An Accidental Woman

by Barbara Delinsky

  Either he was a truly decent man or professional collegiality kicked in, because he asked in a pleasant tone, “What’s the problem?”

  “She had a baby a while back. You helped arrange a private adoption.”

  “I haven’t done that kind of work in a long time. I can recommend someone else, if she’s looking to place another child.”

  “No. There isn’t another child. She wants to locate the first. We’re wondering if you’ve kept records and would have that information.”

  “It’s a moot point. I can’t give out adoption information. There are strict laws governing confidentiality. You would have to file a petition stating a pressing reason for wanting the information—such as a medical condition.”

  “My client has been accused of murder. It could be that DNA tests on the child will show a relationship between my client and the deceased that may be denied by the prosecution. Establishing the relationship could be key to my client’s defense.” Cassie didn’t know if this was true atall, but in the absence of anything else, it sounded reasonable. “And I did know before I called that you couldn’t give me the information. I’m just wondering whether you do still have it. We’re short on time on this end. I would hate to file a petition and wait however long, only to find out that you haven’t kept files that far back.”

  “How far are we talking?”

  “Fourteen and a half years.”

  “The client’s name?”

  “Heather Malone,” Cassie said, because she didn’t see any way aroundit.

  There was a pause on the other end, then a surprised, “The same Heather Malone?”

  Cassie breathed a sigh of relief. His surprise was genuine. “The same.”

  “I was wondering, when I heard it on the news.”

  “I was afraid the DiCenza family reached you before I did.”

  “I doubt they know about me.”

  “Then you must have a very good memory.”

  “Not always. I used to handle a lot of these cases, and most of them were easy. Heather had more trouble than some of the others.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Giving up the child.”

  “Did she tell you anything about her life, anything about the child’s conception?”

  “No. She wouldn’t. And I did ask, because I felt bad for her. Most of the girls who come to me have someone with them—friend, parent, probation officer—but she was alone.”

  “Would you have thought she was capable of murder?”

  “No, nor extortion.” Before Cassie could ask, he explained, “I read about that in the paper. No, the Heather Malone who came to me had trouble taking money at all. Living expenses, hospital costs—she would have paid for everything herself, if I hadn’t told her that this was how private adoptions worked. I gave her money to rent a room. When the child was born a week early, Heather returned the rent money she didn’t use. Doesn’t sound like a gold digger to me.”

  “Would you testify to that?”

  “I would.”

  “But you won’t help me locate the child?”

  “I do have those records, Ms. Byrnes, and I’m sorely tempted. But I can’t. The law forbids it. On the other hand, if you can come up with evidence— anything —to show the need for it, I’ll go to the judge myself.”

  * * *

  Griffin got lost finding Aidan Greene’s house, which was precisely why he had Sage in the Porsche. He wasn’t good at reading maps. But the Porsche was back at the Manchester Airport, and his rental car here had nothing but a rental car map, which was more attuned to getting the car back to the airport at the end of the day than to helping him find his way between now and then. So he stopped to ask for directions, and was therefore later than he wanted to be. But not too late. The sight of two cars in the driveway of the small brick home on a modest, tree-lined street told him that Aidan hadn’t yet left for work.Griffin parked. The snow was deeper here than in New Hampshire, and the air had no hint of maple sugar warmth. Grateful that he was wearing his Lake Henry layers, he went up the front steps and knocked on the door. It was opened by a woman close to his age. Totally unadorned, she had dirty blond hair, a young child on her hip, and another in her belly, to judge from the bulge under the oversized shirt she wore. She seemed friendly, trusting, not wary at all.

  “I’m looking for Aidan Greene,” he said with his most amiable smile. “My name is Griffin Hughes. We have a mutual friend.”

  She smiled. “You do?” She turned her head. “Aidan?” She faced Griffin again. “Are you from California?”

  “No, but my friend is.” He glanced at her belly. “Is this your second?”

  “Third.” She gave an affectionate jiggle to the child on her hip. “This one’s the second. The first one just got on the school bus. He’s Thomas, and he’s five. This one’s Jessica, and she’s two. The one inside here is Brooke.”

  “Is that a boy or a girl?”

  “We’ll know soon,” she sang good-naturedly as her husband came up from behind. She tipped her head back. “Honey, this is Griffin Hughes. He knows friends of yours in California.”

  Aidan Greene was Griffin’s height, though a bit heavier. Beneath short, straight blond hair that would probably be white in another dozen years, he had fair skin and a furrowed brow. One look at Griffin, and the furrows deepened. Aidan was as wary as his wife was open.

  “The bath’s ready for Jessie,” he told her. “Want to take her in while Griffin and I talk?”

  His wife smiled at Griffin and left. Aidan’s amiability left with her.

  “Who’s our mutual friend?” he asked coldly.

  “Lisa.”

  He started to close the door.

  Putting a foot in the way, Griffin kept his voice low and urgent. “Please hear me out. My friend is actually Heather—no, my friend is actually Heather’s best friend, but only one of many she has in New Hampshire. She’s made a good life for herself there. Something doesn’t add up.”

  “Is Haskins your man?”

  “Yes.”

  “I told him I had nothing to say. The same goes for you.” He pushed at the door. When Griffin’s foot held it, he said, “You’re trespassing. Get your goddamned foot out of the way, or I’ll call the cops.”

  “If you do that, I’ll have to tell why I’m here. I’ll have to tell the papers why I’m here, and if the Sacramento Bee gets wind of it, they may come running up here themselves. It took us a while to find you. Someone went to the effort of erasing tracks in the snow, so to speak.”

  Aidan wasn’t amused. “Why are you here? How’d you get my name? What do you want from me?”

  “Heather gave me your name, which is why I’m here, and as for what I want from you, I have no idea. She wouldn’t say. She won’t say much of anything, which means that she’ll be returned to Sacramento and put on trial for murder. Think she can get a fair trial there, with all the publicity surrounding this case?”

  “That’s not my worry.”

  “Is that why you moved out here and dropped out of the DiCenzascene, so you wouldn’t have to worry? I can understand that. Heather’s case is definitely cause for worry. Right now, there are a whole lot of people in New Hampshire who are worried.” He pulled photos from his pocket and showed Aidan the first. “Here’s Heather. This was taken last summer. That’s Micah with her. Big smiles here? None lately. She’s worried that Micah won’t love her if he knows the truth, and he’s worried, because he needs her in his life and now she’s gone.”

  Griffin turned to the second photo. “Here’s Heather with the girls. That’s Missy on the left and Star on the right. Missy’s seven, Star is five, like your Thomas. The girls aren’t Heather’s by birth. Their biological mother died when Star was two months old. Heather came into their lives a few months after that, and at this point she’s the only mother they know. They’re sweet little girls, vulnerable little girls. They’re worried right now, because they don’t know why Heather’s in jail or when she’ll be back. Havin
g lost their biological mother, you can bet they’re wondering whether there’s something about them that makes mothers leave. Heather’s a good mother, Aidan.”

  “I don’t know Heather,” Aidan said, but more weary now than wary.

  Griffin brought up the last photo. “She’s a gentle, quiet sort. Here she is with her friends. They meet every Tuesday night.” He pointed. “Cassie’s a lawyer, Marianne sells books, Sigrid’s a weaver, and Poppy runs an answering service for the town. Poppy’s my girl. She’s been in a wheelchair since a snowmobile accident twelve years ago. Heather was a major source of support during her recovery. She’s a major source of support for a lot of the town, and these four sophisticated, smart, successful women adore her. She’s also an involved mom, always doing things with the girls, always upbeat, always smiling. She reminds me of your wife, which raises the issue of your relationship with Heather. She gave us your name. What were you to her?”

  “I don’t know Heather.”

  “Lisa, then. Were you her lover?”

  Aidan shook his head. “I was not involved with Lisa.”

  “But Rob was, and you were his best friend. Tell me something, Aidan.”

  The man sighed. With the expulsion of breath, the whole of himseemed to sink inward. “Tell you what? That she didn’t do it? I didn’t see anything.”

  “That’s what you told the police. But then you left Sacramento and severed ties with the DiCenzas, and I’m thinking that you didn’t want to have to remember them.”

  “Didn’t want to have to be beholden to them, is more like it,” Aidan scoffed. “Do you know what that family’s like? Do you know the kind of power they wield? Charlie DiCenza can make you or break you, even today. One phone call, and he can get you fired from your job and blacklisted for sins you never considered, much less committed.”

  “Is that what he did to Lisa?” Griffin asked.

  “I don’t know what he did to Lisa.”

  “Do you know what Rob did to Lisa? Do you know that he beat her?” Aidan said nothing.

  “We have doctors who’ll testify to it,” Griffin said. “And people who’ll tell us how dark it was that night, so dark that even if they’d been on that field where the cars were parked, they wouldn’t have seen much. So the question becomes if it was so dark that they couldn’t see, how could Lisa see Rob? Do you think she deliberately ran him down?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Was she extorting him?”

  Aidan snorted.

  Griffin waited. When Aidan said nothing, he asked, “What does that mean?” Still nothing. “Did you know she was pregnant?” Still nothing. “Was it your baby?”

  “No.”

  “Then Rob’s? Or even Charlie DiCenza’s? A family tie can be proven. If we find the child, tests can be done. Heather put it up for adoption. Did you help her do that?”

  “I told you. I wasn’t involved. Listen, I gotta get to work.”

  “I know. I got here as early as I could. By the way, I think it’s pretty neat, what you do. Did you get the counseling degree after you left California?”

  Aidan nodded.

  “And before that, you worked for the DiCenza Foundation. Put thosetwo things together, and I’d say you’re a decent person. I’m surprised that what happened with Rob and Lisa isn’t eating you alive.”

  Aidan suddenly looked like it was.

  Griffin asked, “Was she the conniving little nasty thing they’ve made her out to be?”

  Aidan looked away.

  “Was it first-degree murder?” Griffin prodded. “Premeditated? No one will tell us. No one will talk. So here’s a woman who has made something of her life, and all that is about to go down the tubes because a family wants revenge. When does it end? With her execution, for God’s sake?”

  “It wasn’t premeditated,” Aidan said and closed his mouth.

  “Don’t stop there,” Griffin warned, “unless they have their claws in you still. Is that it? Did they get you your current job?”

  “No.” He put a hand high on the edge of the door. Griffin saw a tremor there, but the rest of him—eyes, voice, back—was suddenly solid. Griffin had pushed the right button. It had PRIDE written all over it. “They have nothing to do with my job, or my home, or my wife or my kids or my car. Everything I have now I’ve earned myself, and I’ve done it even in spite of having to live with the memories of that night. Do you know how memories can haunt? I don’t need a shrink to tell me that I became a school counselor to help kids because I couldn’t help her. She got a raw deal.”

  “You say it in the past tense,” Griffin said, grateful for an admission of sorts but needing far, far more. “It’s not over. It may be just starting for her. We need a story, Aidan. She won’t talk, possibly because she’s even more frightened of the DiCenzas than you are, but we need to know what happened that night. Your name is the only piece of information she’s given us. She hasn’t even admitted to being Lisa. You’re the connection. So here’s your chance for redemption. Talk to me, Aidan.”

  * * *

  Griffin hated failure. Perhaps it had been arrogant of him to think he could get through to Aidan when neither Ralph nor Aidan’s own conscience could. Aidan hadn’t responded to the pitch he’d made there at the door, nor the one he’d made later in the school corridor, nor the one he’d made in the parking lot when Aidan returned to his car after work.Granted, Aidan hadn’t called the cops. He hadn’t even threatened it after the first time. Rather, he waged a war of attrition, holding firm to his silence, letting Griffin make his case again and again, until he finally ran out of steam.

  Griffin knew that Aidan could be subpoenaed. He could be questioned on the witness stand, under oath. But that would be at a trial. Griffin didn’t want it to get that far.

  Discouraged, he took an evening plane back to Manchester. Retrieving the Porsche, he drove back to the marina, retrieved the truck, and went directly back to Poppy’s.

  * * *

  Poppy heard Victoria first. The cat was sitting on the bed facing the door, meowing in the dark. Seconds later, stockinged feet padded down the hall. Seconds after that, Griffin was sitting on the side of the bed.Poppy stared at him in the dark, cautious on several scores. There was sex. There was love. There was Aidan.

  Griffin didn’t give her a clue, simply stared back at her. After a minute, he whispered, “Your door wasn’t locked.”

  “It never is. What time is it?”

  “Two.”

  She waited, wondering which of the three biggies was foremost on his mind. When she couldn’t bear the suspense, she asked, “How did it go?”

  “Lousy. I’m exhausted, so if you want sex, babe, you’re out of luck. It’s been a long, totally frustrating day. I just want to sleep with you, Poppy. Can I do that?”

  She did want sex. She had been thinking about it all day, wanting to know that what they’d done was real and not just another of her dreams, wanting to hear him say that he had been satisfied in spite of her limitations and that he wanted more.

  But life was about more than sex, and he was clearly upset. The fact that he had come to her touched her. It touched her deeply. And he hadn’t said those three words again. He was respecting her feelings on that point.

  Feeling oddly satisfied, nearly as pleased as if he had fallen on her in lust, she maneuvered herself back and raised the quilt.

  * * *

  Griffin didn’t sleep for more than four hours. His mind was filled with wayward little thoughts that gave him a buzz. The nervous energy he had would have made a mockery even of sex. He needed to be up, on his feet, doing something distracting.Leaving Poppy in bed, he plugged in his computer, accessed his e-mail, then ran a quick search of Cindy pseudonyms. He had last done it six days before, but with the approach of March, new publications would be posted.

  His heart skipped a beat when a finding came up for one of the names on his list. Following the link with a shaky hand, he found a poem. It spoke of dreams as the first step
in overcoming regret. There were barely a dozen lines, some of only one or two words, but the poem was powerful. As far as he was concerned, it had Cindy’s fingerprints on it.

  Hurriedly, he jotted down the name of the poem, the author, the publication and page. There was no clue as to the poet’s whereabouts, but a call to the magazine’s editorial department might help. Unfortunately, it was Saturday. His hands were tied until Monday.

  Frustrated, he tore off the slip of paper and stuffed it in his pocket. By the time he logged off, he was more restless than ever. He needed to do something that was physical, practical, and positive.

  He arrived at Micah’s just as the girls were going off with Camille for the day. Micah was tapping. Griffin wanted in.

  Billy Farraway was already there. He sat on the tailgate of Micah’s truck with his hunter’s cap perched on the back of his head and his legs hanging down, looking for all the world like he was going to work. Griffin might have asked about that, if another truck hadn’t come down the drive. Pete Duffy emerged from its cab at the same time that Micah came out of the house.

  Both men stopped. They stared at one another.

  Micah said, “I thought I told you not to come.”

  “That was last weekend,” Pete replied. “This is this weekend. Time’s running short. My guess is the sap’ll be running Monday or Tuesday.”

  “Tuesday. It’ll be running Tuesday.”

  “Tuesday.” Billy echoed.

  Pete said, “I’m off work for three days. I want to help.”

  “Do the Feds know you’re here?”

  “No,” Pete snapped. “This is my business, not theirs. I don’t work for them. I never did. The only reason I came here with them that morning was because Willie Jake told me to, and I do work for him.”

  “Does he know you’re here?” Micah asked.

  Pete didn’t blink. “Sure does. He has no problem with it. You’re the only one who has a problem. So you can stand there and call me a traitor, or you can take me up on my offer. If you have Billy and Griffin, my being here makes four. That’s two teams. It means twice as much work gets done.”