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Authors: Sarah R Shaber
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government.’
‘Agreed,’ Williams said. ‘We’ll stop for gas and to use the rest room in Prince Frederick. Is there a way to get to the Martins’ house without going through St Leonard?’
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Not without a boat! But I don’t think we’ll attract any attention. The road through St Leonard leads to the Solomons Island training base, so plenty of unfamiliar cars pass through the town.’
‘You know,’ Williams said as he shifted gears and moved out into traffic, ‘I believe we’ve met. You look familiar. Your name is too, and Pearlie is uncommon.’
My heart began to race. ‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘Maybe someone introduced us at a bar, or at restaurant? I don’t remember you, but I’ve met so many new people since moving to Washington.’
‘Maybe,’ he said, losing interest in the conversation as he navigated the still icy roads of Massachusetts Avenue.
Sure enough we motored through St Leonard uneventfully, turning down the rough track that led to the Martins’ home.
‘If you see Leroy’s truck,’ Williams said, ‘duck down and I’ll back out as if I took a wrong turn.’
The truck was gone. Williams abandoned the FBI dress code long enough to exchange his fedora for a wool cap.
Anne Martin opened the door to my knock. ‘My husband’s not here,’ she said.
‘That’s okay,’ I said, ‘but I came to speak to you. This is Mr Williams, my driver, do you mind if he comes inside with me? It’s awfully cold.’
‘I have no idea what else you might need from me, but of course you can come in, both of you,’ Anne Martin said.
Williams doffed his cap and said, ‘Thank you, Ma’am.’
Anne led us to the sitting room but didn’t offer us any refreshments. I sat on the couch with her, and Agent Williams took a chair at the table and removed a pulp novel from his coat pocket to read. The man was a good actor. Still, I wasn’t sure that a cap and a dime Western transformed him from an FBI agent into a bored workingman. Anne kept glancing at him.
‘I don’t understand why you’ve come back,’ Anne said. ‘Didn’t we answer all your questions the last time you were here?’
‘Just following up,’ I said. ‘The postcard originated in a, shall we say, sensitive part of France.’
‘I’m not comfortable talking about any of this without my husband,’ she said, crossing her arms.
‘Well, then, perhaps we could arrange to return sometime when both of you are here.’
‘No!’ she answered, more strongly than necessary, but then subsided. ‘My husband wouldn’t like that. Go ahead and ask your questions. Let’s get it over with.’
I wondered if Anne’s husband treated her badly. I saw no physical evidence of manhandling. Her manner was relaxed and direct, and she seemed cheerful enough. Perhaps she just wanted to avoid Leroy’s chronic unpleasantness.
Williams crossed his legs at the ankle and turned a page of his novel.
‘You’re from South Africa originally, is that correct?’
‘Yes. I came to the United States with my grandmother. After the Boer War.’
‘What about your parents?’
‘They died. And we lost all our property during the war.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
Anne shrugged. ‘It was a long time ago. I’ve put it behind me.’
‘You and your husband met this Richard Martin only once?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Before the war. His ship was docked in the Potomac, and he had time off, he said. He came to visit Leroy. Leroy had no idea who he was until Richard drew him a family tree.’
‘Didn’t you think that was odd?’
‘Of course. But he seemed eager to make contact with us. He said he had few relatives.’
‘And he talked about his mother?’
‘He said he had a mother living. That’s all I remember.’
‘Do you have any idea why he sent you a postcard from France? It’s expensive.’
‘None at all. Why would I? And I don’t care, either! My husband and I aren’t responsible for some distant
‘Agreed,’ Williams said. ‘We’ll stop for gas and to use the rest room in Prince Frederick. Is there a way to get to the Martins’ house without going through St Leonard?’
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Not without a boat! But I don’t think we’ll attract any attention. The road through St Leonard leads to the Solomons Island training base, so plenty of unfamiliar cars pass through the town.’
‘You know,’ Williams said as he shifted gears and moved out into traffic, ‘I believe we’ve met. You look familiar. Your name is too, and Pearlie is uncommon.’
My heart began to race. ‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘Maybe someone introduced us at a bar, or at restaurant? I don’t remember you, but I’ve met so many new people since moving to Washington.’
‘Maybe,’ he said, losing interest in the conversation as he navigated the still icy roads of Massachusetts Avenue.
Sure enough we motored through St Leonard uneventfully, turning down the rough track that led to the Martins’ home.
‘If you see Leroy’s truck,’ Williams said, ‘duck down and I’ll back out as if I took a wrong turn.’
The truck was gone. Williams abandoned the FBI dress code long enough to exchange his fedora for a wool cap.
Anne Martin opened the door to my knock. ‘My husband’s not here,’ she said.
‘That’s okay,’ I said, ‘but I came to speak to you. This is Mr Williams, my driver, do you mind if he comes inside with me? It’s awfully cold.’
‘I have no idea what else you might need from me, but of course you can come in, both of you,’ Anne Martin said.
Williams doffed his cap and said, ‘Thank you, Ma’am.’
Anne led us to the sitting room but didn’t offer us any refreshments. I sat on the couch with her, and Agent Williams took a chair at the table and removed a pulp novel from his coat pocket to read. The man was a good actor. Still, I wasn’t sure that a cap and a dime Western transformed him from an FBI agent into a bored workingman. Anne kept glancing at him.
‘I don’t understand why you’ve come back,’ Anne said. ‘Didn’t we answer all your questions the last time you were here?’
‘Just following up,’ I said. ‘The postcard originated in a, shall we say, sensitive part of France.’
‘I’m not comfortable talking about any of this without my husband,’ she said, crossing her arms.
‘Well, then, perhaps we could arrange to return sometime when both of you are here.’
‘No!’ she answered, more strongly than necessary, but then subsided. ‘My husband wouldn’t like that. Go ahead and ask your questions. Let’s get it over with.’
I wondered if Anne’s husband treated her badly. I saw no physical evidence of manhandling. Her manner was relaxed and direct, and she seemed cheerful enough. Perhaps she just wanted to avoid Leroy’s chronic unpleasantness.
Williams crossed his legs at the ankle and turned a page of his novel.
‘You’re from South Africa originally, is that correct?’
‘Yes. I came to the United States with my grandmother. After the Boer War.’
‘What about your parents?’
‘They died. And we lost all our property during the war.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
Anne shrugged. ‘It was a long time ago. I’ve put it behind me.’
‘You and your husband met this Richard Martin only once?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Before the war. His ship was docked in the Potomac, and he had time off, he said. He came to visit Leroy. Leroy had no idea who he was until Richard drew him a family tree.’
‘Didn’t you think that was odd?’
‘Of course. But he seemed eager to make contact with us. He said he had few relatives.’
‘And he talked about his mother?’
‘He said he had a mother living. That’s all I remember.’
‘Do you have any idea why he sent you a postcard from France? It’s expensive.’
‘None at all. Why would I? And I don’t care, either! My husband and I aren’t responsible for some distant
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