Redemption

by Nancy Geary

Frances stepped inside and scanned the disarray. There was no sign of Hope. She moved to the dressing table, its surface covered with makeup, hairstyling gels and creams, a brush, and several pairs of earrings. Instinctively, she reached down to right the overturned stool. As she did, she caught sight of a white plastic bottle-cap with a safety guard rim and several small pills lying on the floor. Her heartbeat quickened. “Hope!” she called, even though she knew there would be no reply. “Hope!”

  She opened a door and looked into the adjacent bathroom. Aside from a pile of towels on the floor, it appeared clean and orderly. A narrow closet held rows of perfectly folded sweaters and racks of shoes arranged in matching pairs. Glancing once more around the bedroom, she noticed another door and pulled it open.

  She gasped as she nearly walked into the shantung-wrapped torso. Frances felt her knees collapse, and she grabbed the door frame. Dressed in her white gown, Hope hung from a noose secured to the light fixture, an electric candle encased in a pewter ring. Her hair partially covered her face, her head was tilted to one side, and her tongue hung out of her mouth. Satin-slippered feet turned pigeon-toed and rolled at the ankles moved slightly as her body swayed.

  A surge of adrenaline spurred Frances to movement. She grabbed a side chair and climbed up to try to dislodge the rope, but it was surprisingly smooth and slipped from her grasp several times. Frustrated, she wrapped one arm around Hope’s slender body and elevated the weight to allow some slack. With her free hand, she struggled to release the noose. She pulled the rope over the back of Hope’s head, desperately wishing her cousin would cry out in pain or respond; but Hope remained limp, silent. “Oh God!” she heard herself exclaim, but her voice seemed disconnected, an echo from someplace far away. Again she tried to pry the knot loose.

  Frances heard a crash. Hope’s body crumpled in a heap, followed by a smattering of plaster as the light fixture came out of the ceiling. She jumped off her chair and reached for Hope’s wrist, knowing that it would be exactly as she feared: cold. The pulse was gone.

  She looked up at the gaping hole, then at the exposed wire, the still body, the folds of white fabric and tulle petticoat, the thin, silk-stockinged legs, curled hair, and delicate face unrecognizably mangled by the destruction of her death. Frances felt tears burn in her eyes and covered her face in her hands. What had happened? How come nobody realized, nobody saw, Hope’s agony?

  The crowd had grown restless, obviously confused by the delay exceeding ninety minutes. After Adelaide had left the church, several guests had risen from their pews and mingled in the entrance or just outside, reluctant to wander too far, but impatient all the same. However, whatever irritation had been brewing at the wedding’s tardiness quickly dissolved when a uniformed policeman appeared. Removing his cap, he made his way down the aisle with a brisk pace and long strides, identified himself to Fiona Cabot, and invited her to follow him. Sam could see the young officer’s hands shaking as he waited for her to rise. Whatever duty he’d been given was not one he relished.

  Once they were out of sight, the buzz of whispers quickly filled the hallowed space. What was wrong? What had happened that required law enforcement? Moments later, Father Whitney stood in front of the altar, facing the congregation. He rocked slightly from side to side. His eyes were bloodshot, his face puffy, and he clasped his hands together so tightly that his knuckles were white. As startled by the priest’s demeanor as he was by the policeman’s appearance, Sam looked over his shoulder, searching the church for any sign of Frances, but she was nowhere in sight.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Father Whitney began. His voice trembled. He cleared his throat and repeated, slightly louder, “Ladies and gentlemen.” Silence fell over the audience. “In my seventeen years in ministry, this is the saddest day of my life. I must inform you that Hope Lawrence is no longer with us. We pray for her soul.”

  Somebody screamed. Gasps, sobs, and other sounds of astonishment instantly filled the church. Sam could hear a buzz of voices, a mixture of alarm and tears. Several people got up from their seats and went running down the aisle. He stood, too, an almost spontaneous movement, and swiveled in his spot, not knowing where to go or what to do. Where was Frances? He scanned the crowd for someone he knew, but the faces were a blur of unfamiliar features.

  Next to him, Penelope flopped forward and covered her face with her hands. Instinctively, he reached over and rubbed her back, but when he tried to say something, no words came out. What was going on? How could this be happening?

  He turned back toward the reverend, hoping for some direction.

  “Adelaide and Bill Lawrence have asked me to refrain from discussing further details at this time and, instead, to lead us in a moment of prayer for Hope. We pray too for her family, as well as what should have been her future, the Cabot family. The Lawrences invite you back to the house for a brief reception. They feel that at this time of terrible tragedy, you may want to stay together for comfort.” Father Whitney looked away and rubbed his eyes. “Let us pray.”

  Much to Sam’s surprise, the audience actually appeared to follow directions, positioning themselves on the needlepoint cushions that were available under the pews. Robotically, he too slid out a black rectangular cushion embroidered with a red cross and knelt awkwardly. He steepled his fingers and rested his forehead on his thumbs.

  “Oh God, whose mercies cannot be numbered: Accept our prayers on behalf of your servant Hope Alexandra Lawrence, and grant her an entrance into the land of light and joy, in the fellowship of your saints; through Jesus Christ our Lord…”

  Sam couldn’t listen to the words. The entire scene felt surreal. That a young bride was dead on her wedding day as hundreds waited to witness her special event seemed incredulous. Equally bizarre was that her parents actually expected people to return to the house for a reception. What did they plan to do? Precut the wedding cake and serve it with coffee?

  Frances had told him several times about the emphasis her family placed on maintaining composure. She’d relayed stories about being injured as a child and having her father tell her that her skinned knee or bruised elbow didn’t really hurt, that she shouldn’t cry. She’d been in a swimming race at the age of seven and swallowed so much water that she’d thrown up while her father cheered in delight at her efforts; she’d fallen off a horse and broken her arm, but her father had insisted she jump the fence successfully before going to the hospital. She’d seemed amused as she recounted moments in her life in which anyone else would have collapsed, or even stayed in bed for the day, while she carried on, trying to pretend nothing had happened. Her stoicism was a quality he admired, but he also knew that certain tragedies warranted a display of emotion. That there would be a reception under these circumstances was a morbid elevation of appearance to a loathsome pinnacle. He had to find Frances and take her home.

  Tiny white lights hung from each edge and pole of the enormous tent. Underneath, the crowd hovered on the parquet dance floor, sipping drinks and staring vacantly at the round tables set for ten that formed a barrier to the outside. Although the band had set up, there was no music, just a lone guitar on a stand, several microphones, and a drum set. The only activity seemed to be surrounding the long bars, where guests stood quietly on line and the bow-tied bartenders worked at a feverish pace to keep glasses filled.

  Sam led Frances to the far corner and pulled a white bamboo chair away from an empty table so she could sit. She perched, feeling awkward and unwilling to disturb the elaborate place settings, specially folded napkins, and white boxes monogrammed in gold that each held a champagne truffle. Sam sat beside her, holding his Corona with both hands and sipping occasionally from the long-necked bottle. She knew if this had been the real reception, he would have ordered his beer in a glass, but there were enough pretenses in operation at the moment. She found his ordinary habit comforting.

  Young servers in black pants and starched white shirts passed trays of hors d’oeuvres. At first people seemed unwilling to admit they
wanted food and politely refrained, but as the minutes passed, more and more guests reached for the various canapés, the water chestnuts wrapped in bacon, cherry tomatoes stuffed with crabmeat, and spinach in filo pastry. Several times, Sam offered to get her food, to refill her glass, but she wanted nothing. She had no interest in mingling and needed silence to remind her that Hope’s death was real.

  “I don’t understand this charade,” she said finally, no longer able to contain the confusion she felt. Through the clear plastic sides on the tent, she could see that the driveway was still lined with police cars. Although she’d spoken to the officer in charge when he’d first arrived, the police had little to do once Hope’s body had been removed. She wondered whether they were loitering for a free drink or a handful of bite-size quiche Lorraine.

  “People mourn in different ways. Maybe making small talk about Hope’s wonderful qualities is just a way to deal with the sadness, to process the loss.”

  Frances looked at Sam and raised her eyebrows. Moments earlier, a heavyset woman in an orange suit remarked within earshot as she twirled the link strap of her Chanel bag, “I can’t bear this for Adelaide. How is she ever going to find the courage to leave her house after this?” She’d also overheard a thin man with white hair and a pen in his blazer pocket remark as he stood in line at the bar, “What a dreadful waste of money. Can you imagine?” If these snippets of dialogue were different manifestations of grief, she didn’t want to know.

  “At some level even the strangers here feel so familiar,” she remarked. “I guess because I’ve been around them in some capacity for so long. I remember once during college I went to an opening-night benefit for the New England Horticultural Society at the Expo Center in Boston. It’s one of these deals where various garden clubs, landscape architects, and nurseries put together elaborate displays so that hordes of people get to see beautiful flowers in bloom in the middle of winter. It can be magical. I used to go every year for the smell, the sense of impending spring, and the visual spectacle. Adelaide was on the board for years, and for the kickoff dinner Bill had bought a table. We’d all settled down and wine had been poured and this platinum blonde a few seats from me raises her glass. ‘To the North Shore,’ was her toast. That was it. As if that said it all.”

  “Hmm,” Sam responded. It was his way of showing her he was paying attention, empathizing, when he had nothing verbal to add.

  “I get the same impression now. What are we doing here?” She sipped her drink. “Once when I was at the DA’s office, this cop’s wife died. He showed up the day after and testified at a trial. A cocaine case, I think it was. Everyone was talking about how great he was, how strong he was because he didn’t take off any time to grieve. Why is that a virtue?” She knew her mind was racing, her thoughts a jumble, but she needed to talk.

  Sam finally spoke. “Think of the time we saw that woman outside of Our Lady of Poland crying and screaming. Remember last winter? Who knew what was wrong? She might have lost a family member or she might have just lost a blackout game. But you were shocked at how hysterical she was. It’s not just others who try to cover up, Fanny. It’s us, too.”

  Frances leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder. She knew he was right. She’d spent most of her life trying to keep her feelings in check. She was no different from the hundreds of guests now trying their best to restrain their sorrow. “Why can’t we change, then? What are we all so desperate to hide?” she asked.

  Sam ran his hand along her cheek but said nothing. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her uncle slip through a slit in the plastic siding and head toward the house. “I better go check on everyone,” she said, although the prospect of talking with any members of the Lawrence family at that moment seemed a monumental challenge.

  “I’ll be right here,” Sam said. “Not changing.”

  She smiled. “In your case, that’s good.”

  “It’s out of the question!” She heard Bill’s voice as she ascended the staircase.

  He stood on the landing, leaning against the newel post. Next to him was a broad-shouldered man in a trench coat with his arms crossed over his chest. The tonic he used to hold his black hair slicked in place had a pungent odor that wafted toward her. As Frances approached, both men turned to stare at her.

  “Maybe you can help clear this up,” Bill said without offering an introduction. “I’m being told there has to be an autopsy. But Hope is our daughter, and it should be our decision. Adelaide and I strongly object.”

  “Detective Mickey Fleming. Manchester PD.” The stranger extended his hand. He had an almost nonexistent chin and day-old beard growth. “It’s standard procedure under the circumstances.”

  “What circumstances? Can’t you see what’s happened? There’s nothing to be gained, and I don’t want her disturbed. We’ve been through enough.”

  Frances turned to the detective, anxious to hear a full explanation.

  “I don’t mean to be morbid, and I certainly understand the family’s concern over the sanctity of… of…” He obviously struggled for an appropriate euphemism but found none. Frances nodded to indicate she understood. “Where there are suspicious circumstances, the medical examiner needs to be involved.”

  “Suspicious? Is that all suicides?”

  “No, ma’am, but we’ve made a determination in this case. The deceased was young, healthy, and about to get married. Not a typical suicidal scenario. I’m sorry to say that it’s not a private decision at this point. It’s protocol.”

  “This is outrageous! Leave us alone. There’s nothing suspicious here, and I won’t have you investigating this family.” Bill’s face had turned red. “I won’t allow it. I’m calling a lawyer.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, sir. You’re certainly entitled to do what you need to do, but as I say, this is standard procedure. Again, you have my condolences, Mr. Lawrence.” He headed down the stairs.

  Frances and Bill watched him descend. “Where’s Adelaide?” Frances asked when the detective was gone.

  “In her room. She’s been sedated. There’s a nurse with her.” He rubbed his eyes. “Tell me something,” he said quietly. “What can an autopsy tell them that we don’t already know?”

  “It’ll clarify the cause of death.”

  “There’s nothing to clarify. Hope took her own life. We have to accept that. She should be allowed to rest in peace. I don’t understand how they can proceed without our consent. That detective barges in here and tells us what’s going to happen as if she isn’t our daughter.”

  “Is it possible it wasn’t a suicide?” The question sprang from her prosecutorial mouth before she could contain it. She had no reason to insinuate anything and immediately regretted her inquiry as the color drained from Bill’s face. Why would she ever have had such a thought?

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Nothing. I don’t know why I said that. I was thinking about autopsies in general, how much information you can learn about someone. But it’s not relevant here, so I don’t know what I was thinking,” Frances said, recognizing that her comment had made him visibly agitated. “I’m sorry.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That my question was inappropriate. The last thing I want to do is make this more difficult. So I’m sorry.”

  “No. I mean about learning information.”

  “Oh… no. As I said, it’s not important here.”

  “But what? Tell me.”

  “Really, it has nothing to do with Hope.”

  “Please,” he insisted.

  Frances sighed. “Part of establishing the cause of death is history of the body: its condition, prior injuries, everything from a pierced ear to surgical scars, all the marks that reveal what’s happened to a person over a lifetime.”

  At that moment, Bill lurched forward as if he were about to collapse, and Frances grabbed his arm to support him, realizing immediately that she’d been too graphic. Too many years as a prosecutor had made he
r immune to the impact of gruesome explanations. “I’m so sorry. Let’s get you to a chair.”

  13

  Frances was alert by the second knock on the door of her motel room. She pushed back the floral bedspread and reached for the pashmina she had left in a heap on the floor when she’d hastily undressed the night before. She could see the first light of morning through the partially drawn blinds but knew it couldn’t be later than five.

  “What’s going on?” Sam asked, propping himself up in bed.

  “Someone’s here. I’ll get it.”

  Frances wrapped the shawl around her shoulders, moved to the door and, without removing the latch, opened it partially. In the hallway stood Jack. He still wore his morning suit, but the tail of his shirt hung out of his pants and he’d removed his jacket and tie. His eyes were black as he stared intently at Frances. “I need to talk to you.”

  She hadn’t seen Jack the previous night and assumed he’d gone home immediately after learning of Hope’s death. He’d been wise to avoid the morbid reception. After the police left, she’d sat with her uncle in his library as he’d poured vodka and tonics in quick succession. Perched on an ottoman next to his chair, she’d looked with him at a leather-bound photograph album with gold trim, a snapshot catalog of a family trip to Bermuda. Hope had been twelve, and there was page after page of carefully arranged images of a tanned girl with a huge smile and brightly colored sundresses standing on a beach with the turquoise water behind her. “Wasn’t she beautiful?” Bill kept repeating.

  She’d stayed with him until nearly midnight, listening to him recount stories from Hope’s childhood: her first steps across the magnificent lawn at Smith’s Point, the father-daughter procession at her debutante cotillion, the first time they’d waltzed together at a benefit for the Brigham and Women’s Hospital held in the grand ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, a bicycle trip into town on her eighth birthday for a double scoop of rocky road ice cream, the hours spent at the Field and Hunt Club, where he threw tennis balls over the net while she attempted to swing a racket nearly as big as she was. The memories weren’t chronological, but they painted a vivid picture of an adoring parent and a beloved daughter. With each detail, Bill looked around the room as if she might suddenly appear. Then, disappointed, he’d slump a little farther in his chair and start with the next tale. She’d finally convinced him to try to sleep and left him slowly making his way up the curved staircase.