Juliette shrugged. ‘It’s okay—as procrastination devices go.’
‘I like it,’ Morton said, ignoring her provocation.
‘It’s a northern cardinal painted onto snow fence wood,’ a female voice explained.
Morton froze momentarily.
‘We get some pretty fierce winters out here and, when the fences are done, we get given them.’
‘It’s lovely,’ Morton said, turning to face her.
‘Yeah, we…’ The look between them snapped the end of whatever she had been about to say.
He knew that it was her the moment that she had first opened her mouth; her appearance only served as a confirmation. She looked just like her pictures on the internet—unruly curly hair, dark eyes and exotically coloured hessian clothes. ‘It’s forty dollars,’ she said, a dour indignation blighting her face and words. ‘I’ll be inside if you want to make a purchase.’ She whirled around and disappeared inside the hut.
‘Why didn’t you introduce yourself?’ Juliette asked.
‘I didn’t need to…She knew,’ Morton replied.
‘Go in after her, then!’
He had to. Even though it wasn’t going to go well, he had to try at least. He set down the piece of art and marched inside the hut. It was filled with an assortment of paintings, coasters, mugs and sculptures featuring Cape Cod life and wildlife.
‘Can we talk, please?’ Morton asked, touching Alice’s arm.
She flinched, pulling her arm back sharply, as though he had just prodded her with a hot poker. ‘I’m working.’
‘Can we meet, then? I’ve come all the way from England to—’
‘Then I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted trip,’ she seethed. ‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’
Morton was stunned. Wounded. Where could he go from that?
‘Can I help you, sir?’ a lady asked from behind him. She wore an apron that might once have been white but was now daubed with the smudges from more hues of paint than Morton knew existed. She was a middle-aged lady with short white hair. She smiled. ‘Is everything okay, Alice?’
‘This gentleman is from England—he’s just leaving.’
‘Oh…right…I see.’
Morton turned back to face Alice. ‘Here’s my card,’ he said quietly, setting down one of his business cards, before turning to leave. He found Juliette outside, her face one of sympathy. She took his hand in hers.
‘I can’t believe she could be like that—she’s your flesh and blood, for goodness’ sake. I really thought that once we got here and you—’
‘I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s go and get a coffee—large and very caffeinated.’
Macmillan Pier ran directly to the centre of Provincetown’s Commercial Street. The narrow road was lined with an assortment of galleries, guesthouses, gift shops, cafés and restaurants, all heaving with the great influx of summer holidaymakers that had reawakened the town from its winter slumber.
They walked silently, taking in the sights around them as they went.
‘Do you want to go in here?’ Juliette asked of several shops around which he might ordinarily have enjoyed browsing. But not now; his mind simply wasn’t on anything other than how to find his father in the time that he had left in Massachusetts. Michael Chipman was dead. His Aunt Alice might as well have been. Everything now rested on his eighty-seven-year-old grandmother. Could he really just rock up to her care home and introduce himself? Was that acceptable or appropriate?
‘Right, we’re going in here,’ Juliette instructed, dragging him off the pavement and onto the outside area of Joe’s Coffee and Café. ‘You sit down and get your laptop open and I’ll get the drinks. Iced coffee?’
‘Coffee coffee,’ he stated, slinking obediently down at a table for two. He removed his laptop from his bag and opened it up, although he wasn’t sure what he was actually going to do now that it was up and running, so he just sat there people-watching until Juliette returned.
She placed the drinks on the table. ‘One coffee coffee,’ she announced, pulling her chair so that it was beside his. ‘Where are we up to?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What’s the next step? You’re a forensic genealogist—you’ve always got a next step. Obviously we’re going to try and visit your grandmother this afternoon. What else have you got to work on?’
Morton sighed. ‘I could try and work on my grandfather’s brothers in San Francisco—maybe try and trace their descendants, see if they know what happened to my father.’
Juliette turned her nose up. ‘Anything closer to home? Pass me your folder.’
Morton obliged and took a sip of the coffee.
Juliette began to scrutinise each document in her typical police officer manner. ‘What’s this?’ ‘Have you thought about trying to…’ ‘What does this mean?’ Finally, she set the paperwork down, took a mouthful of her drink then turned to him, like a judge summarising a case in her court. ‘So, your grandfather and grandmother stick to this party line, that he was born and raised in Boston, despite both knowing this to be untrue. They married in Wellfleet in 1953 and then settled in Hyannis Port, where your father and Aunt Alice were born. Your grandfather, though, actually grew up in San Francisco, where he married Audrey…remind me of her surname?’
‘Fuller.’
‘Audrey Fuller. They married in 1949. His divorce was mentioned in the papers in…?’
‘December 1950.’
‘I take it there’s no US census for 1950?’
Morton shook his head. ‘Not available until 2022.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ Juliette said, rummaging back in the folder. ‘This,’ she said, wafting his grandfather’s death certificate in front of his face, ‘says that he served in the Korean War. Wasn’t that in the early fifties? Or am I getting my dates mixed up?’
‘1950 to 1953,’ Morton confirmed. He realised, as though a switch had been illuminated in his mind, where she was going with this line of thought. ‘How was he around to divorce his wife and fight on a different continent?’
‘It’s worth pursuing.
