She returned with a small silver tray bearing a Water-ford decanter of port, two matching pieces of stemware, and a small plate arranged with homemade cheese biscuits. Filling our glasses, she offered me the plate and lacy linen napkins that looked old and freshly ironed. It was a ritual that took quite a long time. Then she seated herself on a worn end of a sofa where I suspected she sat most hours of the day while she was reading or watching television. She was pleased to have company even if the reason for it was somewhat less than sociable. I wondered who, if anyone, ever came to see her.
“As I mentioned earlier, I’m the medical examiner working Beryl Madison’s case,” I said. “At this point there is very little those of us investigating her death know about her or the people who might have known her.”
Mrs. McTigue sipped her port, her face blank. I was so accustomed to going straight to the point with the police and attorneys I sometimes forgot the rest of the world needs lubrication. The biscuit was buttery and really very good. I told her so.
“Why, thank you.”
She smiled. “Please help yourself. There’s plenty more.”
“Mrs. McTigue,” I tried again, “were you acquainted with Beryl Madison before you invited her to speak to your group last fall?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied. “At least I was indirectly, because I’ve been quite a fan of hers for years. Her books, you see. Historical novels are my favorite.”
“How did you know she wrote them?” I asked. “Her books were written under pen names. There is no mention of her real name on the jacket or in an author’s note.” I had glanced through several of Beryl’s books on my way out of the library.
“Very true. I suppose I’m one of the few people who knew her identity–because of Joe.”
“Your husband?”
“He and Mr. Harper were friends,” she answered. “Well, as much as anyone is really Mr. Harper’s friend. They were connected through foe’s business. That’s how it started.”
“What was your husband’s business?” I asked, deciding that my hostess was much less confused than I had previously assumed.
“Construction. When Mr. Harper bought Cutler Grove, the house was badly in need of restoration. Joe spent the better part of two years out there overseeing the work.”
I should have made the connection right away. Mc-Tigue Contractors and McTigue Lumber Company were the biggest construction companies in Richmond, with offices throughout the commonwealth.
“This was well over fifteen years ago,” Mrs. McTigue went on. “And it was during the time Joe was working at the Grove that he first met Beryl. She came to the site several times with Mr. Harper, and soon moved into the house. She was very young.”
She paused. “I remember Joe telling me back then that Mr. Harper had adopted a beautiful young girl who was a very talented writer. I think she was an orphan. Something sad like that. This was all kept very quiet, of course.”
She carefully set down her glass and slowly made her way across the room to
the secretary. Sliding open a drawer, she pulled out a legal-size creamy envelope.
“Here,” she said. Her hands trembled as she presented it to me. “It’s the only picture of them I have.”
Inside the envelope was a blank sheet of heavy rag stationery, an old, slightly overexposed black-and-white photograph protected within its folds. On either side of a delicately pretty blond teen-age girl were two men, imposing and tan and dressed for outdoors. The three figures stood close to each other, squinting in the glare of a brilliant sun.
“That’s Joe,” Mrs. McTigue said, pointing to the man standing to the left of a girl I was certain was the young Beryl Madison. The sleeves of his khaki shirt were rolled up to the elbows of his muscular arms, his eyes shielded by the brim of an International Harvester cap. To Beryl’s right was a big white-haired man who Mrs. McTigue went on to explain was Gary Harper.
“It was taken by the river,” she said. “Back then when Joe was working on the house. Mr. Harper had white hair even then. I ‘spect you’ve heard the stories. Supposely his hair turned white while he was writing The Jagged Corner, when he was barely in his thirties.”