Page 139 of Dying to Meet You
“She said they didn’t use each other’s last names. That’s why I need everything Tim gave you. Right now, please.”
She gives me an appraising glance before putting down her phone. All I can see is her ceiling, but I hear her clacking away on a keyboard. “What’s your email, Rowan?”
I give her the address, and then there’s more typing.
“Okay, sent.”
Not willing to take her word for it, I find my laptop and open it on the coffee table. Sure enough, I have a new email from Jules Kovak with a lengthy list of names, some with more information than others. “How are these sorted?”
“That’s part of the puzzle,” she says. “Tim held his cards close. He told me almost nothing more than what you see here. But I’ve been searching the shit out of this list since he died, and I have some theories.”
“Let’s hear them.”
“Okay—the first six names? They all come up in old news articles if you google the Magdalene Home for Wayward Girls. The date that’s listed after their names? That’s the date of the article.”
I squint at these names. Each woman’s name—and they’re all women—is followed by a date. LikeMary Donagen, March 17, 1978.
“I’m pretty sure he found those first six names just by googling the maternity home.”
“Only six names, huh?”
“From news articles, yes. And I’ve located only two of these women so far. They’re bolded on the list. The first one is in jail, and the other one won’t talk to me.”
“Hell.” It’s not a lot to go on. “What about all these other names?”
“That’s where you come in. I think the next part of the list is from that ledger you found.”
“The pictures he stole from my phone?”
“He didn’t say where he got them, but you gave me that clue yourself.”
“How nice of me,” I mutter. And when I scan the list, I can see that she’s right. The first name is from 1951, and it’s the same pattern: first initial, last name, and a complete date. Then there are names from the late eighties—which reflects the jump I’d made when photographing the ledger. “Yeah, okay. I think you’re right.”
“There’s something curious about the last four names. A first initial, followed by a last name. No dates at all.”
I scroll down to read the names. “These were from my phone, too. There was a separate page at the end of the ledger.” One of the names stands out.Vespertini. It’s unusual enough that I remember it without consulting that photo on my phone.
“Well, Tim wanted me to focus on those. The weekend before he died, I came up to Portland to see him. And he said something like—‘I know it’s not much to go on, but those last four matter the most.’ ”
“But he didn’t say why?”
She shakes her head. “I wish. But I have a copy of his hard drive. His mom shared it with me. I’ve been looking at any files he downloaded this spring, but there are a lot of them. He was really good at tracing financial stuff.”
“You mentioned that.”
“He’s got a trove of quarterly reports from the Wincott Foundation. Those are public documents. There’s always a section at the back where they disclose payments over twenty grand. But there are hundreds of them over the years. The foundation gives out a lot of grants.”
“And...”
“Tim also saved a flyer from a 2011 choir concert at the University of Maine. The name Vespertini was underlined on it. I cross-checked, and in 2011, the Wincott Foundation paid the University of Maine $22,700, which was exactly the in-state cost of tuition, plus room and board.”
“I’m not following,” I say slowly. “2011 wasn’t very long ago.”
“Exactly,” she says, propping her face into her hand. “I think the foundation was still paying off some of the people who lived or worked at the maternity home. And that’s what Tim was chasing.”
“And you think they were paying off—specifically—the four names at the end of the list?”
“That’s my theory,” she says. “I’ll bet you a stiff drink that he had a special obligation to these four. Riddle me this—whose college tuition do you trouble yourself to pay even after your death?”
