Under the Viaduct by H. Anderson (first e reader txt) 📗

“Yes, please.” Blayne smiled down at Kaylee.

Back in the car, she asked, “Do you want to get a quick bite to eat before you go back to work?”

He frowned. “I promised you I’d pay next time, but I don’t get paid until Friday.”

“Well, I think we can negotiate something. How about I pay today, and you pay the next two times?”

His stomach growled, and they both laughed. “It’s a deal. But let’s go somewhere cheap and fast.”

“Taco Bell it is.”

After dropping Blayne off at work, Kaylee headed to a post office so she could mail his birth certificate back to his mom as she’d promised. As she stepped out onto the stairs of the post office, she noticed a familiar figure leaving the bank next door. Mama C. Kaylee stood still and watched as the elderly woman dropped some papers into the garbage can just outside the bank. Kaylee moved when Mama C disappeared around the corner. She wandered over to the trash can, looked around to see if anyone was watching, then reached in and grabbed the papers laying on top of the other garbage.

“Claire Watson,” she whispered as she read the name on the first paper, a check stub with the letters NYSTRS strewn across the top. The other paper, smaller and thicker than the first, said “United States Treasury” on it. This one must be a social security check, Kaylee thought, but what’s the first one? She folded them, put them in her coat pocket, and hurried to her car.

Kaylee didn’t even bother taking her coat off after she rushed into her apartment. She flipped her laptop open and searched “NYSTRS.” New York State Teacher’s Retirement System. Mama C had been a teacher. In New York. Such a long ways away from Denver.

She typed “Claire Watson” and “teacher” and “New York” into the search engine. A New York Post headline from ten years prior popped up: EARLY MORNING APARTMENT FIRE KILLS TWO. Her hand shook as she clicked on the article. She read:

A fire that swept through an apartment in northern Manhattan early Wednesday, killed two tenants, Daniel Watson age 58 and his son, Eugene Watson age 18. The two lived together, along with wife and mother, Claire Watson, in the ground-floor apartment where the fire started accidentally, most probably caused by a faulty power cord. Mrs. Watson was not in the apartment at the time of the fire.

The two-alarm fire started around 6:00 a.m. and quickly swept through the ground-floor apartment. Both victims’ bodies were found by firefighters huddled together in a corner of the small bathroom.

The building had no fire alarm, a Fire Department official stated. “It is a very old building. By code it would not be required to.”

Kaylee couldn’t read anymore. Her eyes blurred from the tears she didn’t even try to slow down. “Poor Mama C. No wonder she doesn’t want to talk about her past,” she whispered. She needed to find out more. Why hadn’t Mama C been there? Were these two her only family? What about friends? She wiped her eyes and turned to the article again, skimming until she saw what she wanted to know.

Mrs. Watson, a school teacher at Westbrook High School in Manhattan, had left at her usual time of 5:30 a.m. to catch the subway to the other side of town. She could not be reached for comment.

Westbrook High School, Kaylee thought. It had been ten years—there should still be some people there that would remember Mama C. She looked up the high school and punched the number into her phone. As she held it up to her ear, listening to it ring, she wondered, what am I doing? Before she could answer her own question, a bored female voice answered, “Westbrook High.”

“Umm…” What was she going to say? She considered hanging up, but shook her head.

“Can I help you?” the voice said.

“Umm, yeah, yes.” Kaylee squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Yes, sorry. I’m looking for someone who may have known a teacher that worked there ten years ago or longer.”

“And what is the reason you are seeking this information?”

Crap. She should have thought this through before calling. Truth or lie? Truth. Mostly. She was sure Mama C didn’t want anyone from her past knowing where she was, so she just wouldn’t mention Denver. “I’m a psychology student and I’m doing my thesis about different ways people handle tragedy. I just need some information about a fire that happened about ten years ago.”

“And…” Suspicion crept into her voice. “This teacher’s name is?”

“Mama…I mean, Claire. Claire Watson.”

“I knew Mrs. Watson, but you’ll never be able to find her by talking to anyone here. Her friends have been trying to track her down for a decade. Either she’s dead, or she doesn’t want to be found.”

Kaylee swallowed. “That’s unfortunate. But I’d still like to talk to some of her past coworkers. Get a feel for what she was like before and after the, uh, fire.”

“I don’t think you’re going to get anyone to talk to you. Mrs. Watson was a private woman before and a recluse after. Her friends will want to protect her privacy.”

Yep, that was the Mama C she knew. “Well, could you maybe just ask around? And if anyone consents to talk to me, they can call me?”

“Okay, but I’m telling you the chances are slim to none. What’s your number?” The woman sighed.

Kaylee recited her phone number, then ended the call. She’d give them a couple of days to call back, but if that didn’t happen, she needed another plan. It had suddenly become of utmost importance for her to find out more about Mama C’s past.

Now she needed to decide what to tell Blayne, if anything, about what she’d found out. She was most definitely not going to mention anything to Mama C. That would be a terrible idea.

The winter sun had nearly set by the time Kaylee saw