Redemption

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Redemption Page 14

by Nancy Geary


  She’d asked Frances to take her to church after lunch; Frances was only too happy to oblige, to have a concrete task to perform as well as a chance to get out of the house. Since the Lawrences had decided not to try to prevent the autopsy, the air in the Smith’s Point home felt even heavier, the atmosphere gloomier, than it had before. Frances had often wondered why uncertainties surrounding a death made the grieving harder. That questions could in many ways increase the pain made no sense since answers never brought the deceased back, but Hope’s death seemed just one more example of this phenomenon.

  As they’d walked down the drive, around the bend, and across the street, Adelaide had slipped her arm through Frances’s. “Your father and I used to laugh at our girls. You, Blair, and Penelope were much more grown-up. Hope was the pipsqueak running behind the two of you in those red bedroom slippers she always wore. I remember her little voice, that squeal of delight she used to utter when she called, ‘Fanny.’ It amused her so, your nickname. Your father and I spent many hours watching the four of you. You were such a good little mother to her, always checking to see if she was all right, making sure she could keep up. You had remarkable instincts for parenting. I miss those summers.”

  “I think we all do.”

  Once inside the church, Adelaide made no effort to draw Frances up to the pew. “I’ll just be a few moments.”

  “Take your time.”

  She glanced at her watch. It was nearly noon. She needed to call Sam and tell him what was happening. She didn’t want him to worry, or at least not more than usual. Although in their daily life together she welcomed his concern and caring attention, she didn’t want her prolonged absence from the motel to be a source of anxiety. She was all right, wasn’t she?

  Waiting for her aunt in the entrance alcove, she thought of the handful of times she’d been in a church of any denomination, other than her weekly bingo games at Our Lady of Poland. The first time Kathleen had taken her to Catholic mass. She recalled descending the staircase and seeing the family’s cook waiting by the door in a short jacket with pearl buttons and pink cording along the sleeves. She had curled her hair so that the soft rolls framed her face. Perched gracefully on top was a round white hat that resembled an upside-down dog dish. Her thick ankles were encased in opaque stockings despite the ninety-degree heat. “Where is your hat?” Kathleen had asked.

  “I don’t have one,” Frances had replied, feeling instantly self-conscious.

  Kathleen had eyed her bare legs, knobby knees, and dirty sandals. “Never mind,” she’d muttered, steering Frances out the door.

  Kenny, the Lawrences’ elderly, rail-thin gardener at the time, was sitting behind the wheel of his mauve sedan with the engine idling. He got out when they approached and opened the back door. “What’s she doing here?” he’d asked in reference to Frances.

  “No one else around here seems concerned with this girl’s religious training, so I’ll just make her a Catholic. She’ll be better for it. The religion of our great president, may he rest in peace, is plenty good enough, even for the Pratts.”

  Frances remembered sitting in an enormous church with mural ceilings and bright stained-glass images of the Virgin Mary, the Last Supper, and the Crucifixion. Kathleen had crossed herself before kneeling in prayer. “Do you pray for yourself?” she’d whispered.

  “For the forgiveness of my sins. And yours,” Kathleen had retorted.

  Her reverie was broken by the sound of her name, and she turned in the direction of the voice. Father Whitney emerged from a small doorway to the left of where she was waiting. Without the religious vestments he’d worn for Hope’s wedding, he looked younger, handsomer, and his appearance startled her. Were it not for his collar, he could have been mistaken for a golfer at the Field and Hunt Club.

  “I’m Father Whitney. We met briefly at the Singing Beach Club.”

  “I remember.”

  He glanced down the aisle. His gaze rested on Adelaide as she knelt quietly in the pew. “I’m glad she came. She wasn’t here this morning at service, and I was worried. I don’t want her to be ashamed.”

  “Ashamed?”

  “Adelaide is a deeply spiritual person. Her daughter was, too. And I’m concerned about how she will handle this.”

  “She’s strong.”

  “Yes. Yes, I know.” He furrowed his brow. “Our Lord forgives us all.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Frances asked, regretting the snap in her voice, but she didn’t like the implication of blame.

  “The Sixth Commandment tells us, ‘Thou shall not kill.’ Suicide is a sin. Human life is sacred, precious. But Hope is forgiven. God has forgiven her. She’s walked through the valley of death and into eternal life. Adelaide, as the survivor, must feel guilt about what happened. I just want her to know she’s done nothing wrong.”

  But what parent wouldn’t?

  “I want to come by the house if I’m not imposing. Adelaide and Bill must understand that this congregation supports them completely, and that I am here for them if there is anything at all I can do to help, to console. My prayer is that they don’t lose faith because of this tragedy,” he continued.

  “That’s very kind,” Frances said, wanting the conversation to end.

  “Don’t misunderstand me. Please. Even among the most ardent believers, it’s hard to hold on to our faith in a time like this. We’re like Job. He questioned the tests that God put him through. ‘Even today is my complaint bitter,’ he exclaims as he calls out in search of God.” He paused for a moment. “I don’t suppose you’ve read When Bad Things Happen to Good People.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “It’s an examination of how we maintain our faith in God when circumstances are more horrendous than we could possibly imagine. I find the book extremely helpful in times like this. I was wondering if you could give it to Adelaide from me, from all of us here at Holy Spirit.” Frances hadn’t noticed anything in his hand, but he extended his arm and gave her Rabbi Kushner’s thin book. The cover was torn slightly at the edges.

  “I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.” Frances tried to smile. She flipped the pages of the book. “For everyone who has been hurt by life, here’s a book that heals,” the jacket cover read. That applied to just about everyone she’d ever met.

  “Hope’s faith was extremely important to her. In exploring and building that, she grew to trust me. We were friends. If there were things she wanted to say, she could tell me in confidence. If in any way I can help her parents assimilate her experience, her suffering, I want to do so.” He glanced up the aisle at Adelaide. “I’m sorry I can’t stay until she’s finished, but I must deliver Eucharist to our shut-ins, the members of our parish who can’t make it to church,” he explained. “I’ll call to check on her this afternoon. May God bless you and keep you safe.”

  “Thank you.” Frances watched him leave. She fingered the small book, his offer of comfort, as she thought of what he’d relayed. If he knew Hope so well, why hadn’t he seen her death coming? Or, as she mulled over his words, was he really echoing Jack’s view that Hope hadn’t killed herself? Was his implicit message that since she was such a pious church member, she wouldn’t have taken her own life—so someone else must have done it? If that was the case, it appeared that the two men closest to Hope were drawing the same conclusion.

  “Meaty. Meaty, it’s Fanny. Fanny Pratt.” The crackle and static in the telephone line made Frances feel as if she were calling Tibet rather than a cellular telephone in Riverhead, New York.

  “And how many Fannys do you think I know?” She heard the familiar sound of Meaty’s deep laughter. “Where the hell are you?” he asked.

  “In Manchester, Massachusetts. It’s about thirty miles north of Boston. On Cape Ann.”

  “So where have you been? I haven’t heard from you in ages.”

  Frances realized he was right. Although they had worked together for seven years at the Suffolk County District Attorney’s Office, Frances had
n’t been able to bring herself to attend his retirement party at the end of April. She’d meant to call when she’d received the computer-generated invitation, an oversize announcement promising a pot luck supper at the Veterans Hall and plenty of roasts to say good-bye to a career law enforcement officer. But she wasn’t good at parties and hadn’t known quite what to say, so she’d stayed away.

  But she missed him. Meaty Burke was one of the few friends she counted. He’d run every major investigation that Frances had prosecuted during her term as chief of financial crimes in the Suffolk County District Attorney’s Office. She knew he’d recommended her to the board of the Coalition Against Domestic Violence. No one had been more supportive of her career or had more faith in her professional judgment.

  She assumed that now, with both a federal and a state retirement pension, he was doing what he loved to do: going to New York Yankees games with his twelve-year-old granddaughter, buying refrigerator magnets, snow globes, and Christmas tree ornaments from Long Island tourist traps for his wife of forty-two years, and sitting out on his all-weather deck, eating plenty of floating island meringue desserts. She’d heard he and three other cops had bought an impressive twenty-seven-foot cigarette boat at a United States Customs Department auction of drug-related seizures, a boat they wanted to use for deep-sea fishing, complete with all the navigational equipment, sensors, and radios money could buy. She imagined Meaty behind the wheel, weaving in and out of another boat’s wake, laughing with his buddies that they had a bargain because some low-level cartel member hadn’t been able to avoid the Coast Guard. She hoped he was happy.

  “I guess I owe you an apology,” Frances began, remembering his dozens of unreturned telephone calls in the months following her stepmother’s death and her departure from the district attorney’s office.

  “Forget it.”

  “I just—”

  “Look. I’m always gonna love you, kiddo, so don’t bother explaining. Now, since you’re not in the neighborhood and I haven’t heard from you in almost a year, I expect you haven’t called to tell me you’re missing the waters of Long Island Sound. What’s on your mind?”

  “You always know.” Frances paused. There were few people like Meaty. “I need some help.”

  “What’s up?”

  She explained as best she could what had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

  “Who’d you say was the one that raised questions about her death?”

  “Her husband, or rather the man she was supposed to marry. Jack Cabot.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “I’ve known him a long time, but not well. He’s from a wealthy Manchester family. He’s a polo player. He and Hope grew up together.”

  “How does he seem?”

  “Upset. Angry. What I’d expect.” Although as she spoke, she realized she’d never known anyone to commit suicide and in fact didn’t know what to expect.

  There was a brief pause. “Well, the statistical likelihood—if the death turns out to be murder—is that the killer is Jack. I don’t need to tell you that. You’re the domestic violence expert these days.”

  “But… but… ,” Frances stammered. She hadn’t called Meaty to raise suspicions of Jack or anyone else. All she wanted was some help, someone in Massachusetts with connections to the office of the medical examiner and, perhaps, the Essex County District Attorney’s Office. She felt out of her league and needed a contact.

  “Do you know anyone in this area whom I could call for information? Someone who might treat me as law enforcement?”

  “Yeah. A guy named Elvis. Elvis Mallory. He’s actually a relative, married Carol’s cousin a few years back, although you won’t believe it when you meet him.”

  “Is that how you know him?”

  “No. He and I go way back, maybe fifteen years. We worked together on a Mob case, a chop shop in Lynn. There’d been a hit on the owner, and his head was actually sent to Manhattan by mail. Anyway, Elvis was part of the organized crime division for the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Boston, and he contacted our office for help. He’s a character, a little quirky, but a very good guy with a heart of gold.”

  “And he married Carol’s cousin?”

  “Yeah. I ended up introducing them. Margaret—Maggie—now she’s a pistol, but that’s another story. Anyway, they’ve been together for years but only recently married.”

  “Can you get me his number?”

  “I’ll call for you. But remember, Fanny, it’s Sunday. That’s the day of rest for most of us. I may not have an answer until tomorrow.” He paused a moment. “Aren’t the local police already involved?”

  “Yeah. They say an autopsy is standard procedure under the circumstances, whatever that means, but her parents aren’t seriously considering alternatives to suicide. None of us had much reason to doubt the obvious.”

  “And you’re playing private eye again?” Meaty laughed.

  “Hardly. I just seem to have found myself in the middle. The bologna in the sandwich,” she added, trying to sound lighthearted. “If you could help me out, I’d be eternally grateful.” She gave him her cellular telephone number as well as her aunt’s home number. “You can reach me at either place.”

  “Hey, kiddo, before you go, are you all right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean—” He interrupted himself. “I just want to know how you’re holding up.”

  Frances smiled into the telephone, thankful for his concern. “I’m hanging in there, but I sure could use the sight of your pretty face.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.” Meaty hung up.

  Frances watched Sam place his suitcase into the back of his Jeep and slam the hatchback closed. There was a grace to his movement as he bent over, lifted the luggage, and placed it inside. She marveled at the ease of his strength.

  He turned to face her and squinted slightly. The fog had finally burned off and the late afternoon sun glared against the blacktop parking lot of the King’s Arms Motor Lodge. “I won’t say it again,” he said, although Frances knew he would. “I think you should come home.”

  She closed her eyes, envisioning what he meant, the farmhouse with its creaky porch, her scattered flowerbeds, her two dogs, Felonious and Miss Demeanor, by her feet, a fire, a single-malt Scotch. Home… She hummed the word for a second before forcing her mind to focus. She put her arms gently around his neck and leaned against his chest. “I can’t.”

  “You may have your reasons, but I still think you should.”

  “I’ll call when I know what’s going on. Give the dogs a hug for me.”

  Sam walked to the driver’s side, opened the door, rolled down the front window, and settled himself behind the wheel. “You sure you don’t want me to take the rental car?”

  “Yes. I’ll return it in New London and take the ferry across.”

  “I’ll be there to meet you.” He started the engine but let it idle. “Look, Fanny. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do—stay or go. I want to do what’s best for you, but for once you’re going to have to tell me because I can’t read your mind.”

  She rested her hands on the car door and leaned toward him. “Go.”

  “Just say the word and I’m back in a flash.” He covered her fingertips with his large palm. “I love you.”

  Frances smiled but didn’t reply. He shifted his car into gear, and she watched as the shiny blue Jeep drove out of the parking lot and turned onto Route 128. For a moment, she had the urge to run after him, to forget Hope’s death, Jack’s concerns, and the autopsy, and to return to the familiarity of life on Orient Point. But she knew she couldn’t block out the information she’d learned.

  She wrapped her arms around her waist to try to thwart a chill despite the warming temperature. Sam was right: Even if the autopsy demonstrated that Hope’s death was not a suicide, there was little she could do. She was no longer a prosecutor. Even if she wer
e, she was out of her jurisdiction with no Massachusetts contact except some aging cop Meaty knew. So why did she feel compelled to immerse herself in the tragic situation?

  Frances thought of a late July weekend in Manchester when Hope was a toddler. It had been a Thursday night near the end of the Pratts’ visit that summer. Her father had been forced by pressing business to return to New York City for twenty-four hours, so Adelaide had decided to take the girls for a treat. They’d all piled into the Volvo station wagon and driven to the Sundae Shoppe in Beverly Farms. For ninety-nine cents a dish, the renovated railroad car with blue Naugahyde banquettes, Formica tables, and slowly turning overhead brass fans offered all the necessary ingredients to build an ice-cream sundae. Adelaide had helped the girls pile hot fudge, butterscotch, whipped cream, and candy so high that the vanilla ice cream underneath was barely visible. Then they’d crowded into a single booth. Frances remembered the feeling of her bare legs pressed against Blair’s, the look of delight in Hope’s eyes as she ate with her hands and smeared her pudgy cheeks with chocolate, and the laughter that appeared to fill the restaurant. An unsuspecting stranger walking by the table would have thought it was one family. And for that evening, Frances had allowed herself to believe the same.

  Back at the house on Smith’s Point, her aunt had perched on the edge of Frances’s bed and rubbed her slightly distended belly. The gentle touch had soothed her stomachache.

  “Can I always come back here?” she’d asked.

  “What a question! Of course you may,” Adelaide had said, laying a hand across her forehead as if to check for a fever.

  “Always?” she’d insisted.

  “Absolutely. We’ll be here forever, and we’ll always want you with us. Whenever you want to come.”

  Frances remembered pulling the blanket cover up under her chin and smelling the sweet fragrance of Adelaide’s laundry detergent. Although technically a guest bedroom, it felt more comfortable than her room at her father’s house. The twin beds, oval braided rug, wooden bureau with Lucite knobs, and lace curtains stayed the same year to year, always seeming to welcome her back. She’d closed her eyes, wanting to savor the night.

 

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