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.”
“This was taken at Cutler Grove?”
“Yes, at Cutler Grove,” she answered.
I was haunted by Beryl’s face. It was a face too wise and knowing for one so young, a wistful face of longing and sadness that I associate with children who have been mistreated and abandoned.
“Beryl was just a child then,” Mrs. McTigue said.
“I suppose she would have been sixteen, maybe seventeen?”
“Well, yes. That sounds about right,” she replied, watching me fold the sheet of paper around the photograph and tuck both back inside the envelope. “I didn’t find this until after Joe passed on. I
‘spect one of the members of his crew must have taken it.”
She returned the envelope to its drawer, and when she had reseated herself, she added, “I think one of the reasons Joe got on so well with Mr. Harper is Joe was a one-way street when it came to other people’s business. There was quite a lot I’m sure he never even told me.”
Smiling wanly, she stared off at the wall.
“Apparently, Mr. Harper told your husband about Beryl’s books when they began to get published,”
I commented.
She shifted her attention back to me and looked surprised. “You know, I’m not sure Joe ever told me how he knew that, Dr. Scarpetta–such a lovely name. Spanish?”
“Italian.”
“Oh! I’ll bet you’re quite a cook, then.”
“It’s something I enjoy,” I said, sipping my port. “So apparently Mr. Harper told your husband about Beryl’s books.”
“Oh, my.”
She frowned. “How curious you should bring that up. It’s something I never considered. But Mr.
Harper must have told him at some point. Why, yes, I can’t think of how else Joe would have known. But he did. When Flag of Honor first came out, he gave me a copy of it for Christmas.”
She got up again. Searching several bookshelves, she pulled out a thick volume and carried it over to me. “It’s autographed,” she added proudly.
I opened it and looked at the generous signature of “Emily Stratton,” which had been penned in December ten years before.