Chapter 9
Peter and I spent most of Sunday visiting with people we’d discussed the case with the month before.
Our excuse was a need to double-check certain statements they’d made, and we threw in mention of Cyrill as casually as possible, but we didn’t fool anyone.
The standard reaction to the mention of her name was a clamming up.
Clearly everyone knew who she was, but no one was talking.
That left us to do some detective work on our own.
Her full name was Cyrill Stockland. We got that much after spending Sunday night poring through the cartons of records that sat in the basement of Sam’s Saloon.
She’d waitressed there for seven months, twenty-two years before.
The forwarding address was a diner in a small town in New Hampshire, and though we didn’t expect that she’d still be there, we drove over Monday morning just in case.
Peter had already decided to stay with me until Tuesday.
I wish I could say that I approached the search for Cyrill with utter gravity, given Cooper’s predicament, but the fact was I felt a distinct sense of adventure.
Spending time with Peter, traveling through the back roads of New England with him, was a treat.
As far as the New Hampshire diner was concerned, Cyrill Stockland didn’t exist. The cook, though, sent us to see the owner of a rooming house where most of the town’s transient help stayed at one point or another. The owner remembered Cyrill.
“That one was a beauty,” he told us, though only after he’d moved out of earshot of his wife, who, like him, looked to be in her late sixties.
“My Mary didn’t like her. Stuck up, she said.
Had fancy notions, she said.” He shrugged his stooped shoulders.
“Me, I just thought she was pretty. Had a nice beau, too. Tall fellow. Dark.”
I wondered if that was Cooper, but if the man had known more at one time, he’d long since forgotten. He was able, though, to give us the name and address of a country inn in the northwest corner of Massachusetts.
“Used to be run by some friends of mine,” he explained. “When she said she wanted to move on, I sent her there.” He scratched his sparsely haired head. “Don’t know if she ever made it, or if the new owners ever heard of her, but it’s worth a try.”
We had nothing to lose. Since we’d already driven so far south, it made sense for Peter to rent a car early Tuesday morning and continue on into the city while I drove back home. A country inn sounded like a perfect place to spend Monday night.
The inn in question turned out to be a gem.
Owned by two men who were probably gay but definitely friendly and gourmet cooks at that, it was nestled in a wooded glen along the Appalachian Trail.
Though neither of the men had heard of Cyrill Stockland, one of them promptly picked up the phone, called the previous owners and, after a phone call back several hours later, presented us with the name of a private club in Westport, Connecticut, where Cyrill had gone to work when she left the inn.
Tucking that information under our belts, we set about enjoying ourselves for the few remaining hours we had together.
We ate dinner by candlelight, sat for a time by the fire in the living room, then retired to our room.
It was furnished with authentic antiques, but the only one that truly interested us was the bed.
This we utilized for far more active endeavors than sleeping, before finally, reluctantly, succumbing to exhaustion.
In the morning Peter headed for New York while I returned to Maine. As far as friends like Swansy and Cooper were concerned, I had simply been off having a good time with Peter—which was the truth, but not the whole truth. I figured the whole truth was better withheld until I really had it.
I celebrated Thanksgiving as I had for the past six years, with a group of twenty-some-odd friends who congregated at Sam’s Saloon.
We all chipped in with the cooking, my contribution being two large blueberry jello molds.
They were surprisingly delicious given that, in addition to water, there were only three ingredients required.
I was home by dusk. Peter was spending the day with the family of a colleague of his and had promised to call. We had arrangements to make for the weekend, when we were planning to resume our search for the mysterious Cyrill, so I didn’t want to miss his call.
At least that was the reason I gave myself for waiting eagerly by the phone. After the call came through, though, after we’d talked and arranged and talked some more, then hung up, I acknowledged that the fullness I felt inside had little to do with Cyrill Stockland.
I didn’t question myself further when I left the next morning at the crack of dawn to drive south.
Peter and I had agreed that I’d fly to New York and spend Friday night with him at his place, then we’d set out together on Saturday to tackle Westport.
But I was too impatient to wait until mid-afternoon for a flight, and since Westport was right on the way, I decided to make a stop.
The manager at the country club had a fascinating story to tell.
It seemed that Cyrill Stockland had indeed worked for him and had been quite a hit among his other employees.
In fact, when she’d become pregnant, two of them had actually come to blows over which of them had fathered the child.
Needless to say, she’d been asked to leave the club.
The manager thought he remembered something about her continuing on into New York, but under the circumstances, she’d been given severance pay in cash and hurried out the door.
He had no forwarding address. He did, though, still have in his employ one of those men who had fought over her.
He had since married another woman and had five children, and the manager wasn’t sure whether he’d welcome inquiries about Cyrill Stockland.
I managed to persuade him to introduce me nonetheless.
The man in question had moved up in the ranks to become the head groundskeeper of the club.
Along with his position must have come a certain amount of self-confidence, because he had no problem thinking back to the days when he’d fought another man for the privilege of claiming the paternity of Cyrill Stockland’s child.
“Hoot of it is,” he told me, a crooked smile dancing on his round face, “we never even made it together. But I was young and full of myself. And I was damned if the other guy was gonna take the credit. Me and him argued about nearly every woman who stepped foot in the club.” He winked at me.
The wink left me cold. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing remotely sexually attractive about the man. He was nowhere near as tall, as well-built, as bright or amusing or compelling as Peter. The sooner I finished with him and went on to New York, the better.
“Did you keep in touch with Cyrill after she left?”
“Nah. Like I say, I had no real stake in it. And she wasn’t the kind of girl you kept in touch with. She was ambitious. She was moving on and up, she said, and she had that look about her like she’d really make it one day.”
“Do you know where she went?”
“The city.”
“New York?”
“That’s the one.”
“Do you know where in New York?”
He shook his head. “It’s a big place. She wanted to get lost while she had the kid, then she figured she’d climb out of her hole and make her fortune.”
Cyrill Stockland knew the score. New York was precisely the place to make a fortune, and the place to get lost, which didn’t help my search a whole lot.
Mildly discouraged, I thanked him for his time.
I turned to leave, paused, then turned back.
“When did all this happen? If you were to pin down the birth of her child to a particular time, when would it be?”
“I can tell you exactly when it was,” the man said without hesitation.
“I was here just a year when I got in that fight over her. I know ’cause I nearly blew that first raise I’d been counting on.
It was twenty-one years last June when I started here, so she musta had her baby just about twenty years ago. ”
I hadn’t been keeping a particularly close watch on the dates, other than to note that Cyrill hadn’t stayed in any one place for long. Now, hearing that she’d given birth to her baby twenty years before, something clicked.
Excited, I thanked the groundskeeper a second time, left and drove into New York. Peter was in conference across town when I arrived at his office; he hadn’t expected me until later. I waited patiently at first, then less patiently, until finally he returned.
The look of high pleasure that lit his face when he saw me sitting there was ample compensation for the wait.
Kicking his office door closed, he strode across the oriental carpet, put his hands on either arm of my chair, leaned low and captured my mouth.
Without touching any other part of me, he made me feel like a million.
He didn’t touch any other part of me because he didn’t trust himself that far—but he only told me that later, when we were in his apartment with no need for restraint.
And we showed none there. Not only were we celebrating our reunion, but with a few phone calls and a little string-pulling on Peter’s part, we’d made a major discovery.
“Who’d have thought it?” Peter murmured against my neck. His hands were under my sweater busily working on the buttons of my blouse. “Who’d have guessed Cyrill was Benjie’s mom.”