by Nancy Geary
Not bad money, Frances thought. Then again, the people who used caterers to feed their guests probably didn’t need to resort to minimum wage. “Didn’t she know about his record?”
“In this state, even if you’ve got a pedophile applying for a job at a day care center, it’s tough to find out a criminal history. She had no way to know.”
“Have you spoken to him yet?”
“No. I thought you might want to come along for that.”
“Where is he?”
“Lives in Lynn.”
Lynn, Lynn, city of sin… The childhood rhyme popped into Frances’s head. She remembered driving north along Route 1 from Logan Airport and seeing the gaudy restaurants offering tiki bowls and live entertainment. If memory served her, it was also the site of the track for greyhound racing, a sport that made her stomach turn.
“I’ll meet you there. Just tell me where and when.”
“Four o’clock. I’ll meet you just off the Route One exit. You can follow me to his house.”
“Fanny, I’ve been looking for you.” Bill stood on the front step, dressed in pressed khaki slacks and an Oxford shirt. “I need a moment of your time,” he added.
The chill of the Atlantic water had settled in her bones, and Frances wanted to excuse herself to shower, but the immediacy in Bill’s tone trumped any thoughts of comfort that might add delay. She followed him inside to the breakfast room, an alcove where blue-and-yellow valances ballooning over the tops of the mullioned windows partially obscured the view of the expansive garden. An array of newspapers covered one end of the cherrywood table.
“Coffee?” Bill asked, reaching for a white carafe.
“Please. Black’s fine.”
The smell of java filled the air, and Frances watched the steam rise from a porcelain mug. Bill settled himself in the chair opposite Frances.
“The police will be here shortly, but I hoped we could speak for a few minutes alone because I believe I know who might have killed Hope. His name is Carl LeFleur.”
Frances could tell by the look on his face that he referred to Hope’s lover, the one Teddy had described.
“At one time he was someone Hope saw socially. It never amounted to much in her mind, but I think he became rather obsessed with her. And she was impressionable, and… well… we all make mistakes.”
“Why would he have killed her?”
“I’m quite certain Carl was looking for Hope to be his meal ticket. He had considerable difficulty accepting the reality of her marriage. He’s a rough man… coarse… an immigrant after all. Violence would not be out of the question.”
“Was he at the wedding?”
“Hope wanted to invite him, but her mother and I wouldn’t hear of it. We didn’t need to consult Jack. I know he would have agreed with us.”
“Do you have any reason to think he came anyway?”
Bill paused for a moment, fidgeting his clasped fingers and appearing to squeeze his palms. “Carl tried to see Hope the night before the wedding. Came to the house just moments before we were to leave for the rehearsal dinner. But I refused to let him in.”
“Did he say why he’d come?”
“I think that’s obvious. When I told him to leave, he attacked me. Actually tried to strangle me. Nearly did, if the truth be told.”
“Really?” Why hadn’t anyone said anything earlier? “Did you tell anyone?”
“No. At that point, I thought I was preparing for a celebration. If I only—” His voice cracked, and he covered his mouth with his hands.
Frances didn’t know whether to get up to comfort her uncle or to give him his privacy during his momentary wave of emotion. She never seemed to know which was best and often withdrew herself; the simple reason was, she felt helpless when faced with immense grief. He didn’t need to speak for her to know his agony. She was sure that a day wouldn’t pass without him wondering why he hadn’t had Carl arrested that evening.
He reached into his breast pocket, removed a monogrammed handkerchief, and blew his nose. “Besides, Hope’s ring was stolen, and Carl needed money. And he didn’t have a prayer of accessing legitimate funds. But a four-carat diamond might have given him a jump start. The police should talk to him. Maybe you could give them this.” He handed her a piece of paper with a Gloucester address scrawled in black marker.
Traffic was bumper to bumper along Route 1, and Frances looked again at the dashboard clock. She was already more than twenty minutes late to meet Elvis, but she had wanted to stay for as much of the initial crime scene investigation as possible. The team dispatched by the Essex County District Attorney’s Office—four men and two women in navy blue windbreakers and latex gloves—had gone to work on the Lawrence house as if it were an archaeological dig. They’d begun in Hope’s bedroom, carefully bagging and labeling dozens of items from the dressing table, including the pills she’d seen, a compact, a lipstick, two hairbrushes, several bobby pins, and a piece of torn fabric. They’d dusted the top and mirror for fingerprints, plucked fiber samples from the carpet with a pair of oversize tweezers, searched drawers, and taken some of what they’d found within. Then they’d moved to the windows again, looking for fingerprints or evidence of forced entry or hasty departure. By the time Frances realized she needed to leave, they’d worked their way into the closet where Hope’s body had been found. Detective Fleming, whom Frances recognized from the day of Hope’s wedding, offered his business card and promised her a copy of the completed inventory. “Give a call if you’ve got any questions,” he’d said as she departed.
The green exit sign for Lynn loomed over the eighteen-wheeler in front of her, and she quickly changed into the right lane. She instantly recognized Elvis’s convertible parked on the shoulder at the bottom of the exit ramp. She pulled onto the grass behind him and rolled down her window as she saw him approach.
“I was here early, so I took the liberty of heading over there myself. There’s not much to do to kill time in Lynn,” he said, leaning against the side of her car and peering in the open window. “Our man’s gone. So is virtually everything but his white catering jacket. According to his landlady, he bolted first thing Sunday morning. Packed up and hauled out in a black pickup, but she can’t give us the make. He’s been renting this place since mid-May, but he’s paid up through September, so she’s thrilled.”
“Does she have any idea where he went?” Frances asked, immediately realizing the stupidity of her question. A criminal wasn’t likely to leave a forwarding address. “Did he pay cash for the apartment?” she added quickly.
“Yeah. Up front. Six hundred a month. I also asked whether he had any friends or people he hung out with, but she doesn’t know. Our only hope is that he reports in to his probation officer, but I have a feeling that isn’t going to happen. I’ve put out an APB. See if any of my esteemed colleagues can track him down.” Elvis chuckled, seemingly bemused by the prospect. “In any event, you can turn around. There’s nothing for us here. Sorry you wasted the drive.”
“Any news from Maggie?”
“Not yet. And she’s been avoiding my page.”
“Is it worth going by? Maybe by the time I forge through this traffic, the autopsy will be complete.”
“Any other woman, I’d say sure. But not Maggie. She doesn’t like to be rushed, and I don’t feel like being ripped a new asshole.”
Frances couldn’t help but laugh at his burst of crudeness. It was always hard to tell about other people’s marriages, and the dynamic between Maggie and Elvis Mallory had her completely baffled. “Can I ask you a favor? It’s a little out of the way.”
“Anything.”
She reached into her pocket and removed the piece of paper her uncle had given her: “From the desk of Adelaide Lawrence.” “There’s someone I need to talk to, and I don’t think I should go alone.”
As she got out of her car, she stretched, arching her back to rid it of its stiffness. A pain shot down her leg and she silently cursed sciatica, her affliction
since she’d taken up jogging the past spring. She knew there was a reason she hated exercise. She scanned the row of houses and found the appropriate number. “This is it,” she said to Elvis.
The series of buzzers were unmarked, so, guessing, she rang the first one. In response to the sound, a dog barked, and she heard a harassed voice call out in a language she didn’t recognize. After a few minutes, a woman opened the door. She wore a flowered smock, red socks, and blue plastic jellies. A bandanna covered her hair.
“We’re looking for Carl LeFleur,” Frances said in a voice that was surprisingly timid.
The woman ran her tongue over her lips in a gesture Frances couldn’t interpret, but she said nothing.
“Habla español?” Her high school Spanish was the best she could do under the circumstances.
She shook her head.
“Does he live here?”
This time she nodded.
“But he’s not here? Do you know where we could find him?”
Frustrated, Frances was about to return to her car when she noticed a small child appear behind the woman, leaning into her leg. No more than six or seven she was, with flowing black hair that seemed longer than she was tall. The calves of her skinny legs and her bare feet were covered in dirt. Her enormous walnut eyes stared up at Frances.
“Can you help us?” Elvis asked, squatting.
The girl nodded, an exaggerated gesture where her chin almost touched her chest.
“Do you know Carl?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know where he might be?”
“The dock. He’s always there,” she said in a melodic voice. “His boat’s broken.”
“Thank you very much,” he said, and she smiled an array of white teeth.
Dusk had started to settle over the fishing pier. In the distance, Frances could see cawing seagulls circling overhead in anticipation of bait morsels as a group of bare-chested men hauled netting off a rusty-hulled trawler. Two others sat on the edge of the dock, their legs dangling idly as they sipped from long-necked beer bottles. A gray-haired man with the stump of a cigar in his mouth hosed empty lobster crates with fresh water. Latin music poured forth from one of the boats anchored at a slip and seemed to float with the tide out to sea.
Across the parking lot, a refrigerated truck waited with its engine idling while several sweatshirted men loaded ice into the back. Even with the distance, the odor of the day’s catch filled Frances’s nostrils.
“I’ll check in with the harbormaster,” Elvis said.
“Meet me down by the boats.”
Approaching the dock, she felt the sets of eyes on her. Whether it was her slightly sunburned skin, her outfit—a loose gray sundress and black sandals—or her gender that set her apart hardly mattered; she suddenly felt as if she’d sprouted a second head. She glanced back at the shingled building into which Elvis had disappeared. Scanning her options once more, she selected the seated men as the likeliest candidates to talk. They seemed the most peaceful and, she hoped, the most cooperative, but their noncommittal reply came as no real surprise.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said, moving on to the man with the hose.
He turned in response to her voice and sprayed her slightly with water. Even as she instinctively leapt back, she smiled, a gesture meant to convey that his mistake was excused.
“Do you know where I could find Carl LeFleur?”
He tilted his head to the right. Removing his cigar, he muttered, “His boat’s the Lady Hope. She’s got a green hull and black bumpers.”
She turned in the direction he indicated. From a distance, it was hard to tell which one he meant. “Thank you,” she said. Hearing a whistle as she passed, she descended the planked walkway with her sandals smacking loudly against the wood. Out on the floating dock, she shaded her eyes with her hand to block the reflection of the last rays of sun on the water and surveyed the fleet. The Lady Hope had barnacles attached at her water line, and a davit protruded from the cabin roof. Her deck was covered with a pile of painted buoys, each tied by a warp to an empty lobster trap.
She wondered for a minute whether she should wait for Elvis to catch up with her, then decided against it. He was minutes behind her. What could happen? Besides, she wanted a moment to talk to Carl alone.
“Mr. LeFleur?” she called out as she drew near. She could hear the bang of a sledgehammer on metal, the clanking and sputtering of an engine trying to turn over, followed by more banging. A vise grip, pliers, and several other tools lay in a heap by the opening to the cabin below. She called again.
A man emerged, wiped his brow with a dirty rag, and hoisted himself onto the deck. “Who’s asking?” Even with grease smeared across his forehead, he was handsome, with a prominent jaw, black eyes, and carved musculature on his bare chest.
Frances introduced herself and extended a hand. He didn’t return the gesture. “I wanted to talk to you about Hope Lawrence.”
“Hope Cabot, now,” he muttered. She thought she detected a quiver in his voice. Did he not know? Hope’s death had been in all the papers. It would have been nearly impossible to miss, especially for someone who might have had reason to look for a wedding announcement on Sunday morning.
“No. Actually. Hope… she, uh… ,” Frances stammered.
“What happened?”
She willed herself to utter the words she wished weren’t true. “She’s dead. I thought you knew. She died shortly before her wedding,” she added, as if that might make it easier for him.
For a moment he seemed frozen, unmoving, but then he covered his face with his palms and said nothing. His breathing was labored. She could see his fingers tense, pushing into his hairline and the perimeter of his face, his giant hands seeming to strain to bear the weight of his head. When moments later a drop of blood appeared on his cheek, she realized he had dug his nail into his own flesh. She took a step back and stumbled slightly on a pile of rope that she hadn’t noticed before.
Carl looked up at the sound of her movement. His face was twisted and he clenched his teeth. He stared at her. His eyes were cold and hard.
“I’m sorry. I truly am. I understand you and Hope were once quite close, and I’m sure this is difficult.” Frances struggled with her words. How many times had she had to console a victim’s family, comfort a witness decimated on cross-examination, but such nurturing had never been her strong suit. She believed that it did no good. Language couldn’t placate or ameliorate emotions in any real way. Pain healed, or rather dulled, but ultimately it was a lonely process. She knew that all too well.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
She hadn’t expected such a question to be his response, and his directness startled her. She took a deep breath. “I need to talk to you about the last time you saw Hope.”
“And what if I don’t want to talk to you?”
“Well, that’s your prerogative. Um… you don’t have to.”
“I know what prerogative means.”
There was no reason to talk to this man as if he had an elementary vocabulary, she chastised herself. It was an instinctive reaction based on what she’d heard about him, what she’d assumed. She’d thought she was better than that, but apparently not. “Did you see Hope on Saturday?”
Carl didn’t reply. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and appeared to look past Frances to the sea beyond. “Who sent you? Bill?”
Frances didn’t respond.
“You didn’t come to tell me Hope’s dead. Nobody in the Lawrence family would do me that favor.” He lowered his voice. “So Bill must think I killed her.”
She felt a shiver down her spine as his words echoed in her ears. How did he know? Only a handful of people were aware that Hope’s death would be considered a murder; the papers had universally labeled it “self-inflicted,” the polite word for suicide.
“Well, damn him. Damn them all.” He stepped past her, walked to the stern of his boat, and leaned over the side. He reached into the water
and pulled out a bunch of seaweed floating on the surface, pressing the pillow-shaped pieces of kelp between his large fingers. Frances could hear the popping sound as air escaped, releasing a tiny burst of salty water. She stared at his hands. They were callused and dark like the rest of his body, except for a lighter band—skin apparently unexposed to the sun—around the left pointer finger. She wondered for a moment what ring he’d removed.
“When was the last time you saw her?” she asked, trying to refocus the conversation.
“I see her every day. I close my eyes and see her face, smell her scent, feel her skin. She was everything good.” Then he paused, dropped the seaweed back over the side of the boat, and turned toward her. “The corpses of drowned men float facing up, but women face down. Someone once said it was to respect female modesty, but I disagree. A woman expects the worst. When she dies, she faces the direction she knows she’ll go, the blackness of her destiny. A man assumes he’s going to heaven, so he looks up. Arrogant pricks, aren’t we?”
Frances wanted to understand his point but felt that there was a philosophical subtext she was missing.
His tone changed dramatically as Elvis’s arrival interrupted them. “I don’t know who you are or where you’ve come from, but I don’t want you here. Get off my boat.” He picked up a wrench from near his feet and slapped it against the side of his leg.
“I… I think you’ve misunderstood,” she said, slowly moving backward. She could feel her pulse rise and mentally prepared to dive into the cold water. “I loved Hope, too. I want to find out what happened, and I thought I might start with you.”
