The doll from dunedin, p.26
The Doll from Dunedin, page 26
Without cell samples from Conroy Parks, I had no way to determine his genetic map.
I stood and walked around the office, stopping at the window, and then patting both dogs. I even picked up Patsy for a moment. That’s when it struck me.
“What’s wrong with me?” I’d never pursued Roy’s Kootenai wife. If I identified her genetic map, it was possible I could isolate the unique genes passed on by Conroy.
I called Lester Parks since it was now a reasonable hour in Bonners Ferry. “Hey, Lester, it’s RaeJean Hunter. Got a minute to talk?”
“Sure. I ain’t busy yet.” He laughed. “Hell, I ain’t busy at all. Going fishin’ later with Frank Perkins, the guy spreading the rumors.”
“You’re friends with the guy spreading rumors about your dead father?”
“Sure. Why not?” Lester laughed. “You should hear what I tell people about him.”
“Umm, I don’t want to hear it,” I replied a little louder than I intended.
“You sure? I got a great imagination.”
“Positive.” I’d heard enough. “Do you know your mother’s heritage?”
“You mean who her mama and daddy were.”
“Yes.”
“Mama’s mostly Kootenai. Her mama was full-blooded, and her daddy was a half-breed Kootenai. Kootenai’s part of the Shoshoni nation. Me and my sisters get benefits from our Native blood.”
“Are any of your mother’s relatives still living?”
“Yup. Why?”
“I’d like to run a DNA test on your closest relative.” I hoped he’d offer his mother.
“That’d be Mama—back on the reservation with her sister. What’s it gonna do for us?”
“It’ll help me isolate the genes passed on from your father.”
“Hm. What good’s that?”
“I can’t explain anything else yet, but maybe soon. Your mother’s DNA will help.”
“Okay. I’ll ask Aunt Lily. She might help. But it’ll take a while. She ain’t got a phone.”
“No phone.”
“Heck, no. I call the tribal elders, and they go talk to her. Then, they call back when they get good and ready. It’s a big pain in the you-know-what, but it is what it is.”
“Okay. I’ll wait to hear from you.”
We disconnected and I logged online to see if the Indigenous Americans Genealogy database had Kootenai samples. If all else failed, it could be enough. I lucked out. I’d be able to request a grid of markers if I was unable to get a swab from Lester’s mother.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Lester already confessed that Roy Parks wasn’t his father. However, without proof that Roy adopted him, Lester would be excluded from an inheritance. And Lester had taped the letter back together, read it, then destroyed it. He said Morris Hadley, a New York lawyer, sent it.
I needed to talk with Joan Shannon again on the off chance that she might have known of the letter’s existence. She’d wanted her father’s files to write his memoirs. There could have been something in his papers providing a second confirmation of Conroy Parks’ identity, or the identity of Roy Beauchamp’s mother.
I called the Brookfield Senior Living Facility. The receptionist connected me to Joan.
“RaeJean, it’s so nice to hear from you. Have you solved your case yet?”
I laughed. “Just about. But I’m still trying to identify Conroy Parks’ mother.”
“So, you’ve called an old lady for help.” Joan sounded chipper.
“I’ve found oral evidence of correspondence between Conroy Parks in Bonners Ferry, Idaho, and your father.”
“What do you mean by oral evidence?”
“Did your father ever mention a client in Idaho? A man named Lester Parks described a letter he had read as a child that came from your father’s law firm. Your father had tried to inform Roy Parks that he’d need to adopt Lester if he wanted the boy to inherit anything from his and his wife’s estate. Law firms keep copies of all their correspondence. I’m hoping the letter to Conroy Parks is in your father’s files.”
“Good luck with that. Murbeck refuses to let me have his correspondence.”
“I might have an in.” I had my fingers crossed that Austin could gain me access to the files.
“If you do, maybe you could sneak me copies of a few of his juicy cases.”
“I can’t promise anything. I haven’t been allowed alone with any of their materials. Austin claims it’s to protect the firm from litigation by Jill’s family.”
“He’s right. No doubt, you’ll read about a Hamilton cousin who sued for Aunt Adelaide’s estate after she died.”
“I saw it on the Internet.” Sadly, I’d worked with enough families to know litigation wasn’t unusual.
“Everyone’s skeletons air at the speed of light online,” Joan said.
“True. But it’s a good source for researchers like me. The key is to check its veracity. The Internet is loaded with false or partially true stories.”
“My father used to say, ‘It must be true. It was printed in the newspaper.’ Then, he’d laugh. He handled high-profile clients. You know, old money. He knew things that never made the papers.”
“I saw he had some important clients. Did he ever mention the names Beauchamp or Parks?”
“Both. He dealt with a New Zealand lawyer who represented the Beauchamp family.” Joan paused. “Didn’t you say Conroy Parks changed his name before entering the States?”
“Yes. Why?”
“It is possible Father sponsored him by securing a temporary working visa. In 1944, to get into the country, people needed a sponsor and a job waiting for them. Father handled lots of those types of cases. To gain permanent residency, Father could have arranged his marriage for a price.”
“Was that a common practice back then?”
“I believe so. People all over the world struggled after the war. Father wanted to help.”
“That would explain how he knew about Lester’s real father and Roy’s need to adopt the boy,” I said. “But why would Lester’s mother tear up the letter?”
Joan remained quiet for a moment. “Where did this young man settle?”
“In Idaho, near Bonners Ferry. Why?”
“Is there any chance Lester’s mother came from the reservation nearby?”
“As a matter of fact, she’s Kootenai.”
Joan cleared her throat. “Haven’t you studied Indigenous American culture?”
“Not much, I’m embarrassed to say.” It was on my bucket list of topics to research, but somehow, I’d never gotten to it.
“She feared being lost to her tribe and ancestors. From an early age, Indigenous people of the Americas are taught to value their culture and protect the wellbeing of their tribe. Adoption outside the tribe would mean the child is lost. If the mother is a party to the adoption, she could be lost, too.”
“To protect Lester’s heritage, his mother kept the letter from Roy. Wow.” I thought about inheriting a variant gene and the spiritual connection of generations. “So, the Indigenous Americans believed their heritage passed on through generations, not through conquest like early settlers believed.”
“You’re getting the gist of it,” Joan said. “I’m sure you’ll find researching their culture interesting and informative.”
“It sounds like I will. I appreciate your help,” I thought for a moment. I had no idea if I could help Joan. “I make no promises regarding access to your father’s cases, but I’ll ask.”
“Thank you.” Joan sniffed. “I won’t hold my breath.”
I laughed. “Right. Not a good idea. I’ll get back to you.”
We disconnected and I searched online until I found an article, “American Indian Belief System and Traditional Practices,” by Betty E. S. Duran, MSW, MPH at the University of Oklahoma.
I contemplated how to educate myself fast when my phone vibrated. I had a text message from Greg. The woman with the mystic, Gurdjieff, shows a 94.85% confidence level when compared to Dorothy Arnold’s photographs.
The law enforcement industry threshold was ninety-five percent for a positive match.
This was a nail-biter. I had the ship manifest records leading to New Zealand, the DNA from Jill and Ginny showing shared ancestors, the note from Dorothy saying, “I’m safe,” her mother’s belief that she lived, Marjorie, Dorothy’s sister, with Jill Hamilton, and now I had a near positive match to a woman in France with Gurdjieff, the mystic.
I stood and paced my office. After several minutes, I picked up Patsy. Her eyes stuck closed for a moment, then rolled open. A slight glint flashed, my head tingled, and I recognized the scent of gardenias. “It’s Dorothy.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
My phone vibrated on the table. Austin’s name appeared on the display.
Tension swept through me. Would it be good news? I hadn’t heard a word from him about the investigation into the spider. “Hello. What’s up?”
“I just got off the phone with Carl Shriver from Rousseau & MacVale. They caught the person who smuggled the spider into the sleeping bag. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Who was it?” I still somehow expected it to be Olivia even though I knew she was an FBI agent.
“A lowlife who accepts jobs through the Darknet.”
“How’d they catch him?” My body relaxed with the news that it wasn’t her.
“A local innkeeper saw a stranger hanging around in Queenstown and picked the guy out of a mug book. He has an extensive record and has spent time in prison.”
“Do they know who hired him?” Tension returned as fast as it had dissipated.
Austin cleared his throat. “I’m embarrassed to say, it turned out to be one of our firm’s interns who wasn’t even involved with the case. The guy posed as part of the cleaning crew and got into Shriver’s office.”
“And switched out one bag.”
“Yes. He removed the other bag from its frame. Since he thought Shriver purposely left them loose, the assistant transported them that way.”
“But why? What did I ever do to your intern?” It didn’t make sense.
“The intern needed money for college and heard about the terms of the Hamilton trust being discussed in the break room. He’d have qualified for a full scholarship to Columbia based on his financial need. He confessed to the crime once identified. He planned to delay your investigation until the six months expired. Plus, he used his real name and address to order the spiders.”
“That was foolish. And he wants to go into law?”
“Maybe later. For now, he’ll be studying from a jail cell.” Austin paused. “It’s hard to understand what makes people do bad things, but if all else fails, check out the money trail.”
“Right. Follow the money.” I felt better that I wasn’t the target, but it still hurt to think how Sam had suffered. “Will we have to return to New Zealand for a trial?”
“He didn’t say, but if I were to speculate, I’d guess no. I’ll see if you can testify virtually or provide an affidavit.”
“Good.” We had other things to concentrate on. Like a family.
“Don’t worry about it. It should be an open and shut case.” Austin paused.
I sighed. “Then again, when has it ever been an open and shut case?”
“You’re right. There’s no such thing. I’ll keep you in the loop. I’ve got to go. I have another call.” He disconnected.
Austin was right. Worrying about it now was pointless. I resumed my quest to find Jill’s birth parents.
Beauchamp spoiled his son by bailing him out of every scrape he’d managed to get into. The clerk at the records office in Wellington was right. Roy lived a privileged life until he depleted his father’s reserve of patience.
George, along with lawyers at Rousseau & MacVale, helped Roy change his identity and enlist in New Zealand’s military as World War II erupted in the Pacific. Roy’s war experience changed him. He no longer wanted to live in New Zealand where people knew him as the worthless son of a rich father. So, his father’s lawyer at Rousseau & MacVale and Morris Hadley arranged a marriage, giving him the opportunity to immigrate to the United States.
Beatrix Rousseau had said that Harriet’s mood swings appeared after delivering her son, Roy. She would retreat to her second-floor salon for days while the nanny cared for the baby. During this time, she claimed to be writing. With further research, I uncovered more of the story. As an infant, Camille exhibited abnormal behavior and suffered seizures. George Beauchamp struggled with his wife’s mood swings on top of his child’s afflictions. When the situation became unmanageable, George Beauchamp committed both his wife Harriet and his daughter Camille to Seacliff citing mental instabilities, a solution that wouldn’t be allowed today.
“All the money in the world couldn’t solve George’s problems, Eli.” I reached down and rubbed behind his ears. Eli rolled on his back. He moaned with delight as I scratched his belly.
Police reports, gossip shared by the records clerk, and my interview with Beatrix confirmed Roy Beauchamp was Conroy Parks. However, I still hadn’t found concrete evidence that H. Parks and H. Beauchamp were the same person. My literary community research was my last hope.
Knowing that Katherine Mansfield, a Beauchamp by birth, and D. H. Lawrence had a close relationship for years, I retrieved my index cards for Lawrence. He left London in 1922 on a worldwide trip. He traveled to New York City and Taos, New Mexico, where he bought a one-hundred-sixty-acre ranch in exchange for one of his manuscripts. Then, after his purchase, he made one last stop in New Zealand before returning to London. According to a digitized record, Lawrence signed the guest register at Seacliff Lunatic Asylum and visited Camille Beauchamp.
I needed to learn everything I could about Seacliff Lunatic Asylum where Jill was born and the orphanage nearby where she spent the first four years of her life.
Between 1874 and 1884, builders worked on the hospital. For the first three years, the New Zealand architect, Robert Lawson, designed and oversaw the project that was to be the largest structure in New Zealand at the time. The Gothic Revival building, with its gabled roof and turrets projecting from every corner, sat on a hillside at Brinn’s Point, north of Port Chalmers.
Three years into its construction, a major landslide destroyed a temporary building. Lawson had failed to account for the unstable soils for such a colossus. Authorities charged him with negligence and incompetence. They found him guilty of the charges and fired him.
Losing one of the buildings wasn’t enough of a warning for the builders. Another building shifted in 1942, causing an electrical fire that ignited a women’s ward. Per standard procedure, the staff had locked thirty-eight women in their rooms. All of them died in the fire. The main building survived another seventeen years, but it continued to shift until finally, the authorities required it to be demolished.
The next article I browsed sickened me. It described the fire where Camille died.
“In 1942, a fire broke out at Seacliff in Ward 5. The ward, a two-story wooden structure, held 40 women. All patients had been locked in their rooms, according to standard operating procedures since the war, and the shortage of nursing staff. Firefighters succeeded in rescuing two women. The rest died of smoke inhalation.”
I cringed at the thought. “Those poor women.”
Sophie woofed and tap danced by my feet. She needed a break.
“Pretty soon,” I assured her, careful not to say out or the barking would begin. Eli stood, and both dogs sauntered to the office door.
After reading about Seacliff, my curiosity about Saint Saviour’s Orphanage peaked. Before getting far into the research, I found a photograph taken at the orphanage during the timeframe that Jill stayed there. Greg could compare them to the photos of Jill when she first arrived in New York. He’d acquired a new tool, Resolution Photomatching, a product used to confirm the identity of sports memorabilia. It might pick Jill out of the crowd. I sent it to him.
Sophie woofed again. This time, Eli joined in the pleading.
“Okay. Time for a break. Let’s go outside.” Both dogs rushed to the door. I closed my laptop. Reading about the depressing conditions at the orphanage at that time would not solve my case.
Chapter Sixty
“So, you think Dorothy Arnold escaped to New Zealand via the Virgin Islands sugar plantations, married Katherine Mansfield’s cousin, George Beauchamp, and they had two children.” Sam set his wine glass on the table.
“I believe so. Their daughter, Camille, had mental and emotional issues. George had her institutionalized, which turned out to be another nightmare. Camille fraternized with male patients and became pregnant with Jill.”
“As it turned out then, Camille Beauchamp was Dorothy Arnold’s daughter. So, Jill’s grandmother was Dorothy Arnold.”
I nodded.
“How did Jill end up at Saint Saviour’s?”
“At that time, all babies born at Seacliff went to Saint Saviour’s, where nuns cared for them, or the church placed them with families. Apparently, Jill had issues, so she remained there until she turned four.” I swallowed a lump in my throat. “She might have stayed there longer, but there’s a likelihood she was molested by an older boy. That’s when the Hamiltons adopted her.”
“That’s horrible!” Sam’s eyes filled.
“Remember, I told you Maggie shared a story of an incident that caused Hamilton to cry after a phone call? That incident alerted the Hamiltons to Jill’s danger and suffering.”
Sam shook his head. “The poor woman.”
“Hamilton had been monitoring Jill’s progress. He also helped Adelaide send money. He brought Jill to the States because even after the incident, the New Zealand Beauchamp family refused to take her in. Jill had shown signs of inheriting the same mental issues, and George and his second wife had three children of their own to raise.”
