Warmest regards, Dragomir, Malibu 2007.
Who is Dragomir? What kind of a name is that? Whoever these people are who inscribed her books, she doesn’t appear to be trying to hide this intellectual part of her life.
I carefully place the books and Kindle back on the mahogany stand and spot a partially opened drawer in a bureau. I head over to close it but see a red leather box inside next to an Hermès scarf. So, naturally I open the drawer more and stare at the box.
Lightly stroking the grain of the leather with my fingers, I notice a frail silver chain hanging out one side of the box, and I open the lid. Gorgeous earrings, cuffs, and cocktail rings, many using colorful semi-precious stones in their design fill the box. But it’s a beat-up, tarnished silver locket attached to that thin chain that draws my attention, and I carefully lift it out, trying not to disturb the other jewelry.
I study the swirling design on the front. Flipping it over, I read
To MTG, with love, FEB
…or is it
FLB
? Hard to tell, because the letters are scratched and difficult to read. I run my fingernail down the side of the locket and open it to find a small cluster of dark hair inside. But then I hear the front door slam, and I snap the locket shut.
Suddenly voices echo from below, and I quickly drop the locket into the box and drape the chain over its side, hoping this is the same way that I found it. I put the box back in its place, quietly shut the drawer, remove my glasses and leave.
I come down the stairs and identify the voices of my niece, nephew, and my nephew’s wife, who are all in the kitchen. Heading through the door, I greet them cheerfully. “Now what have you three been doing all afternoon?”
Chapter Nine
“So I talked to a friend I did a favor for a while back. She’s a social worker in Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania,” Will Benson says. He and I have made it official—he now works for me as a private investigator, though I haven’t yet told Laura, my niece. I think it best to keep this secret for the time being. That way if Frank finds out, Laura won’t get into trouble for knowing about my misbehavior.
It’s the day following my further snooping among Juliana’s things, and Will texted me to meet him, so we sit in a coffee shop around the corner from the Aikido dojo. “Won’t this social worker get into trouble for sharing information about a juvenile case with you?” I take a bite of my grilled cheese sandwich.
“Look, it’s true those files are sealed,” Will answers me. “But the case is twenty-five years old, and the kids aged out of the system a couple of decades ago. Anyway, you’re interested in what’s happened to them more recently. So my friend called a colleague who’s been a social worker up in Scranton for thirty years.” He sips his coffee. “This woman remembered the gang, looked up a couple of things, and gave us a rundown of what happened to the kids.”
That news excites me. “Are they still around that area?” I ask. I’m thinking about the dead-bird-box delivery and hang-up calls from Scranton and Moosic when Juliana and Frank first arrived at Meadow Farm. I’m trying hard not to think about the van with Pennsylvania plates that ran my brother off the highway.
“Even though shots were fired, mostly by Teresa, nobody was injured. Fortunately.” Will pulls out a notepad. “So the court took mercy and placed all of them in juvenile detention centers. The oldest, Joe Taylor, appears to have turned his life around.”
“How’d he do that?” I ask.
“First, Joe never fired a gun or was even found with one when arrested, so that helped. Plus the juvenile system worked for him, and it also seems he showed remorse and humility,” Will says. “Joe kept his head down and worked hard while in detention up near Scranton. He made good grades and did community service during those years.”
Will flips through the pad, stopping on one page and reading a bit. “Let’s see. Once he
Who is Dragomir? What kind of a name is that? Whoever these people are who inscribed her books, she doesn’t appear to be trying to hide this intellectual part of her life.
I carefully place the books and Kindle back on the mahogany stand and spot a partially opened drawer in a bureau. I head over to close it but see a red leather box inside next to an Hermès scarf. So, naturally I open the drawer more and stare at the box.
Lightly stroking the grain of the leather with my fingers, I notice a frail silver chain hanging out one side of the box, and I open the lid. Gorgeous earrings, cuffs, and cocktail rings, many using colorful semi-precious stones in their design fill the box. But it’s a beat-up, tarnished silver locket attached to that thin chain that draws my attention, and I carefully lift it out, trying not to disturb the other jewelry.
I study the swirling design on the front. Flipping it over, I read
To MTG, with love, FEB
…or is it
FLB
? Hard to tell, because the letters are scratched and difficult to read. I run my fingernail down the side of the locket and open it to find a small cluster of dark hair inside. But then I hear the front door slam, and I snap the locket shut.
Suddenly voices echo from below, and I quickly drop the locket into the box and drape the chain over its side, hoping this is the same way that I found it. I put the box back in its place, quietly shut the drawer, remove my glasses and leave.
I come down the stairs and identify the voices of my niece, nephew, and my nephew’s wife, who are all in the kitchen. Heading through the door, I greet them cheerfully. “Now what have you three been doing all afternoon?”
Chapter Nine
“So I talked to a friend I did a favor for a while back. She’s a social worker in Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania,” Will Benson says. He and I have made it official—he now works for me as a private investigator, though I haven’t yet told Laura, my niece. I think it best to keep this secret for the time being. That way if Frank finds out, Laura won’t get into trouble for knowing about my misbehavior.
It’s the day following my further snooping among Juliana’s things, and Will texted me to meet him, so we sit in a coffee shop around the corner from the Aikido dojo. “Won’t this social worker get into trouble for sharing information about a juvenile case with you?” I take a bite of my grilled cheese sandwich.
“Look, it’s true those files are sealed,” Will answers me. “But the case is twenty-five years old, and the kids aged out of the system a couple of decades ago. Anyway, you’re interested in what’s happened to them more recently. So my friend called a colleague who’s been a social worker up in Scranton for thirty years.” He sips his coffee. “This woman remembered the gang, looked up a couple of things, and gave us a rundown of what happened to the kids.”
That news excites me. “Are they still around that area?” I ask. I’m thinking about the dead-bird-box delivery and hang-up calls from Scranton and Moosic when Juliana and Frank first arrived at Meadow Farm. I’m trying hard not to think about the van with Pennsylvania plates that ran my brother off the highway.
“Even though shots were fired, mostly by Teresa, nobody was injured. Fortunately.” Will pulls out a notepad. “So the court took mercy and placed all of them in juvenile detention centers. The oldest, Joe Taylor, appears to have turned his life around.”
“How’d he do that?” I ask.
“First, Joe never fired a gun or was even found with one when arrested, so that helped. Plus the juvenile system worked for him, and it also seems he showed remorse and humility,” Will says. “Joe kept his head down and worked hard while in detention up near Scranton. He made good grades and did community service during those years.”
Will flips through the pad, stopping on one page and reading a bit. “Let’s see. Once he
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