We Find What Is Lost: A Novel of the Terribly Acronymed Detective Club (Book 1)

Part Two: The Canonisation of Saint Martha; Chapter Ten: Al, Saturday

"The Lovely Lady of Lulu Island," read the banner hanging on the wall opposite the ballroom entrance of the Queensborough Community Centre, above an enlarged photo of her obviously in her final years.

Al looked at his mom. "Is that what everyone called her?" he asked. It sounded too alliterative to be genuine.

She shook her head. "I have no idea. I've never heard it before."

He wondered why she wanted to come today. He couldn't remember her really hanging around Mrs. Anderson when they lived down here, or keeping in touch with her after they moved away. He didn't even know how she found out about today, but to be fair, he hadn't asked her.

Maybe this was just something for her to do. Al wondered how she spent her days. She didn't drive, didn't have many interests outside the home. He looked at her now and wondered when she'd gotten old. She was smaller than him, of course, had been since he shot up in his teens. But when had her hair gotten so grey? When had her body begun to curve inward? He felt an overwhelming tenderness for her at that moment, and resolved to call and visit more often.

They entered the room together and marveled at how full it was. There had to be maybe two hundred people here. He recognized the mayor of New Westminster and some city councillors. Against the walls stood tables laid with flowers and balloons, as if this were a happy occasion, and maybe that was what the planners, and maybe even Martha Anderson herself, had intended. A chance to get together and relate fond memories of Queensborough's most beloved resident.

There were finger food platters on the tables too, and punch bowls. Al didn't spot any alcohol. Maybe they didn't get a license for it.

On one wall, a projector showed blown-up images of old photos of Martha and her husband James at various stages of their lives. James must have predeceased her, if the woman had reached a hundred and four. From some of the pictures, Al surmised Martha Anderson had remained in that big old house with the shake siding until the very end.

There were photos of her kissing her husband across the counter at Spagnol's, one leg girlishly curled up behind her; James worked there as a butcher, Al remembered. He smiled at the real romance he saw in that picture; growing up, he never thought of Mrs. Anderson as a woman, necessarily, but as one of the many grown-ups who felt the need to interfere in their hijinks, well-meaning but intrusive.

There were photos of her with Joe's dad, working in her garden. She'd loved her garden, and Al remembered often encountering her there when they were kids and there was something they needed from her.

Then, to his astonishment, there was a photo of her with Rachel, probably taken by James in a candid, tender moment. They were practicing the piano together. Al had never seen that one. He couldn't help smiling. Twelve-year-old Rachel, with rat's nest, dirty blonde hair, pink t-shirt and jean shorts, looking like she would rather be anywhere but in front of a piano.

Then, again, he was amazed to see her standing with the five of them, all young again, on their bikes, grinning like idiots. What were they doing when this picture was taken? Who took it? It didn't matter. Of all the things he'd expected to see at this memorial, these pictures of their childhood weren't among them. It gave him an out-of-body experience. He hadn't given this woman a thought in decades, and among the pictures that had defined her life, pictures selected by friends and fellow community members, there they were. Did that mean they'd been important to her? Al knew Martha and James had been childless, and that there must have been a sad story behind it that none of the grown-ups ever talked about. Had she thought of them like her surrogate children?

The next picture didn't have them in it, and he was relieved. He didn't think he could take it if a whole montage had been devoted to them. He wouldn't have been able to take the guilt of not staying in touch with her. It was all he could do to manage his obligations to his mom.