Cankered Roots - New Edition: Alex & Briggie Mysteries, #1

Cankered

Roots

New Edition

A Mystery

G.G. Vandagriff

Copyright © 2011 G.G. Vandagriff

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Orson Whitney Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Cover Photography, Art and Design: Copyright 2011 David P. Vandagriff

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual person living or dead is entirely coincidental.

The Orson Whitney Press

ISBN: 0-9839536-0-0

ISBN-13: 978-0-9839536-0-9

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

G.G. Vandagriff studied writing at Stanford University and later received her master’s degree from George Washington University. She worked for five years in the financial field before her children were born. After that, she taught part-time in several different colleges. She was very happy when the day came that she could finally concentrate on her first love: creative writing. Cankered Roots is the first of a series of Alex and Briggie mystery novels. G.G. received the 2009 Whitney Award for Best Historical Fiction for her novel The Last Waltz: A Novel of Love and War.

The author and her husband, David, make their home on the bench of the Wasatch Mountains in Utah. They have two sons, a daughter, and two healthy grandsons. She can often be found playing in a tent with her grandchildren making up stories. (She is doing her best to encourage them to see the world they live in with a writer’s vision.)

G.G. is also an avid traveler. She claims that she must visit Florence at least once a year for medicinal purposes. After spending almost two months there researching her novel, The Only Way to Paradise, and a new Alex and Briggie mystery, now she has to journey to Caputo’s in Salt Lake City to get her fresh ground sausage.

GG’s website and blog are at http://www.ggvandagriff.com. You can follow her on Twitter at @ggvandagriff. She also has a Facebook author page.

PRAISE FOR G.G. VANDAGRIFF’S WORK

The Last Waltz

G.G. Vandagriff completes her story using vivid word pictures. Ms. Vandagriff’s latest offering is very appropriately titled. Like the waltz, the storyline picks the readers up and twirls them from plot twist to plot twist in what is, at times, almost a dizzying rate of speed.

Although the tenor of The Last Waltz is somewhat different than this author’s previous books, it does have one trait similar to the author’s previous writings. For those readers who like to cheat by peeking at the end of the book, it is almost a guarantee that they will put two and two together and come up with nine. With many authors, one can skim through the final pages of a book and sum up a story. One thing that seems to be common throughout Ms. Vandagriff’s books is her ability to weave so many elements so tightly that one cannot arrive at the proper conclusions without actually reading her books from cover to cover.

The Last Waltz illustrates the value of so many different kinds of love . . . companionship, empathetic love, protective and secure love, and of course, that vibrant first love. This book is not necessarily the happily ever after type of love story that causes teen hearts to flutter. Although the sheer determination of the heroine makes one feel that the endings scattered throughout this book are not necessarily tragic, this is truly a romance of more than the star struck lover variety.

—AML Review

What is by far the strength of Ms. Vandagriff’s writing is her ability to create characters that pull you into the story, until you become a part of that story yourself. I read somewhere that if a reader wants to see two characters fall in love, then they have to fall in love with both of those characters. And I find that this is a truism for all of fiction—and doesn’t just relate to the event of falling in love. The more enmeshed the reader becomes with the characters—the more wrapped up they will be with the story itself. And in this book there is little doubt that this was the case. There were times I wanted to throw the book against the wall, times I was deliberately ignoring people because they were interrupting the best part, (which, by the way was nearly the whole book—and there were certainly more than one.) and at times I would laugh, cry, mourn, and rejoice with the characters. But what is amazing is how well the characters worked into the historical setting itself.

—The Bookworm’s Library

I was immediately drawn into a chaotic world of love and war—an interesting juxtaposition. I kept reading if only to discovered how the story would end. But along the way I encountered several themes which ran throughout the novel. What does it mean to be in love? Is it true that you can give yourself completely to another person only once, as Amalia’s uncle states? What does it mean to be part of a family—especially when family members keep secrets? How can one find strength to make good choices and persevere in the face of adversity? How can we avoid the tragedy of becoming, as one character says, less than we were born to be? Norman Mailer wrote the following: I feel that the final purpose of art is to intensify—even, if necessary, to exacerbate—the moral consciousness of people. In particular, I think the novel at its best is the most moral of the art forms. I think The Last Waltz confirms Mailer’s statement: It asks us to look inside ourselves and to examine the state of our own moral consciousness.

—Joan Petty (Five Stars)

Pieces of Paris

It was the simple things that undid her, Annalisse had discovered. Something as ordinary as the scent of lilacs when the air was heavy, a brief measure of Tchaikovsky, or a dream. A dream like the one she’d awakened from last night—so real she could smell the Paris Metro in it. Any of these things could revive in a moment the memories she’d spent the last six years burying. They crept under the leaden shield around her heart and found the small, secret place where she still had feeling.

From the first paragraph Pieces of Paris gripped me. The story, by G.G. Vandagriff, didn’t matter then, the writing had enchanted. And then, I realized, the story did matter. Very much. I was carrying this book around with me everywhere I went.

Pieces of Paris is about environmental abuses, narrow-mindedness, narcissism, bigotry, tragic memories, loyalty, vindication, rediscovered faith, love, resolution, and peace. It’s about a husband and wife, who learn that the best way to resolve the challenges of life is with each other. And with God.

—Susan Dayley, Looking Out My Backdoor (Five Stars)

GG Vandagriff once again explores the intensity of human emotion, delivering a powerful story of second chances, the gift of forgiveness, and the depth of true love. This well-crafted story is absorbing from page one and the characters powerful and relatable.

Pieces of Paris is a literary symphony, a cacophony of words that delves into the hearts of all of us, as Annalisse and Dennis fight to reestablish the rhythm of their marriage. An emotionally engaging and unforgettable journey.

—H.B. Moore, Multi-Award Winning Novelist (Five Stars)

Weaving together powerful truths and psychologically driven fiction, GG Vandagriff’s Pieces of Paris takes readers on an emotional ride that winds through the darkest recesses of painful memories, plunges into unexpected realities, then climbs to breathtaking vistas of understanding, forgiveness and love.

Vandagriff has a true gift of words and paints glorious scenes and intense emotion in this well-paced, gripping drama. This powerful story of second chances, the gift of forgiveness, and the depth of truth will resonate with readers of all ages and stations in life.

—Michele Ashman Bell, Best-selling Romance Novelist, author of the Butterfly Box Series (Five Stars)

If it sounds like there’s two stories going on here, you’d be correct. But Vandagriff is an accomplished and skilled writer, and she manages to weave the two threads together to form a compelling and utterly wonderful story of hope and redemption.

There are so many interesting aspects to this story. It is, in a sense, a love story. But in the broader view, it’s a tale of pain, memory and loss, but it is also a story of redemption and hope.

Pieces of Paris is a lovely work. Vandagriff just gets better and better with each book. Give it a look.

—AML Review

For my accomplice, David.

A LETTER TO READERS

This book was the first fiction I published. This is a new edition of the original 1993 publication, but the content of the book remains the same.

I wrote this novel as light relief, never knowing that it would spawn a series of at least five books. (I have one up my sleeve that makes a ten year leap into the future.)

Cankered Roots takes place in 1994. To you, it may seem like a historical relic, for it was written before genealogists used the kind of internet technology we take for granted today for their research. My heroines, Alex and Briggie are definitely old school, but that really makes it much more fun.

These characters have become much beloved by many readers over the years. I sincerely hope you will enjoy them as much as I do, and make them part of your family of favorite fictional characters.

Happy reading!

G.G. Vandagriff

August, 2011

Hate is fear and fear is rot

That cankers root and fruit alike.

— Robert Graves

PROLOGUE

Crouching in the overgrown shrubs, the stocky, ginger-haired man consulted his watch for the fifth time in the past half hour. Where was she? Waves of shimmering humidity rose like steam from the dense yews surrounding the old brick apartment building that radiated heat like an oven. No place on earth could be hotter than Kansas City in August.

Then he heard it—the slap of sandals against the old brick sidewalk. Forgetting his discomfort, he gripped the butt of the gun in his pocket with something close to glee. It was his quarry, all right. One, two, three, darting out into the open, he fired.

His victim whirled, eyes round with shock. Looking down, she saw the spreading stain darkening the red of her shirt.

Daniel! This is silk! she shrilled, bunching the fabric in her hand.

Dropping her groceries, she leaped off the steps, kicked off her sandals, and struck the squirt gun from his hand with a roundhouse kick. The toy skittered onto the steps. Before he could react, she executed a karate chop to the collar bone, felling him to the ground.

Sprawled on the grass, he watched ruefully as she ran back to the steps, retrieved the gun, and commenced firing without mercy. Daniel grinned as water mingled with the sweat on his face. Your reaction time’s improved, Mrs. Campbell.

The woman aimed the spray at her own face. This was a truly inspired idea, Daniel.

Actually, I was angling for an invitation to dinner.

She turned the gun on him again. Do you realize this blouse cost forty dollars?

Well then, how about dinner at the Bristol?

That’s a much better idea. You can buy me a new blouse afterwards.

Hoisting her groceries, he asked, Did they fix your sink yet?

Alex squirted his ear, her lapis eyes alight with mischief. Who knows? There’s nothing quite like the suspense of coming home to The Baltimore.

Daniel surveyed the old apartment building that an enterprising young developer had modernized by adding the square sunrooms that jutted out from an old brick exterior. Straddling the borderline between fashionable, gentrified Westport and the slummy mass of decaying brick housing reaching north, The Baltimore was the most desirable residence on the block. That wasn’t saying much.

For the same rent you pay here, you could have a nice, clean apartment in Overland Park, he told her.

Passing through a white-tiled lobby reminiscent of men’s lavatories, Alex led the way out the back door to the fire escape. The elevator was permanently out of order.

Overland Park hasn’t got a soul, she said with a grimace. Where else could I live next door to a Hispanic cellist, a Japanese karate master, and a West Indian silversmith?

Later, as they were finishing raspberries topped with almond cream, Alex tossed a document across the table. There, she said. I’ve been dying to show you this all evening. It finally came today.

Daniel sighed and picked up what appeared to be a death certificate. Dead people sort of ruin the ambience, Alex. Can’t I finish my dessert first?

It’s not as though you knew him.

He studied the document reluctantly. There doesn’t seem to be anything fishy about this. Your grandfather died of pneumonia twenty years ago. I’d say that was a relatively peaceful death.

Alex nodded. The death does seem fairly straightforward. That’s not what’s fishy. It’s his birth.

How can someone’s birth be fishy? Daniel smothered the last of his berries in cream and finished them with regret.

Notice the parents’ names? she persisted.

There aren’t any.

So. Fishy Thing Number One: My father gave that information. Why didn’t he know his grandparents? Now. Look at the place of birth.

La Salle County, Illinois. What’s wrong with that?

They started keeping birth records in La Salle County in 1877. According to that certificate you’re holding, Grandfather was born in 1895. I called the La Salle County clerk today. No birth record.

Maybe your father was wrong about the year.

I had them check the years 1890 to 1905. That makes Fishy Thing Number Two. Alex polished off the last of her berries without appearing to taste them. Besides that, there’s the census. He would have been five in 1900.

Let me guess. No grandfather in La Salle County.

According to the 1900 Soundex there was no Joseph Borden, age five, in all of Illinois!

Settling back in the comfortable booth, Daniel extended his arms along its back and studied his dinner companion. When Alex got full of her subject, no one else was more passionate. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks flushed carnation pink, and she talked volubly with her hands, running them through the curly black mass of hair that fell to her shoulders.

I don’t know how I ever could have conceived of genealogy as dull, he remarked.

I’m boring you, she said without contrition.

Not at all. He grinned. You forget I’ve known the risks of this relationship from the beginning. No one can say you’re not up-front about your profession.

Unlike some people I could mention.

He laughed. Come on! Should I wear a warning sign or something?

You intentionally misled me! For weeks I thought you were a lawyer.

How was I to know you would leap to such an unwarranted conclusion?

I did meet you in your father’s law office, she reminded him. You were wearing a white shirt and tie.

Pushing the raspberry dish aside, he positioned his coffee cup in front of him. Back to the non-birth of your grandfather. I don’t think your fish make much of a stink, Alex. Your father probably just made those things up on the death certificate. I’ll bet lots of people do that. They’re embarrassed. They ought to know and they don’t. There doesn’t have to be a deep, sinister reason.

Alex looked away and began pleating her napkin between her fingers. Anyway, I’m going to Winnetka tomorrow.

The atmosphere suffered a palpable change, as though the temperature had suddenly dropped forty degrees. Why? he demanded before he could stop himself. What possible good do you think it’s going to do to talk to your parents?

Calm down, Dr. Grinnell, she said quietly. Her body had gone rigid. You may be a shrink, but you’re not my shrink. It’s time I faced up to things and saw my parents. Dr. Brace agrees.

Daniel drank the dregs of his coffee, forgoing comment. The silence between them was strained.

I might find something in the house. Some kind of clue, she said finally.

Nancy Drew has a lot to answer for, he remarked darkly.

She grinned slightly. "There is a mystery, Daniel. Grandfather lived with us all my life. Why won’t my parents talk about him? I was fifteen when he died—old enough to have the impression that we were a fairly ordinary family. I mean no Mafia connections or anything like that. Once they got him buried—presto! He’s a non-person. They got rid of everything that belonged to him. They even took up the rug in his bedroom, for heaven’s sake."

Then what makes you think there are any clues to find?

Genealogists learn to find clues in ordinary things other people might overlook.

Daniel ran a hand over the hair on the back of his neck. Thinking of Alex going to Winnetka was to picture her making a polar expedition in street clothes. Why are you so hung up on this Mormon stuff, Alex? Why can’t you just get on with life as it is?

Don’t drag my religion into this, she warned, her eyes flashing. Apart from what I happen to believe, there is every reason for me to try to connect somewhere. My husband is dead. I have a mother and a father who have virtually denied my existence for the past fifteen years. I want some family, Daniel. Is that too hard for a psychologist to understand?

I’m sorry, Alex.

For a few moments there was silence, and he wondered whether his apology had been sufficient. Why had he made that crack about her religion? Because the idea of her going home had enraged him. Maybe she was right. Maybe he couldn’t keep his profession out of their relationship.

And then there’s the genetic side of things, she continued, throwing up her hands. I mean, what if it turns out I’m descended from the same genetic pool as Lizzy Borden, for heaven’s sake? I could turn into a homicidal maniac at any time, hacking up all of Westport, maybe even Overland Park.

Cheer up, he said bracingly. There are other Bordens. Astrid, the senator, and the canned milk people, for instance. Cows are so wholesome. Why focus on Lizzy?

An obsession, probably. Who’s Astrid Borden?

The rock star with the bald head and the breastplate.

Alex blinked. She’s a Borden?

He nodded, and she grinned, sinking back into the upholstery of the booth and folding her arms across her chest. No genetic similarity whatsoever. Nor do I have the slightest reason to believe I’m related to the senator or the milk people. My parents would certainly have claimed the relationship, had there been one.

Shrugging, he decided to make one last attempt. If you haven’t got the rent paid this month, you might be interested in the fact that Dad’s got another missing-heir case for you. Dog food fortune. Legitimate business. Twenty-five dollars an hour.

She folded her hands primly on the table in front of her. I’ve already paid the rent, thanks.

ONE

The Chicago Skyway had to be the weirdest place on earth. Breathing as little of the yellowish air as possible, Alex gripped the steering wheel and glanced through her car window at the factory-scarred landscape below. A sudden nostalgia for Scotland pierced her, as it did all too often.

High summer in Inveraray was the very best time. Against the sapphire waters of Loch Fyne, the little white-walled town sparkled on the occasional sunny day. Sweet peas, snapdragons, and pansies danced indiscriminately through the tiny flower garden on each side of the solid black door. Fresh from its daily shower, the earth smelled sharply of peat as Alex weeded the lettuces and collected the writhing brown worms for night fishing. In the long summer twilight, she and Stewart donned mackintoshes, stashed a thermos of hot chocolate with their fishing poles, and ventured out in their tiny boat. The stillness, the whispering, ghostly magic of the loch at midnight . . .

. . . was a million miles away. Reality: She was stranded in time between Stewart’s death and her own, suspended at this moment above a brutalized landscape, on her way to the last place on earth she wanted to go.

Squaring her shoulders, she told herself, I’m going home. But in spite of her resolutions, her heart bounded in panic. Winnetka wasn’t home! Home should mean Stewart with his snapping black eyes, curly black beard, and sexy, one-sided grin. It should be a peat fire glowing on the hearth, fish frying in the pan, and the cold wind whistling outside the door—not a hollow, neo-Georgian house; not a place where no one knew or cared who you were. The panic clamped tightly