until the wee hours.” She reached for the phone, tapped a number. “Hey, Sue. I can’t come. I’ve got to spend the night trying to scare up information on an estate.” She swung her chair away from her computer, stared moodily toward a window.
I perched on the corner of her desk and leaned close to the computer and keypad. I’d become somewhat familiar with computers, programs, and passwords on my previous visit to Adelaide. Obviously her computer had previously been turned on and her password used so she was able to access files.