The Only Child. Carolyn McSparren
old and so beautiful that Molly longed to pet the chairs like cats. Everything was displayed in a sort of higgledy-piggledy ebullience that looked casual but undoubtedly wasn’t.
In her freshly pressed dress jeans and polished L.L. Bean topsiders, Molly felt a familiar sense of panic. She glanced at the other customers. At least no one realized she longed to run out the front door. She picked up a small triangular damask pillow and promptly dropped it when she saw the price tag.
Zoe came back looking puzzled and curious. “My father says would you please go up. The elevator’s by the back door.” She pointed and watched until the door slid shut on Molly.
When the door opened onto the MacMillan living room, the first thing Molly noticed was the number of throw pillows. No doubt Sydney MacMillan paid wholesale prices, but she’d still piled them three deep on every piece of ornate French furniture in the room.
Logan held the elevator door open for her. He was dressed casually but immaculately in slacks and a sweater. He smelled as though he’d just gotten out of the shower, and his gray hair was still damp. “I wasn’t expecting you,” he said.
Molly came close to pushing the button and letting the elevator doors shut on her again. She must have been out of her mind to come. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered.
“No, I meant I’m glad you came. When I left so rudely last night…”
“Please. It’s all right.”
“Come in. I won’t bite.” He smiled. “I’ve got coffee if you’re interested.”
“No, thank you.” She stood in front of the elevator, poised for flight. “Last night I went through all my old photos. I found something I thought you should see.”
“Show me.”
Molly dug into her capacious handbag, pulled out a folio of photos, flipped it open and handed it to Logan. “Take it to the light. Ignore all the people in the foreground. They were on the tour with me. Look at the background. I imagine someone can blow it up if you’d like.”
Even at ten in the morning there was almost no light filtering into the living room through the heavy gold damask drapes drawn across the windows. Logan pushed them aside and raised a cloud of dust. The room—revealed in the sudden light—seemed like a disused movie set or a posh suite in a bankrupt hotel.
He stared at the picture. “Dear God, that’s Tiffany. I’m sure of it.” He glanced at Molly. “But I don’t see a child.”
“Try the next one.”
Logan flipped to the next photo. He went very still. “That hair,” he whispered. “I can’t see the face clearly, but Dulcy’s hair was just this color. And curly like this.”
“It’s an odd strawberry blond. I think that’s one of the things that caught my eye when I saw her. So it really is Dulcy?”
He shook his head as though to clear it. He couldn’t take his eyes off the photo. Molly saw that his hands were shaking slightly. She wanted to reach out to him, but instead she clutched her handbag even tighter. After a moment he steadied himself. “I still can’t believe it.”
“It’s a start, at any rate. Do you have those computer enhancements?”
“Yes. In my office.”
Molly followed him down a long hall papered in gold silk damask and into a small room at the back of the house that was bathed in light from a bank of windows across the back wall.
This must be where Logan really lived. The door was held open by an irregular chunk of concrete. A two-foot section of steel I-beam stood on end to form a side table beside a brown leather chair with the dye worn off arms and seat.
There were three steel file cabinets, a battered steel desk, shelves stuffed with books, a blue umbrella rack full of rolled up blueprints. On the walls were framed photographs of dams and bridges in various stages of construction. A large computer sat on a credenza. Everything seemed immaculate and orderly but chosen for serviceability rather than show.
“Please have a seat.” Logan pointed at the leather chair and went directly to the file cabinets. He dropped the photos on the desk and searched rapidly through the files in the top drawer. There was an urgency about him now. He pulled out a thick file and dropped it in Molly’s lap. Then he sat in his desk chair and stared at the two photos again, squinting to see the background. “The computer enhancements are at the back of that file.”
Molly found them. Her eyes widened. “It was Dulcy I saw!”
He glanced up sharply. “You say that as though you weren’t sure before.”
“Of course I was sure. I just wasn’t sure-sure.”
Logan flipped the photos to look at the backs. “Do you know where you took these? Don’t you write dates and places on your photos?”
“The ones before that are from Oklahoma City, the ones following are from Denver. I checked my itinerary. We stopped for lunch along the way in Moundhill, Kansas.”
MacMillan’s jaw dropped. “Where?”
Molly repeated the name, then asked, “Why? What’s the problem?”
“Moundhill, Kansas. That’s where Dulcy’s buried.”
AT ELEVEN-THIRTY that morning, Molly and Logan walked into George Youngman’s office unannounced. Youngman showed only a moment of surprise, then he became all smiles. Molly could see why Logan trusted him. The private detective had guileless blue eyes and a generous mouth. He stood five feet seven, and was built in a series of soft globes like the Michelin Man, yet gave the impression of muscles lurking beneath the paunch. His firm handshake didn’t last a second too long. His office was large and comfortably furnished. On the wall behind his desk were gold-framed photographs of Youngman shaking hands with high-ranking policemen and prominent lawyers.
Logan introduced Molly and held her chair for her. Youngman sat behind his oversize desk in his oversize leather desk chair.
“I was surprised when I got your call, Mr. MacMillan, after all this time,” Youngman said. “Something I can do for you or the little lady?” He shot his immaculate white shirt cuffs. They were monogrammed with an elaborate “GY.” Molly revised her first assessment. She instinctively distrusted men who wore monograms.
“I need to review a few things about my case,” Logan said.
Youngman leaned forward. Molly saw his hands tighten suddenly on his desk mat. The small tufts of brown hair on his knuckles seemed to stand up like the ruff of a dog that senses danger. “You got some new information on your daughter-in-law? Something you want me to run down for you?”
Logan shook his head. “Not precisely. Refresh my memory, Mr. Youngman. Who told you that my granddaughter Dulcy had died?”
This time there was no mistaking Youngman’s reaction. He sat back in his chair and drew his hands quickly into his lap. He answered carefully, as though he’d been expecting the question or something like it for a long time. “As far as I can remember, and it’s been a while, I got a call from an informant in Kansas about the kid being dead.” The detective nodded, then said, “Yeah. That was it. An informant.” He shrugged. “By that time the mother was long gone.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Tough break.”
“Refresh my memory, Mr. Youngman, just how did the person who called know you were looking for Dulcy?” Logan smiled gently. Molly could tell he had also noticed the detective’s response.
“I guess it was from some of those fliers I distributed to police departments, Mr. MacMillan. Why?”.
“And the people at the