Sam nudged her, and Mary looked up at him. “You ready to go to the car?” he asked. He hadn’t wanted to come, but she’d shamed him into it. She looked at him tenderly. “Remember the fun we used to have with Linda in those days?” she asked.
Sam nodded. “Sure I do. Come on.”
Mary ran one finger over the soft petals of her rose. Then she stepped up to the casket and tossed it on. “Good-bye, old friend,” she whispered.
As she turned away from the grave, huddled beside her husband, she was accosted by a young woman dressed in a damp tweed skirt and a rumpled jacket. “Excuse me, Mrs. Duncan?” she asked.
Mary wiped her eyes. “Yes,” she said.
“My name is Phyllis Hodges. I’m from the Gazette. I’ve heard a rumor that you are the person who identified Mr. Newhall to the police as the killer.”
Mary’s mouth dropped open. Before she had a chance to speak, Sam took her by the arm and stepped between her and the reporter.
“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “This is a funeral. People are mourning here.”
“I’m just doing my job,” said Phyllis.
“Mrs. Duncan doesn’t know what you are talking about,” he said. “Come on.” He hurried Mary along toward their car.
“Sam,” Mary complained, wriggling out of his grasp. “Why did you do that?
Sam opened the door and virtually pushed her inside. Then he came around and jumped onto the driver’s seat. “Lock the door,” he said. “She might follow us.”
“What’s gotten into you?”
“That’s all we need,” said Sam. “She’ll write in the paper that you blew the whistle, and the Newhall man will come back looking for you. I knew you shouldn’t have gotten involved in this.”
“Oh, Sam, for heaven’s sake,” said Mary. “He’s miles from here by now.” She locked the door.
Chapter Twenty
“Mom, what are you doing?” Jenny cried, kneeling beside the wastebasket and staring at its overflowing contents in horror.
Karen continued to rifle the jewelry box and the top drawer of her bureau. “I’m cleaning out,” she said, pelting a pair of earrings onto the pile.
Jenny lifted necklaces and bracelets, bottles of perfume, and scarves out of the trash and stared at them. “Mom, this is all your good stuff. Presents from Dad. You can’t just throw this stuff away.”
Karen ignored Jenny’s protests. Last night she had cried herself to sleep, hugging Greg’s pillow, and at dawn she had been jolted awake by a dream of him making love to a woman with dark hair, white, freckled skin, and swollen breasts. In the dream they tumbled in sweaty sheets, his hand traveling over the woman’s rounded belly and disappearing between her legs, while they chuckled at the mention of Karen’s name. The memory of that humiliating image made her scalp prickle.
The phone began to ring on the bedside table. “Don’t answer it,” said Karen sharply. It was the day of Linda’s funeral, and their phone had not stopped ringing. Seeing the stricken look on Jenny’s face, Karen said more gently, “It’s just more trouble.” She had resolved not to answer it again today. A few calls had been friends, offering support, but Karen had refused all visitors. Behind every offer of help hovered a flock of unanswered questions, ready to swoop down on her. More than anything, Karen did not want to tell the story again. The rest of the calls had been reporters and clients of Greg’s calling to cancel their business with him. How they were going to live with no income was beyond Karen’s fathoming right now.
The phone stopped ringing, and Karen lifted the silver locket out of its box on her dresser. She had not even worn it yet, and she could tell that it had been expensive. The shop where Greg bought it was a pricey antique store downtown. She pressed her lips together, seeing again that cautious, hopeful look in his eyes when he gave it to her. A present was not just something he bought because a day rolled around on the calendar. It was an opportunity to please her. He puzzled over each gift, studied what she liked. He rarely missed the mark. A fresh ache seized her heart as she recalled how he loved to describe the selection process—baubles considered, then rejected; salespeople parading their finest wares before him until he, like some benign pasha, finally seized upon the perfect gift, clapped his hands, and it was wrapped.
“That’s so pretty,” said Jenny wistfully.
Karen snapped the locket open and dislodged the little picture of Jenny. She slipped the photo back into her jewelry box and then dangled the necklace by the chain. You will need the money, she told herself. You have to be practical. You could return this to the store. Then she shook her head and tossed the necklace on the heap of mementos in the basket. I’ll find another way to get the money, she thought.
Jenny reached into the basket with a cry. “Can I keep it?” she said.
Karen looked coldly at the locket in Jenny’s hand. “I’d rather you didn’t,” she said.
Jenny did not look up at her. “I want it,” she said stubbornly. “You threw it away. What do you care?”
“I don’t want to have to see it,” said Karen.
Defiantly Jenny stood up and hooked the chain around her neck. She dropped the heart under her sweatshirt. “I’ll wear it inside my shirt,” she said.
“Do as you like.”
“I will,” Jenny snapped. “You’re being horrible.”
Part of Karen knew it was true. These gifts were lovingly given, over a lifetime together. Each one had a memory attached to it. She held up a blue-enameled pin with a gold moon, sprinkled with tiny diamond stars. That particular Christmas morning she’d opened her box from him to find a teakettle, to replace one that had cracked. She could remember thinking, with a sinking heart: A teakettle! The romance is over. And then he’d urged her to look in the kettle, and Karen had found the jewel box inside. She softened at the memory of his beaming face, pleased with his surprise.
And then her husband’s smiling face changed into the lustful grimace of the faithless lover in her dream, blotting out everything else, leaving her weak and clammy with only a blaze of hatred where her heart used to be.
The sound of a car in the driveway interrupted her thoughts. “It’s probably just our watchdog,” said Karen. The rain and the gray skies had driven most of the curious to find shelter somewhere other than their front yard. But the unmarked police car had remained parked in the driveway, the bulky silhouette of the cop assigned to them just visible behind the wheel.
Jenny went over to the window and peered out. “No, it’s someone else.”
Karen walked up behind her and looked out. A black BMW had rolled up and parked in front of the house. A man with a briefcase got out on the driver’s side.
“Who is it?” Jenny asked.
Karen did not answer but began to mutter angrily as she marched out of the room and down the stairs. She grabbed the front doorknob and rattled it to be sure the door was locked against the man who rang the bell. Jenny crept down the stairs behind her.
“Karen,” the man called out. “I need to talk to you. Open the door.”
“Go away, Arnold,” said Karen grimly. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Don’t be stubborn,” said Arnold Richardson impatiently. “I haven’t got time for this.”
“So leave,” Karen cried. “Who asked you to come here?”
“Who is it?” Jenny whispered.
“Our lawyer,” said Karen.
“Let him in,” Jenny pleaded. “Please, Mom. Maybe he can help us.”
“You’ve got a lot at stake here, Karen. Open the door.”
“You could just see what he wants,” Jenny pleaded.
Karen hesitated but could not deny the desperation in Jenny’s eyes. She opened the door. Arnold Richardson shook out his black umbrella and came into the foyer. He was only a few years older than Karen and Greg, but he had the sleek, paunchy appearance of a much older man.
“Jenny?” he asked gravely.
Jenny accepted his coat and his umbrella, studying
him with big eyes.
“You ought to know, Arnold,” said Karen shortly. She turned to her daughter. “Honey, will you hang up Mr. Richardson’s coat in the back hall? It’s dripping.”
“Sure,” said Jenny. “Are you going to be my father’s lawyer?”
“I am his lawyer,” said Arnold.
“He didn’t do it,” said Jenny.
“Jenny,” said Karen.
Jenny disappeared with the coat. Karen offered Arnold a seat, but nothing else. She found it hard even to look at him.
“Karen,” he began, “I know what a shock it was for you to find out about Jenny. I hope you understand that I could not tell you before. It was a matter of privileged information.”
“It was a conspiracy.”
Arnold sighed. “What a mess.”
“Well, I agree with you there.”
“I can’t believe Greg blurted this story out in front of the police, without calling me. What was he thinking? What a stupid thing to do.”
“I know. It’s strange,” said Karen bitterly, “for such an accomplished liar.”
Arnold ignored her remark. “He hasn’t contacted you “
“My phone is tapped.”
“I assumed so. I haven’t heard from him, either,” said Arnold.
“So, what are you doing here?” Karen asked.
“You’re going to need financial advice, legal advice about the business. I’m offering to help in any way I can. And, of course, when Greg returns or…”
“Is caught,” Karen finished his thought.
“I want to help.”
Karen regarded him with a cold eye. Greg had always been Arnold Richardson’s biggest booster. To Karen, he seemed like any other lawyer, but she took her husband’s word for it. Besides, she had always been inclined to like him—he was the one who had arranged their adoption.
“Well, I know you were a big help to Greg in the past, Arnold,” she said sarcastically. “I mean, if it weren’t for you…”
“He would have found another lawyer to do it,” Arnold said firmly. “He was hell-bent on that adoption.
He was like a man possessed at that time. The Emery girl had agreed to give up the child, and he was determined that you would have that baby.”
“That he would have her, Arnold. Let’s not twist everything around now.”
“I’m not twisting anything. I remember it perfectly. I remember because I advised him in the strongest possible terms not to do this. I warned him that if he did this thing, and he didn’t tell you the truth, sooner or later it would come back to haunt him. Of course, I never imagined anything like this.”
“No, I guess not,” Karen muttered.
“Anyway, he was adamant. He said that he had to give you a child. That your marriage depended on it. That God or fate, or whatever, was giving him a chance to make it all up to you.”
“And you agreed with that?” Karen demanded.
“Frankly, it seemed crazy to me,” said Arnold. “I’ve always liked Greg. Always admired his head for business, but everyone has his Achilles’ heel. This was his. He saw his chance to give you the baby you wanted so badly.”
“Stop it, Arnold,” Karen cried. “Let’s stop pretending that he did this for me. Did he have the affair for me, too? Did he sleep with another woman for my sake?”
“I’m not here to defend him to you. Whatever happened, that’s between you and your husband. I’m just telling you what I know.”
“Maybe you’re just worried that I’ll report what you did and you’ll be disbarred for it.”
“You do whatever you feel you have to do,” Arnold said calmly. “Right now you have other problems that are a little bit more overwhelming.”
Karen shook her head. “Maybe if he had just told me the truth.”
“You would have understood?” Arnold asked skeptically.
“He didn’t give me a choice.”
Arnold shrugged. “None of us wants to admit to our failings. We’d all rather be heroes.”
“My hero,” said Karen bitterly.
There was a silence in the room. Finally Karen said, “It’s not your fault, Arnold. I know that.”
Arnold sighed. “Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”
Karen shook her head. “I feel I don’t even know the man we’re talking about.”
Arnold stood up. “If he contacts you, tell him to get in touch with me immediately before he does anything else.”
Karen nodded.
“I mean it, Karen. Your…Greg is in a great deal of trouble.”
“No kidding,” said Karen. She glanced at the lawyer warily. “Is there any chance of him getting off?”
Arnold shook his head. “I’m not privy to what they have. Not until he is back in custody and claims me as his counsel. He’s got the motive; he was with her on the night she was killed. It’s bad. You know, if he’d only waited before blurting out that story, we could have claimed that you knew already “
“Oh, you mean I could have lied for him,” she said.
“Would you rather see him go to jail for a crime he didn’t commit?”
“What makes you so sure he didn’t do it?” she asked bitterly.
“You think he did do it?” Arnold asked incredulously.
Karen turned away from him.
“Karen?”
“No,” she said in a small voice.
“Well, that’s more like it. At least you haven’t gone completely around the bend. Not that anyone could blame you…”
“Why don’t you leave,” she said.
“I’m leaving,” Arnold said, picking up his briefcase.
“Jenny,” Karen called out, “can you bring Mr. Richardson…”
Before she could complete the thought, Jenny appeared with the attorney’s coat and umbrella.
“Karen, any questions you have, you can call me.”
“I can’t afford you,” she said dully.
“We’ll worry about that later,” he said. “Good-bye Jenny, keep your hopes up.”
“I will,” said Jenny. “Good-bye.”
“Thanks for coming, Arnold,” said Karen. She opened the door without looking at him. Arnold popped his umbrella open and stepped onto the front steps. She felt as though she were being rude, ungrateful. But he had conspired to deceive her, along with Greg. All these years, he had known. She watched him walk to his car and get in, ready to drive away from this house, from their sorrows. For a moment she wished desperately that she could be in his place, be the one leaving this unbearable situation in the rearview mirror. She closed the door and turned back inside.
Chapter Twenty-one
Phyllis Hodges unwrapped a plastic drinking cup on the motel vanity and dropped a fistful of ice into it. Then she poured some diet Sprite over the ice and slurped it down. She unzipped her tweed skirt, let it drop to the floor, and stepped out of it. She pulled the oatmeal-colored jersey off over her head and kicked off her shoes. It felt good to be out of those soggy clothes. She had spent most of the drizzly day outside, between the funeral and then following the police around as they tried to track down some trace of Greg Newhall. She hadn’t really noticed how damp her clothes were until just now. She’d been far too interested in the chase.
In a way, this story was too good to be true. She had been working on the Bayland Gazette ever since she dropped out of graduate school, and it wasn’t the place she intended to stay. But she was still too inexperienced for the big city dailies, and though she would never admit it, she was a little intimidated by the idea of moving to a city and trying to crack the well-known papers anyway. But she needed something to catapult her into the big leagues, and she had a sneaking feeling that this story was the one. Crime stories were her favorites—probably because her dad had been a cop—but there was precious little in the way of intriguing crime in a town like Bayland. She thought she was on to something with Amber. Her story about the remains of the girl found in the bird sanctuary was the talk of the
town for weeks. That name she’d picked, Amber, had really stuck. But nothing ever came of it. It was frustrating. Now this was different. This story could really turn into something. Maybe even a book. That would be the best thing. A book. Then she could write her own ticket.
Exhilarated by the possibilities, Phyllis poured herself another glass of soda, padded over to the TV and turned on the news, and then stretched out on the bed to fantasize a little bit about her future. A nonfiction bestseller that would be compared with Fatal Vision. Or a Pulitzer for her series in the Gazette. She pictured herself accepting the prize, people whispering about what an amazing accomplishment it was for a reporter from such a small paper. She would thank her editor, of course, who had believed in her, and her mom, and she would mention her late father, Stan Hodges, who had always encouraged her interest in police work and set her on the road to investigative reporting.
Phyllis closed her eyes and sighed. She could hear the applause inside her head, feel the warm glow of the admiration of her peers. All right, she finally chided herself. That’s enough. Lying here on this bed isn’t going to win you any prizes. Time to get to work. She set her cup on the night table and sat up, staring at the TV, which had a brief story on the funeral and the fact that Greg Newhall was still at large. Then she looked around the room.
It had been a job convincing Margo to let her take the room. Margo had all kinds of worries about whether the police were finished with it or not, whether it was bad luck or not. “It’s not a crime scene,” Phyllis had pointed out, biting back the word stupid. Phyllis knew that being insulting would not help her get her way. Finally Margo had agreed, assuring her that the room had been thoroughly cleaned and that no trace of the murdered woman remained. Well, Phyllis hadn’t told the manager this, of course, but she was hoping that some traces did remain. She intended to go over this place with a fine-toothed comb since she’d paid a night’s price for the privilege. She couldn’t help but be a little concerned about her cats. They weren’t used to staying in the apartment alone. She almost never spent the night away from home. But cats were pretty self-sufficient, she reminded herself. That was a good thing about them.
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