Producing his envelope from my back pocket, I returned it with a touch of ceremony. He was visibly relieved to have it in hand. He may even have let out a sigh. But at the same time, I could tell he was weighing the contents.
—It’s not all there, I admitted. But I’ve got something else for you.
From another pocket, I produced the accounting.
Emmett seemed a little perplexed when he took the paper in hand, but even more so once he’d had a look.
—Is this Billy’s handwriting?
—It sure is. I’m telling you, Emmett, that kid’s got a head for figures.
I stepped to Emmett’s side and gestured loosely at the columns.
—It’s all there. The necessary expenses like the gas and hotels, which will be reimbursed to you off the top. Then there’s the more discretionary expenses, which will come out of my end—just as soon as we get to the Adirondacks.
Emmett looked up from the sheet with a hint of disbelief.
—Duchess, how many times do I have to tell you that I am not going to the Adirondacks. As soon as the Studebaker’s ready, Billy and I are heading for California.
—I get it, I said. Since Billy wants to be there by the Fourth of July, it makes sense to get a move on. But you said your car won’t be ready until Monday, right? And you must be starving. So tonight, let’s have a nice meal, just the four of us. Then tomorrow, Woolly and I will take the Caddy to the camp and pick up the dough. We’ve got to make a quick stop in Syracuse to see my old man, but then we’ll hit the highway. We shouldn’t be more than a few days behind you.
—Duchess . . . , said Emmett, with a woeful shake of the head.
He even looked a little defeated, which was out of character for such a can-do guy. Obviously, something about the plan didn’t sit right with him. Or maybe there was some new complication I didn’t know about. Before I got the chance to ask, we heard a small explosion coming from the street. Turning slowly, Emmett stared at the front door for a moment. Then he closed his eyes.
Sally
If I were blessed one day to have a child, I would no sooner raise her to be an Episcopalian than I would to be a Catholic. The Episcopalians may be Protestant by designation, but you wouldn’t know it from their services—what with all the vestments and English hymns. I guess they like to call it high church. I call it high and mighty.
But one thing you can count on from the Episcopal Church is that they’ll keep their records straight. They’re almost as insistent upon it as the Mormons. So, when Emmett didn’t call as promised on Friday at 2:30, he left me little choice but to contact Father Colmore over at St. Luke’s.
Once I got him on the line, I explained that I was trying to track down a member of the congregation of an Episcopal church in Manhattan, and did he have any ideas on how I might go about doing so. Without a second thought, he told me I should contact Reverend Hamilton Speers, the Rector of St. Bartholomew’s. He even gave me the number.
This St. Bartholomew’s must be some kind of church, I’ll tell you that. Because when I called, instead of getting Reverend Speers, I reached a receptionist who asked me to hold （despite the fact it was a long-distance call）; then she patched me through to an assistant rector, who, in turn, wanted to know why I needed to speak to the reverend. I explained that I was distantly related to a family in his congregation, that my father had died in the night, and while I needed to alert my New York cousins to his passing, for the life of me I could not find my father’s address book.
Now, in the strictest sense, this was not an honest claim. But while the Christian religion generally frowns upon the drinking of spirits, a sip of red wine is not only countenanced, it plays an essential role in the sacrament. And I figure that while the church generally frowns upon prevarication, a little white lying can be as Christian as the sip of Sunday wine, if performed in the service of the Lord.
What was the name of the family? The assistant wanted to know.
When I replied it was the family of Woolly Martin, he asked me to hold again. A few nickels later, Reverend Speers was on the line. First, he wanted to express his deepest sympathies for my loss, and his wishes that my father rest in peace. He went on to explain that Woolly’s family, the Wolcotts, had been members of the St. Bartholomew’s congregation since its founding in 1854, and that he had personally married four of them and baptized ten. No doubt he had buried a good deal more.
In a matter of minutes, I had the phone numbers and addresses of Woolly’s mother, who was in Florida, and the two sisters, who were both married and living in the New York area. I tried the one called Kaitlin first.