Careless, he berated himself. A few more like that and they’ll catch you.
Meanwhile, as the old woman rolled up her window, she turned to her husband in the driver’s seat. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be, but I’ll swear I know that man’s face from somewhere “
Her husband was not paying attention. He was too busy looking for a way back to the center of town. “I didn’t notice,” he said absently.
“I’m sure of it,” she said. She chewed her lip and peered through the windshield, searching for the connection.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Karen knelt in her blooming flower beds, yanking out the weeds that didn’t belong. She had come outside hoping that some time spent in the garden might take her mind off the dark thoughts, the fears, that had kept her awake most of the night. It had taken every ounce of her strength to get on her gardening clothes and gather up her tools. For a long time she had stood in the kitchen, staring out at the sunlit yard, feeling like a vampire, wanting to hide in the gloom all day, panicked at the idea of being out in the open, exposed to the sun. Once she finally got out among the flowers and got to work, the time passed quickly. She waved to Jenny when Peggy’s father dropped her off after lunch at the mall, and she kept on working. Once she stopped and went inside, she knew she would feel enervated again and might not get back outside for weeks.
A car pulled into the driveway and Karen looked up and shaded her eyes as she squinted across the lawn. An older woman she did not recognize was walking slowly toward her. With a sigh Karen clambered to her feet and put down her trowel. She put her canvas-gloved, dirt-covered hands on her hips.
The woman approached her haltingly. She was dressed neatly in dark pants and a gray cardigan, even though the day was warm. She carried a plain brown pocketbook and a small shopping bag. “Mrs. New-hall?” she said.
Karen nodded warily.
“My name is Alice Emery,” said the woman. “I’m Linda Emery’s mother.”
“Oh,” said Karen in surprise. She felt completely unsure how to respond. “Oh.”
“I know you didn’t expect to see me here,” said the older woman. “I wondered if we could talk?”
Karen had a sudden impression of great fragility in the other woman. She felt fearful that the woman might faint, being so overdressed for the weather. “Of course,” she said hastily. “Please, come in the house.”
Karen removed her gloves and gathered up her tools. She gestured to the house, and the woman followed her as she hurried toward the open doors of the patio. Karen led her through the dining room and into the kitchen. “Please, sit down,” she said. “Can I get you something to drink? Some lemonade, maybe?”
“That would be nice,” said Alice.
Both women were silent as Karen went about getting the glasses and pouring out the lemonade. Karen kept thinking about the older woman’s loss—her daughter had been murdered. It was hard to imagine such grief. And, as far as anyone knew, Karen’s husband was the killer. Why would she ever want to come here?
“I’m sure you think it’s strange my coming here,” said Alice as if reading Karen’s thoughts.
“It’s…I feel…a little uncomfortable,” Karen admitted.
“Yes, so do I.” Alice sipped her drink and, for a minute, seemed to get lost in her own thoughts. There was silence again in the kitchen. Then Alice placed her glass on the table. “That’s delicious,” she said.
Karen felt no hostility from the older woman, although she kept expecting to. She was utterly confused. She decided to bring up the unspoken specter between them.
“I’m sorry about your loss,” she said.
Alice met her gaze, and Karen wanted to look away from the pain she saw in those eyes. Grief and regret mingled in crushing proportions. For an instant, as their eyes met, they were just two mothers, united in understanding. Alice looked away, and Karen felt wary again.
“Thank you,” said Alice with dignity. “I have many regrets.”
The woman’s words made Karen feel uneasy, angry even. Surely this woman was not hoping to unload her grievances on Karen, already stumbling under the weight of her own. Linda Emery had not been her friend—she had been her husband’s lover. Nothing could change that. There was only so much sympathy that Karen was willing to feel.
As if prompted by Karen’s belligerent silence, Alice began to speak. “When Linda came to see me, my son convinced me to send her away. After nearly fourteen years. And I did it.”
Karen had expected some reference to the murder, to Greg. She felt a certain relief, followed by revulsion at the woman’s bald admission. At the same time, it answered a lingering question she had—why Linda had been staying at a motel. Karen had wondered about it often enough. She felt oddly grateful for the information.
“Well,” Karen said, groping for some appropriate platitude. “I’m sure she understood.”
Alice shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
Once again Karen felt that suffocating uneasiness. Why are you telling me? she wanted to cry out.
Alice peered at her. “I don’t want any more regrets,” she said as if in answer to Karen’s silent question.
“No,” said Karen cautiously.
“She told me I have a granddaughter,” said Alice.
Karen started at the word. Of course, it was true. This was Jenny’s grandmother sitting before her in the kitchen. For a second Karen was glad that her own mother had not lived to see this day. All men are cheaters, her mother always told her, never more so than when Karen had announced that she was going to marry Greg. You’ll pay in the end, her mother had said. It’s not that she would have gloated about all this. No, it was more that her knowing sympathy, now that the inevitable had finally occurred, would be too much to bear.
Karen forced herself to concentrate on the woman before her. Alice looked almost defiant—as if daring Karen to deny it.
“Yes,” said Karen. “It’s just…I didn’t think…”
“I’d like to meet her,” said Alice.
“Of course,” said Karen hastily. “I just assumed you wanted to talk about…you know, my husband.”
Alice waved a hand wearily, as if to say it was beside the point. She hesitated, as if sorting through her thoughts, and then said, “That’s a matter for the police. Whatever happens, it won’t bring her back.”
“No,” Karen agreed ruefully.
Alice took another sip of lemonade and cleared her throat. “I’ve given this a lot of thought, Mrs. Newhall. I searched my heart before I came here. Linda was all excited about seeing her daughter. She wanted me to meet her. Your daughter is all I have left of mine, if you see what I mean.”
“Yes,” said Karen hastily. “Of course I do.”
“So here I am. I decided that I wanted to meet her, and I hope you will allow it.”
Karen felt a certain admiration for the woman, for the courage it took to come here. “It’s all right with me,” she said carefully. “But you understand, it’s up to Jenny “
“Certainly,” said Alice. She sank back in the chair as if relieved not to have to explain further.
“I’ll just go and tell her you’re here.” As she was about to leave the room, Karen turned back and said to Alice, “I should warn you. Jenny bears a strong resemblance to your…to her mother.”
Alice looked at once pleased and a little flustered by this. “Thank you for telling me,” she said.
“I’ll be right back.”
• • •
Karen briefed Jenny on the way down the stairs, marveling to herself at how willingly Jenny had agreed to meet this stranger, her grandmother. It was as if this whole horrid experience was making the girl ever stronger and more resilient. Jenny smiled shyly at Alice as she came into the room. “Hello,” she said.
Tears formed in Alice’s eyes as she looked at the girl. “Oh, my,” she said, “you do look like her. Oh, my.” Alice got up from her chair, walked over, and cupped Jenny’s face gently in
her hands, shaking her head.
Karen started to object to this familiarity, but Jenny met Alice’s gaze with bashful pride. “I know,” said the child consolingly. “I just wish I’d known her better.”
Alice nodded and resumed her seat. “She was a lovely young girl, just like you.”
“Thank you,” said Jenny, sitting down opposite Alice.
Karen felt her heart fill up with pride at the compassionate, surefooted way in which Jenny dealt with the older woman. She could see Jenny was simply responding from the heart, but still, her guilelessness was almost childlike. The old woman and the girl sat with their knees almost touching. A current of understanding seemed to flow between them. Blood, Karen thought with surprise.
“My father did not kill Linda,” Jenny asserted.
Alice looked at her gravely. “No?”
Jenny shook her head.
Alice reached out and squeezed her hand. “You’re right to be loyal to him. Your…Linda was the same way about her own father. If only he had lived to see her come back. It was a day he dreamed of. And he would have prevented me from doing something I will regret forever. I treated my daughter very shabbily. I did it to please my son, but it was a mistake.”
“She told me a little bit,” said Jenny. “I don’t think she blamed you.”
So Jenny knew, Karen realized. She kept her own secrets.
“Linda told you what I did?” Alice asked.
“She told me a little bit. I guess I didn’t give her too much of a chance. I was busy showing her pictures and everything. Trying to make up for lost time.”
Alice sighed. “You were the only one who welcomed her home. You were the only one who didn’t try to punish her.”
Jenny looked down, embarrassed. “I’d always dreamed about meeting her.”
Alice smiled tremulously. “Maybe I could see those pictures sometime,” she said.
Jenny beamed. “Sure. Want me to get them?”
“I don’t think she means right now,” Karen cautioned her daughter.
Alice smiled. “The eagerness of youth…”
“I didn’t mean to be pushy.”
“Oh, no,” said Alice. “I just want to be sure I will see you again.”
“Sure,” said Jenny.
“It’s so strange,” Alice murmured. “It’s like seeing her all over again—but without the…anger. You know mothers and daughters. They can get into a lot of arguments.”
Jenny shot Karen a knowing glance. “Yeah. We do too sometimes.”
“Well,” said Alice, sitting up in her chair, “you know, I was really dreading this. I had to force myself to come.”
“Why did you dread it?” Jenny asked.
“Jenny,” Karen admonished.
“Well, I guess that’s a silly question with all that’s happened,” said Jenny.
“No, it’s a fair question. I guess I was afraid of the unknown.”
Jenny nodded.
“Anyway, I should go. For now. But I brought you something.” She reached for the shopping bag.
Jenny peered down into it as Alice rummaged around and brought out a pale blue, painted porcelain cat.
“It’s a bank,” said Alice, shaking it. Coins jingled inside. “It was Linda’s. It’s probably still got her allowance in it from years ago. She loved cats, and the color blue.”
“I do, too,” Jenny exclaimed. “This is beautiful.”
Alice handed it to her. “Well, she had it when she was your age. Of course, I know girls are a lot more grown-up these days and all. But I wanted to give you something that was hers. That she treasured. I don’t have anything from recent years. I’ve never even seen where she was living. But I had this “
“I really like it,” said Jenny.
“I’m glad,” said Alice. She stood up.
“I’m glad you came,” said Jenny.
Alice hesitated and then squeezed Jenny in a quick, sharp embrace. Jenny responded sincerely, clutching the bank.
“And thank you, Mrs. Newhall, for being so understanding.”
“Call me Karen. Please, come again.”
Alice walked to the door, then looked back thoughtfully at her granddaughter. “How wonderful,” she murmured, and Karen had the strange conviction that Alice was speaking across time and space to her Linda.
Chapter Thirty
“There he was, big as life,” said Frank Kearny. “I turned to my wife and said, ‘You know, he looks mighty familiar to me.’ ” After passing Greg Newhall, the Kearnys had eventually made their way to the Bayland Inn, checked in, had their breakfast, and gone on to the wedding of a great-niece in a local church. It was during the reception, when some of the guests started talking about the local murder case, that Theresa Kearny had suddenly realized why she had recognized the face of the man they saw this morning. Although in the version the Kearnys related to the police, the revelation had been her husband’s.
Walter Ference, who was hearing the story for the third time, rose from his chair and coughed into his fist. “Mr. Kearny, I want to thank you for taking time out from your family occasion and coming forward with this valuable information. You’re going to have to excuse me so we can get moving on this.”
Theresa Kearny beamed and started to struggle up from her chair. “Arthritis,” her husband muttered, grasping her supportively by the arm.
“Here, let me help you,” said Walter, hurrying around the desk.
“Is there a reward for us if you catch this guy?” Frank asked bluntly.
“Frank,” his wife exclaimed reprovingly.
“Well, I’m living on Social Security. Every little bit helps…”
“I’m afraid not,” said Walter.
“Why not?” Kearny demanded.
At that moment Chief Matthews came rushing up to them, his hand extended. “Are these the Kearnys?” he asked.
Walter nodded. “This is Chief Matthews.”
“Chief,” Kearny said respectfully, pleased at the attention from the top.
“We can’t thank you enough,” Dale said, pumping the old man’s gnarled hand. “We’ve had a lot of calls on this that didn’t amount to anything. This is a real break for us. It’s not every man who would be so civic-minded, to leave the bosom of your family on such an occasion to help the cause of justice…”
“Let’s get back to the wedding, Frank,” said Theresa. Frank hesitated, as if ready to bring up the subject of rewards again but thought better of it.
“Glad to help out, Chief,” he said as his wife urged him away.
Dale turned to Walter. “I’ve called up everyone we’ve got—off-duty, vacations, the works. Of course it took the old codger all day to put two and two together, so Newhall could be in Timbuktu by now.”
“I doubt he’s gotten far,” said Walter mildly. “I’m kind of surprised he’s still in the area at all. I would have thought he’d headed for Canada or Mexico long ago.”
Dale rubbed his hands together. “I’ve got a good feeling, Walter. We’re going to get him now.”
“I certainly hope so,” said Walter.
“I want everyone to use extreme caution,” said the chief. “As far as we know he’s not armed, but he’s certainly dangerous. And desperate. I have a feeling this guy may have gone around the bend. Now, let’s get going. Every minute counts.”
Jenny lay on her bed hugging the blue porcelain cat to her chest, thinking about her grandmother. It was a strange concept. A grandmother appearing out of the blue when you were thirteen. No stranger than your biological mother suddenly turning up, she reminded herself. Or finding out that your father was really your father. She wondered what she should call her new grandmother. Everything in her life was strange now. And most of it was scary and awful. All she really wanted was for everything to be the way it was before.
It wasn’t that she was sorry that Linda had come—never that. She had wondered all her life, ever since she was little and they told her she was adopted. All these years she had kept
in her heart the picture of a girl, young and sad and faceless, cradling a baby Jenny, crying when she had to give her up. Now, that image had a face, that empty place was filled. But it seemed like she had lost everything else just to have her questions answered. Including Linda herself. And maybe her father, although Jenny refused to think that way. Maybe her mother was willing to give up, but she wasn’t. “You think he hung the moon,” her mother used to say to her about her dad. Of course, in those days she would smile when she said it. But it was true. Jenny never denied it. Still, it was easy to take someone for granted when they were always there.
Before all this had happened, it seemed to Jenny that she was usually mad about something, always dissatisfied. “Oh, God,” she whispered, “if you could make everything all right, I promise I would never complain or be crabby again.” She prayed it, but in her heart she didn’t really believe that God, or anybody else, could make life return to the way it was.
Jenny heard the telephone ring, but she didn’t stir from the bed.
“Honey, it’s Peggy,” Karen called from the bottom of the stairs.
“Okay,” Jenny said, and sighed. She got off the bed and went down the hall to her parents’ room and picked up the phone.
“Hi, Peg,” she said.
“How are you?”
“Okay. What’s up?”
“Listen, do you want to go to the movies tonight? The new Arnold Schwarzenegger picture is playing.”
Jenny was tempted. It would be great to sit in the dark theater and eat popcorn and drink Coke and let the movie absorb all her attention and forget about everything else for a few hours. And she knew her mother would let her go. It wasn’t that. But she’d need at least ten bucks to go; everything added up, and she didn’t want to ask her mother for it. She knew how worried her mother was about money.
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