by AR Simmons
“Why not?”
“It’s not good for you.”
“You’ve been talking to that psychiatrist again,” he said in irritation.
“I wouldn’t do that without talking to you first. Besides, I would have you talk to her.” she touched his arm gently before continuing. “You remember what she told us.”
“Yeah. Avoid stressful situations. Well, stressful situations are part of life. You avoid them by being dead.”
“But this isn’t part of your life. You don’t have to do this.”
“It’s part of my life now. I didn’t go looking for it, but … Molly needs me. She’s depending on me, and it’s too late to back out. I know you think I’m weak and fragile, but for the first time since … what happened, I don’t feel that way.”
“The doctor said that your post-traumatic stress and the depression would do that. Remember? We need to avoid the violent ups and downs. Until you heal, you need to keep things … steadier.”
“Life has ups and downs, Jill. I’m fine. Besides, I don’t believe all that crap. People never had post-traumatic stress until some psychiatrist wrote a paper about it.”
“Of course they did. If you won’t think of yourself, then think of me. I won’t be able to take it if—”
“If what?”
“Oh, Richard,” she said miserably. “Look at the way I found you when I got back. I don’t … It scared me, Richard. It really scared me.”
He had been trying to come to terms with it himself. The blackness that had wrapped around him when she went to France had been as incomprehensible to him at the time as it had been irresistible.
“As long as you’re with me, I’ll be fine,” he said sincerely. “I’m just nothing without you.”
She blinked at him the way she did when she was about to say something she knew he wouldn’t like. “Promise me that when it’s over, you won’t do this again.”
“Do what again?”
“Police work,” she said. “You know that’s over for you.”
“I know. Don’t worry.”
“Promise,” she persisted.
He nodded. A wordless assent seemed less a lie than saying it aloud.
Chapter 3
September 5
After Jill left for the college, Richard constructed a second database to fill with information on Molly’s acquaintances. He intended to begin with her family and then work outward in widening circles of association. In the absence of a lead, a good start would be to collect as much detailed information as possible.
At nine, Molly knocked at the back door.
“You wanted to talk about what I done that night?” she said by way of greeting when he opened the door.
“Well, you were pretty clear,” he said, squinting at the pad. “Especially about the times. How sure are you about that?”
“Getting to work and leaving, real sure. I like getting to work on time. Bosses give you enough trouble without you making them mad. It’s their money you’re getting, ain’t it.”
“Okay. And the phone call times? Are you as certain about those?”
“They’re pretty right, because I only call on break.”
Richard had suspected her time notations had been estimates. It surprised him that the same woman who was now unemployed and drifting into alcoholism could have been so meticulous.
“Molly, could we go over to your house and walk through what happened that night?”
“You mean like actually go through all of it, or just tell you about it.”
“Let’s act it out—that is, if you’re up to it.”
“I can do that, Mr. Carter. I go through it every day.”
“All right,” he said, picking up his crutches. “Let’s start with you coming home that night and go from there.”
They began at the car.
“I missed this railing and stumbled,” she said as they got to the porch. “I didn’t think I was drunk, but maybe I was. I busted one of my ribs. Adams was all over that—thought that me and some man had a fight and did something to Mancie. Anyway, after I picked myself up, I started to get out my key, but Katie must have heard me fall because she opened the door and let me in.”
Molly opened the door, and they went in.
“Did she say anything to you?”
“She was probably mad that I was late, but I don’t remember her saying nothing. She should have, but Katie don’t do that.”
She frowned in concentration.
“This is one of the parts that ain’t too clear. I remember looking in on Mancie. And I remember seeing her laying on the bed. After Pat cleared his crap out of here, I set up the little bedroom for her. I read about how babies ain’t supposed sleep in the bed with their parents on account of it increases the risk of crib death.”
She snorted. “You’re probably thinking, ‘Yeah, especially if their momma comes to bed drunk.’ I didn’t usually do that, Mr. Carter. I don’t know why I done it that night. I didn’t mean to drink that much.”
He noticed a crib against the back wall of the living room.
“Show me where you saw your daughter when you first came in,” he said.
She led him down the hall toward an open bathroom. One the left just before it was a tiny bedroom, obviously the nursery. A small single bed was made up with large throw pillows lining each side.
“I put Mancie in the middle there,” she said. “It ain’t as good as a crib, but she couldn’t fall off. I was going to get me a crib when I got the money.”
“Why didn’t you use the one in the front room? You could have moved it in by your bed, couldn’t you?”
“The railing’s broke. The only way it will stay up is if you put something under it like them books that’s under it now. It fell once and pinched her arm real bad. I didn’t like to use it at all.”
“And you’re sure she was in here when you got home?”
“I seen her on the bed. Everything about that night is running together like some kind of a dream, especially later on—but I saw her when I come home. I know I did.”
“Okay. Then what?”
“Katie went home, and I went to bed. When I got up later, I saw that I forgot to put the security chain on when she left. Katie always locks the door when she leaves, and I always latch the chain, but it was off when I was looking for Mancie later.”
Molly trailed off with a far away stare as she remembered the night.
“Okay,” he prompted. “What happened next? What do you remember doing after she left?”
“Nothing. I just went in and laid down. I didn’t even change for bed. The next thing I remember is waking up with this stabbing pain in my side—busted ribs, I think.”
Across the hall was a slightly larger bedroom. “This is where you were sleeping?”
Molly nodded mutely.
“I remember rolling over and this pain shot through me. And I had to go, but I couldn’t hardly make it to the bathroom because breathing hurt, and … like I told you, I was drunk. I was feeling sorry for myself because of all the stuff that had happened—Pat leaving me and all.”
She drew a loud breath.
“I didn’t know nothing,” she said ruefully. “I’d do anything to go back to the way it was then. Pat could treat me like crap, and run around with as many girls as he wanted to if I could just have my baby with me.”
“You were telling me what you remembered about that night,” Richard prompted gently.
“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s see. On the way back to bed here, I stopped by Mancie’s room. I didn’t want to wake her up, so I just listened for the sound of her breathing. I didn’t hear nothing. I turned on the light. She wasn’t there.”
“Do you remember what the bed looked like?”
“Just … she wasn’t there. So I went to the living room to look for her there. No. Wait. I took a blanket off the bed for her—I don’t guess that’s important though. She wasn’t in the crib or anywhere. I run back here and looked under the
bed, but she was just gone.”
“I know it’s hard, but walk me through it. Show me where you went.” said Richard. “You found the bed empty so you took a blanket from it and went into the living room.”
“Yes,” she said, going to the front of the house.
“I looked in the crib here, on the floor behind the chair there, and then I run back into the bedroom again. Then I guess I just lost it because I don’t remember anything until they handcuffed me. I remember how much it hurt … my ribs, not my wrists. They throwed me in the back of a police car and just left me there. I guess they was looking for Mancie.”
“Let’s go back a minute. When did you notice that the security chain was unlatched?”
Molly squinted in concentration.
“I don’t remember. Maybe when I was looking for Mancie. Or maybe when I went outside.”
“So you do remember running outside?”
“That’s where I was when the police came, but it ain’t clear.”
They went back to Richard’s house and sat on the porch. “Molly, tell me about Kirk Tinsley.”
“He’s just a guy,” she said, shrugging her thin shoulders.
“Are you still involved with him?”
“I never was. I just seen him that one night.”
Richard frowned, trying to reconcile her statement with what he thought he knew about her. How does a single mother whose whole life revolves around her baby go to a virtual stranger’s apartment at one in the morning when she should go home to her child?
“That’s what they call a ‘euphemism,’ ain’t it? Miss Brown taught us about that in English when I was in high school. I done more than just see him.”
She looked away before continuing.
“I actually saw Kirk in the bar a bunch of times. Him and his buddies were regulars. That night he come up to talk before I went on shift. He hung around all night, and I’d catch him looking at me every once in a while. He was waiting outside when I got off, and he was nice. So I went with him.”
“What else do you know about him?”
“Not much.”
“Okay. What did you talk about?”
“Nothing important. He was trying to pick me up. I knew that right off. And I guess that was okay with me.”
She looked at him now, her expression unexpectedly challenging, as if to tell him he had no right to judge what she had done.
“I’ll need to talk to him,” he said. “How do you think he’ll react?”
“I don’t know him good enough to tell you that.”
“Have you seen him since?”
“I never even talked to him again. I ain’t been back to the ‘Honeycomb.’”
He would have to talk to Tinsley, but he was more interested in the only person besides Molly known who had seen the baby that night.
“I need to talk to your babysitter,” he said. “You say she’s shy with strangers. Could you drive me over and introduce us?”
“I guess.”
“Okay,” he said, getting up onto his crutches. “I’ll need to shave first. While I’m doing that, I want you to write down a complete list of all your family, friends, and people you worked with, and where they live.”
“All of them? Why?”
“It’s the way it’s done, Molly. I need to find out as much as I can about everyone who had anything to do with you and your daughter.”
“That cop never done nothing like that.”
“He probably did. Maybe he just didn’t ask you about them?”
“He asked me plenty,” she said bitterly. “He asked me about Kirk, and then he asked me about my other boyfriends. He said it real snotty, like I was a whore or something.”
Her emaciation suggested that perhaps she did have a habit that could eat up three sources of income. Amphetamines would provide the stamina for it. He could imagine the self-sustaining cycle getting started that way. For the first time, he wondered if Molly had accidentally killed her child in a drug-induced rage. The problem with that scenario was that she wouldn’t have had the time or the clarity of thought to dispose of the body before the police got there—unless she had help.
“If it was some stranger, you probably won’t find nothing, will you?”
“Not necessarily. Maybe someone will remember seeing something or someone suspicious,” he said over his shoulder as he went into the house. “You can wait here if you want. It won’t take me long to shave.”
•••
Molly’s car, a gray-green Hyundai of indeterminate but advanced age, sported one blue quarter panel of approximately the same hue as the cloud of oil smoke that belched forth when she started it. As she pulled onto the street, Richard’s knee bumped against the glove box, causing it to pop open and spilling its contents onto the floor. He picked up a pair of baby booties with the tiny strings tied together in a double bow. Molly looked straight ahead, pretending not to notice as he put them back inside and closed the door.
“Katie’s afraid of talking to you, but she agreed to do it since you’re helping me find Mancie.”
Richard knew firsthand how uncomfortable police questioning could be, and although he wasn’t a policeman, his questioning would be a near equivalent. A person such as Molly described Katie as being might well be frightened when asked about the disappearance of a child left in her care.
“I’ll try to set her at ease,” he said as he read over the list of acquaintances Molly had jotted onto the legal pad. “Tell me about your ex.”
“He’s a handsome, spoiled brat who couldn’t handle having a family to take care of,” she said quickly. “Everything was good until I got pregnant. Then he lost interest in me. He called me ‘fat.’ I thought he was like joking or something, but he wasn’t. Then he started staying out. I don’t think he had any one girl he was seeing, but he was getting … what he wanted.
“After I had Mancie, he acted like a proud daddy for a little bit, then not so much. I thought at first it was because he wanted a boy, but I was wrong. Pat didn’t want no child at all.”
She stared straight ahead grimly. “I’m glad he’s gone,” she said. “We don’t … we didn’t need him.”
“Where does he live?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care anymore. He works construction. He’s on the road a lot.” she sniffed loudly. “There’s a picture of him in the glove compartment with Mancie’s slippers … if you’re interested.”
Richard took out a framed picture, a four by six suitable for a desktop. It was “discount store professional,” a smiling young couple. Molly, looking ten years younger, leaned affectionately into the right shoulder of a smooth-faced man with sun-bleached blond hair, startlingly blue eyes, and the sort of confidently posed smile one might see in an underwear ad. He took a closer look at Molly, shocked at the before-and-after. Her face was full, her complexion clear, and her smile dazzling.
“When was this taken?” he asked.
“Last year, right after I found out I was carrying Mancie. I hadn’t told Pat yet.”
You hadn’t told him. So maybe things weren’t all that fine for the two of you before you got pregnant, he thought.
“What did he say when the police questioned him?”
“I don’t know. They didn’t tell me nothing.”
Molly turned onto a short street that dead-ended abruptly at the edge of a brushy field. Halfway down the block she parked on the street behind a bright blue Neon sitting before a small, neat house with white vinyl siding and an unadorned but closely mown lawn. As they got out, Richard noticed a curtain move at the front window. The door opened as soon as Molly knocked.
“Katie,” she said. “This is Mr. Carter, the man I told you about.”
Katie gave a quick, short nod. “Pleased to meet you,” she mumbled, her eyes meeting his momentarily before flitting away.
Instead of offering her hand, she crossed her arms and massaged her plump forearms nervously.
“I’m pleased the meet you too,
Katie,” he said softly.
The fidgety woman was dressed conservatively, had longish, poorly-styled, brown hair, and a fleshy, long face devoid of discernable makeup. The word “dowdy” came to his mind, although she was too young for that description.
“This is the man who’s helping me find out what happened to Mancie,” said Molly.
“It’s terrible,” stammered Katie. “I made tea. Want some?”
Richard realized that Katie was probably mildly retarded.
“That would be really nice,” he said.
Katie hesitated, and then turned abruptly to lead the way into the kitchen.
“Come on,” said Molly. “Katie only eats and drinks in the kitchen.” she spoke loudly for Katie’s benefit, the way adults do when trying to encourage children. “Isn’t her house real pretty?”
“It really is,” replied Richard with overstressed and ingenuous enthusiasm.
He winced at his condescending tone and vowed to ratchet it down. Perhaps tidy was a better term than pretty. Everything was squared away and clean, ready for inspection more than for photographers. The walls were hung with cheap prints of idyllic landscapes that he thought might have come from a nineteenth century artist of lesser talent than Constable. The only clutter was an assemblage of portraits crowding a bureau against one wall, and a bric-a-brac case arranged with porcelain and glass cats in various states of suspended animation. It was a grandmother’s house.
He stopped to examine the pictures on the bureau, picking up a portrait of a professionally posed and rather attractive woman.
“Are these pictures of your family?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Katie, reappearing in the doorway. “That’s Daddy and my mom in the middle, and Grandpa Nash and Grandma Nash in the back at the left, and Grandpa and Grandma Williams over there to the right.”
Talking about family seemed to make her more comfortable than the requirements of introduction.
“That’s my little sister, Doris,” she said with obvious pride.
Richard replaced the picture in its spot.
“In front there is her husband, Jerry. Doris and Jerry are going to have a baby around Christmas. That other one is Bobby, Jerry’s brother. It’s not a too good though. He’s a lot nicer looking than that.”
