Clemmie lost interest looking up people she’d never known and thankfully never would. It occurred to her that like Muffin, she had let the decades roll by without asking herself what had happened to the players in her own personal melodrama.

  ELEVEN

  Clementine Lakefield had spent years hiding from a stalker. Her first line of defense had been to use the name and social security number of a girl in her elementary school who died very young.

  Clemmie could barely remember the real Helen, although she had been thankful to Helen every day of her life.

  Think of the real Helen’s poor parents. Losing their little girl when she was only nine. The empty, endless sorrow as other people’s daughters grew up and became women, while their daughter was forever in her grave. How profoundly awful if they had ever found out that Helen’s little playmate had been masquerading as Helen all these decades.

  But the Stephens family could never have known about Clementine Lakefield’s choice of identity.

  She clicked on the Connecticut newspaper that covered the eastern shoreline and opened the obituary section. In the last few decades, online security protections often required your mother’s maiden name. Dozens of times, as if she had squatter’s rights, Clemmie had entered Helen’s mother’s name: Coralie Pitkethly Stephens, a name she knew from Helen’s ancient passport and birth certificate, which by chance had been sitting at Clemmie’s awaiting completion of a school assignment. But Helen died and the papers stayed where they were, year after year, until Clemmie realized that a new identity would save her from her stalker.

  Coralie Pitkethly Stephens had died decades ago. Her ashes were buried in the churchyard of the English village in which she had been born.

  It sounded so Miss Marple, so sort of tidy.

  But what was tidy about outliving your only child?

  Clemmie had not outlived her only child. Instead, she had lived her life without him. But Facebook! Blessed Facebook. She had found him there. He had been adopted by loving parents and now was a loving parent himself, and she relied on her daily dose of Facebook to see what his children—her grandchildren!—were doing. As far as she could tell, they were majoring in selfies.

  The real Helen’s father, John Edmund Stephens, also came up immediately.

  Amazingly, he had died only a few months ago at the age of ninety-eight. He had never moved from the house in which he and Coralie had lived with their little girl, Helen. How heartbreaking!

  Name, address, and date of death was all the paper provided about John Edmund Stephens. Newspapers had fallen on hard times and now charged for what had once been free. Submitting a long obituary was expensive, aside from the fact that John Edmund Stephens had no children or grandchildren to write it. Obituaries and photographs, videos and condolence messages were usually found now on funeral home sites, on Facebook, or at Legacy.com.

  The kitchen timer rang.

  Clemmie set the hard-boiled eggs on the counter to cool. Then she started her cookie calls. It was good she didn’t know these women because they were uniformly unhappy to have a call this early. On the other hand, they all agreed to drop off their cookies at Fellowship Hall before three thirty.

  Clemmie returned to her computer screen.

  On Facebook, she occasionally looked up Friends of the Shoreline, which chiefly featured photographs of beaches and sunsets, but also carried tidbits of news from her old hometown. There might be a school closing-for-snow announcement, a homeowner looking for somebody to do a dump run, or a club putting on a fundraiser. Perhaps she would find a mention of Mr. Stephens, citing the funeral home or church where the service had been held. She scrolled toward the date of his death.

  Incredibly, there was an ongoing thread about John Edmund Stephens.

  Enough people knew a ninety-eight-year-old to post about him? He must have done wonderful things, like the gentleman whose calling hours were today at Trinity Hill.

  No.

  The law firm handling his estate had discovered that although his only child, Helen, had been dead for over sixty years, her social security number was active. It had been in use most of that time—a half century of identity theft.

  No, no! thought Clemmie.

  How had the law firm found out? Could they locate her? What would they do?

  She felt so much anxiety that she seemed to float above and around the screen. She could hardly read the posts.

  …Creepy!

  …I didn’t think there even was identity theft way back then.

  …Is it a felony? Did the person steal a fortune?

  …No, because the real Helen had no money and the fake Helen never attempted to get any. It must be somebody who needed another identity, not somebody trying to steal.

  …More likely, knowing Social Security as I do—someday I’ll tell you what I’ve been through with those miserable people—it’s a glitch. Some innocent person is going to get blamed for SS’s failures and stupidity.

  …What law firm?

  …Curtin, Fiumara, and Bloch.

  …How do you know about this identity theft? Do you work for them? Isn’t this breach of something? Aren’t you supposed to keep stuff confidential?

  …I’ve also had bad experiences with Social Security. I bet the poor other Helen Stephens doesn’t even know she’s using the wrong numbers. And she’s old herself. She has to be. You don’t need your SS # until you’re working, so fifty years of using it plus twenty years before you start working is seventy so, like, whatever.

  …Could we please not trash government workers? I worked for Medicare for twenty-five years, and I regard myself as a soldier for the people.

  …So then you retired at 50 and you’re getting their retirement money and working a second job and you’ll retire from that and get their retirement money, too, right? Typical gov rip-off.

  The dialogue went seriously downhill at this point. The contributors had forgotten Helen Stephens.

  Clemmie closed the screen.

  She thought of the slow, relentless Social Security Administration, which one day would send her a letter about the real Helen Stephens.

  Or send an agent.

  Or a warrant.

  She had cut Helen up and used her like a paper doll—dancing on with her own life while the true Helen lay in a coffin. Becoming Helen, while Helen herself lay in the grave.

  Clemmie wet a washcloth in cold water and pressed it over her eyes. After a while, she put on foundation and powder, color and mascara. Used the bright-red lipstick that was her trademark. Chose the black wig, thick with tight, black curls, as if she really could still be the adorable pixie of her youth.

  What am I actually afraid of? Admitting that I stole Helen? Losing the respect of others? Being arrested and receiving a prison sentence? Or am I mostly afraid of being fingerprinted? Because that could lead to what else I did. Or is my greatest fear that my beloved baby boy—a fine man now approaching retirement age himself, a man I moved here so I could see him from a distance—will find out who he is?

  Muffin must feel this awful about her past coming back, thought Clemmie.

  I should have been nicer to her.

  But that was always the case, wasn’t it? You should have been nicer.

  TWELVE

  Muffin sat on a bench near the green while the sky softened and dawn came. She was positive that it had been Haven in church. She had seen him and he had seen her.

  If she could have a nice, safe chat with Haven and then they never crossed paths again and he didn’t find out what her name was now or where she lived, she’d do it. She’d like to know what happened after she drove out of Tommy’s life.

  What had he told his family? How had he gotten out from under the attention a vanished wife would bring? What had her in-laws said and done?

  Only ugly lies would have worked. Perhaps Tommy claimed that his wife had run away with some other man. It was almost true. A week later Muffin was in love again, and before long, she’d run all the way to an Army base in Europe. All these years, she had thought how romantic, how meant that was. Her true destiny.

  It struck her now as appalling. She had abandoned husband, marriage, house, in-laws…and within a few months was leading an entirely different life with entirely different people, and never looking back. What kind of person never looked back?

  She so did not want her maiden name, Revere, or her first married name, Nearing, out in public. Her son, Robert, and daughter, Mary, had no idea that there had been a first marriage. All they knew was that Mom and Dad had been high school sweethearts.

  Could Muffin trust Virgie to omit from her golf article the name printed on the Bible? The magazine had a two- or three-month time lag between submission and publication, so if Virgie wrote her ladies’ nine-hole article now, it wouldn’t be out for a while. And the magazine circulated only here in Sun City, so it wasn’t on newsstands. Not that such a thing existed anymore. Not to mention that Virgie was getting a little scattered and with any luck would forget the whole thing.

  It was silly to be afraid of the past. She had done a good deed back there in Ferris, Muffin told herself. Saved one life; saved four men from committing evil.

  It was a bit surprising that local media was touching Ward’s claim. Evil was a great story when it happened in somebody else’s backyard. Not so much when it’s in your own backyard. But the Carolinas were so prosperous, cheerful, and pleasant these days. She was willing to bet that the media wouldn’t drag up, for example, the true shocking, tragic story of Black Army sergeant Isaac Woodard. While wearing his uniform, proof of his service, the poor young man had been attacked and blinded by the police chief of Batesburg, South Carolina, in a fit of rage against an “uppity” black man. It was in part the Woodard horror that convinced Harry Truman to integrate the U.S. armed services in 1948. There were grim segregation events for years to come, but after that people covered their tracks better.

  But the tracks in Ferris would lead to Muffin herself. She didn’t want to be involved. She didn’t want to be questioned.

  Muffin could not remember the name of the boy her father-in-law had destroyed. When had that happened? Altogether she had lived in Ferris less than a year and a half, so it must have been in 1963. It was not unlike the Woodard case. The boy had been working for Tommy Senior, repairing an outbuilding. Jubilant about his college acceptance to a good school up north—the first in his family to finish high school, never mind enter college—he’d been dancing around, grinning from ear to ear, bragging about his future.

  Tommy Senior felt it was uppity. He lost his temper, jerked the hammer out of the kid’s hand, and slammed him in the head with it.

  Muffin hadn’t been there. She did know that Tommy and Haven had been made to deal with the body.

  Nobody had scrubbed the blood off the hammer. Might as well hang it back up on the pegboard and enjoy it.

  It had horrified her, but she hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t done a thing.

  The boy’s family probably never knew why he didn’t show up again, although they would have known for whom he’d been working. They couldn’t have gone to the police, who would have shrugged and done nothing, saying that black boys were unreliable, apt to wander off.

  MacBurton Ward was right. The truth should be sought. But then Tommy’s descendants would learn from television that they had a father, a grandfather, and a great-uncle who had all been violent segregationists. And what about her own son, Robert? Would he find out that he was related to that family? She and Robert were distant already in miles and heart. What if she lost him altogether? Robert communicated so rarely. She had to beg for attention. People here asked why she hadn’t retired to San Diego—close to her son and perfect weather. She couldn’t admit that she wouldn’t have seen any more of him living close by than she did now.

  O, Truth! Why did anybody want it?

  Muffin finally walked back out to the road. The black car and the dark sky were long gone. She trudged the final mile to White Lily, her own cul-de-sac, but didn’t go in. She went on to Blue Lilac. She wanted to thrash everything out with somebody, and the only possible person was Helen. She rang the bell.

  The door opened immediately. “Come on in, Muffin,” said Helen. “I have the television on. MacBurton Ward is about to be introduced. He’s found a source to back him up.”

  Muffin almost fainted. How could he have found a source? Who could it possibly be?

  The man had to be lying. He had talked his way into another minute on TV with some stretched truth that he couldn’t substantiate.

  Muffin normally loved Helen’s living room, which was bright with color and sun, the walls hung with high-school-student art Helen had acquired over the decades, and books everywhere.

  But since Helen was primarily a reader, her television was small and did not occupy a prime space in her living room. Muffin considered this arrogant. I don’t waste my time on simpleminded entertainment the way you do; I read Latin.

  Muffin hiked a chair close enough to see the pitiful screen.

  MacBurton Ward sat to the left of a young and beautiful white presenter, with the shoulder-length, slightly turned-under blond hair and the Miss America smile required of newswomen these days. Muffin would believe in equality only when female anchors were overweight and plain. On the other hand, news today was entertainment, not journalism, so looks and charm did come first.

  The presenter’s name was not given, perhaps in the belief that she was too famous to need introductions. It was a local show, though. How famous could she be?

  “Good morning, Aprille,” said Ward cheerfully.

  Aprille. Muffin hated her already.

  An elderly Black woman sat on Aprille’s right. She was heavyset, with graying hair under a gleaming hat, as if she had just come from church. She sat bolt upright on the comfy interview armchair. It was difficult to read her expression.

  “Good morning!” enthused Aprille. “We’re honored to have Miz Stefanie Fortress with us!” Aprille was too busy beaming at the camera to glance at either guest.

  Ms. Fortress seemed to correct the pronunciation of her name, but Muffin couldn’t quite hear. It didn’t look as if Aprille understood either or, for that matter, cared. Ms. Fortress picked up a pad of paper lying on the pretend coffee table of the pretend living room and printed out her name. The camera zoomed in.

  ROSE SEFFANIE FORTRESS.

  Stefanie! The colored cook her in-laws had shared with her.

  Muffin would never have recognized her. She’d been slim and pretty back then, sort of pouty, hovering just this side of insolence. Muffin hadn’t liked Stefanie one bit. The girl refused to teach her to cook and disliked having her in the kitchen at all, as if it were her kitchen, not Muffin’s. She was always singing gospel hymns just when you wanted your own music and not hers. She kept a King James Bible open on the kitchen table, a pane of glass over the pages to keep them clean, and she read aloud, chapter after chapter, in a voice as rich and flowing as the Elizabethan words.

  But she didn’t talk that way. She talked the way Muffin heard all Black people talk then, leaving out verbs and skipping plurals.

  She remembered laughing at Stefanie once, pointing out that the girl misspelled her own name. “It my name, though,” the help had said quietly, eyes down, “so it ain’t misspelled.”

  Muffin would have been within her rights to smack her. But she hadn’t. Instead, pointedly, she continued to call her Stefanie.

  Now she was filled with shame, but then—as her mother-in-law carefully instructed—you had to keep them in their place. They needed a constant stream of reminders. Like reinforcement in dog training, Mother Eleanor explained.

  Muffin stared at the Stefanie sitting in the television studio. It had never crossed her mind to think about the help, then or now.

  THIRTEEN

  Clemmie struggled to give Rose Seffanie her attention.

  All she could really think about was that a law firm in Connecticut knew that a fake Helen Stephens was out there. The IRS could connect the dots, should they choose. She was a dot. That was her significance after all these years. A dot.

  “Miz Fortress is a manager at her local Belk’s department store and a deacon in her church,” said Aprille. “Stefanie, I understand you lived in Ferris in 1964.” Aprille shook her head incredulously, 1964 as remote to her as 1066.

  The Black woman held up her scratch pad. “Rose Seffanie,” she said clearly. “The esses come together, more like Ro’Seffanie. When I was he’p for the Nearings, they never say it right neither.”

  Her southern accent was deep and her words came slowly, each syllable weighted. Clemmie had to concentrate to understand. It was good to have something to concentrate on other than being arrested for five decades of felony. Was there a statute of limitations on identity theft? Would she be guilty only of the last decade and not the first four?

  She should probably call a lawyer and be prepared for the worst, but Clemmie could think of no attorney she would trust with any of it, let alone all of it.

  “Tell us about 1964, Stefanie.”

  “Bad year,” said Ro’Seffanie, nodding slowly. “In Mississippi? Those three Freedom Riders? They disappear. One of ’em Black, but nobody talk about him much. They wouldn’t never investigate except th’other two were white. Black boys in those days, they disappear now and then, nobody never care.”

  “And in Ferris,” said Aprille, moving right along, “what was happening?” She was perky. They could have been discussing shoes.

  “We just waitin’. Integration comin’ to schools. Could be bad. But we had hope.”

  Clemmie could feel that hope, thin and shaky and afraid to surface.

  Aprille favored MacBurton Ward with her smile. Her teeth were as big and white as Chiclets. Whatever had happened to Chiclets? The disappearance of her once favorite gum moved onto Clemmie’s list of mysteries. “Stefanie, let’s greet MacBurton Ward, a former New York Herald Tribune reporter who was in Ferris in 1964 and is here with us today.”