Redemption

by Nancy Geary

  “But she was seeing Jack.”

  “That was her business, not mine.”

  Teddy sounded so pragmatic that Frances almost didn’t recognize her. Perhaps age had brought with it a certain freedom, a liberation of thought, but she hadn’t expected to hear evidence of it under these circumstances. “Why didn’t Bill and Adelaide approve?” she asked, although she was quite certain she knew the answer.

  “He was from a different class, had a different background, little education, and no money. We’d like to think those factors make no difference. We pretend to look at the person, the qualities of the individual, and not the framework surrounding them, but it doesn’t happen that way. The world hasn’t changed as much as we’d like to think it has. Besides, Jack Cabot always had a sneaker for her. They were the perfect match. Everyone thought so.”

  “Did she ever ask you for advice? You know, Jack versus Carl.”

  “No. But Hope was not a dumb woman. She had to know that a life with Jack would be easier. She felt tremendous pressure to leave Carl. And some of it was for good reason.”

  What reason could there be if, as Teddy described, their relationship was so perfect, so filled with passion? Wasn’t that every woman’s dream? But even as she ruminated, Frances knew she was being naive. She could hear the conversation, the gossip, at the Field and Hunt Club, the criticism circulating through the Manchester cocktail party circuit, the glares thrown at the Lawrences by fellow sailors at the Yacht Club. Did you hear? Hope Lawrence is marrying a fisherman, a poor one, and Portuguese at that. It would have been painful for Bill and Adelaide, an elegant couple who kept a tidy life. Marriage into the Cabot clan would perpetuate the fairy tale.

  “When was the last time she saw him?”

  “I can’t recall, although I’ve been trying to reconstruct events over the past two days.”

  “They stopped coming here?”

  “Yes. But that happened for different reasons. Or at least I think it did. We had a rather sad disagreement about six months ago, and Hope stopped visiting me almost completely. She certainly didn’t bring him.”

  “What was the disagreement?”

  “My dear, there’s an old adage that says never discuss religion, politics, or in-laws with anyone you care about. Believe me, it’s accurate. I just couldn’t help myself.”

  “Did you fight about the Cabots?”

  “Don’t be absurd. Those people aren’t worth fighting over. Ordinary, that’s what they are. No, our disagreement involved that church. Hope spent more and more time there, and one afternoon I questioned her involvement.”

  “Why did you think it was wrong?”

  “’Wrong’ is not the word I used. You of all people should pay better attention.”

  Frances felt the sting of her grandmother’s words. Part of Teddy’s mystique was to keep people ever so slightly on edge, but she had a way of humbling her audience. Frances recalled a trip to Ann Arbor when she was ten. Teddy had seemed genuinely thrilled to see her, but after a few minutes she’d asked her whether she’d brought her flute. No, she’d replied. “It would have been an improvement,” was the retort. Frances could barely get out of her grandmother’s living room before she’d burst into tears, and she hadn’t taken the silver wind instrument out of its case since.

  “Hope was looking for an answer,” she continued, indifferent to the impact of her admonishment. “She wanted to be told that if she did A, B, and C, she would be rewarded with happiness. She was looking for the church to provide her with those steps. To tell her how to be a good person. I got worried about her. I don’t have anything against the Episcopalians. They’re generally honest, tend to remain employed, and throw excellent cocktail parties. But I didn’t think puttering around that old building inhaling mildew and mold on vestments that haven’t been washed since Kennedy was president was going to convince Hope of anything. She had to do it herself.” Teddy took another drag and seemed, this time, to hold the smoke in her lungs. As she spoke, it spilled from her mouth. “What she needed was structure, a focus to her energy. We all do.”

  Frances looked at her elderly grandmother and realized that for all her biting comments, she had a sensible nature. She could see to the core of a problem and find its solution. “Is that what you told her?”

  “Hope and I never discussed the matter. I tried. But she didn’t want to hear it from me. After that, she didn’t want to hear much of anything.”

  “What did you think of her engagement to Jack?”

  Teddy made a face that Frances couldn’t interpret. “Jack’s a good-hearted boy. I think he was genuinely fond of her, probably would have made a decent enough husband. Though his family leaves something to be desired.”

  “What’s wrong with them?” she asked. There seemed no shortage to the amount of information Teddy could offer.

  “They’re obsessed with their money, their lineage, their blue blood. Reptiles have blue blood, I’ve been tempted to remind them. Fiona puts on so many airs—airs under the guise of hospitality and good manners, which is even worse—you’d think she was royalty.” She leaned toward Frances and continued in a loud stage whisper, as though someone from the house might hear. “I’m suspicious of people who try so hard to set themselves apart with distinctions, classes. We’re no better than the caste system in India. Hope’s fisherman was an untouchable, and Jack is the landed gentry.”

  “You’re a member of the Daughters of the Mayflower.”

  “Was,” Teddy scoffed. “All that connection means is that your ancestors were crooks or religious zealots. England wanted to get rid of them, so they came here. Not something to be particularly proud of, in my view.”

  Frances had to laugh. She remembered hearing a story once of Teddy opening a restaurant to raise money for the troops in World War II. She had tried to solicit the help of her society friends, who scoffed at the thought of waiting tables, but when she announced that she was doing the dishes, they were shamed into agreement. She even received some sort of medal for her assistance, although every time she was asked about it, she laughed and waved her hand dismissively.

  “Then there was that stupid issue of the prenuptial agreement.”

  “What was that?”

  “Something the Cabots wanted. They convinced Bill and Adelaide, too, although Hope and Jack refused to sign it. As I understand it, there was quite a scene here one night. I—thank God—was peacefully unaware at the time, but I had to hear about it ad nauseam for the next month.”

  “What happened?”

  Teddy shrugged. “It was absurd. Jim had given Bill an outline of the proposed agreement. The four of them—Jim, Fiona, Bill, and Adelaide—met to discuss it. They’re such idiots; they never bothered to consult the children. Greedy and foolish, they are, the lot of them. Hope came home and discovered the four of them in the library, marking documents with red pen, and she went crazy. She said her own parents were plotting against her. Nobody had faith that she would make a decent wife, so they were dealing with her demise in advance. She refused to talk to her parents for days afterward.”

  “What about Jack?”

  “I don’t know what he knew or didn’t know at the time. I’m quite sure the thing never got signed, though.”

  “Did she ever tell you what happened with Carl?”

  “No. And I wasn’t interested in bringing up the subject. I wasn’t going to be accused of meddling.”

  “But they were seeing each other six months ago?”

  Teddy said nothing. She set her jaw, making it clear that Frances would not get a response.

  “Can you think of how I could find him?”

  “No. Perhaps Adelaide knows, or knew. But he was the sort of transient type that may not have stayed very long in any one place. Or at least he struck me that way.”

  In the distance, Frances heard the blast of a foghorn. Given the clarity of the sky, it must have been the starting signal for a sailing race. Looking across the harbor, she could see som
eone standing at the base of the Yacht Club’s flagpole. She and Teddy fell into silence as they watched him lower the Stars and Stripes to half-mast.

  “If Dick were here, he’d tell them to keep the flag flying. ‘Never mourn the dead. Celebrate the living,’ he always said. Then again, that’s coming from the man who wanted ‘Roll Out the Barrel’ played at his funeral.” She dropped her cigarette onto the terrace and stomped out the butt with the end of her cane.

  “I never knew that.”

  “My dear, apparently that’s not all you don’t know.”

  Father Whitney appeared in the doorway just as Frances was about to go inside. She stepped back, startled. When she extended a hand, he clasped hers in both of his. His palms were warm. “I was just visiting with your aunt. She told me how much it means to her that you’ve stayed.” His smile was soothing. “We were discussing the memorial service.”

  “When is it going to be?”

  “Friday evening. She and Bill want some time to make sure all the police involvement is over.” He paused and leaned in toward her. “Is it really necessary?”

  Maggie Mallory’s words echoed. It seemed as though fate once again had made her the messenger of terrible news. She looked at the minister, his large face and kind eyes, and fought to hold back her tears. “Yes. And it might not be over for quite a while.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I… I…,” she stammered, wondering whether she should confide in him. He had enough work simply ministering to this grief-stricken family; he didn’t need the worries of an investigation, too.

  “Tell me,” he urged, reading her mind. “Please. It’s all right.”

  She knew how much Hope had relied on him. Maybe he could help her to break the news to Adelaide. “She’s been murdered. It wasn’t suicide.”

  His mouth opened, and she watched his eyes get bigger in apparent disbelief. His grip on her hand tightened, and he wobbled for a moment, unsteady on his feet. “Are you sure?” She nodded. “How do you know?”

  She relayed the little bit of information she’d learned from the medical examiner.

  “Who? Why?” He seemed about to cry.

  She said nothing. She had no answers.

  “Dear God,” he whispered.

  “Can you help me? Adelaide and Bill don’t know. I need to explain to them what’s going on.”

  “Nothing can explain this horror, this violence. But together we will pray for strength.”

  Frances needed that more than ever.

  18

  Frances had barely slept. In her dream, she’d been walking down a long center aisle of a dimly lit church. The interior was unfamiliar, but white lilies adorned the edge of every pew. The overpowering scent burned her eyes and the back of her throat. Above the altar, light shone on the gilded wood of an oversize cross. Each end was wrapped in white rope, tied and knotted. She walked slowly, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. As she approached the end of the aisle, she knelt in front of the altar. Staring up at the cross, she could see the knots begin to bleed. The liquid oozed between the turns in the rope and dropped to the floor, leaving a pool of red. Frances reached out to touch the blood but awoke before her fingers made contact.

  After propping herself against the pillows, she fingered the eyelet bedspread as she watched the light brighten through the lace curtain. Scattered bird chirps were the only sounds in the still of the early morning. Glancing at the alarm clock by her bed, she resisted the urge to call Sam. No doubt he was awake, but his morning routine made him unreceptive to interruptions, even from her.

  She pushed back the covers, swung her feet to the floor, and sat up. She reached for a T-shirt and shorts from the bureau drawer. Then she grabbed a towel from the adjacent bathroom and tiptoed down the stairs.

  Outside, the air seemed thick with the smell of salt, and she could see the gentle waves rolling onto the narrow strip of beach. She climbed over the low stone wall that separated the Lawrences’ expansive lawn from the ocean and set out for a walk, relishing the feel of sand underneath her feet and the slight breeze on her face. The sun sparkled on the water, and she watched the changing coloration of the beach as the waves washed to shore, then retreated back to sea, leaving it momentarily darkened with moisture. Every few yards, she stopped to pick up yellow periwinkles, pieces of green or blue glass softened by the waves, or pink and gray moon shells scattering the beach. Expectantly, she turned them upside down to look for any trace of the creature within, the mucous-textured animal that she admired and envied for its ability to carry its whole world on its back. How many times in her life had she wished for just the sort of freedom that came with limited possessions and total mobility?

  Frances rolled the moon shell in her palm. The animal was lucky indeed. If it had a bad experience in one tidal pool, it could pack up its spiral shell and move on with no trace of the past.

  She sat down and wiggled her toes to bury them. Her feet looked odd—two ankles disappearing into the sand—and she remembered the joyful hours spent covering her legs, her chest, sometimes even her whole body. When the weight or her own restlessness became overpowering, she would extricate herself, a Houdini moment of reclaiming her limbs. These games seemed so compelling that she’d never tired of them.

  As she adjusted herself on the beach, she thought about her conversation with Elvis the night before. He’d called shortly after she and Father Whitney had told Adelaide and Bill about the medical examiner’s preliminary conclusions. When her cell phone rang, she’d moved out of the library into the hallway, not wanting them to hear her responses for fear it would aggravate their shock, disbelief, and pain, but as it turned out, she had little to say. Elvis had issued instructions. He would contact the caterer and the wedding planner and get the names of all employees with access to the house in the hours preceding Hope’s death. The Essex County crime scene team—a group of forensic specialists, photographers, and detectives—would be dispatched to the house the next morning. Frances should begin to probe the family members, to learn what she could about Hope’s relationships with her future in-laws, her fiancé, even her own family. Elvis had spoken slowly, carefully, as if he were dealing with someone who suffered from a terminal illness.

  She didn’t know where to begin. For the hundredth time in the last twenty-four hours, she wondered who would have wanted to kill Hope. Manchester seemed so serene, a peaceful New England town with a penny candy store that still sold one-cent gumballs, a matronly policewoman who held an orange sign on Elm Street to assist with school crossings, a Ferris wheel on the Fourth of July, a place where violence wouldn’t enter. Like Southampton, New York, where Richard Pratt had spent the majority of his vacation time with his daughters, Manchester felt completely safe: Frances had ridden her bicycle without ever worrying about traffic; later she and her cousins drank beers on Singing Beach and strolled home after dark without ever looking behind them. That danger lurked was unthinkable. This vision of the world, of the safe haven of the Lawrence home, had been turned upside down in an instant.

  She stood, momentarily dizzy as the blood rushed from her head. After brushing the sand off her bottom and the backs of her legs, she continued to walk. The warmth of the sun began to spill through the cirrus clouds that striped the sky, and Frances felt herself start to perspire. She needed a swim. She glanced both ways down the beach and, seeing no one, pulled off her clothes, inhaled twice quickly, then ran into the ocean, stumbling slightly as the sea level rose to her thighs. She fell forward and felt the shock of cold spill over her. Immediately she began to churn the ocean with her arms, pulling her hands through the water and propelling herself out to sea. The temperature and her own exertion allowed her momentarily to forget the tragedy she wanted so much to leave behind. Only when she stopped and, treading water, turned back to look at the shore and the majestic Lawrence house rising from behind the stone wall was she reminded that she needed to get back. She wanted to be at the house when the police arrived.r />
  As she walked back, her cell phone rang. The noise surprised her. She hadn’t realized she’d brought it with her in the pocket of her shorts.

  It was Elvis. “I’d say good morning and how are you and all that, except it’s not a good morning and I doubt you’re doing that well,” he said. “The crime scene guys are on their way. I suspect they’ll be at the house in the next twenty minutes or so.”

  “Frankly, I’m nervous they won’t find anything. People have been in and out of here constantly.”

  “Nothing we can do about that now. They’ll do the best they can. See what they come up with. But I’ve got something that might interest you. We’ve run CORI information on the caterers’ employees.”

  “Criminal Offender Record Information?” Frances asked, wanting to make sure she understood his acronym.

  “Yeah. That’s right. We had a couple of hits, but only one that’s worth checking out. Guy by the name of Michael Davis. He’s got a criminal record a mile long, juvenile and adult, and goes by various aliases. He’s currently on probation.”

  “For what?”

  “Robbery and assault and battery.”

  Frances thought of the missing engagement ring. “Did he do time?”

  “Yeah. Eighteen months. But he was supposed to be a witness in some federal drug case, so he got paroled early. The Assistant U.S. Attorney in Boston tells me the case fell through because there was a problem with the chain of custody on the drugs, but they’d already struck a deal with this fellow, so they followed through.”

  “Government has to live up to its word,” Frances said. She hoped her sarcasm was obvious despite the poor connection.

  Elvis emitted the briefest of chuckles before continuing, “Far as I can tell, he’s been in and out of prison since the age of fifteen. His juvenile record’s got a number of minor offenses, but also two A and Bs and a larceny. Held up a Seven-Eleven. His compatriots were over eighteen, so they took most of the heat. Anyway, I spoke to the owner of the catering company, an operation called Best Laid Plans.” He paused, and she could hear pages turning in the background. “Christine Bridges,” Elvis continued. “She employed this guy part-time. This was his third job with her. She’s had no problems with him, says he’s hardworking and strong enough to carry racks of dishes, which is what she needs. He gets twelve dollars an hour.”