“Do you need some water, Dad?” Ross asked.
Before his father could answer, Maisey was there with a glass and a pill. She waited while Edward took the medication before going back to her folding.
Ross glanced after her, knowing she was taking her good old time to eavesdrop. He thought about dismissing her before he told his father about Julie’s pregnancy, but it didn’t matter. Dad would tell her later. He had been telling her everything for years.
“Dad, there’s something I haven’t told you yet,” Ross said.
“What can be worse than what I know?” Edward asked softly.
“Julie was pregnant when she was killed.”
Edward dropped his glass of water in his lap. Ross looked to Maisey. She was frozen, dumbfounded.
“Maisey, bring a towel,” he said.
She grabbed one and hurried over. She took the wet blanket and book and brought Edward a fresh coverlet.
As she turned to leave, Ross caught a look from her that at first he wasn’t sure how to read. Then he remembered. It was the same look she had always given him when he was a boy and he had done something to disappoint his father.
Edward’s mumblings brought his attention back to his father. “I just can’t believe it,” his father whispered. “My little Julie. My baby, my baby.”
Ross said nothing.
“How do they know?” Edward asked.
“What?”
“How do they know she was pregnant?”
“The police found fetal bones.”
Edward shut his eyes, and for a long time the two of them just sat there.
“How far along was she?” Edward said.
Ross was stunned his father had even asked. Before, whenever something bad had touched the family, his father would tell everyone that no one should speak of it. Like when Uncle Rawlins was arrested for embezzling. Or when Ross’s mother started walking around like a zombie from taking the pain pills.
“What does it matter?” Ross asked.
“It matters to me,” Edward said.
Ross sighed. “Four to five months.”
“Then she got pregnant that summer,” Edward said slowly. He looked back out at the gray windows. “This man they have arrested, this Dancer, do they really believe he . . . do they think he raped her?”
“They don’t know yet,” Ross said. “Apparently Dancer is mentally ill, so it’s possible.”
“If Julie was raped that summer by this . . . this man, she would’ve . . .” His voice trailed off, and he was quiet for a long time. “She would have told me,” he said softly. “If something like that had happened to her, she would have told me.”
A drawer closed loudly behind Ross. He looked over his shoulder to see Maisey watching him.
“Maisey, leave us alone, please,” Ross said.
The housekeeper took her time folding one last towel before she left the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
Edward’s gaze drifted back to the window. The rain started up again, spotting the glass and turning the lake and trees into a blur of gray and green.
“Did you know your sister wrote poetry?” Edward asked.
“I’m sorry,” Ross said, needing a second to come back to the moment. “What did you say?”
“Poems, she wrote poems,” Edward said. “Do you remember those red leather journals I gave her every Christmas? She wrote poems in them. I found the journals after she disappeared, years later when we were packing up her things. But I was too consumed by my grief to understand how important they were.”
“What do you mean?” Ross asked.
“I don’t think I would have even thought about them even now if the police hadn’t asked to see them.”
“The police? Why would they want to see them?”
“They think they could reveal something about what happened up here that summer.”
Ross rose slowly and took a few steps away, trying to think. Julie wrote poems? Why didn’t he know about this?
“I was just reading a few of them this morning,” Edward said softly. “The ones she wrote that last summer here.”
Ross turned back. His father’s profile was silhouetted against the gray window.
“I was reading them, and I realized Julie had left a piece of herself for me to hang on to, a piece of her heart to help fill the hole in mine,” Edward said.
Ross looked at his shoes, biting back his words, words he had wanted to say for a long time. Was now the moment? Did it matter anymore?
“Dad,” Ross said softly, “don’t you realize . . . have you ever realized that you never really knew either of us? Julie and I were just pictures in your wallet, something you could pull out when the other men talked about their families.”
When Edward turned to him Ross was surprised to see no anger in his father’s eyes, just a sort of sad resignation. Edward looked away toward the windows. For a long time it was quiet, just the splatter of rain against the glass and the soft hiss of the oxygen. Ross felt suddenly very tired, and right at this moment all he wanted to do was get away. Away from this house, away from his father, away from this damn island.
“I think she fell in love that summer.”
Ross’s eyes shot back to his father.
“It was there in her poems,” Edward said. “It had happened here that summer. She found someone to love.”
Ross came back to stand in front of his father.
“I want to know who the father of her baby is,” Edward said.
“What?”
“I don’t think this man Dancer is the father of Julie’s baby. I think she fell in love with someone and maybe his name is in her poems somewhere. I want to find out who he was. I want to talk to him.”
Ross almost said it: You can’t accept rape, so you believe in love.
Edward was looking around the room. “Maisey?”
“She left, Dad.”
Edward tried to get up from his chair. “I need something . . .”
Ross put a hand on Edward’s shoulder and eased him back into the chair. “What do you need? I’ll get it.”
“My address book. It’s over on the desk.”
“Why do you want—?”
“Just do what I ask, Ross!”
Stunned by the anger in his father’s voice, Ross got the book from the desk. He handed it to his father, who put on his glasses with shaking hands.
“What are you looking for, Dad?” Ross asked.
“John Manning’s phone number.”
“Dr. Manning? What do you need him for?”
“He can tell me about testing the bones.”
“What bones?”
“The baby’s bones. Maybe they can be tested to find out who the father is.”
“Dad, listen to me,” Ross said.
Edward ignored him as he flipped through the address book.
“Dad, please, will you just listen to me for a minute?”
Edward looked up.
“Did Julie say in the poems who the boy was?”
Edward looked confused for a moment. “I don’t remember.”
Ross knelt down in front of Edward. “Dad, I know you think this will bring you some sort of comfort, but the fetal bones can’t be tested.”
“How do you know that?”
“The police told me there probably isn’t enough genetic material to determine paternity.”
“Of course there’s enough,” Edward said. “They use marrow. Don’t baby bones have marrow?”
“I’m just telling you what—”
Edward went back to flipping through the address book. “Dr. Manning can tell us for sure. We went to school together. I know he would help me with this. He can get the university to—”
Ross pressed his hand down over his father’s.
“Dad, stop it. Even if it could be done, it would be very expensive.”
Edward slowly pulled his hand away. “Money? Is that what you’re worried about?”
Ross sat back in the
window seat, forcing himself not to look away from his father’s glare.
“All the money,” Edward said. “All the money I’ve given you for your campaign and you’re talking to me about what something costs?”
Ross stood up slowly and moved behind the chair so his father couldn’t see him. There was nothing more to say, nothing more to do. He started toward the door. Then he stopped and turned back.
“Dad, where are Julie’s journals?” he asked.
His father didn’t turn. “Why do you ask?”
“I’d like to read her poems.” He paused. “I miss her, too, Dad.”
“Not now, Ross,” Edward whispered. “Please leave me be.”
Ross left the bedroom and went down the stairs. Maisey came out of the parlor and with barely a glance went up the stairs.
He went back into the parlor. He poured himself another brandy and took a chair near the phone. He stared at his messages for a moment, then pulled the phone into his lap. He dialed his office in Lansing, not his secretary’s line but his private number, the one he had given out to only two people.
Only one new message. The Reptile.
Ross, where the hell are you? The last poll is bad, buddy. You’ve dropped two and Burkett’s right on your ass now. I need you back here now. You’ve got to be visible, Ross. You don’t win an election hiding out on an island. Your sister will still be dead after November sixth.
The message ended. Ross hung up the phone and sat back in the chair, the phone in his lap.
The hell with him. The hell with them all.
Ross reached for the brandy, took a drink, then set it aside. He picked up the receiver and dialed the number he had memorized. There was no answer. Ross shut his eyes but didn’t hang up. On the twelfth ring, someone picked up.
“Hello?”
“I need to see you,” Ross said. “Right now.”
24
Louis zipped up his jacket and pulled up the hood of the sweatshirt he wore underneath. The rain had stopped, but it was so cold he had been forced to stop in Doud’s to buy some gloves. The grocery didn’t sell winter gloves, the bemused woman behind the counter had told him, but her husband did have some cotton work gloves she was willing to lend him.
He pulled out the bright orange gloves from his pocket, tucked the manila envelope under his arm, put on the gloves, and continued down West Bluff Road. The Chapman cottage was the only house with lights on, sitting like a lonely outpost at the end of the street.
It was time to talk to Maisey Barrow.
He had called ahead, and she was expecting him, holding the door open as he mounted the steps. She gave him a stiff nod and pulled her heavy sweater tighter around her as he came in.
“Leave your coat there,” she said, pointing to the rack. “I have some fresh coffee brewing.”
Taking the envelope with him, he followed Maisey toward the back of the house. The kitchen, compared to the rest of the dim and dank house, was ablaze with light and warmth. There was something cooking that made Louis’s mouth water. He had been working with Rafsky all morning and had a hunger headache from eating only doughnuts at the station. Maisey saw him staring at the stove.
“It’s beef stew for dinner,” she said. “But it’s probably ready now if you want some.”
“If you can spare it.”
“Mr. Ross had to go back to Lansing. It’s just me and Mr. Edward tonight, so we have plenty.”
She ladled out a bowl of stew and set it before Louis with an old silver spoon and a linen napkin. He tried to eat slowly, but it was several minutes before he even looked up. Maisey was bending over the oven and came up a moment later with a cookie sheet of biscuits. Without asking, she set two on a plate before him and went back to the stove.
“How is Mr. Chapman today?” Louis asked as he buttered one of the biscuits.
“He had a really bad night,” she said. “He’s been resting all day.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Louis said.
She came over with the coffeepot, and Louis nodded. She refilled his cup and sat down across from him at the table. She looked very tired, her soft brown eyes heavy with emotion.
“What did you want to see me about, Mr. Kincaid?” she asked.
“Louis. Call me Louis, please.”
She gave him a look that told him that was never going to happen.
“I understand you’ve been with the Chapman family for a long time,” Louis said.
“Almost forty years,” she said. “I came to work for them soon after Mr. Ross was born. I raised those children. They were like my own.”
Louis remembered a detail from the Bloomfield Hills police dossiers. Except for one brother, Maisey Barrow had no family.
“You stayed on after the children were grown?”
She nodded. “Mrs. Chapman was in poor health. Mr. Chapman needed me.”
Louis suspected Maisey’s job description had expanded and contracted over the decades as the Chapman family dynamic changed. She had gone from nursemaid to surrogate mother and now was Edward’s caretaker.
“I need to ask you some questions about Julie,” Louis began. “Mr. Chapman told us that Julie was very shy and well behaved.”
Maisey nodded.
“But that weekend before she disappeared, she lied to her father about where she was going,” Louis said.
Maisey was quiet. “I know,” she said finally. “I don’t know why she did it.”
Everything the family had told him so far was consistent with what he had read in the original police report from twenty-one years ago. As with Ross, the only thing new he could learn from Maisey was what had happened here that summer.
“I’d like to ask you some questions about that last summer you were here with Julie,” he said.
“I don’t know what help I can be.”
“Do you know that Julie got pregnant while she was here?”
Maisey nodded slowly. “Mr. Ross told us yesterday.”
“We have a man in custody named Danny Dancer. We don’t know if he is connected to Julie’s death yet. Did you ever hear Julie mention him?”
She shook her head.
“You’re sure? It’s an unusual name.”
Again she shook her head, now avoiding his eyes.
Maisey was obviously distressed about the pregnancy. Louis decided to change direction. “Ross told us that Julie was acting strange that summer,” he said.
“Strange?”
“Mood swings.” Louis paused. “I need you to think back, Maisey. Did you notice anything about Julie’s behavior that might indicate she had been attacked? Did she say anything to you, anything at all?”
Maisey’s eyes welled. “No,” she whispered.
Louis sat back in his chair. “Okay. There’s something else we have to consider,” he said. “Did Julie have a boyfriend?”
Maisey had been looking away and when her eyes refocused on Louis they were confused. “Boyfriend?”
“Someone she met that last summer here.”
Maisey thought for a moment, then slowly shook her head. “No,” she said. “I would have known.”
“Well, how did she spend her time here?” Louis said. “Did she go anywhere, do anything special?”
“She went riding and went for walks,” Maisey said. “Mr. Edward was always worried about her being too shy, so he told Mr. Ross to take her to the dances down at the yacht club.” She paused. “I don’t think she enjoyed it much, truth be told.”
“Were you and Julie close?” Louis asked.
Again her eyes welled. She picked up the empty bowl and took it to the sink. “I should go check on Mr. Edward,” she said, her back still to him.
“There’s one more thing,” Louis said. “I’d like you to look at some drawings.”
Maisey turned. “Drawings?”
Louis took a sketchbook from the envelope. They had found a hundred and forty-two sketchbooks during the processing of Danny Dancer’s cabin. Joe had suggested the drawi
ngs might help them find persons of interest or witnesses. She had gone through every sketchbook, finally giving one to Louis that contained drawings of teenagers in sixties-era dress and in settings like the beach at British Landing or Fort Holmes, places Sergeant Clark told Louis were popular for the local kids to hang out at.
Louis opened the page that Joe had marked with a Post-it. It was a picture of Julie. She looked beautiful, her long hair wind-whipped around her face, her mouth tipped in a smile, and her eyes focused on someone unseen off to her right.
Maisey came to the table and stared at the drawing for a long time. Finally she sat down and looked up at Louis.
“Where’d you get this?” she asked softly.
“Danny Dancer drew it,” Louis said. “He drew almost everybody on this island for more than twenty years. We think he might have done this that last summer here.”
Maisey nodded slowly. “Yes, I recognize that blouse.”
“She looks very happy,” Louis said.
A small smile came to Maisey’s face. “This is how I remember Julie that summer.” She ran a finger lightly over the drawing. “A boyfriend,” she said softly. “How could I have not seen it?”
“Maybe you did,” Louis said.
He flipped the sketchbook back to the first page. “He could have been the boy who delivered groceries or someone she met in town, maybe someone she was afraid to bring home,” Louis said. “Please look, see if you recognize anyone.”
Maisey began to turn the pages. The kitchen was quiet as she studied each drawing. She was on the last few pages when she suddenly stopped. She turned the sketchbook around toward Louis.
It was a drawing of a girl. Round-faced, large-eyed, a gap-toothed smile, a cascade of curly light hair held down by a braided headband across her forehead.
“You recognize her?” Louis asked.
Maisey nodded. “She came to the house a couple of times. She and Julie used to sit out on the porch. I remember her because . . . I heard her making jokes about Julie having a mammy.”
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