Redemption

by Nancy Geary

  As he updated her on the details of Carl’s death, the words of Elvis’s narration sounded distant. Cause was a blunt-force injury: brain hemorrhage, compressed skull fracture, a hit on the left side of the head. There was no water in his lungs, which meant that he had died before he was thrown overboard. The night before, the police had recovered a large sledgehammer covered with Carl’s blood from a Dumpster behind the harbormaster’s office. Forensics had lifted a thumbprint off the handle, but there hadn’t been a computer match in the commonwealth’s database, so the print was being sent to the FBI, where the computerized information was more extensive.

  “We went to his apartment around six this morning, but someone had gotten there first,” Elvis said in a raised voice, an obvious effort to get her attention. “The place was ransacked. The door was busted in, not that it took much. Stuff broken, thrown off the shelves, clothes pulled out of the closet.”

  “Did anyone see anything?”

  “The kid in the first-floor apartment said she heard footsteps on the stairs around three or four in the morning, but she assumed it was Carl. Apparently he kept weird hours, so she didn’t think anything of it. She didn’t hear or see anyone leave.”

  “Did they canvass the neighborhood?”

  “It’s a pretty tight-lipped community. You’re not going to see much cooperation between the fishermen and the cops, but one woman across the street did mention seeing a guy in a foreign car asking for Carl. She hasn’t seen him since.”

  “Any description of the driver?”

  “Only that he looked rich. Like that narrows the field.”

  “Was anything taken?”

  Elvis shook his head. “We can’t figure out for sure because there’s no one around who can tell us what was supposed to be there. According to the landlady, he had no family. Never got any mail except for bills. It doesn’t look like a robbery—several items of value were still there: a small stereo, a pair of aquamarine cuff links, a silver frame. I’d say whoever broke in wasn’t looking for something to hock.”

  Her mind wandered as she stared out to sea. Mark’s opinion, which Elvis included in his rendition of events, was that Carl had killed Hope and his death was revenge. But that assumed a fact she wasn’t willing to accept.

  “Where do you want to begin?” Elvis asked.

  “I’ll take the berth and you can search the galley.”

  They both went below, and Elvis began a systematic opening and shutting of cabinets, peering and checking. Frances pulled open the bifold door and stepped inside the forward cabin. She closed the door behind her, wanting to have a moment to assimilate the cramped space, the single berth with its cotton blanket rolled at one end, the single porthole window. Perhaps they’d come here when Hope felt she could no longer impose on Teddy. She ran her fingers along the thin mattress, the place that they had undoubtedly lain together, and tried to imagine their afternoons. They would have lain sideways to fit two bodies, and she imagined that Carl would run his hand along Hope’s thin body as they snuggled like spoons. They would have shared stories, sometimes laughing, sometimes whispering, perhaps even crying, as the tide gently rocked the bed back and forth. As they glanced out the porthole, they would have seen the sky or the stars. For a moment she wished she could have had the same experience, the kind of quiet intimacy that for her was more passionate than anything else.

  She shook her head and turned her attention back to the problem before her. She opened the storage cabinets and removed clothes, books, assorted fishing equipment, and an extra blanket. She knocked on the walls of the hull, wondering if a secret storage compartment had been installed to safeguard Hope’s diaries, but she discerned no change in timbre. She lifted the mattress. The underside was empty.

  Although she was frustrated, it wasn’t surprising that there were no diaries. Carl’s boat had been searched once after his arrest, and combed over again by forensics just hours before. It was unlikely that anything important had been missed.

  Frances sat on the berth and, without thinking, lay back against the pillow, detecting a faint smell of mildew. As she settled back, she felt something lumpy, a hard protrusion, and she shifted her position. No, she hadn’t imagined it.

  She got up and pressed her palms firmly into the mattress, moving them over the entire length of the canvas. She could feel at least five volumes, the hard corners and the flat covers. She should have known. Where else would a man store his lover’s secrets?

  She knew she should notify Elvis, but for one final minute she wanted to take in the peacefulness of the space and the romance that it must have encapsulated. In a moment it would be torn apart, the mattress violently split open and the diaries revealed. She wondered once again why all this sorrow had come to pass.

  “Elvis,” she called, although her own voice sounded foreign. “I found them.”

  “Teddy!” she called as she swung open the screen door. When she’d telephoned from the road to tell her grandmother she needed to come by, needed a favor, Teddy’s irritation had been obvious. The death of Carl was more upsetting to her than she’d ever be willing to acknowledge, and Frances was quite sure she wanted to be alone. But this was important.

  After dropping her knapsack on a chair by the door, she walked back to her grandmother’s office.

  Teddy sat with a pillow propped behind her back to soften the discomfort of the straight wooden chair. Although she leaned forward so that her eyes were less than a foot from the monitor, she gazed through a magnifying glass at the words on the screen.

  As Frances leaned over her shoulders, she could smell the familiar talcum powder that Teddy used to coat her body after every shower or bath. She applied the powder with a giant satin puff, an item that she had refused to share even with her persistent, begging grandchildren. The ritual had seemed exotic, and Frances wondered whether her skin had absorbed so much over the years that the odor was permanent.

  “What are you reading?” she asked.

  “The chancellor’s reply. It sounds like Father Whitney will be canonized before long,” she replied, resting her magnifying glass by her keyboard.

  Frances read the message that filled the e-mail screen.

  Thank you for your recent inquiry regarding Father Edgar Whitney and the Church of the Holy Spirit. The Episcopal Diocese is always happy to answer any questions concerning its clergy or any of their parishes. Your contemplation of making the church a beneficiary of your foundation is a blessing to us, but must only be done if you are fully satisfied and free of concerns.

  Father Whitney completed seminary and was admitted to the priesthood in 1983. While an assistant rector at Christ Church in Barnstable, he requested a transfer within the Diocese. Because of a lack of available openings, he went initially to work at a camp for underprivileged boys in Orleans. He was very popular with the children, and he was able to demonstrate a great capacity for counseling and ministry. After that service, he was made rector of First Episcopal Church in Lynn. It is one of the most disadvantaged of our parishes, and he performed a masterful job of making it a vital part of the community. He implemented a nursery school, ran a kitchen to provide meals for the homeless, and ministered to parishioners plagued by poverty, substance abuse, and broken homes. He certainly knows how to control costs, run outreach programs, and provide much needed services on a fixed, limited budget.

  The Diocese feels blessed to have Father Whitney as part of its clerical family and gives him the highest of recommendations. We think it is appropriate for you to place your faith in him and his parish as you contemplate your most generous gift. My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family during this time of suffering.

  “Well, I suppose that debate can be laid to rest,” Teddy remarked. “All I can think is that there won’t be any foundation in Carl’s memory. If I didn’t have to live with your aunt and uncle, I’d consider starting one myself. That poor man.”

  “The police haven’t been able to even find a next of kin to noti
fy,” Frances said, echoing her sentiment. Carl was someone whom no one would miss. She rested her hands on her grandmother’s shoulder. “Could you ask the chancellor one more thing for me?” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I need to know about an Episcopalian minister named Roger Burgess. He worked somewhere on Cape Cod.” Her grandmother gave her a quizzical look. “It may be a wild-goose chase, but you were the one who asked me to help Carl. I know nothing can change what’s happened—”

  “Hope’s dead. Now Carl’s dead,” she interrupted, although the words were somewhat garbled by the frog in her throat.

  “And we don’t know who killed either of them. Please help me. Worst case is that I’m wrong, and this leads nowhere. But there won’t be any harm done.”

  “That’s what you think. All that gets done around here is harm,” she said as she leaned back toward the screen, clicked the reply box with the icon, and began to type Frances’s request.

  “Can I get you a sparkling water while you wait?” Henry asked. Dressed in a black turtleneck, black jeans, and motorcycle boots, he hardly looked the part of an office assistant. He paused from sorting through a stack of index cards and took a sip from a bottle of Perrier.

  “No thanks,” Frances replied. The intercom buzzed just as she settled into the chair.

  “She’ll see you now,” he said, motioning toward the door.

  Inside, Ricki sat at her conference table with Hope’s documents spread out in front of her and a cashmere blanket draped over her knees. She removed her glasses to greet Frances, then indicated for her to sit. “I have to apologize for a bad cold. It usually hits me when the seasons change.” She covered her mouth just in time to block a sneeze, then dabbed her nose with a silk handkerchief. “How is the investigation going?”

  “I wish I had more to report.” We’ve gone through two suspects and one’s dead and we’re no closer to finding Hope’s killer, she wanted to add.

  Ricki leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “You said you were bringing other diaries, ones whose authenticity you don’t question, so it would be a great help to take a look at those, but I can tell you now that this diary is forged.” She patted the leather journal. Frances realized her jaw had dropped, as she couldn’t contain her surprise. “I thought it would come as a shock, but there are several things that make me quite confident in my opinion. First, there’s the slant issue that I raised when you first delivered the materials. The angle and degree of slant tend to be relatively constant in the same author. But in this diary there are dramatic fluctuations. Even accounting for someone with"—she paused, searching for the right word—"emotional troubles, these variations are material. Second, the baselines in the diary are straight. Virtually all of Hope’s samples have a sloping baseline. Third, the pen pressure is quite different. The pressure on the diary is so intense that the pages have buckled. If you look at the samples,” she said, pushing several toward Frances, “you’ll notice a much lighter touch. At times, Hope’s pen barely seems to touch the page.”

  Frances stared where Ricki indicated. It was true. She could see a difference after all.

  “Finally, and most important, under a high-intensity magnifier, you can see that even though the letters are connected in a script, each one has been done separately and attached afterward. The magnifier shows gaps that aren’t readily visible to the naked eye.” She flicked a switch on the microscope and slid a page of the diary between the viewfinder and the light. For a moment, Frances was reminded of observing leaves, bugs, and butterflies in elementary school science class. Ricki adjusted the lens. Then she offered Frances a look. Sure enough, the white of the page could be seen, indicating slight breaks between each letter.

  “So it’s a good job.”

  Ricki pursed her lips. “Yes and no. The writer is obviously very familiar with Hope’s handwriting. But he or she is not a real forger. If I were to venture a guess, the person had extensive writings from Hope and was able to create a master alphabet to copy from. Do you see how thin the pages of this diary are?” Ricki held a single page up to the light. “If the forger had a stencil that could be placed behind each page, the letters could be traced. It’s time-consuming, but not hard.”

  Frances tried to process all that Ricki was saying. Who had gone to the effort of creating a false diary for Hope? And why did someone want to do that? If any thing, the text of the entries blamed Jack for her death. But if the purpose was to divert attention from the true killer, why wasn’t the narrative stronger? Why leave so much to innuendo?

  “I can’t tell you much about the forger because I have nothing but imitated letters. Since the style is completely consistent, there are no idiosyncrasies in the penmanship to give me any clues into the personality of the author. However, if you have a suspect and provide me with samples and an exemplar, I may be able to help you. There could be similarities between aspects of the handwriting—the pressure, for instance—or the ink type on a sample may match. I’ll certainly help if I can.”

  Frances stood to leave. Ricki cupped Frances’s right hand in both of hers for a moment longer than was customary between strangers. “I know this complicates things for you and your family. I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Things were complicated long before you got involved,” she replied, forcing a smile. And long before I did, too, she thought.

  32

  Frances watched the speedometer flutter at sixty-five. She’d been to Cape Cod only once before, to attend a debutante party in Osterville, and was basically unfamiliar with the hook of land that jutted out into the Atlantic. Scrubby pine, nice beaches, traffic, and more than a hundred college students gathering to celebrate their friend’s ostensible coming out into society were all she remembered of the champagne-saturated weekend.

  As she drove, she thought of the e-mail the chancellor had sent to Teddy.

  In response to your inquiry, please be advised that Roger Burgess was defrocked more than a decade ago. He has never applied for reinstatement, and the Diocese has no further information to provide.

  An Internet search of periodicals on the missing minister turned up a single story from the Cape Cod Times.The picture showed a dark-haired, smiling man in his mid-forties leaving the Barnstable Superior Court. He wore dark glasses and a large wooden cross around his neck. The caption read: “An act of God? Father Burgess found not liable in wrongful death action brought by Virginia Bailey’s family.”

  But that had been all she needed. Hope’s diary from the previous June and July—the most recent volume found in Carl’s mattress—contained several references to “Ginny” and the “Bailey family.” The most haunting sentences of an entry dated June 28 still resonated in Frances’s memory: “She and I are soul mates in our suffering. Why is it that wherever we turn for protection, we are betrayed? Can anyone be safe? Does anyone care whether we are?”

  She hit the accelerator.

  Cove Road—the address for Ruth Bailey—was one of several streets within a golf course subdivision called Cove Hollow just off Route 6 at the Centerville exit. Frances drove through a set of large gates and past an oval sign, careful to steer clear of the many battery-powered golf carts weaving across the road. Past the fourth hole, the houses began to crop up: uniform Capes with dormers on the back side, nonfunctional shutters, and attached garages set on square lots. Many had quarter board signs over the garage doors with names in gilded letters. The color of the mailbox out front and slight variations in landscaping marked the only differences in this residential community.

  The garage door at 1313 Cove Road was open, and she could see a maroon Plymouth with its driver’s-side door ajar and the engine idling. Frances parked her car and walked up the driveway just as an elderly woman appeared from the house and got in the car, pulling the door shut loudly.

  She tapped on the window, and the woman started. Her right hand gripped the steering wheel as she cracked the window and looked out with terr
or in her hazel eyes. She was in her late sixties, with auburn hair, red cheeks, and deep crow’s-feet. She wore a navy knit dress. A small gold cross necklace was visible beneath the white lace collar. On the seat beside her was a basket with knitting needles and balls of yarn protruding.

  “Ruth Bailey?”

  The woman nodded.

  “I’m sorry to bother you. I truly am. But I very much need a moment of your time. I believe my cousin Hope Lawrence was a friend of your daughter’s.”

  Ruth turned her head away from Frances and peered out over her steering wheel for a moment before speaking. When she spoke, her words were slow and deliberate. “That name isn’t familiar. And my daughter’s been dead a long time.”

  “I know, and I’m so very sorry.” Frances paused, wondering how to explain to a total stranger that the connection between Hope and Virginia Bailey was the key to discovering Hope’s murderer. She’d convinced herself of that. “Please, can you spare five minutes? That’s all I ask. I just have a few questions about Father Burgess and his connection to your daughter. I would have called, but your number’s unlisted.”

  “There are very few people whom I want to find me these days.” Ruth glanced at her knitting, then turned to Frances. The few freckles on her nose gave her a girlish quality despite her age. “I was off to a knitting group. We make children’s sweaters to sell at the Christmas fair at our church. We have one of the most successful booths. Usually everything gets sold.”

  “I can come back,” she offered.

  “No. That’s all right. If your cousin was a friend of my Ginny’s, then you’re welcome in my house.” She turned off the engine and got out, leaving her basket behind.

  Frances followed her through the side door into a sun-filled, wallpapered kitchen, a linoleum floor that sparkled, and an embroidered banner mounted about the windowsill that read: “God Bless This Home.” The room was impeccable. Clean pot holders hung on color-coordinated plastic hooks over the stove. Nothing cluttered the rose-colored counters. A single placemat and napkin in its ring were the only objects on the round table.