“It’s Katie. I know it’s Katie. Who else could it be?” Mrs. Dunbar clung to her husband and continued to sob hysterically, tears falling too fast to wipe away. After a bit she returned to the pickup and, leaving the door open where any passing car would knock it off, sat in it, her ungainly feet dangling out the side.
Mr. Dunbar patted her knee. With one motion he took off his hat, scratched his head, and stuffed the hat into his back pocket before approaching Officer Braddock.
“My daughter’s been missing eight years, Officer. She disappeared eight years ago last October. Is that her? Is that her you found?”
“We don’t know yet, sir. We don’t even known if it’s human remains.” He was distracted for a moment by a late-model dark blue Crown Victoria that pulled up to the drive, its turn signal flashing. “Here’s the medical examiner now, sir. Maybe we’ll have news for you soon.”
Braddock untied the crime scene tape and trailed it across the drive so that the doctor could drive through.
“Dr. Franklin Chase,” Connie said. “Junior. His father delivered Paul and me umpteen years ago. Took over the practice when his father retired.”
“What’s an obstetrician doing identifying bodies?”
“He’s a GP, Hannah. We elect our medical examiners in this county. Probably the last county in Maryland that hasn’t switched over to forensic investigators. No special qualifications needed for medical examiners, either. Hell, you could be a medical examiner if you could muster enough votes.”
I watched the doctor climb out of his car. He looked to be in his thirties, handsome in a baby-faced sort of way, and prematurely bald. “He looks competent enough.”
“He is,” Connie told me. “Although I don’t think Frank entirely approved of his old man. Frank is all modern equipment and newfangled remedies. Goes off to medical conferences all the time. His father was more old-fashioned; he mixed modern medicine with herbal remedies and homeopathy. Even kept a herb garden behind his house.” She waved at Dr. Chase, and he saluted in return. “Of course it’s sadly neglected now.”
After Dr. Chase’s arrival the scene throbbed with renewed activity. The police evidence unit and photographers moved back and forth between the cistern and their vehicles. Dr. Chase disappeared for a long time behind the house, then reappeared carrying something in his hand. He knelt down and bent over an object on the ground, then made a call on his cellular telephone.
Meanwhile, the fire department had rolled out two lengths of hose, coupled them together with some other equipment, and dragged the whole awkward contraption up the driveway and behind the house. At a signal from a fireman stationed at the rear of the house, an engine sputtered to life and gallons of greenish brown water began cascading down the drive.
“They’re pumping out the well.” The reedy, high-pitched voice came from behind me. It belonged to the same towheaded boy who, moments before, had tried to slip by Officer Braddock.
“They are?”
He met my gaze with a directness unusual for someone his age, which I guessed was about nine. “They’re looking for clues. There’ll be rings and clothes and things at the bottom. And body parts.” He grinned at me, ghoulishly.
I tried not to give the boy the satisfaction of looking shocked. “Why aren’t you in school?” I asked instead. “Don’t they have school on Wednesdays anymore?”
“I come with my cousin over there.” He pointed toward the fire truck, where a young man in a tattered yellow slicker leaned negligently against the bumper. “He’s running the pump.” The boy rolled a stone around on the blacktop with the toe of his tennis shoe. “I’m ’sposed to be home sick. But I’m better now.” With a swift kick, he sent the stone skittering across the pavement and into the ditch. “Bye!”
“Bye.” I watched as he dashed across the road and joined his cousin, who was mopping his brow with the back of his hand.
It was nearly two o’clock, and the temperature had climbed into the high eighties. Reporters from the local weekly appeared, trailed closely by the Washington Post and the Baltimore Sun. They stationed themselves along the fence line, camera bags slung carelessly over their shoulders, screwing on, switching and adjusting various telephoto lenses. I watched while one hapless reporter in shorts stepped with exaggerated care through the high grass of an adjoining field, pausing every few feet or so to massage his exposed legs. The day had turned into a carnival. I expected a concession truck would arrive any minute and start selling coffee, hot dogs, french fries, and Coca-Cola.
An attractive man in a dark gray suit, his sandy hair receding slightly at the temples and combed straight back, strode down the drive, keeping far to the left to avoid the water. Where had he been hiding? He spoke briefly to Officer Braddock, lifted the yellow tape, and ducked under it. His eyes took in the crowd; then he surprised me by coming up directly to Connie and giving her a kiss on the cheek.
“Hi, Connie. How’s it going?”
“Fine, Dennis. Considering.”
Dennis extended his hand. “Hannah, isn’t it? You probably don’t remember me, but we met at Craig’s funeral.”
“Of course I remember!” I didn’t, of course. The funeral had been a merciful blur. I doubt I would have noticed if Ronald Reagan had happened to stop by to offer his condolences. With Nancy.
Dennis smiled, revealing even white teeth. “I’ll be back with you in a minute.” He turned to address the crowd. “There’s nothing to see here, folks. Why don’t you just go on home now and read all about it in the papers tomorrow?”
Connie came to my rescue. “That’s Dennis Rutherford,” she whispered. “He and Craig went to high school together, then joined the police force at about the same time. Dennis is a lieutenant with the county’s criminal investigation division. He must be in charge here.”
The crowd retreated slightly, but only to keep their feet dry and to clear the way for the recent arrival of a hearse with “Sterling’s Funeral Home” elaborately etched on the side windows. We observed in silence as two officers emerged from behind the house, carrying a white body bag. They deposited it on a waiting stretcher, then helped the driver lift the stretcher and slide it into the hearse. Officer Braddock climbed into the passenger seat and watched carefully in the side view mirror as the hearse backed down the drive, turned, and disappeared up the road. Dr. Chase followed in his own car. It would be a long ride from Pearson’s Corner to the State Medical Examiner’s Office up in Baltimore.
“What did Dr. Chase say?” Connie asked Dennis when he reappeared at her side.
“He thinks it’s a woman, but the body’s badly decomposed. It began to fall apart the minute we tried to move it.”
I shuddered. “Was she murdered?”
“Murdered? Well, I’m no expert, but people don’t usually shoot themselves in the head, then strap cinder blocks to their waists with baling wire before flinging themselves into wells.”
Connie closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath. “Everyone thinks it’s Katie Dunbar.”
“I don’t know, Connie, but if it is, I have a hunch we won’t have to look very far for her murderer. We did a thorough investigation when she disappeared back in ’90. That Lambert boy is going to have a lot of explaining to do.”
Dennis touched Connie’s elbow and hurried us both up the drive. He unlocked the Taurus on the passenger side, opened both doors, and motioned us inside. “I’ll give you a lift home, but you’ll need to hurry. Unless I’m very much mistaken, that’s the Channel Thirteen Eyewitness News team just cresting the hill, and I’d rather not deal with them just now.”
In one smooth motion, Dennis folded his long legs into the driver’s seat, pulled the seat belt across his chest, and started the engine. He turned to look at Connie. “You still make a mean cup of tea?”
chapter
4
We eluded the press by the simple expedient of taking Dennis’s unmarked Taurus and driving it hell-bent for leather in the opposite direction. We whizzed past the
folks from Channel 13 as they rounded the curve near the pond, sending ducks and chickens squawking and flapping from the grassy berm and into the muddy water.
Twenty minutes later I was standing in Connie’s kitchen, holding the lid on the teakettle with one finger while I poured hot water into Dennis’s cup. “What was that you were saying earlier about the Lambert boy?” He ignored my question, and Connie shot me a sudden sideways glance that said, plain as day, “Hannah, do shut up.”
I tried to act grateful. Lieutenant Rutherford had, after all, saved me and my butt from a cold, hard plastic chair in the Chesapeake County Eastern District Police Station by deciding to interview us late that same afternoon in Connie’s bright kitchen, where the sun, low in the sky, slanted through the decorative shutters Paul had installed for her last winter.
Connie served butter cookies out of a Tupperware container she kept on top of the refrigerator. Dennis held a cookie between this thumb and forefinger, dipped it into his cup, let it soak for a few seconds, shook it slightly to make sure it wouldn’t drip, then popped the cookie, whole, in his mouth.
He watched me watching him and seemed amused. “I learned to drink tea in England,” he explained. “On a Fulbright scholarship.”
I wrapped my hands around a mug of Earl Grey and watched while Dennis stirred milk into his tea. I like that in a man.
The good lieutenant seemed in no hurry to leave.
I repeated my story—I was getting good at it by now—while Dennis listened thoughtfully and jotted down bits of what I said in a pocket-size notebook.
Dennis must have regretted his earlier burst of candor because he volunteered no more information about Lambert. In fact, he seemed more interested in what Connie could tell him about recent activity at the Nichols farm than anything I had said about finding the body.
“The Nicholses moved to Florida years ago, Dennis. Long before I came home.” She rested an elbow on the table and stirred her tea absentmindedly while holding the spoon loosely between her thumb and forefinger. “If the body turns out to be that of the Dunbar girl, though, I realize I must have been here when … whoever … dumped her in the well. It gives me the creeps.”
Connie licked her spoon, then waved it in the general direction of the window. “You can see that although we share a fence, I’m not exactly within sight and hearing distance of that house.”
Dennis studied her, his greenish brown eyes intent. “Have you seen anything recently? Trucks or cars going by? People who don’t live here or have business out here?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Someone may have attempted to repair that cracked cistern cover or come back to check on the body, just to make sure it stayed hidden.”
“No, nothing like that, Dennis.” She poured more hot water into his cup. “I’m not sure I would have noticed anyway. I’m usually engrossed in my work.”
Dennis stood, pushing his chair back with his knees. In three long strides he covered the length of the hallway leading into Connie’s studio, still carrying his cup. He ducked slightly to keep from hitting his head on the doorframe. When he spoke again, his voice was slightly muffled. “You’ve always had a good view of the road from here.”
“True, but I’ve usually got my back to it.”
I stood in the doorway and watched while Dennis wandered around the studio for a few more minutes, looking but not touching. When he returned to the kitchen, Connie said, “I’d ask you to stay for supper, Dennis, but I don’t feel much like cooking tonight.”
“I couldn’t stay anyway, Connie. I have to get home to Maggie. She’ll be wondering where I am.” He peeked under his cuff to check the time.
“Whew. It’s later than I thought.” He extended his hand. “I’ll be in touch.” For Connie he had a hug. “Take care.”
While Connie stood at the sink with her back to me, rattling the crockery, I watched from the window as Dennis backed up his Taurus, eased it skillfully around my Toyota, turned, then headed down the drive. It was with considerable self-restraint that I waited until he reached the road before I pounced. “Okay, Connie. Out with it! What’s the story with you and Dennis?”
“We’re friends. Just friends.”
“Ha!”
She turned to face me. “No, really! Wipe that cynical, suspicious look off your face! Dennis was very supportive when Craig died.”
I thought about the way Dennis had moved about Connie’s house with easy familiarity. He knew where Connie kept the cups and that she stored sugar in the refrigerator. I was betting he knew where the toothpaste was, too, and which side of the bed she slept on.
“Ha!” I repeated. Connie’s mouth turned up slightly at the corners; then she returned her attention to the dirty dishes.
“And who’s Maggie?”
“Maggie is Dennis’s daughter.”
I was surprised. I’d assumed Maggie was his wife.
“She’s twenty-two but still lives at home. She hasn’t been very well lately, Hannah.”
Connie read my mind, which was thinking cancer. “No, not that! It’s bipolar disorder. Manic depression. Whatever we call it these days.”
Wet dishcloth in hand, Connie began to wipe down the stove top. “They’ve had her on lithium, Depakote, Wellbutrin, and something called norepinephrine, but nothing seems to work for long. One minute she’s chartering buses and organizing pro-life marches on the White House; the next she’s locked herself in the bathroom, threatening to commit suicide. It’s a big worry.”
“She must be a handful for her mother.”
Connie draped the dishcloth over the oven door handle to dry. “Dennis’s wife died suddenly last Christmas.”
Open mouth, insert foot. I was curious about how she died, but the look on Connie’s face said, Don’t go there, so I changed the subject.
“I wanted to ask Dennis more about ‘that Lambert boy,’ but you kept shooting daggers at me. What’s the big secret, Connie?”
Connie looked baffled. “No secret. I just sensed that Dennis thought he had spoken out of turn, and I didn’t want to put him on the spot.” She joined me at the table, where I was refolding the napkins—Connie always used big, checkered cloth ones—so we could use them again in the morning.
“I don’t remember much about the Lamberts. Dad was pretty sick, and I didn’t pay much attention to the news. I’d be so exhausted by the end of the day I’d just fall into bed. The Lamberts still live down on Princess Anne Street, though, right behind the nursing home. Their son, Chip, was a big athlete back in the late eighties. He went to the University of Maryland on a basketball scholarship, I think. He got married and moved to Baltimore, last I heard. He and Katie were high school sweethearts, so naturally he’d be asked about her disappearance.”
“I would certainly hope so!”
“Let it rest, Hannah! I can’t believe you’re still standing up asking silly questions after the day you’ve had. It makes me tired just to look at you. Do you want dinner?”
We agreed to let tea substitute for dinner; then I tried calling Paul. When I got the answering machine again, I left him a grumpy message, then collapsed in the living room to watch the seven o’clock news. After Tom Brokaw bade us good night, I let Connie have dibs on the tub because I was too weary to get up. I lay in front of the TV, like a lump, my feet propped up on the arm of the sofa and in sole, proud possession of the remote control. I used it to graze through the channels. Earlier Connie had poured us each a glass of heart medicine: red wine. The stem of my glass rested on my stomach so that the ruby liquid sloshed from side to side as I breathed.
Connie wasn’t much for modern gadgets; she had owned an answering machine once, but could never figure out how to program it. While she soaked in the tub, I lay on the sofa and grumbled to myself about Connie’s aversion to electronic devices. If she had had an answering machine, I complained, there might have been a message on it from Paul when we returned from the Nichols place. At eight-thirty I switched from a mindless network sitcom t
o a biography of Shirley Temple on A&E. Surely he’d be calling me soon. I drained my wineglass and settled in for the wait. The last thing I remember was Shirley and her bouncing sausage curls dancing up the steps with Stepin Fetchit.
How I got myself into bed is a mystery. I awoke to the sound of gravel crunching. Socks were still on my feet, and my mouth tasted like old navy soup spoons. I drew aside the lightweight chintz curtains and peered out the window. My green Toyota was rolling down the drive with Connie at the wheel. I had blocked her in. Downstairs a note stuck to the door of the refrigerator with a plastic magnet from Pizza John’s informed me that she’d gone to get a newspaper and that she’d be “back in a few.”
I took the opportunity to bathe. With the tub half full and steam already clouding the mirror, I settled into the water, first resting my back against the cool porcelain, then sliding down until I was lying almost flat. I adjusted the hot-water tap to a trickle and watched as the water level slowly rose to cover my thighs and arms, my feet, my chest, and finally, my breast. The right one had once been small, round, and perky like the left one until cancer and a surgeon’s knife had reduced it to a rough, red rope across my chest. I ran a finger gently along the knotted scar and thought about the reconstructive surgery I was considering.
I sat up, soaked a washcloth in the hot water from the tap, wrung it out, and placed it over my face, covering it completely, breathing in the hot, moist air, breathing slowly, evenly, feeling my body melt into the water. Under the washcloth scenes from yesterday played and replayed behind my closed eyelids. I tried to clear my mind, but images of that white, floating thing kept swimming to the surface. I flung the washcloth aside and tried to concentrate on Connie’s elaborate floral wallpaper, following the wandering vines as they snaked over the medicine cabinet and curled around the light fixtures, but even that didn’t banish the visions. So I meditated, focusing on my mantra instead.
Sing It to Her Bones Page 4
