Mother's day

by MacDonald, Patricia J

  “A lot of things need cleaning out,” Emily admitted apologetically.

  Walter examined the dusty boots and then gave a noisy sigh. “I was saving these for the boys, for Joe and little Ted. I thought they’d wear them someday.”

  Emily’s face turned chalky white, and she could not tear her gaze from the boots in Walter’s hands.

  Walter shook his head and handed them to her. “They’re no use to us now. Here’s the first thing you might want to toss out.”

  “No,” said Emily, putting up her hands. “No, don’t.”

  Walter frowned as if perplexed by her reaction. “Well, I don’t see any reason to keep them any longer. It’s not as if the children are ever coming back.”

  Emily covered her mouth with her hand and turned her back to him.

  He placed the boots on the lowboy, beside the vodka bottle. “Well, you do what you want with them,” he said. “I’ve got to go.”

  Emily nodded but did not look at him as he left the house. Once he was gone, she walked over to the lowboy and picked up the boots. She stared at them, turning them over in her trembling hands. Then she walked over and replaced them in the closet. She straightened up, but she did not want to turn around. It was as if the bottle on the lowboy was calling to her, in a voice that only she could hear.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  “I’m glad we don’t have to go to the police station,” said Jenny, pulling back the curtain to see if Detective Ference had arrived in the driveway yet.

  “You’re going to wear that curtain out,” Karen observed. “You’ll be able to hear the car when he gets here.”

  Jenny shrugged and flopped down on the sofa. “I just want to get this thing over with,” she said.

  “I know,” said Karen, looking out at the rain. The rain had actually been the deciding factor. She had debated what to do—whether or not to wait for Arnold Richardson’s return or to call the police, as Jenny was urging her to do. It was the rain that had helped her to make up her mind. She kept picturing Greg out there, trying to find shelter from the drizzle. It was a habit of long-standing, to worry about his health, his wellbeing. For years, every time he was out on a job and it started to rain, she automatically worried that he might get soaked and get a cold. He teased her about it. He told her she liked to worry. Now she found she couldn’t stop herself from thinking that way. No matter what he’d done to her, to their marriage, he was an innocent man, and he was hiding out, God knew where, being hunted down as a dangerous criminal when he could be safely back…well, maybe not at home, but at least in some kind of civilized place. It was not fair to deny him safety, or delay it, even for a couple of days. Jenny was right. She had to act right away.

  Jenny flipped on the TV. The sound of the canned laugh track on the show she was watching grated on Karen’s nerves. “Honey, would you mind turning that thing off,” she said.

  “I’m just trying to pass the time,” Jenny said huffily.

  “I know, but that noise…”

  “All right, all right.”

  Karen looked at the envelope on the coffee table and wondered, for the umpteenth time, if she had done the right thing. She had tried to be cautious. Greg had an office in the finished basement where he did the paperwork for his business. Karen had used the copy machine in that office to make copies of both the clipping and the letter. Then she had locked the originals in his office safe. If the police weren’t satisfied with the copies, then they would just have to wait for Arnold Richardson to get back. At least she would have tried.

  “I think it was nice of that Detective Ference to say he’d come here,” said Jenny.

  Karen smiled wryly. “Sometimes you remind me so much of your father.”

  “Why?” Jenny asked.

  “Oh, you know how he is when things are going his way. He loves everybody.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Jenny asked defensively.

  “Nothing,” said Karen. “Just mentioning.”

  “Besides, you must have liked Detective Ference, too. That’s why you called him, wasn’t it?”

  “I called him because he is in charge of this investigation. I’m not about to show these papers to whatever desk sergeant is on the night shift.”

  “But he has been decent to us,” Jenny persisted. “Compared to some of the others.”

  Karen sighed. “I suppose so. I’ll tell you, though. I won’t mind the day when I don’t have to see him or any other cop ever again in this house.”

  “Me neither.” Jenny hesitated. “Of course, once Dad gets home there’ll probably still be some cops who want to come here and talk to him.”

  Karen could hardly miss the question behind the awkward statement. “Let’s just worry about this for the moment, shall we?”

  But Jenny would not be put off. “You are going to let him come home, aren’t you?”

  Karen looked away from her and did not answer.

  “Mom, you have to,” Jenny cried.

  “I hear a car in the driveway,” Karen murmured.

  Jenny was torn for a moment, and then she rushed to the window and peered out through the raindrops. “Our watchdog is leaving,” she said. “And another car is coming down the drive.”

  This is it, Karen thought to herself. She got up with a nervous sigh and walked to the front door. She opened it up and looked out as Walter Ference emerged from his car.

  “He’s here,” she said.

  Greg crouched, shivering, in the opening of a hedge and stared up at Walter Ference’s house. The chills had begun as he was driving back from Dartswich and had intensified after he left off the car at the train station. He had found the detective’s address in a phone book outside the station and made his way here. All the way over, he had felt physically worse and worse. At first he thought it might be from the small amount of beer he had in the bar on an empty stomach. But alcohol did not make your bones ache. By now he knew he had a fever.

  Greg looked over the big house, recognizing it. He had often driven by it in the past, noticing in a cursory way the myriad signs of neglect on the grand old place. He recalled having wished he could get his hands on it, have a crack at renovating it, thinking it must have been a showpiece in its day.

  The drizzle seeped under his collar and accumulated in his already soaked shirt. His throat was scratchy and his joints ached. Even his eyelids hurt to blink. He thought about Karen, always warning him to wear his slicker, worrying when he got caught in the rain. You always said I’d get sick, he thought. Not that it matters much now.

  He did not recall much about the drive home from Dartswich. It was partly the fever, partly because his mind was completely preoccupied with what he had learned. He had found out who his enemy was. He just didn’t know what to do about it. When he reached the railroad station, he was already trying to think of where he could spend the night—what deserted frame of a house or unlocked utility shed could he cower in—and then suddenly he was struck by a moment of delirious revelation. He was hiding from a man who had framed him for murder. He was hiding, like a rat in a sewer. He could die out there, running from his enemy. And he was an innocent man. With a clarity that had eluded him until that moment, Greg suddenly decided that he was not going to run away anymore, no matter what. It would be better to face his nemesis, man to man, than to die in hiding.

  It had been a short move, born of feverish logic, from that revelation to this spot in the hedge, from where Greg now observed his enemy’s house. There was no car in the driveway, no lights visible in the place. If ever a house appeared deserted, this one did.

  He knew what his intention was. He intended to get into the house. He intended to take Walter Ference by surprise. He wanted to see him jump when he realized who it was who had gained entry to his home. He wanted to confront him with his crimes, show him that he was not going to hide from him any longer. He wanted to threaten him. If Ference was gone, he would wait for him. He would be ready for him, whenever he came back.

&nb
sp; Greg scoped out the entrances from his spot in the bushes. The front and back doors were too visible, even in the darkness. The cellar door, which gave out onto the empty driveway, was probably locked, he thought. His best hope was a broken windowpane in the foundation window. It was a double-hung window. It could be lifted, although Greg knew it would not be lifted easily. The windows were so grimy, they were virtually opaque. But it was a possibility.

  Just as he was about to dart out of the hedge, he heard the door of the house next door open, and a man stepped out into a pool of light on the porch. Greg drew back into the bushes, holding his breath. “Rusty,” the man called out, and waited for an answering bark, which didn’t come. He called back into the house, “Lillian, did you let Rusty out?” There was an answering murmur from inside. “Where is that damn dog?” the man muttered, going back inside and slamming the door.

  Quiet returned to the night, and Greg took a good look around before scurrying out across the narrow side yard to the wall of the house. He tried the basement door. As he suspected, it was locked. He crawled down by the window and pulled the rags out of the broken pane, examining the stiff lock with the aid of a penlight he had purloined from the glove compartment of the Toyota. There were cobwebs growing all around the lock. This would not be easy, Greg thought. He put his arm carefully through the window and reached inside, pressing himself up against the outer wall of the foundation. He did not have a good angle on it, and it was hard to get a grip on the lock to turn it. He grimaced at the effort, working it back and forth, hearing the reluctant lock creak with every millimeter it moved.

  Greg felt weak and light-headed, but he persisted, pushing with all that was left of his strength, until finally the wedge shifted, and the lock gave way. Carefully Greg removed his forearm through the broken pane and began to jimmy the window as best he could. He did not think about what he would do when he got inside. He just continued to work the window, rocking it to loosen it. With a groan he pushed with all his might, and the sash lifted. He exhaled a short, triumphant sigh, then froze as he heard panting behind him and felt hot breath on his neck.

  He snapped his head around and looked into the dark, inquisitive eyes of a big, shaggy red dog. He looked warily at the animal, but it did not seem hostile to him, merely curious. If this dog belonged to Walter Ference, Greg was going to have to scuttle the mission. He’d never get into the house. Carefully Greg reached out and lifted the dog’s tag, looking at it with his pen-light. “Rusty,” it read. “Lund, 27 Hickory Drive, Bayland, Mass.” Greg dropped the tag and gave the furry ruff of the dog a pat. “Good boy, Rusty,” he whispered. It felt so good to touch the warmth, the soft fur of the dog, that Greg briefly rested his forehead against the dog’s side. Rusty twisted his head around and licked Greg’s nose. “Thanks, Rusty,” he said. “G’wan now.”

  The dog did not move but sat, watching curiously, as Greg heaved open the window and stuck his feet, then his legs, inside, oozing under the bottom of the raised sash like a limbo dancer. He fell to the floor of the cellar with a gentle thud. He was in. He slid down the wall, masonry crumbling and pebbles falling into his shirt, and rested there, savoring his victory. He heard the dog outside get up and pad away, rustling through the hedge. Greg suddenly felt too weary to move, too exhausted to do what he intended to do. There were nonsense images flashing through his mind. He realized, with a kind of detached alarm, that he was close to passing out.

  Greg rubbed his parched lips with the back of his hand and shook his head as if to shake off the encroaching delirium. You have to stay alert, he said to himself. That seemed to help. He shined his penlight around the basement, examining the lair of the man who had destroyed him. Water pooled in patches on the floor, and the basement ceiling was low. He could tell that without even standing up. Rusted appliances lay on their sides, like sleeping polar bears, and pieces of furniture were piled haphazardly about. A series of shelves holding paints, hardware items, and cardboard boxes lined the walls. The odor in the basement was foul and musty.

  Greg forced himself to his feet. When he stood up, the top of his head grazed a rafter. On the opposite wall to where he had landed, there was a sofa bed that was open, a tangle of sheets with dark stains piled on top of it. Using his penlight, he picked a path through the debris, past an old high chair, an overturned cradle, and a cardboard box full of tax forms. He had to get upstairs, into the house. He made his way toward the staircase, his eyes adjusting to the darkness now. He had become used to living without light. It made him feel like a bat.

  He shivered, overcome again by the chills. It was May, and the outside temperature was not cold, despite the drizzle. But to Greg it felt arctic. On the wall beside the back door he saw a bunch of clothes hanging from a pipe that ran across the ceiling. He could see that some were dresses, but there were other, shorter garments, too. A jacket, he thought. It might help. He made his way through the mess to where the clothes were hanging. There were several jackets and some heavy flannel shirts in the bunch. He picked out a flannel shirt, which appeared to have a checkered pattern, and pulled it on. It smelled rank and felt scratchy against his skin, but its warmth was as soothing as a blanket.

  He turned back toward the staircase, moved forward, and struck his head against a hanging light fixture. He dropped his penlight but managed not to cry out. The feeble beam shut off as it hit the floor. Above him, the house was silent as a tomb. Swearing to himself, he bent down and began to grope around for the penlight. He would need it upstairs. He did not want to turn on any lights. He fumbled blindly across the floor, seeking the narrow cylinder he had dropped. He reached out, and his probing fingers felt the unmistakable sensation of human flesh beneath his fingertips. Cold flesh. Five fingers. A human hand. He gasped and fell backward, clutching his chest. His eyes made out the dim form of a person sitting, legs outstretched, on the basement floor.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Walter picked up the photocopy of the newspaper article and scanned it.

  “That newspaper clipping was really old,” Jenny offered. She was seated across from him on the sofa, next to her mother. “It’s all yellow and flaky.”

  Without a word he picked up the other page and read it. For a long time he studied the note, as if he were memorizing it.

  Karen watched his impassive expression, holding her breath, waiting for his reaction.

  Still staring at the paper, Walter said, “Where did you get these?”

  “In Linda’s bank,” Jenny said. Then she looked up at Karen. “Should I tell him, Mom?”

  “Sure,” said Karen.

  Walter’s gaze was inscrutable behind his glasses as he listened to Jenny. Excitedly she recounted how she had come to possess the bank, how she had discovered its contents.

  “I see,” said Walter when she had finished.

  The detective’s response was disappointing. Jenny looked at Karen, wondering if her rendering of the tale had been inadequate. Karen leaned forward in her seat and pointed to the papers.

  “What do you think? It seems to me this casts doubt on my husband’s guilt.”

  “What makes you say that?” Walter asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious? Linda Emery was the victim of extortion for sex, as a teenager. She came back to expose her attacker. Now that’s a motive for murder.”

  “Unless the extortionist was your husband,” Walter said calmly.

  “Oh, come on, Detective,” said Karen. “She gave us her baby.”

  “My mom figured it out,” Jenny piped up eagerly. “She had to wait until her father was dead to come back. So he couldn’t be put back in prison.”

  Walter shook his head. “That’s quite a theory.”

  “It’s true,” Jenny cried.

  “It might be,” he said. “If these really were her papers.”

  “They are her papers,” Jenny insisted.

  “Stop it, Jenny,” said Karen sharply. She turned to the detective. “I told you, and I am willing to swear to this in cour
t. We found those papers in Linda’s bank where she hid them.”

  Tm just wondering,” he said.

  “Wondering what?”

  “Wondering if maybe this isn’t a rather bold effort on your part to fabricate something to save your husband.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Karen, her face reddening. It was infuriating to her the way the policeman’s suggestion could make her feel guilty, even though she wasn’t.

  Walter shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m not the only one who’s going to think that.”

  “No,” Jenny wailed. Tears sprang to her eyes. “That’s not fair. I found these in her bank. Like we told you.”

  Karen was suddenly overcome by the futility of this meeting. She took a deep breath and stood up. “All right, that’s enough. This is just upsetting my daughter. I had hoped that showing these to you might make you realize you were after the wrong man, but I can see I was mistaken. We’ll just have to wait until our lawyer gets back.”

  Karen reached for the papers, but Walter put his hand on them, holding them down. “I’m not saying we’re not interested in these, Mrs. Newhall. I mean, if what you say is true…well, you’re right—this could implicate another person. Even though Linda doesn’t mention who that person might be “

  “I understand that,” said Karen stiffly.

  “But, these aren’t even the original documents,” said Walter. “These are just copies.”

  “I have the originals,” said Karen.

  “May I see them?”

  Karen hesitated. Then she said, “I’ve decided I’m not going to show them to anybody but our lawyer.”

  “Well, until I can authenticate these, they’re really meaningless. We would need to have a document expert in the lab go over the originals, to determine the age of the paper, the ink, and so on. We would first have to prove this is not a hoax.”