The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [74]
Robby looked at the large smiling face staring back at him. “Kind of looks familiar.”
“Shaun Cassidy. Every girl I knew fell for him.” She noticed the reference was lost on him. “The Hardy Boys.”
“Oh, yeah.”
She let go of the poster and it rolled back on itself. Robby pointed to the white dresser with gold trim. “Anything left in the drawers?”
“Doubt it.” She pulled one open and peered inside. “Hmm. Must be stuff my mom put in here.” She removed a box, which contained a photo album. They sat on the bed together and thumbed through the photos. “I don’t remember ever seeing these.”
“Who are these people?”
“Haven’t the slightest. Relatives and friends, I guess.” The black-and-white snapshots were held in place on dark paper with scalloped corner mounts. She turned a page and pointed to one of the photos. “Oh. That’s Aunt Faye with my dad. I guess I’m the little one on his lap.” Robby bent forward to get a close look. “You were cute. You were, what, a year old there?”
Vail nodded. “About.” Turned the page. “Here’s my mom again.”
“She was beautiful,” he said, studying the photo. “Who’s that next to her?”
“I don’t know. Kind of looks like Mom, though, doesn’t it?” She carefully pulled the picture out of the corner mounts and turned it over. Written in scripted pen were the words, “Me and Nellie.”
“Obviously,” Robby said, “that’s Nellie.”
Vail nudged a shoulder into his. “Guess that’s why you’re the detective, Detective.”
“Your room is just as you left it.” Emma was standing in the doorway, a knit shawl draped around her shoulders.
“Except for this,” Vail said, holding up the album. “Found it in my dresser drawer.”
Emma smiled. “Haven’t seen that in years. I’d forgotten where I put it.”
“Who are these people?” She opened the album to the first page and handed the book to Emma.
“That’s Uncle Charlie—my Uncle Charlie—and his father, Nate. Nate was from Ireland. Nate O’Toole. Half the people on his side had red hair. Probably where you got yours from.” She pointed to another photo. “And that’s Mary Ellen, she used to live next door to us in Brooklyn, before Gramps moved us all out here.”
A teapot whistled in the distance. “Oh. Do either of you want some tea?”
Robby nodded. “Sure.”
“I’ll go tend to it, then.” She handed the album back to Vail, then disappeared down the hall.
“She’s very sweet,” Robby said.
“She was a good mother.” Vail studied the photo she still held in her hand. “When she loses her memory completely, she’ll take a good part of our family history with her.”
“I’ve got a buddy I work with, an investigator who’s been with VPD for fifteen years. He’s got this software to make your own family tree. Works on it every day. Traced his roots all the way back to the Native Americans who lived in Virginia. Pretty cool. Maybe you should do one. Before it’s too late.”
“I hardly know anything about my family. Would’ve been good to get all this info together before they started dying off.” Vail suddenly became aware of the teapot’s building whistle. She looked at Robby. “She should’ve poured the tea by now, don’t you think?”
They headed downstairs and found Emma sitting in the living room on the edge of the easy chair, staring at the blank television.
“I’ll get it,” Robby said above the shrill noise.
“Ma,” Vail said, kneeling beside Emma. “Ma, what are you doing? You went to pour us some tea.”
Emma’s face turned hard. “You’re always yelling at me. Why can’t you just leave me alone!”
“Ma, I’m not yelling at you.” But she knew that trying to reason with a person afflicted with Alzheimer’s was futile. “I’m sorry,” Vail said. “I won’t yell anymore.”
“I can’t find my glasses,” Emma said. She grabbed the arms of the chair. “I can’t find my glasses.” She looked at Vail, then reached out to touch her face. “Nellie, is that you?” She smiled. “Can you help me find my glasses?”
Tears pooled in Vail’s eyes as she looked at Emma. She set the old photo on the coffee table, knelt at Emma’s feet, and took her hand in hers. She had been so wrapped