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By the by, the sounds you hear at the top and close of each episode are from the local aquatic denizens -- mostly sea ions -- by the Commercial Wharf on Monterey Bay.

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Raggedy Ann  Archives

Episode I  (below)
Episode II  (click)
Episode III  (click)
Episode IV  (click)
Episode V  (click)
Episode VI  (click)
Episode Epilogue  (click)

               "Raggedy Ann"                 
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Episode I

This is Episode I of "Raggedy Ann," a Monterey Mystery featuring Francie LeVillard. The world’s greatest consulting detective, Francie lives on Yankee Point, just south of the Monterey Peninsula, which is where most of her cases arise.

* * * * *

Francie LeVillard was one of those people – women especially – who never wanted children. Her own, or for that matter, anyone else’s. She was good with them when she had to be, but she only remained in the presence of them when they were very well behaved. Being single, and not a mom, had enabled her to follow her professional interests without other responsibilities. Interests such as working as a television news reporter for stations in Washington, D.C., and New York City. And the last ten years as a consulting detective, work that often meant connections with nefarious types.

The great-granddaughter of François LeVillard, an eminent detective with the Deuxi me Bureau in Paris who had worked with Sherlock Holmes, Francie not only had the requisite genes to become a world-class investigator, she loved justice as much as she did journalism. Whether she was dealing with terrorists smuggling nuclear triggers into the United States, or there was a leak in a political campaign, Francie wanted comeuppance for the evil-doers. As a friend put it, she was "attractive, bright and bad news for bad guys."

So you have a picture in your mind of this significant person, Francie is indeed attractive, but not glamourous. She was always more comfortable being seen for her intellect and humor than just being pretty. Five-six and 135 pounds, she had dark hair not long enough to get in her eyes which framed a slightly oval face with tawny skin color. Mostly she dressed for comfort, which meant jeans, a loose-fitting shirt, and a jacket that extended over her hips; and often hid a pistol on her belt.

This case did not require a gun. In fact, there wasn’t even a client, just the need for resolution; and for the truth, Francie was relentless. It started with a discovery that she read about in a news item online.

They found the bones fifty yards off a secondary trail at Point Lobos. This is a marvelous state park south of Carmel on the California Central Coast whose wonderful acreage was donated by a number of private owners. It’s a very spiritual place, highlighted by delicious flora and wonderful coastline. Whoever chose to bury the body there did so with love.

The bones had been found by a pair of aged flower hunters from San Jose who had gingerly plied their way through the trees and gorse and beheld a scapula sticking out of the dirt. The woman was a retired pediatrician or else she might not have realized what she was seeing. She also had the sense not to approach it once she saw what it was. She stood looking down at what she didn’t know, dispatching her husband to notify a park ranger. Her husband had done so, returning with the ranger who lacked the sense to have called the sheriff. The once-doctor needed to exert her own practiced authority to keep him away from the site and to get him to call the real authorities. Begrudgingly, he relented and complied.

The first bit of identification was supplied by the county forensic pathologist, an aikido pal of Francie’s named Lolly Perlis. She said that they were old. The bones, that is; not the person whose bones they had been before she didn’t need them anymore. Over coffee late one early June morning, after their workout, Lolly told Francie what she had learned from a cursory examination of the boxful of human remains that had been brought to her lab.

"Someone else might not have known what it was," Lolly said. "Children’s bones look very different for someone who doesn’t know better. Especially when they’ve been in the ground so long." She took a sip of her coffee. "I wish I had time to really examine them, but they’re too old."

She saw her friend’s quizzical look.

"There is too much work," she declared, her tone bent by her anguish. "Current cases, new cases....they need to be assessed for prosecution. They have to file charges, so I have to give them the evidence. These bones are maybe 60 years old. We’re talkin’ a child buried some time around the Korean War, for goodness sakes. They’re not gonna crack that case."

"Ever?" Francie asked.

"Oh, bah! Sure, when I get the two assistants I’ve been pleading for, and then after the gangs finish killing themselves off we might catch up."

"This one has gotten to you, hasn’t it, Lolly?" Francie asked softly.

The doctor nodded her head affirmatively, for a long time, until her eyes were moist and she had to sniff and clear her throat. "It was a child, Francie. Children aren’t supposed to die."

"How old?"

"Maybe three. Hard to tell." She peered at me. "I think it was a girl. It’s difficult to tell when they’re so young, you know? But I have a feeling that it was a little girl. Kinda strong feeling, but I don’t know why. So sad."

Francie nodded back at her. It wasn’t until they approached adolescence that their young bodies indicated where they were going, at least the skeletal address. "Any cause of death?"

Lolly shook her head. "Not from a cursory look. No broken bones," she seemed pleased to report. "No sign of violence."

"Considering where they found her, maybe it was illness. I guess that would be better," Francie declared.

Lolly agreed and then shook her head and then smiled. "I think she was buried with love. I think she had a doll with her. They brought back two buttons which might have been the eyes on a Raggedy Ann doll. My mother had one like that. That’s what made me think it was. Square black plastic eyes."

"Would you like me to see if I can turn up anything on this?"

"Oh, Francie that would be great if you could," the woman said, effusive in her surprise and gratitude. "I’ll take another look at her when I get back – that stupid drug dealer can wait – and I’ll let you know what I can find. Maybe get closer on the age, and get something on her height and weight."

After she left Lolly, in much better spirits, Francie drove around Monterey on errands, and in the course of her ambling managed to track down on her cellphone, Ted Boros, a deputy in the sheriff’s office. Ted was one of the sharper knives in the department’s drawer. She knew that not only from his reputation, but from her own experience working with him. Ted had been attracted to police work for the right reasons. Not the gun, uniform and authority, but because he had a natural aptitude for understanding people, many who didn’t understand themselves. He might have become a psychiatrist, but he knew he would never have made it through medical school.

Francie told him about her chat with Lolly who was one of his favorite colleagues. They were great puzzle solvers, though they went about their work with very different pieces before them. Lolly wasn’t a people person, at least not live ones. Ted enjoyed people, even the black hats and the crazies.

"What can you tell me about what you found?"

"Not much more than what Lolly told you."

"Okay, I’ll take less than much. Whaddya got?"

He told her that the body had been buried with care. They could tell that from the alignment of the bones. He thought Lolly was right about the doll. "From where we found the buttons, the doll, if that’s what it was, could have been in her arms."

"Umf, that makes it more human, doesn’t it?"

"This one’s got to you too?"

"Maybe a little. What else?"

"That’s about it, except that she was buried deep, probably three feet, which is a lot. Whoever did the digging didn’t want some animal to dig it up. The rains we had this spring were heavy, and probably some road work re-channeled the drainage, causing the earth above to erode. Plus it’s been years out there." He paused and then added. "I guess it was her time."

* * * * *

Who would bury a child at Pt. Lobos and why? Francie and Lolly will begin answering these and other questions in the next Episode of "Raggedy Ann" here at MontereyMystery.com. Episode II is posted on July 15^th.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

               "Raggedy Ann"                 
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Episode II

Welcome to Episode II of "Raggedy Ann," a Monterey Mystery featuring Francie LeVillard, the world’s finest consulting detective. In the first episode, available in the archives, the bones of a child are discovered in Point Lobos. Who she was and why she was buried there have caught the interest of Francie and her friend, Lolly Perlis, county’s forensic pathologist. Now on with the story....

* * * * *

"It’s amazing, truly amazing!" said Lolly Perlis. She hadn’t even waited for Francie to say hello; she just gave her time to get the phone to her head.

"Good morning, Lolly," she managed. She was one of the few people who called late and Francie didn’t mind, so much.

"Not yet, Francie. Still an hour to midnight. Were you in bed already? I forget that you aren’t a night owl. Sorry, but I had to call anyway." Then she appended in something of a scold, "You’re sleeping your life away, girl!"

"Is that why you called me?" Francie asked with a chuckle.

"No, I would never tell you how to live your life."

She didn’t point out that she had just done so. Instead Francie told her, "Always good to hear your voice, Lolly," and she rose to the next stage of wakefulness.

"Francie, I was looking at those bones and you’ll never guess what I discovered."

Francie was awake enough to know that she had to turn on the light and reach for an ever-present pad and pen. "What?"

"Well, they never would have been able to do this sixty years ago, of course, not even ten, but we have this new chromatograph that is as close to magic as science can get."

"I’m pleased for you, Lolly. What did you find out?"

"We can tell the age of the person at death, and when they died, plus their sex, though sometimes it can still be confusing when they’re under five or six. But anyway, this girl was forty months – I told you it was a girl – and she was from Central Michigan. I can’t get it closer than that. But also, and this should help, the dolls eyes, they were only used in 1951, just that one year."

Francie was hurriedly writing notes as she asked, "Anything on the parents?"

"Hey, aren’t you supposed to say great and wonderful and stuff?"

"And stuff," Francie replied. "I’m much better when I’m awake, Lol, and I can read my script. You did great, now could you pull up anything on the parents?"

"Mother was Scandinavian, probably Finnish, and the father was U-K, probably Welsh."

Francie laughed and said, "You are incredible, Lolly, you and your magic machine."

"Aw shucks, you’re just saying that," the woman demurred, but then with her enthusiasm somehow immediately restored she asked, "So how can you sleep now?"

Francie laughed. "I probably can’t, now, thanks to you."

"You’re welcome. I won’t call again until tomorrow, if I find something else."

"You’re a pal," she told her and clicked off. She put her pad and pen back on the bedside table and turned off the light. She re-entwined herself around her pillow and told herself to go back to sleep. Herself wasn’t listening. If experience was any guide, she knew that trying to get back to sleep rarely worked. After a few minutes, she gave up the ghost, so to speak, and, wide awake, got up to do her homework. Something about using too much energy in the trying would keep her brain active, and hence, "Hello, I’m awake for a while."

Wrapped in her thick terrycloth bathrobe, she booted up her computer and then went to the kitchen to start some water for tea. She returned to her office and waited the final long seconds for the computer to await her nimble touch. For those of you for whom this is important, Francie uses PCs. She has since she was a teen. She was never interested in Apples because she liked to be able to go behind the curtain, if need be, to get the machine to do what she wanted. She wasn’t a techie by any means, but she had gotten to a level where she rarely had to call one.

First thing was to check her email, and the most recent was from Lolly, apologizing for waking her and telling her to get on with her research. She was indeed a dear person, and committed to getting things righted when they were wrong. In her work, often things were wrong because there were no obvious answers. She often supplied them by applying her marvelous mind to whatever puzzle came before her. And like Francie, her favorite cases were those that not only required the use of those "leetle grey cells" as Hercule Poirot called them, but those situations that would, as she said, benefit the common weal. No wonder they were friends in addition to colleagues.

Next she checked the world, national and state/local headlines. This was her normal wake-up routine in the morning, and since she’d been awakened, bang-zoom. As it turned out, there was little in the way of developments that warranted reading past the headlines since she’d shut down the computer two hours earlier. And then the kettle whistled for her.

A few minutes later, settled in her office with her jasmine tea, she started pouring through state and local police records in the Wolverine State. The Internet is a marvelous place for research, of course, but more for modern records of this type than older ones. Limited resources meant that cold cases, and certainly ancient ones in terms of police investigations, were not a priority, especially when it came to entering the data into online files. That was changing, slowly, as companies and universities applied their new technologies and their personnel pools to digitizing further into the past.

Francie was arbitrarily figuring that this girl was born around mid-century, give or take a couple of years. She was certainly ready to change the parameters, but that was her starting point. She didn’t know what she was looking for, that is, whether the child’s death was the result of a criminal act, so she first searched for open or closed criminal cases involving children from Michigan, ages two to five, white female, which narrowed things down considerably.

Amazing, that’s what Lolly had said first thing to her, and amazing it was when she looked at the results on the screen. There were two cases, and instantly Francie knew she had found the little girl. Both girls – white, aged three – had been reported missing, presumed abducted in 1952 in central Michigan; in all of Michigan for that matter. There had been no such cases the year before or the year after. In one case, the girl had been on the radar of the local social services agency because the other child in the family had been reported by a teacher for bruises. The suspicion was that the girl in question had probably been the victim of similar treatment and had not survived. That the parents had disappeared her.

This girl had not been ill-treated. No broken bones, and buried with love. Francie was sure that she was the other case. How did she know? She would explain it this way: Our intuitive sense – our sixth sense – is both the most powerful and the least credited. Detective work, like journalistic investigation, is most often successful when based on intuition; except in the most obvious cases when it isn’t needed. But even in those cases, one knows, inside, whether what the evidence or research tells you is correct.

Francie’s male colleagues over the years would tease her, complaining that women had a natural intuitive sense that they lacked. "Nonsense," she would tell them, seriously upbraiding those whom she thought were just lazy. "Men have the same power; they just don’t use it because they never had to rely on it as women did, just to survive."

* * * * *

It may have been the middle of the night, but Francie knew that she had found the girl; the one who had been buried with love at Point Lobos. In the next episode of "Raggedy Ann," Francie digs deeper into the unraveling mystery. Episode III will be posted right here on MontereyMystery.com on August 1^st.
 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
 

  "Raggedy Ann"
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Episode III

Welcome to Episode III of "Raggedy Ann" here on MontereyMystery.com, where supersleuth Francie LeVillard unearths the explanation of what happened to a little girl in Michigan a half-century ago. For the previous two episodes, please go to the archives. But if you’re ready....

* * * * *

Marla Ellen Duff was three years old when she was reported snatched out of her rocking chair on the front porch of her parents home in a middle class neighborhood in Brighton, about 35 miles west northwest of Detroit. This was significant because the girl’s father, Marion Albert Duff, was an airline pilot for Northwest Orient, and he flew a DC-6 to Seattle and San Francisco.

Without having any idea why the girl had been reported missing, Francie knew in her gut that it was a tragic story. She also knew that it had been personal rather than criminal. Deeper searching turned up the mother, Marja Jussila Duff, who had been institutionalized shortly after the disappearance and had died two years later. Duff, the husband and father, had stayed with NWO but had shifted his base to San Francisco, flying western routes to Tokyo and Seoul, moving up to jet aircraft and finally retiring at the mandatory age of sixty in 1983, at which time he had moved to...Monterey.

One of Francie’s distant mentors was Rex Stout. His Nero Wolfe character couldn’t have been farther from her than she could imagine. He weighed a seventh of a ton, lived in a brownstone on 35^th street in Manhattan, and almost never went out. While he had one of the most remarkable minds in the history of detection, it was acutely deliberate; intuition never came into play. But that didn’t mean that he wasn’t vitally important to those who followed, and indeed Francie found him immensely quotable.

She remembered one of his most prescient observations when she found the information about Duff. It was what Wolfe had said about coincidence: "In a world that operates largely at random, coincidences are to be expected, but any one of them must always be mistrusted."

Francie didn’t have a doubt in her mind that some misfortune had befallen the Duffs, and that the father had buried the daughter at Point Lobos sixty years earlier. Her gut also told her that if he were still alive, Duff would be living nearby. She went back to bed and was soon asleep.

* * * * *

The next morning Francie called Lolly, sounding as cheery as she could. "I think I found her."

"What?" she all but screamed her delight. "Already? How did you do that?"

Francie’s cheery tone segued back into her normal subdued voice. "A friend called me in the middle of the night and I couldn’t get back to sleep." No comment. "So I got up and on my version of the magic machine – that’s knowing how to search the Internet – I came up with what I think is the family."

"Get out! Tell me more."

"No, not yet. I have a little more tracking down to do."

"And you called why?"

"You sound like the Jewish mother I never had, thank goodness.."

"And?"

"I called you because you should know that you’re not the only one who works at all hours."

"I don’t work at all hours," she protested.

"Uh-huh, you expect me to believe that you leave your work at the office, Lolly? Puh-leeze."

"But I don't bring my work home, not all the way home. I leave it in my car and I work on it when I'm driving to and from the office."

"Oh, well that makes all the difference. Pardon my false aspersion."

"You’re forgiven, but why won’t you tell me what you found out already?"

"‘Cause I don’t want you to go off half-cocked."

"You know I wouldn’t," Lolly said, sounding hurt.

But Francie had heard the sound before, and she didn’t let it get to her, again. "And I called because I wanted to know if there was anything else about the girl that you either knew for sure or maybe guessed."

"Hmm." She made that humming sound for her deliberately, and Francie appreciated it, her thinking aloud for her friend. It was like watching the hourglass cursor on the computer screen showing that it was working.

"I can’t give you anything else except maybe that I don’t think she was breast-fed."

Francie was floored. "You can tell that, or is that a guess?"

"Somewhere in between," Lolly responded simply. "I haven’t written it in a paper, but I’m pretty sure you can tell by the bone composition how much of it was from her own source, and how much of it wasn’t. She was a lot of wasn’t."

"Lolly, you are amazing. Not just your machine, but you. I’ll call you when I know something."

"Francie...?" her voice softer and very personal.

"Yes, Lolly?"

"One more thing. I can’t remember seeing bones with so few abrasions or breaks or any damage at all. She was taken very good care of."

"Yeah, it felt like that, didn’t it? It didn’t feel like a crime."

"She appreciates what you’re doing, Francie."

Francie had to take in and let out a deep breath to give herself the moment to unlock the emotional constriction in her throat. "Hey, you started this, Lolly, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."

Her friend laughed lightly and said, "Sounds nice, but tell them I’m not ready yet." Then she paused and in a moment added quietly, "Not like this girl. I think she was ready."

* * * * *

Cap’n Al, as he was referred to at the Monterey Gardens Center for Senior Living, had joined the airlines two weeks after he was released from the military. He’d flown two dozen bombing attacks over Europe, and had come home unscathed. He had married his high school sweetheart, and three years later they’d had a child. Later the child had disappeared. That’s what the people at the senior center had been told, and in a voice that had told them not to press further on the subject. It certainly wasn’t the first time that generations had been irretrievably cleaved. They lived in different worlds.

Al Duff was in fairly good shape for a man who celebrated his 88^th birthday two days before Christmas. He was trim, he had his mental faculties, and he seemed to be one of the few inmates, so to speak, who wasn’t wondering why he was still alive. That was what Francie learned from Danielle Arnoff, the executive director of The Gardens, as it was called. She was giving Francie the unvarnished version because their paths had crossed a few years earlier, and the woman knew she could trust her.

They were standing on the veranda, looking out at a broad lawn dotted with chaise lounges, many of them occupied by people who had wrapped themselves in blankets against the cool of The Peninsula summer. "That’s Cap’n Al, over there," she said, nodding her head slightly in the direction of a distinguished-looking fellow in grey slacks and heavy blue sweater standing next to a woman sitting in a horse-blanket cocoon. "He’s a favorite here, both of the staff because he never asks for anything, and the residents who seem to get a rise out of speaking with him. Maybe because he refuses to discuss physical ailments, which is all almost everyone else wants to talk about."

Francie couldn’t be sure but she thought he knew that Danni was speaking about him, even though it didn’t seem that he was looking in their direction. In a few moments he appeared to finish his conversation with the woman. He walked over to a koi pond and stood looking at its inmates. Francie left the director to her myriad tasks and walked slowly across the lawn to introduce myself to Al Duff. He was probably just under six feet and she imagined that he’d dropped his weight over the years, to what looked like 180 pounds. Trim, but not gaunt.

He didn’t turn around to face her until Francie was ten feet away. He couldn’t have heard her since she was walking on grass and not making any noise. It might have been a sense of timing, or a reflection somewhere. He wasn’t surprised to see her. Two steps later she stopped and gave him a chance to take her in. He focused his bright blue eyes laser-like on her face and said, "You found her."

* * * * *

Indeed she had, and next, Francie would hear the rest of the story of Marla Ellen Duff, from the only person alive who knew it. Check in here at MontereyMystery.com for Episode IV of "Raggedy Ann," on August 15^th.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
 

               "Raggedy Ann"                 
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Episode IV

This is Episode IV of "Raggedy Ann" on the Monterey Mystery, featuring the world’s greatest consulting detective, Francie LeVillard. She is at Monterey Gardens, ready to learn the truth about the little girl whose bones had been discovered at Point Lobos. For the earlier parts of this story, please go to the archives. Now Episode IV...

* * * * *

Francie might have been surprised, but she wasn’t. She nodded, and watched the color suddenly drain from his face. She slipped up next to him and helped him sit on the broad stone shelf that rimmed the pond, sitting down beside him as he did so, her arm around him to make sure that he wouldn’t fall. "Do you need something? Should I get a nurse?"

He shook his head, and then let it hang forward. In a minute, he slowly raised himself and she could see that he had regained most of his color. "It’s funny," he said to no one at all, "but I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long, and when it finally came, I was surprised."

"Would you like some coffee, or something stronger perhaps? Some brandy? Do they serve alcohol here?" she asked.

He laughed. "Of course they serve alcohol here. The place would be empty if they didn’t." He patted her gently on her knee. "No, really, I’m all right." Then in a stronger voice he said, "My apologies," he told her, looking at her again. "Where are my manners? Perhaps you would like something," and he started to rise.

My arm around him held him down. "I’m fine, thank you, Mr. Duff. It is Mr. Duff, isn’t it?"

He chuckled, "It would be a helluva story if it weren’t."

"That it would," she agreed, smiling. "My name is Francie LeVillard."

His gaze at me narrowed. "The consulting detective?" he asked, and she nodded. "I think I read something about you. The modern Sherlock Holmes, it said. Is that how you found me?"

"I think we have some considerable conversing in front of us, Mr. Duff," Francie began.

"Please, not Mr. Duff. Al, or what they call me around here, Captain Al, if you must."

"I’ll start with Cap’n Al then. Where might you be most comfortable? Should I take you out to lunch?"

A smile brightened on his face. "That would be a nice treat," he told her.

"What do you like to eat?"

"Everything that they don’t serve here."

Francie laughed.

"No, actually, the food here is quite good. It’s just...unimaginative. They can’t attract anyone good to cook for people most of whom are on controlled diets."

She shrugged, "Makes sense, I suppose." They stood up together, but she kept her arm around him to make sure that he was all right. He seemed fine. "Do you need to check out or anything?"

"As a matter of fact I don’t have to, but I make it a practice to. Or did. When I would leave. I don’t think I’ve been off these grounds in five years. Not since I gave up my driver’s license. I went through a stop sign. Didn’t hit anything or hurt anyone, but it was a warning and I heeded it. This will be a treat."

They walked back together in the direction of the main building, and as they approached, Danni Arnoff appeared. "Danni," Al said, "I told you I was still a catch. This cute young thang has insisted on taking me out of lunch."

"I don’t know if your reputation can take another boost, Cap’n."

They all laughed, and Al and Francie headed toward the parking lot. She wasn’t sure if he didn’t feel a little more frail to her than the man she had first seen. She didn’t have her arm around him or feel a need to monitor his step, but it felt as though he hadn’t fully recovered from the shock of learning why she was there.

She opened the passenger door of her car for him closed it again when he was firmly ensconced. He had his belt on before she was around the other side of the car. Pilots know the importance of being buckled in. She got in and buckled up and started them in the direction of the other world. "So where would you like to eat, Al? Or what? My treat."

He gave her a sweet smile, but behind it was a sea of thoughts that had threatened to engulf him; decades of fears, painful memories, and no doubt guilt. When you have that long to think, and no one to talk to but yourself, myriad determinations are made and overturned, and confusion often reigns. Time does not heal all wounds. The last thing that might be clear to him was what he might want to eat, so she made the decision for them.

"How about the Fishwife, over in Pacific Grove? They have fresh seafood, and other things if you’d prefer."

He just turned to look out the front window and nodded his head in approval. She swung the car out in the direction of Highway One, climbed toward the top of Carmel Hill and turned off onto Route 68, climbing again past the hospital and then back down the ridge toward the ocean. It was 11:30 when they arrived at the restaurant, so she was able to park right in front.

As they walked in, we were greeted warmly by the colorful Anita, a lunchtime fixture at the Fishwife, who seated them at the premier table in a front corner. It gave them a view of the ocean several hundred yards away, sitting under the marine layer. Al declined a libation, opting instead for an Arnold Palmer and Francie joined him. She looked at him over the top of her menu, watching him take great pleasure in looking over the offerings. He looked up and saw her watching him.

"You know, it might not be such a good thing that you said you were treating," he cautioned me.

"Why is that?" she asked.

"I might have an appetizer and dessert too," he answered, his eyes twinkling.

"Uh-oh," she responded. "I never would have thought a man in your condition would eat so much. Huh. Well, a promise is a promise."

He looked at me, or at least in my direction, but he was seeing something – someone – much further away, in miles and times, who produced tears in his eyes. He pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his eyes, sniffed, and blew his nose. "How curious," he told her, "that after all of these years – decades – of waiting for this day, and I’m not ready for it."

"I don’t know why you are saying that," she told him gently. "How would you expect you should react? That’s a long time waiting for something so important."

He sniffed again and persuaded that he wouldn’t need it again, he put away his handkerchief. "Please, tell me everything. Did you find her?"

She shook my head. "A friend of mine, and a colleague, Lolly Perlis, is a forensic examiner. Someone had come across the remains and they were delivered to her. She is a very dear woman, and she was moved by what she found. She told me and I was touched by what she had discovered. The new science enabled her to pinpoint where the child was from, and I did some investigating on line. Your situation was the one that fit. Plus I had a feeling it had to be you."

Sensing that he wasn’t quite ready to explain, Francie took her time going through the scientific detail, in particular the origins of his wife and himself. That brought a smile to his face. "Yes, her parents had emigrated from Helsinki, and mine were from Liverpool, both after the Great War, as it was called then. They found work on the assembly lines in Detroit."

By this time their first course had been delivered. Al had ordered clam chowder and Francie a salad. He ate slowly, savoring every bite in a way she’d rarely seen before. He had finished only half of the cup of soup when the main courses arrived. The waitress asked if he was finished with his chowder, but he said no and pushed it off to the side of the table. He sat looking over his seafood platter with excitement on his face. He looked across the table at her sea bass and she could tell from his expression that he knew he had made the better choice.

For several minutes they ate in silence and then he asked me in a clear, strong voice, but without any charge on it, "Why did you look for me?"

"I thought you would be wanting completion. That you were waiting for it."

It clearly wasn’t the answer he expected, but it satisfied him. "That’s true, you know. I hadn’t thought about it that way. I think at the beginning, I just thought someone would find her, and then they would find me, somehow, and maybe I would be arrested or something. I didn’t know. There was so much time to think, and I could never get her out of my mind. She was an angel. Truly an angel."

He might have been moved to tears, but he wasn’t. Perhaps he had cried himself out already, if that ever happens, or more likely he was allowing a sense of release to provide him with the relief he had so long needed, even if he weren’t conscious of that need.

"Al, I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. Even not knowing the details of what happened, I can all but assure you that you are not in any kind of jeopardy."

He looked at me, thoughtfully and long. "No, I didn’t do anything wrong, except report a lie to the police, hide a body, and then bury it in another state." There was a tinge of bitterness in his voice, but it was mostly old anger. He turned his attention back to his lunch for several minutes. "I think you have a right to know what happened."

Francie held up both palms toward him gently, and said, "I don’t need to know anything. Tell me only if you want me to know."

"And you will tell your friend, yes?"

She gave him a wry smile. "If that’s all right with you. I don’t have to, but she has a strong connection to your daughter. She’s why I am here with you now."

He nodded his head slowly in agreement. "It won’t matter soon, but you have my blessing to tell her. You’re right. She brought this about. She may not have found my dear Marla, but she helped you to find out who she was, and to find me. Yes. You may tell her, and please, Miss LeVillard, express to her my gratitude."

* * * * *

What was Captain Al’s story? Francie had not a clue, but she was about to hear the circumstances that led to the burial of his daughter at Point Lobos. The details are in the next episode of "Raggedy Ann," posted right here on MontereyMystery.com on September First.

 

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"Raggedy Ann"                 
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Episode V

This is Episode V of "Raggedy Ann" a Monterey Mystery featuring Francie LeVillard, the world’s finest consulting detective since Sherlock Holmes. For the previous four episodes, please go to the archives. Here we learn for the first time from Captain Al what happened that fateful time so many decades ago.

* * * * *

There was a fleeting thought to invite him to call her Francie, but it wasn’t the time. Nor would it be for the next half-hour as he recounted the events that had brought them together more than sixty years later. His story was not really a surprise. She didn’t know the details before, but she had had a sense of the drama.

It had been a tough birth – the labor lasted most of 22 hours – and a nurse who was in it for the duration wasn’t sure that the baby had come through unscathed. But back then, there wasn’t the technology that might have caught something, or not, and all folks back then could do was hope for the best.

It turned out that wasn’t enough. Worse, all the doctors could say was that this remarkably angelic child was not developing normally. Her physical body was slightly smaller than was expected, but more extraordinary was that she never made a sound. No gurgling, no words, and most alarming, ironically, was that she never cried. They had never before seen an infant who didn’t cry.

They did some tests when she was about a year old, but all they managed to do was take the smile off the child’s face. It wasn’t but after a couple of visits that the mother refused to take her to the doctors any more, and after that the smile was always present, even as she slept.

So for the next two years, Al felt both his daughter and his wife leaving him. The baby in a failing body, and the woman with a mind that couldn’t cope.

"She was such a dear little girl, a true angel." He sniffed, and gave a half laugh. "She was such a good girl. I think some how she knew that she was here for just a short time and would enjoy it. I think my wife knew, too, but couldn’t deal with it. It tore her apart at the end. That’s why I did what I did."

The little girl just didn’t grow; her condition didn’t change. But her mother went downhill during the last two years. By the time child died, the woman was on the verge of hysteria. Al continued to fly because he couldn’t stand to be home where there was nothing to do but watch his wife come further apart.

Then one morning he returned after a trip across the Pacific. As he climbed out of his car, he was surprised to see the tiny rocking chair he’d made for Marla sitting on the porch of their home empty. Marla spent every day in that chair when the weather was favorable. In the summer, she might be there in a light dress, while in the cooler months of spring and fall she might be snuggled in a playsuit. This was late May, and she wasn’t in her chair.

"This was so important to me, because I had the joy of watching her watch me come up the steps to the porch, radiating her beatific smile at me. It was what I thought about when I was away, what I looked forward to as I drove up from Detroit. Because after that, when I had to deal with Julie – my wife’s name was Marja Jussila but I called her Julie – it was just hell. I think somehow she blamed me, if not for Marla’s situation, then for not doing anything about it. And for leaving her alone with the child.

"Anyway, as I climbed the steps, I had this feeling of dread. When I opened the door, I heard Julie wailing. I followed the sound to the kitchen where I found her pacing around the breakfast table. She was holding Marla to her chest, her little arms limp by her side. I watched for maybe two minutes, wondering what I should do. Julie just kept walking around the table screaming. I had no idea how long that had been going on. Finally I stepped in front of her and tried to take the child from her. She screamed louder and reached up and raked my face with her nails. If I hadn’t pulled back, I would have lost an eye."

Al stopped speaking. He looked down at his plate and then back up at Francie. At that point the waitress returned to our table. She’d had the sense not to stay but didn’t want to ignore us. Al switched gears instantly. He told the woman that he wanted the remainder of his meal packed up to go, if that was all right – she said it was – and he wanted the chocolate volcano cake and a cup of coffee. He looked over at Francie and raised his eyebrows as if to check if that was all right with her, and she gave him a nod of assent.

"I’ll finish the clam chowder in the meantime," he declared.

"But it’s cold," the waitress protested. "Let me get you a fresh cup."

"No, thank you," he said. "I lived on airline food for more of thirty-three years. This is delicious to me." He reached for the cup and resumed his consumption of the chowder, again unhurried. There wasn’t much left, so by the time he had finished, the waitress was back with his dessert and coffee. Al looked very pleased. He picked up his fork and started to attack the dessert but then stopped and laid the fork on the plate. He picked up the story again, but this time the edge was gone from his voice, replaced with a get-the-job-done resignation sound to it.

"I didn’t realize how badly she had scratched me until I felt the blood running into my collar. As I left the room, she resumed her pacing and wailing. I went upstairs, saw the damage that had been done to my face and cleaned myself up as best as I could. I know this may sound strange, even premeditated, and I guess it was. But I had gotten from one of our stewards a syringe with enough Seconal to knock Julie off her feet. I went back downstairs and positioned myself so that when she made her circuit and had her back to me, I could shoot her in her arm.

"And that’s what I did. She let out a louder holler but didn’t realize what had happened. She probably couldn’t have done anything if she had. She continued her pacing for another minute, maybe two as I stood off to the side. Then suddenly her wailing stopped, and I saw her fighting to keep her eyelids open. I moved in behind her and caught my wife and daughter as Julie collapsed.

"As I took our baby from her mother’s arms, I could feel that she was cold and stiff. This would have been going on for maybe six hours, I later calculated. I laid her gently on the breakfast table, and then carried Julie up to our bedroom. I pulled back the covers, put her down on the bed, and then covered her again. I anticipated that I had at least four hours before she would wake up, and it could be longer, considering the fatigue she must have experienced since I didn’t know when."

Al took a deep breath and released it. He took a sip of coffee and then a bite of the cake. His face again expressed his appreciation for this sojourn, despite its underlying reason. "Chocolate and raspberry," he murmured, "Quite delicious."

Francie was fascinated at his ability to flip in and out of the tragic story he was telling, both in words and feelings. There was nothing she thought to say except, "I’m glad you like it," and let him resume when he was ready. That was two bites and a sip of coffee later.

He cleared his throat. "I went back downstairs and wrapped Marla in a blanket. She was so light, I could carry her under my arm without any effort. As I was leaving through the front door, I spied her Raggedy Ann doll on the porch beside her rocking chair. I grabbed it and put them both carefully in the trunk of my car. Then I drove to a fishing hut I had on a small lake about forty miles away. It was rustic, but there was electricity, and it had a freezer. I put Marla in the bottom of the freezer along with her doll and put back the frozen supplies back on top of her. I didn’t expect anyone to know about, let alone check, the place.

"Then I drove home. I checked on Julie. She was still out, and would likely be for another few hours. I sat on the edge of the bed, going over in my mind the plan that I had worked out months earlier. Back then I had had a premonition that Julie would go over the edge. From the scant literature on the subject at that time, I figured that after she woke up, she would be non compos and probably mute. My plan depended on it. I went downstairs and called the police.

"They came quickly when I gave them my story. I told them that when I had gotten home from my flight, I found my wife hysterical. She said our daughter had disappeared from her rocking chair, that she must have been kidnapped. I told her I wanted to call the police, but she insisted that I wait, in case they called with a ransom demand and threatened to kill her if we called the police. I told them that I had driven around the area to see if I could see anything, I didn’t know what. I had to do something, I told them. When I came back after maybe two hours and told her it was time to call the police she attacked me. I had slapped her, not hard, and she had simply collapsed. I had brought her upstairs."

Al gave himself a breath and finished his dessert though Francie didn’t know if he tasted it. The waitress came over to remove the plate and refill his coffee cup.

"The police had no reason to doubt my story, and when Julie came to, she wouldn’t – or couldn’t – speak. The police asked her questions and she just looked at them blankly. I had her institutionalized because she couldn’t or wouldn’t take care of herself. Again my job requiring me to be out of town half the month was a blessing. It took me away from the scene of the tragedy, and the loss of these two human beings I had loved so much. In truth, Julie had ceased to be a real person, as I say, six months earlier, and the baby, well, I knew she was never long for this world.

"What I mean to say is that I wasn’t suffering from shock. It hadn’t all happened suddenly. Thank goodness, because I wouldn’t have known what to do. But my plan worked. After six weeks, just before I was flying to San Francisco, I went back to the fishing shack and packed my dear little daughter in a large suitcase. She was sheathed in plastic and surrounded with dry ice and then more plastic wrapping. She was such a little thing, the suitcase didn’t weigh much. And back then, they didn’t check luggage, especially the pilot’s

"I picked up the suitcase in California and drove to Carmel. It was the first week of July, the weather was miserable and wet, but before the tourists would arrive anyway, I walked into Point Lobos before dawn. I found a special spot that seemed away from anywhere that people would be walking, and dug a hole, maybe three feet deep. I’d packed a shovel in the suitcase. I stripped off all of the plastic put my baby in the hole, with her Raggedy Ann in her arms. I covered her carefully with earth and then rock and more earth, and then leaves and sticks so it wouldn’t be noticeable.

"And that was it. I came down to Carmel on a lot of my lay-overs and would walk through Point Lobos. Nearby to where she was buried, but never off the paths. I visited Julie every time I came home but she didn’t seem to even recognize me. Two years later she died. There didn’t seem to be a physical cause. The doctor said he would write "natural causes" on the death certificate, but she really died of a broken heart. There was no reason for me to remain in Michigan anymore, so I sold the house, and got an apartment in Burlingame.

"Then, nearly thirty years ago now, when I was sixty, I was forced to retire. I didn’t need to be near the airport. I moved down here to Monterey, bought a little house, and worked as a flight instructor. I didn’t need the money; I just wanted to keep my hand in. Then, as I told you, about five years ago, the stop sign. I sold the house and moved into Monterey Gardens. It’s really very nice, you know. The food isn’t bad. I can do whatever I want, though aside from taking walks and reading, there’s not much that I want to do."

He smiled broadly at me. "This was a real treat, I must say."

* * * * *

So we learn about baby Marla, and how it happened that her remains were discovered in Point Lobos. But there is more to this Monterey Mystery, and the next episode of "Raggedy Ann" will be posted right here on September 15^th.

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               "Raggedy Ann"                 
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Episode VI

Welcome to Episode VI of this Monterey Mystery with Francie LeVillard, the finest consulting detective in the world. "Raggedy Ann" is approaching its conclusion, but there is much yet to be told.

* * * * *

Francie drove over to the Monterey Gardens. It was perhaps the sixth time that she had visited with Cap’n Al. They had become friends, of sorts, and she had even persuaded him to call her Francie. He liked that. Mostly they talked about the places he’d visited around the world as an international pilot, and about books he’d read. They didn’t discuss his daughter or his wife. They didn’t go back to the Fishwife either. But instead she took him to different restaurants around The Peninsula that she thought would give him pleasure.

The last time she had visited, about a week earlier, she had come bearing gifts, of sorts. She had seen Lolly and she had given Francie the two plastic squares that had been the eyes in the Raggedy Ann doll that Al had buried with his daughter. Francie and Al were sitting on the ledge of the fish pond – it was where they usually started out their time together – and she held her hand out and opened it up to him.

A whimper erupted involuntarily from his throat, from his heart. He picked them up carefully and squeezed them tightly in his age-stained hand, trying to keep the tears back. He finally had to lessen his grasp, and the tears flowed. Francie might have tried to soothe him, but she sensed that he needed to let go what he had been holding back for so many years. He was a man, a World War II veteran, and a former airlines pilot – and sitting before a woman – so he didn’t allow himself to cry long.

"Do you think she went to a good place?" he asked her.

Francie nodded confidently. "We can’t know in this lifetime what her reason was for her short time on Earth, except that she gave great love to you and to your wife. But I think that she's been back on Earth since then, maybe more than once."

He took that in, and though she didn’t know what his beliefs were in that regard, he seemed comforted with her response.

She put her hand on his, the hand that was holding the buttons, and she pushed him a little further. "I’m not a religious person. I believe that we are energy beings whose bodies carry our souls. Your daughter, from what you said, and from what Lolly Perlis and I sensed about her, was an angel who would come back in other lives to spread her love. That was her role."

He looked at her closely and then down at her hand over his. "I never really went for the church thing. Especially after losing my daughter and my wife. It didn’t make sense to me that a god would do that to them, or to me. But the way you say it has some logic to it." He turned his head away and looked down at the fish in the pond. Then in that moment he changed emotional tracks, and he asked evenly, "Is that the same for animals, do you think?"

She had spent enough time with him by this time not to be surprised, or at any rate, too surprised, and she offered him a smile and her view. "I don’t know about fish, Al, but I think most animals have souls, or something like them." And she recounted to him two news stories she’d read recently. One had to do with a rabbit who smelled smoke and woke her owner by scratching on her chest, saving the family from a fire. Another was about a llama that had saved a flock of sheep from fire."

Al took it in with great interest. "They had souls, too, didn’t they?"

Francie nodded.

"What happened to the rabbit and the llama?" he asked a moment later.

She sighed. "They both died from their injuries," she admitted.

"Like my Marla and Julie," he commented, "but I don’t know what good their deaths did. They didn’t help me."

"Sometimes we don’t know, I think. Sometimes the results are beyond our understanding."

"That sounds kind of like ‘God works in mysterious ways.’ I never liked that." His tone approached bitterness.

"Yes, I know," she said, patting his hand gently. "I’m sorry, I wish I had a better answer."

He smiled at her and patted her hand back. "We can’t know everything, I guess. But I would rather say that I know of their goodness, which is true, than to put it on some outside force I don’t even believe in."

"I like that, Al," Francie said with a grin. "Makes more sense than a lot of what’s peddled today, and it gives credit where it’s due."

His smile reflected appreciation and affection. "So where are you taking me to lunch today, Francie?"

"How about some place special, Al?"

"They’ve all been special for me, my dear," he replied in as caring a voice as she had heard from the man.

"I wish that Fresh Cream was still here. It was one of the finest restaurants, maybe in the country; it was over at Heritage Harbor. Small, elegant, excellent food, superb service. Then, I don’t know what happened, but they moved over to Carmel and became something of a social bar. I stopped in once and it was loud and the service was terrible. I don’t think they lasted more than a year. Too bad."

"Doesn’t do us much good, does it?" Al observed. "How ‘bout some place that’s open?"

"Good idea," she said. "Come on. I’ll figure it out in the car." We stood and she put her arm through his as they made their way to the parking lot. Danni Arnoff knew of their pattern by now, so there was no need to check out with her again.

As they left the parking lot, Francie announced, "I have an idea."

He just smiled at her. "Knowing you, my dear Francie, I expected something would come to mind. I’ll be delighted with whatever you choose. Especially today." He eased back against the seat, checked his seat belt, as pilots are wont to do, and his whole being spoke of relaxation. He wasn’t surprised when driving south on Highway One she didn’t turn right for Carmel-by-the-Sea or later left for Carmel Valley. Then they drove past Monastery Beach and Point Lobos.

"I thought of maybe Ventana," she said to him, "but today being Friday, I suspect that there are a lot of tourists on the road. Let’s go up to the Highlands Inn."

He didn’t look over at her, but just pointed his pleasure at the road ahead. Ten minutes later they were seated at a window in the Pacific’s Edge. They thought briefly about eating outside at the California Market, but the sun hadn’t quite cut through the clouds, and besides, from where they sat they could look out over some of the more than 550 acres of Point Lobos, and the 750 acres of underwater reserve that bordered it. And Francie had sensed that this would be a particularly important time for them, and the ritzier ambience fit the moment.

When the waiter came by with menus and a recitation of the specials of the day, Al surprised her by asking for a split of Perrier-Jouet. "You can still drive me back with a glass of champagne in you, I think," he said to my raised eyebrows.

"My pleasure," she agreed.

They had enjoyed shrimp cocktail and crab cakes to start and had started on their halibut and bouillabaisse when Al put down his spoon and took up his glass. "Francie, I want us to raise our glasses..." She did so. "...to us."

"To us," she echoed, and they clinked their glasses together and sipped.

He put his glass down and then told her what was on his mind. "I know you will put up an argument, but please wait until I’ve explained my thinking before you do."

"I can do that," she replied, perfectly oblivious to what he was about to say.

He began, "Over the past two months or so, since you came to tell me about finding my daughter, I have grown not only to appreciate you, but to hold you in great esteem. You are one of the rare people for whom I feel both great affection and respect."

I felt a need to say something but kept my promise. I put down my fork, put my hands in my lap and gave him my full attention.

"As you know from our conversations, I have no family, except in my heart. What I haven’t told you is that I have saved most of what I’ve earned and lived frugally. Not out of some obsession but because there was nothing I really wanted. Not that I could have. I had always hoped that I would meet someone who could take Julie’s place in my heart, but she never appeared." He cleared his throat. "Until you came into my life." He smiled, "No, I’m not going to ask you to marry me. Maybe if I was forty years younger, but no. You’re off the hook."

Francie could feel moisture come to her eyes, and was, curiously, relieved that she had committed to remain silent until he was finished. Then came the other shoe.

"Last week I met with my lawyer and filed a new will. Francie, I have left my estate, such as it is to you. Not to be executrix, but the beneficiary. I hope that you will accept this from me, because there is no one in my life who means what you do to me. There has been no one close in sixty years."

Francie was about to speak but he held up his hand. "You know that I am not some silly old man any more than you are a gold-digger. My decision is sound. It is reasoned. It is the product of a sharp mind. Even my lawyer couldn’t argue with me. I hope that you will complete my happiness by accepting my decision with a minimum of argument."

"Al, my goodness, I don’t know what to say. I am quite comfortable already. I think you know that. But I could not refuse a gift such as you have described. I’m, I’m flattered. I’m honored." She sniffed. "And I’m talking now so I don’t cry." And then she cried. Not long, but enough to attract the waiter to ask if there was anything wrong. Francie couldn’t speak but she shook her head, and he could see her smile through her tears. She pulled a handkerchief out of her purse and cleaned herself up.

"There are a thousand things I want to say to offer my own appreciation and affection and respect, but they wouldn’t capture the feelings that I have at this moment." She laughed. "Are you all right with that?"

"Good girl," he said. "Good girl."

* * * * *

So we are at the end of Episode VI in "Raggedy Ann" here at MontereyMystery.com. You will want to be here for the epilogue that will be posted on October 1^st.

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 "Raggedy Ann"
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Epilogue

This is the epilogue for "Raggedy Ann" here at Monterey Mystery. Francie LeVillard, the world’s finest consulting detective will close out this case, in typically dramatic fashion. For the previous episodes, please go to the archives. Hang on.

* * * * *

So a week later, having concluded a court hearing on behalf of another client, and feeling not smug but quite self-satisfied, Francie pulled into the parking lot at Monterey Gardens. There was something jaunty about the way she walked the path to the main entrance. She was looking forward to sharing her victory with Al, over another special lunch at Casanova in Carmel.

As she climbed the four steps to the veranda, she saw Danni Arnoff coming to meet her. Francie barely had time to read her face. "Oh, Francie, I’m so sorry, we tried to reach you."

"Oh no, please, no," Francie cried. It was all she could do to hold herself upright. Danni put her arm around her and helped Francie through the reception area to her office. She sat her down, poured her a cup of water. She pulled up another chair and sat down across from her.

"I’m sorry. It was very quick."

Francie found her voice to explain, "I had my cellphone off. I was in court." It sounded so absurd in that moment. She pulled myself together and asked, "What happened, Danni? He seemed fine, when was it, a week ago, just a week ago today."

Danni looked down at her hands and then back up at Francie. "He was tired. It was time for him to go. It was his choice."

Francie protested, in something of a wail, "But we had lunch last Friday and he seemed so at peace." She stopped there because she realized the import of her words.

"He was ready to leave. You have to know that. He’s been easing his way for the past couple of months...since you brought him the news of his daughter.

She looked at Francie hard, watching the emotions wash like enormous waves through her expression. "No, it wasn’t your fault. You gave him closure. You gave him that peace."

"He wasn’t in any pain, was he?" Francie pleaded.

Danni shook her head. "None at all. I was there. His blood pressure began to drop, and he refused intervention. He asked if you had arrived yet. The nurse told him that you were on your way, and he smiled at her and said ‘Oh, good, that's good.' And then he said to me, ‘Tell her, Thank you.' And then he was gone."

The tears flowed. Francie couldn’t stop the sobbing. Danni came over and put her arms around her. "It was his time, Francie. He was ready to go. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a more peaceful transition."

Danni waited with her until Francie was stable again. Francie was surprised at how much she was moved by Al’s death. Perhaps if she had thought about it, if she had realized that he was going to be leaving sooner than later, it might not have hit her so hard. She soaked up the tears, and blew her nose. She looked at Danni and nodded her head, an indication that she was relatively all right.

"Do you want to see him?"

Francie nodded. They rose together and she took her to his room. She had never been inside before. They had always met outside or in the lobby. It was sparse but comfortable. She was surprised that there were no personal photographs, but she also understood. And there was Al, lying on his bed. He did indeed look at peace; ready to depart, perhaps to see little Marla and Julie again, if that’s the way things work. Francie leaned over and gave him a short kiss on the forehead. Her lips found that he was still warm, and she hurried to push away that thought so she wouldn’t begin crying again.

She took his hand in hers. He was holding something. She turned it over and it opened. There were two squares of black plastic...Raggedy Ann’s eyes.

* * * * *

A week later found Francie and Lolly Perlis flying over the Pacific off of Point Lobos. They were in together in the back seat of Avionne, her friend Geoffrey Lucerne’s Cessna Skylane. He had gotten advice from a pilot who was frequently asked to scatter ashes. It was trickier than one might think. You couldn’t just pour it out the window, Geoffrey explained when she first queried him, because the ashes would blow inside the cockpit. He used a very simple device. He tied two ropes to a bag filled with the ashes. With one rope he lowered the bag out the window. When it was down below the cabin, he pulled the other rope that untied the bag to release its contents.

Anyway, that’s how Marion Albert Duff ended his final flight. It was as requested in his will. He was cremated with the remains of his daughter, their ashes drifting to the ocean through 2,500 feet of sunny skies. And so his last wishes were fulfilled; part of them. As Francie explained later to Geoffrey, she would have had him join them for brunch afterwards, but she needed to speak with Lolly about something regarding the will.

When they landed at Monterey Regional Airport, Lolly and Francie drove back to The Barnyard where Lolly had parked, driving in from Carmel Valley. They had a late breakfast at From Scratch, a favorite haunt of theirs, and that’s where Francie told her about another part of Al’s will.

"Lolly?"

"Yes, France?" she said. Lolly had no idea what she was about to say, but she knew it was important because Francie refused to say anything about it until it was the right time. They chitchatted until their omelets and potatoes and toast were served, and then Francie had unwrapped the proverbial box.

"When I was with Cap’n Al," she began, "you know that I heaped praise on you, first because of your interest in the person whose bones were found, and second ‘cause you are so dedicated and good at what you do."

Lolly stopped a forkful of eggs and crab on the way to her mouth and exclaimed, "Oh that’s so nice of you, Francie. Thank you." Then the food proceeded to her mouth.

"I told him I thought you could get more done for more people if you weren’t focused on criminal forensics for the DA’s office."

"Yes, it’s so true," she agreed. "They need such exactitude and then I spend half my time preparing testimony, driving over to the courthouse, and waiting for hours to actually give my evidence."

Francie smiled at her friend. "I had forgotten that I had spoken to him about you at apparently considerable length." She let that hang for a moment. "And then I remembered him asking why you weren’t a freelancer – a consulting forensic pathologist..."

"Sort of like you?" she asked.

"Exactly."

"Well, you know how much I would love that," Lolly dreamed. "We’ve talked about it. All I’d need is about a hunnert grand worth of equipment and bang-zoom, I’d be on my way. Plenty of business, both for the county, and private clients. Loan me some money, Francie, and I could pay you back in a year."

"How ‘bout you don’t have to pay it back?"

Lolly had just put a piece of sourdough toast in her mouth and given it its first two crunches. She replayed in her mind what she had heard Francie say. She crunched slowly on the toast. Then before swallowing it she asked, "What?"

"Lolly, Al left two hundred and fifty-thousand dollars in his will designated to set you up in your own lab, and get you started until your business developed. It’s not a loan. It’s his way of saying thank you for what you did."

Lolly tried to keep her mouth closed while her instinct was to gape. She hurried to finish the toast. She peered at her. "You’re not kidding are you. He really did this?"

"He really did this, Lolly," Francie’s smile widening to match her surprise.

"Oh my god," she managed, and tears started pouring down her face. "Oh my god," she repeated several more times. After a bit, she got herself together at the table enough to head for the ladies’ room. "Hold that thought," she ordered as she left the table. In three minutes, she was back, glowing like the dawn had broken for her. She pulled out her chair and sat down. "This is real, isn’t it?" It wasn’t a question. Francie nodded. Lolly asked, "When can we start?"

* * * * *

Al had a considerable estate. As he had told Francie, he hadn’t spent a lot, so there was a veritable fortune; in the mid-seven figures. She didn’t need the money, though she appreciated what could be done with it. She parked it in various places where it could grow, safely if slowly, until appropriate opportunities presented themselves. In the back of her mind, where it had been since half-way through her television news career, was the notion that she should start an instructional center for quality broadcast journalism. That now seemed possible.

* * * * *

That is the conclusion of "Raggedy Ann" here at MontereyMystery.com. But that’s not the end of Francie LeVillard. A new story will be posted beginning on October 15^th, one that will have you coming back for more. Don’t miss it.

 

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