by P. L. Gaus
She popped the zipper of her coat up to the top and pulled her hood over her head. From the trunk of her car, she retrieved the things she had gathered from Martha’s room, and closed the lid. Sliding her boots through the snow, she followed the path made earlier to the side door of the Victorian house, and inside, she stomped her feet to knock off snow and ice.
On the second floor, she pushed through the door into Evelyn Carson’s office, her arms wrapped around the well-stuffed travel bag, Martha’s bucket of toiletries, the camera bag, and a now-wrinkled photograph of a smiling Amish man. She dropped the load on an overstuffed chair and pulled the used pregnancy tester out of her coat pocket. This she placed on top of the pile, noting that Martha’s eyes had picked it up immediately.
Evelyn Carson came out of the small office bathroom drying her hands. She saw Caroline, tipped her head toward Martha, and said, “I’ve got her cleaned up, but she still hasn’t said anything.”
“Where’s her apron?” Caroline asked, keeping her gaze fixed on Martha.
“In the bathroom, here. Haven’t dealt with it. I’ve been trying to talk with Martha, but it’s like before. She hears and knows almost everything, but won’t respond.”
“Not even with her eyes?”
“They track, and the pupils are normal, but they don’t register any response to what I say.”
“She’s afraid to talk?”
“Not quite.”
“That’s how she was back then.”
“That’s only partly true. But, today, she seems resolved not to talk. It’s not so much a clinical muteness as a willful one. It was like that then, too, only to a lesser extent because she was so young.”
“You think she can talk, but chooses not to?” Caroline asked. She took a seat beside Martha and held one of her hands.
Evelyn Carson sat down on the other side of the girl. “She always could talk, Caroline, even then. But like then, I suspect, she has compelling reasons not to talk, now.”
“We’ve got to figure out why, if we’re to help her,” Caroline said. “Martha, tell us what has happened.”
Martha did not turn to Caroline. She stiffened slightly, eyes locked straight ahead. She closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and opened her eyes. Slowly, she shook her head side to side, shut her eyes, and this time squeezed them tight.
Caroline looked past Martha to Evelyn and nodded toward the bathroom door. The two got up and opened the door to the bathroom, stepping in. On the back of the door, Dr. Carson showed Caroline where she had hung Martha’s stained apron. Then she said, “I checked her car when you were gone.”
“Evelyn! We shouldn’t be leaving her alone.”
“She’s not going anywhere. She isn’t running from anything, Caroline. It’s like before. If she wanted to run away, she wouldn’t have come here at all. No. She’s protecting someone. There’s a reason for her silence, just as there was years ago. She was protecting her younger siblings, then. It was self-sacrificial. It could very well be the same thing, now—protecting herself, or someone else.”
“She knows we’ll have to turn this apron over to Bruce Robertson, if it figures into his investigation.”
“There’s blood in her Lexus, too,” Carson said.
“It’s Sonny Favor’s Lexus.”
“Well, there is blood in the car. On the steering wheel and on the door handles.”
“This could mean anything, Evelyn.”
“It could mean the most obvious of things. Prepare yourself for the worst,” Evelyn said. “Have you spoken with your husband again?”
“His cell is off.”
“Great.”
“I know. We could call the Favor residence and ask for him.”
“If we tell him anything, then he is obliged to report that, right?”
“Yes,” Caroline said, following the doctor’s train of thought. “OK. Maybe he has done that on purpose, then—switching his phone off.”
Evelyn agreed. “The longer he gives us with her, the better it’ll be right now. Let’s get what we can from her and wait for him to call you.”
Caroline pulled strands of her long auburn hair around in front and fiddled with the ends, leaning back against the bathroom sink. Evelyn Carson had been her friend for nearly ten years, Caroline and Mike having helped Martha Lehman when the young teenager had been Evelyn’s patient. And the Brandens had seen to Martha’s education when she had started college. Now the psychiatrist studied Caroline’s eyes and read both present concern and past tragedy, a child in jeopardy being the one thing, she realized, that still could call Caroline’s deep faith into question. But where despair might rule, Cal Troyer had taught Caroline to pray, and Evelyn Carson knew that Caroline would again muster unshakable resolve and relentless passion to the cause of Martha Lehman.
Caroline stirred from inward thoughts and said, “I can think of two things to try. Long shots, both, but worth a try.”
Back in the office, Caroline took the half-used pregnancy test kit over to Martha and held out the used stick. Then she took out the second tester and handed it to Martha.
Slowly, Martha reached out for the tester and took it in the fingers of both hands. She looked up, first to her psychiatrist and then to Caroline, and sighed. Getting up slowly, she walked to the bathroom, closed the door, and came out some moments later, holding the tester horizontally in front of her. She seemed to stall just outside the bathroom door, and appeared likely to faint. The two women rushed up to her, and each took hold of an arm. With her free hand, Caroline pushed Martha’s things out of the chair, and the photograph of the young Amish man caught the air and landed face-up on the carpet several feet from Martha. They eased her down into the plush chair, and Evelyn took possession of the tester. She looked at it, handed it to Caroline, and Caroline confirmed the positive result with a nod. Together, they guided Martha out of the chair and sat her down between them, once again on the sofa.
“How long have you known?” Caroline asked Martha.
Martha said nothing. Two days, she thought. Two days, and the world is upside down. How could She have known? White trash? How could She have said that? All ruined for Sonny. Maybe not, I don’t know. What has he done? Will they tell him about me? I almost hope they do.
“Who knows besides us?” Caroline asked.
Maybe I was always trash. Why else the affair with Royce? No good, backwards, Amish trash. His mother was right. Dead.
“Martha, have you told anyone?” Evelyn pushed.
There was a barely perceptible movement of Martha’s head from side to side. No one knows.
“Is it Sonny Favor?” Carson asked.
Sonny Favor. Fallen.
Caroline knelt on the carpet and retrieved the photograph she had found hanging in Martha’s room. She held it up for Martha and Evelyn Carson to see. “Martha,” Caroline said. “It’s not him, is it?”
Martha took the photograph tenderly and smoothed the creases, as tears spilled from her eyes.
Dr. Carson said, “You need to tell us, Martha. Have you been seeing Ben Schlabaugh again?”
But Martha dropped the photograph and buried her face in her hands. A torrent of emotions washed through her, and she seized on the memory of a poem she had written in the sixth grade with Dr. Carson’s help.
There you are, Dread and Silence;
Twin companions, true.
From this pit I must escape
The shadows—clutching shades of blue.
17
Saturday, November 2 9:45 A.M.
CAPTAIN Newell waited in the butler’s room until the sheriff was finished with Professor Dick Pomeroy and then summoned Robertson through the swinging doors. Robertson pushed through the doors thinking about his conversation with the chemist and saw that Daniel Bliss was no longer with Newell. The muscular captain stood at the sink, wearing latex gloves and holding a green crystal pitcher. “Juliet Favor had her own special pitcher last night,” he said.
Robertson glanced at the
pitcher and said, “Dick Pomeroy? The chemistry professor? Now there’s an interesting fellow.”
Newell watched Robertson park his backside on Bliss’s desk and said, “Bruce, the pitcher.”
Robertson stirred from his thoughts and said, “Sorry, Bobby.”
“Juliet Favor reserved this pitcher to herself all last night.”
“You got that from Bliss?”
“Only partly. In truth, I got very little from him at all. With his mother dead, ‘Mister Sonny Favor’ is in charge of everything, as far as Bliss is concerned. He made that point very evident.”
“What about his sister? She’s older than him.”
“Bliss wouldn’t say.”
“Man’s startin’ to annoy me,” Robertson said, and turned for the door to the kitchen.
Newell held out his hand and said, “Whoa, Cowboy. You need to hear this.”
Robertson stopped, retreated to the desk, and sat back down.
“This is Juliet Favor’s private pitcher,” Newell said with emphasis. “As soon as I asked about it, Bliss dumped the contents into that sink in the wet bar.”
Robertson straightened up and waved Newell ahead.
“I’ve taken it from him for testing. Fingerprints and residue. I’ve also alerted one of Taggert’s assistants to collect the contents of the trap below that sink.”
“You say Bliss dumped it out? Was that casual or intentional?”
“He dumped it out just as soon as I took an interest in it.”
“Where did you find it?”
“There were two pitchers sitting here from last night. This one, Favor’s personal green Tiffany pitcher, and,” Newell pointed to a clear crystal pitcher beside the sink, “this other one containing martinis, according to Bliss.”
Robertson noted about an inch of colorless liquid in the clear pitcher and asked, “Bliss didn’t have a wild hair to dump that one out, too?”
“Just the green one. The one only Juliet Favor used.”
Robertson tented his fingers in front of his lips and thought. After a moment, he asked, “What’s in the clear one?”
“I’m having it analyzed, too, but that one smells like stale martinis.”
“Somebody told me earlier that Favor served martinis before dinner,” Robertson said.
“Right. And she gave the appearance of drinking right along with everyone else. But Bliss claims that the only thing in her pitcher was ice water.”
“A teetotaler?”
“He claims alcohol worsened her headaches.”
“So, she served everybody martinis last night and drank water herself.”
“Apparently.”
“I wonder how many people knew that?” Robertson said.
“Bliss did, for sure.”
“So why did Bliss dump it out?”
“Beats me. But if she took a spill on that marble floor, being drugged from her water pitcher would have made that easier for someone.”
Robertson nodded agreement. “Let’s wait to see what Missy can tell us about it.”
“Do you buy that about the headaches?”
“I reckon so,” Robertson said. “I was just talking to Pomeroy, and he confirms what Mike Branden said earlier. Professor Pomeroy came to bring her some headache medicine before dinner last night. He got here early, and Bliss let him set up his laptop in the library for an hour or so before dinner.”
“What’s your take on the butler?”
“Bliss evidently knows something about the resolution of Favor’s estate. Did he tell you anything?”
“Nothing. I asked him a dozen questions if I asked him one, and got nothing from him.”
“The Loyal Butler.”
“I’ll say. If you were to get it from Bliss, you’d think Favor died peacefully, of natural causes.”
“Except for that ugly gash at the back of her head,” Robertson said sarcastically.
“Have you got anything from Missy Taggert yet?” Newell asked.
“She’s still upstairs, so far as I know.”
“Well, I’ll get this pitcher to her.”
“Right. But Bobby, why is Bliss so protective of the children?”
“Maybe he thinks one of them did her in.”
“Could be.”
“Or maybe he did her, himself.”
“He’s precise, Bobby. Very precise and extremely careful.”
“You think he killed her?”
“If he did, I doubt he’ll have made any mistakes.”
Newell eyed the green pitcher and said, “Maybe one tiny mistake, Sheriff. By reflex. One impulsive turn of the wrist.”
“If he did,” Robertson said, “he’ll have figured out a plausible explanation for it by now.”
18
Saturday, November 2 9:45 A.M.
PROFESSOR Branden got his coat from the chair in the foyer and exited past Niell to the front porch. The cold, dry snow crunched with resonating tones under his boots as he descended the wooden steps. In bright sun on the parking oval in front of the mansion, he slipped his arms into his green and tan parka and zipped it up halfway. With the sun warm on his face, he did not pull up his hood. He fished his cell phone out of a coat pocket and dialed Evelyn Carson’s office. Dr. Carson answered.
“It’s Mike,” he said.
“We knew you would call, eventually. You’ll appreciate, I am sure, that it would be a somewhat delicate matter for me to answer certain specific questions about my patient.”
“In addition to confidences that a physician would keep,” Branden said, “there are, equally, certain questions that I myself would just as soon not have answered at the moment.”
“Understood,” Carson said. “Here’s Caroline.”
Branden waited for his wife to answer and then said, “Hold on a moment, I’ve got company.” He pushed mute.
Captain Dan Wilsher approached, ahead of a line of deputies, on the long front drive. The men were spread out, eyes scanning the snow cover as they walked. Wilsher came up to Branden and said, “We’re looking for tracks, bloodstains, whatever we might find.” He had his hands tucked under his arms to warm them.
Branden asked, “Bruce thinks you’ll find bloody rags, that sort of thing?”
“Yes,” Wilsher said skeptically. “We’ve been all through the house and found nothing. Appears there’ll be nothing out here, too. Robertson thinks Juliet Favor died when her head hit the marble floor of the foyer, and then someone cleaned up a lot of blood. Trouble is, there isn’t any blood. None, at least, that we’ve been able to find.”
“You’ve tried all the obvious places? Sinks, bathrooms, kitchen, laundry?”
“Right, but we came up with nothing.”
Branden cast his gaze around at the smooth snow where they stood and said, “The butler has plowed out here at least once this morning that I know of.”
“I know. All the old tracks are gone.”
“Blood from last night could still be packed in with the snowbanks,” Branden offered.
“Oh, great, Mike,” Wilsher said. From his expression, it was clear that Wilsher did not relish having to shovel through the snow.
Wilsher took off his gloves and blew into his cupped hands. “At least, if it stays cold,” he said, “the snow won’t melt before we get through it all.”
Branden said, “Probably wouldn’t be worth the time, Dan,” and Wilsher grunted displeasure.
“Where’s Bruce?” Branden asked.
“He’s out back with Bliss and DiSalvo. There’s evidently a problem with searching the butler’s residence.”
Branden nodded and held up his cell phone.
Wilsher said, “Right, I won’t keep you,” and walked off with his men.
Branden squinted at the morning sun, turned his back to it, and took his phone off mute. To Caroline he said, “Is Martha still there?”
“Yes, we’ve got her cleaned up a bit, but it wasn’t her blood.”
“I had assumed she got hurt in a car crash,�
� the professor replied.
“No. There’s blood on her apron and on her hands, but she’s not hurt. No cuts or scratches.”
Branden hesitated, thought. Eventually, he said, “We’re looking for blood evidence out here, Caroline. Juliet Favor has a crack in her skull. That’s likely how she died.”
“You can’t think Martha would have done that!”
“Not for a minute. But I’ve got to tell Bruce about this. Got to tell everyone, Caroline. We’re going to have deputies shoveling through snow looking for bloody clothes.”
“Wouldn’t they have to do that anyway?”
“I suppose. Maybe not. I’m not sure.”
“There could be blood somewhere else, too, Michael. I mean, Martha’s not necessarily the only one who’s got blood on her.”
“Sure. We’ll look out here. But I’ve still go to report this.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“You’ve got to keep Martha there.”
“The only thing I have to do is keep Martha safe.”
“Caroline.”
“She didn’t do this, Michael.”
“OK. I’m not arguing the point. You keep her with you. I’ll handle things out here.”
“What do you want me to do with her apron?”
“We can’t tamper with evidence.”
“I know, but I have a clean change of clothes for her, and maybe I could bag the clothes she’s wearing.”
“Where’d you get the clean clothes?”
“Went back to her room at the college.”
“You don’t sound too happy about that.”
“She’s got recent pictures of Ben Schlabaugh on her wall.”
Branden didn’t reply.
“Michael?”
“Did she say why?”
“Still isn’t talking.”
“What does Evelyn say?”
“She thinks Martha chooses not to speak because she’s protecting someone.”
Branden thought.
“Michael?”
“This is going to be a bit tricky, Caroline.”
“You can’t think Martha killed her!”
“Of course not. But would you have predicted she’d get in touch with Ben Schlabaugh? With any Schlabaugh?”
