Redemption

by Nancy Geary

  “Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?”

  “Yes.” And true to her word, Adelaide had remained rubbing her stomach as she’d drifted off.

  Over the years, as her own fragmented family caused her more and more pain, she’d harbored nostalgic memories of her aunt’s home, her maternal warmth and embrace, and her uncle’s good-natured participation in the family activities. She’d needed such an ideal. Now that the seemingly magical family was beset by a nightmare, she realized how fundamentally disrupted she felt, too. It wasn’t just the pain of Hope’s death; it was the loss of her family myth.

  But there was something else, too, something that drew her to stay. If Hope’s death was a murder, Frances realized with anguish that she had possibly destroyed the crime scene. So frantic to find her cousin, and then so distraught when she had, she’d opened and closed doors, touched items in the room, and, worst of all, removed Hope’s body from the noose. The details that Jack remembered only highlighted how little she could recall of what she’d seen. She doubted now whether any crime scene analysis could be done, and she couldn’t bear the thought that Hope’s killer might go free because of her recklessness. She squeezed herself. She needed all the courage she could muster.

  15

  The front door was ajar, but the house was dark by the time Frances returned. In the evening light, she made her way into the library. Embers still burned, but the flames from earlier in the day had subsided. The drapes were drawn. The television, which Frances hadn’t noticed before because of its concealed spot behind an elegant paneled cabinet, showed the evening news. The screen’s blue light cast an eerie glow.

  She scanned the contents of the built-in bookshelves. The library was impressive: leather-bound copies of Walter Scott, Washington Irving, Thomas Carlyle, James Fenimore Cooper, and Charles Dickens, plus atlases, dictionaries, encyclopedias, and a slew of reference books, a section devoted to nautical history and picture books of the sea, and several shelves of contemporary fiction. Interspersed among the volumes were family photographs: Bill and Adelaide on a golf course in Scotland; Adelaide standing beside Hope in a graduation gown; Jack in his polo uniform mounted on a beautiful bay pony, with Hope standing next to the horse and holding on to the reins; several slightly soft-focused black-and-white portraits of Hope as a child in a white lace dress playing in the sand. Frances paused at a picture of a group of young teenagers standing in front of a tennis net, a motley crew of freckle-faced boys and girls of varying heights and builds. They all wore white polo shirts with “F&HC” on the left pocket. She picked up the frame and searched the faces, recognizing Blair, then herself, a sullen-faced Penelope, and Hope, the tiniest child of all, in the front row of Field and Hunt Club tennis students. Why that summer had the Pratt girls been in Manchester long enough to enroll?

  She remembered her father telling her of a business trip, an important one to Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, and then the Far East. He had to go during July, his month with her and Blair. That had precipitated a series of calls from her mother to her father. Why should his daughters come to visit him when he wasn’t there? Why should they stay with their stepmother? The resolution had been to spend the two weeks with Adelaide, the constant, and the Lawrence family, which didn’t have to fight over schedules.

  She heard footsteps and turned to see Penelope holding a glass of red wine.

  “Mom and Bill took dinner upstairs. They want to be alone.”

  “Of course. I hope I’m not bothering you.”

  “I should head back to Boston,” Penelope said, seeming to ignore Frances’s remark. She settled on the love seat and took a sip of crimson liquid. “But I don’t feel like driving. Not tonight. Can I offer you a drink?”

  “No. Thanks.” She glanced at the television as the weather forecaster began explaining warm-air fronts for the next several days. “Was there anything about Hope’s death on the news?”

  “No. But Bill asked me to look. He and Mom are concerned about media attention. You’d think that would be the least of their problems.” Penelope slipped her feet out of her chartreuse mules and tucked them under her, but not before flashing her pedicure, the toenails painted in fire-engine red.

  Frances walked back over to the array of photographs. The last twenty-four hours were a blur. Part of her had failed to even process that her cousin was gone. Seeing images of Hope smiling, it was easy to forget; her absence was due to her honeymoon, the two-week trip to Europe that Jack had planned. “The three of us got the Pratt genes, and then there was this fair-haired, delicate girl. I always wanted to dress her and brush her hair. She seemed like a Madame Alexander doll come to life.” She remembered the elegant brides and ballerinas in the glass cases of FAO Schwarz that she and her sister had collected.

  “Madame Adelaide’s doll. That she was.”

  The log cracked, and Frances turned to see the popping orange embers.

  Penelope wiped her eyes with her hand. “Hope should’ve gotten help. That’s what she needed more than a wedding.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “A better psychiatrist than that shrink she’d been seeing. Bulimia was the disease du jour, but her emotional problems were never under control.”

  “Bulimia?”

  “Yeah. Everyone thought she was anorexic because she was so thin, but I heard her gagging herself in the powder room during her bridal shower. The party was at my apartment, and the half bath is right off the kitchen. She turned on the water, tried to hide it. Probably assumed nobody would hear because everyone was talking in the living room. She didn’t realize how close I was.”

  “Did Adelaide know?”

  “We’re WASPs, remember? We don’t talk about problems. But I don’t see how she couldn’t have known. I thought of telling her point-blank, but I figured it would only unleash hostility. Mom needed Hope to be perfect—they both did—and she wouldn’t hear anything to indicate otherwise. Perfection is the torment of the upper class.” She closed her eyes. “There used to be a comedian on Saturday Night Live. I can’t remember his name. But his line of banter was about all these problems that privileged people have because they can’t worry about the kinds of things everyone else worries about, like where the next meal is coming from. I remember him saying, ‘Ever heard of lactose intolerance in Ethiopia?’ It was a funny line, but it’s true. Mom focused on whether the cocktail napkins matched the floral arrangement at the Garden Club’s opening reception because there wasn’t anything better to fixate on. She needs to feel like the worthless stuff that consumes her day is actually important. Either that or she’s hoping a pristine exterior provides good cover.”

  “For what?”

  Penelope laughed. “All of our neuroses.”

  Listening, Frances felt protective of her aunt. Penelope may have taken Adelaide’s hospitality and graciousness for granted, but at one time or another they’d all been beneficiaries of it. To make people feel welcome and loved, was that superficial? She often wondered as she spent hours in her garden what constituted a wasted life versus one that had some sort of intrinsic meaning, but no matter how many weeds she pulled, she had yet to find an answer.

  “Was Hope like that?”

  Penelope stretched out farther along the couch. “Hope had a flightiness to her, too. That’s why she liked the church. She could volunteer and feel as if she were contributing to something worthwhile, even though it was only a few hours a week at her own choosing. But I think she saw life with Jack as a responsibility she couldn’t handle. Sort of like full-time employment. She was marrying into the same rigid social structure she’d been struggling with all her life, a world where she couldn’t let down, but she was too emotional to keep up appearances.”

  “I had no idea she was so unhappy.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. I’m not sure anyone does. But earlier this summer—must have been July, I can’t remember exactly, but I was out here for the weekend… I’d gone into town to get tons of bug spray, and when
I got back she was screaming bloody murder at Mom. Calling her all sorts of names. Telling her she was the worst mother in the world because she hadn’t even bothered to protect her own daughter.”

  “From what?”

  “Who knows? Some perceived horror or another. Life.…” Penelope paused. “Kathleen ended up consoling her. Hardly in the job description, but we must be ever thankful for the hired help,” she said sarcastically. “Mom didn’t know what to do. That night, Bill came into the library where I was reading. I’ll never forget it because it was the only time either of them acknowledged that I’ve been the better daughter. ‘She thinks it’s my fault, our fault, but it’s her. You were never like this.’ That’s what he said. He said he and Mom were at the end of their rope.” Penelope’s words hung in the air, and Frances closed her eyes, trying to drive away the image of Hope hanging in the closet.

  “Did Hope ever talk to you about why she was upset with Adelaide?”

  “No. Who around here shares anything? Everyone’s always cheerful and gracious and reserved. But I think that pressure was what got to Hope.”

  “I can’t imagine that Adelaide wouldn’t have tried to talk to her,” Frances mused aloud. Adelaide’s affection and warmth made her seem infinitely approachable. Listening to Penelope, she thought it was almost as if they were talking about two different people.

  Penelope paused and seemed momentarily distracted. When she spoke again, she turned her gaze to the fireplace. “Adelaide did better than talk to her. She finally shared her own helpful hint on how to survive Manchester life.”

  “What was that?”

  “Prescription drugs. Plenty of them. It’s how she gets through all these social events. You can’t drink too much in this crowd or people talk. But a good tranquilizer lets you relax. Even get to sleep.”

  What was Penelope talking about? Was she drunk? Frances was shocked. Her aunt struck her as the bastion of health—high-strung, perhaps, but she’d always seen that as energetic. Then she remembered the bottlecap and pills she’d seen on the floor in Hope’s bedroom. Could they have been from Adelaide? “I find it hard to imagine.” She hadn’t meant to utter her thoughts aloud.

  “That’s the point. You need solutions no one can see.”

  “Where does Jack fit into all of this?”

  Penelope took a long sip and swirled the remainder around in her glass. “Jack’s Jack. Mom and Bill wanted nothing more than to see them together. They spent more money than they had to make that statement. He was supposed to tame her spirit, keep her calm. What’s that horrible expression? ‘Make an honest woman of her,’ something like that. Plus he’s worth a fortune, and they needed that. They certainly can’t provide for either of us.”

  Frances suddenly remembered her grandmother’s comment about paying rent for the cottage. She’d had no idea money was an issue. “Were they wanting Jack to support them?”

  Penelope snorted. “Don’t sound so shocked. It could have been done without anyone really noticing. Hope and Jack move into the big house. Mom and Bill move into the cottage.”

  “And what about Teddy?”

  “She won’t be around forever.”

  Frances was quiet. She wondered again if Penelope’s candor was fueled by alcohol. “What do you think of Jack?” she asked.

  She looked up. “You don’t know, do you?”

  Frances shook her head.

  “I went out with him. A couple of years ago he broke up with Hope because she wouldn’t stop seeing this other guy, an older man who lived in Gloucester. In retrospect, I should have known it wouldn’t work. Jack doesn’t want a successful woman. He liked Hope’s neediness, but I fell for him. Big time. I’d marry him tomorrow if he asked me. Who wouldn’t?”

  Penelope’s insensitivity under the circumstances was especially painful. “What happened?” Frances asked.

  “As soon as she decided to grace him with her presence again, he dropped me like a hot potato. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Hope was selfish. She took him back so I couldn’t have him. She had to make sure I knew I was less good, less desirable. I had to be reminded constantly that she was the focus of everyone’s adoration.”

  “You don’t think she loved him?”

  “What difference does it make now?”

  They were both silent. Penelope refilled her glass. “I guess we always go for the one who’s not available. Jack did. That Hope was never really going to be his, that she would always be elusive, was part of her appeal. Isn’t that a lot sexier than being with the person who cares? Loyalty and constancy are qualities one wants in a pet, not a lover.”

  Frances thought of Sam. That wasn’t what characterized her relationship, but she decided to keep her disagreement to herself.

  “I think I’ve always known that as long as Hope was around, I had no chance with him. I was only the runner-up, the second-best contestant, who got to jump in if the winner failed to carry out her duties and responsibilities being Miss Perfect. ‘Close, but no cigar,’ as Bill says. That’s me. That’s what I’ve lived with since the day I entered this elegant abode,” Penelope said sarcastically. “As long as I was Hope’s sister, I fell short by comparison. You and I are Pratts, but she was a Lawrence.” She swung her legs to the floor and stood up. “I’m heading to bed before I talk too much and get myself into trouble.” She tipped her head back and exhaled audibly. “I’m only a corporate lawyer. No contest for a prosecutor.”

  After Penelope left, Frances remained immobile, replaying the conversation in her mind. The depth of Penelope’s jealousy and resentment seemed greater than most sibling rivalries. It was difficult to listen to the anger that she still harbored toward her now dead sister, and she wondered again about Sam’s comment on different reactions to grief. Could it help Penelope grieve to remember her rage? She had a hard time ignoring her instincts, but something didn’t feel right.

  Before turning out the light to go upstairs, Frances removed the Field and Hunt Club tennis photograph from the bookshelf and scanned it a final time. What about the faces of Blair, Penelope, Hope, and herself left her feeling unsettled? What was she looking for the picture to reveal? The answer eluded her. But she already feared the ugliness and animosity she was discovering.

  16

  Frances stretched her fingers to touch the awning of 7 Central. It was a childhood habit: She’d run down the street, jump off the pavement, and try to reach signs, overhangs, anything dangling overhead. Now that she was grown, it was easy. She raised her hand to block the sun and looked up and down Central Street. She didn’t know exactly what to expect, but she had the feeling that Elvis Mallory’s arrival would be dramatic.

  He had called her on her cell phone after speaking with Meaty. In a gentle, high-pitched voice, he’d spoken so fast that she’d missed several words, but she’d understood the gist: He had canceled his fishing trip to help her out. “I actually don’t like to catch anything, so this is a good excuse. I just can’t bear to see those majestic creatures flailing on the deck as they die. Blues aren’t so bad, but the occasional swordfish or marlin breaks my heart. My buddies give me plenty of guff ‘cause I’m a cop working organized crime and I don’t like death, but I know I’m tough as the grease under their nails when I have to be.”

  Frances didn’t bother to respond as he paused for a moment to catch a breath. “Here’s the deal,” he continued. “I talked to the first assistant in Essex. He’s a good guy, knows your old boss by reputation. I explained the situation, your connection to the victim, and your connection to Meaty. He’s willing to have you come along, but remember we’re not learning anything that the DA’s office isn’t going to get, too. I guess I’m here to insure that, kinda like a liaison.” He made a clicking sound with his teeth.

  Frances wondered exactly what Meaty had said about her. Apparently more than she’d expected. But she’d hardly intended to conduct an independent investigation. Elvis was only establishing the obvious—that his first loyalty was to his job.
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  “I’ve known Meaty a long time,” he continued. “Actually, my wife and Carol are related, but he probably told you that. My wife’s a physician. She left private practice for the medical examiner’s office about ten years ago. She got tired of patients, plus she loves administrative work. Says typing is therapeutic. Whatever. The career change has helped our relationship, so I’m not complaining. She’s less critical of me now that she’s surrounded by stiffs. Anyway, long story short, she’ll get you in if I get you to Albany Street.”

  Frances didn’t need or want to witness Hope’s autopsy, but at Adelaide’s urging, she had agreed to wait at the medical examiner’s office while the procedure was being conducted. Apparently her presence provided some comfort to her aunt, some sense that the integrity of the corpse would be preserved, and Frances didn’t want to disabuse her of that notion. She was surprised, though, that it was getting under way so soon. The office of the medical examiner under the auspices of the Executive Office of Public Safety was apparently living up to its reputation.

  A lilac Cadillac convertible came to a stop at the light on Pine Street, then turned left onto Central. From oversize speakers propped in the backseat blared Hootie and the Blowfish. Before the car even pulled to the curb, she knew it was Elvis.

  Without turning off the engine, he jumped out and extended a hand. “Elvis. Elvis Mallory. My pleasure.” He was small and wiry, with a buzz cut of gray hair and ears that stuck out from his narrow face. His baggy shorts and navy polo shirt with the emblem of the police department seemed too big for his slight frame. Frances couldn’t help but notice his enormous feet. In proportion to his body, his Tevas looked like rubber fins.

  She introduced herself. “Thanks for coming.”