Daughter of Ashes

by Marcia Talley

  ‘I feel bad about all the snarky things I said about her, and now here I am at her party, drinking a dead woman’s wine, and I never even talked to her. Not even once.’

  ‘Well,’ my husband said reasonably. ‘Now you won’t have to.’

  Eventually, after asking us the briefest of questions: ‘When was the last time you saw Kendall Barfield? Did you notice anything unusual?’ the police let us go.

  As partygoers trickled out the gates, far more somberly than they had come in, Tina stood on one side, ticked names off the list and – incredibly – continued to hand out the bags of party favors. Just past the checkpoint, a deputy passed out business cards, instructing us to call if we thought of anything important.

  As we walked together down the drive toward the field where our cars were parked, Paul took my hand. ‘Who do you think hated Kendall enough to do that to her?’

  ‘I wasn’t serious about wanting Kendall dead,’ I said.

  ‘I know that, Hannah,’ he replied.

  I paused and looked sideways at my husband. ‘Do you think the police will hear about my rantings and take them seriously?’

  ‘No, I don’t. But maybe the next time somebody pisses you off you will be more circumspect when discussing the extent of your displeasure with relative strangers.’

  We had reached the parking lot. Stepping carefully over the ruts that countless tires had torn into the turf, we wound our way through the sea of cars, looking for ours. ‘Where the heck …?’ Paul began, then remembered the car keys and fished them out of his pocket. He punched the unlock button and was rewarded with a beep and a flash of headlights from our Volvo several rows away.

  ‘We can safely eliminate Rusty,’ I said, returning to Paul’s earlier question. ‘He’s still in a coma. Grace is probably out as well. As far as I know, she’s still sitting at Rusty’s bedside, and that certainly would be easy to check. Caitlyn has a good motive, but honestly, I talked with her a lot today, off and on, and I don’t see how she would have had the time to slip away and strangle her boss, much as she may have wanted to.’

  As we walked, I had the creepy feeling I was being watched. Paul was several steps ahead of me by this time, aiming the keys at the trunk, jabbing the button to pop it open. I glanced around uneasily, but all I noticed were other party guests streaming out of the gates, making their way toward their vehicles.

  ‘Did you see Dwight at the party?’ I asked as I tucked my goodie bag into the trunk next to Paul’s. And then I froze, realizing what had been staring me down, boring into my subconscious with its chrome headlights: a lean, mean, black sports car in the next row over.

  I pointed the car out to Paul. ‘What kind of car is that?’

  ‘A late-model Mustang. Why?’

  I flashed back to the day of Rusty’s ‘accident.’ To the black car that had borne down on me, filling my rearview mirror with menace. This vehicle had tinted windows, too. I lowered my voice. ‘That’s the car that hit Rusty.’

  It wouldn’t have taken much force, perhaps only a tap, for a sports car like the Mustang to knock a motorcycle off the road. And the evidence was there, too, if you were looking for it. I moved in for a closer look.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Positive.’ I pointed out the damage to my husband: a dent in the right front quarter panel, a scrape of black paint on the bumper. ‘Don’t you think it’s odd that the car that ran Rusty off the road is parked here at Kendall’s on the very day that she gets murdered?’

  Paul wrapped an arm around my shoulders. ‘But who would want both Rusty and Kendall dead?’

  ‘From what I’ve been hearing, Rusty barely talks to his biological mother …’ I paused, leaning into him. ‘There’s a link, I feel it.’

  ‘Find out who owns this vehicle, then perhaps all will be made clear,’ Paul said.

  All around us people were climbing into their vehicles and driving away. Before long we’d be the only car left in the row. Quickly, before the driver of the Mustang could return and see me doing it, I jotted down the license number.

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ I said and jogged away, back through the gates of the Barfield estate, looking for Sheriff Hubbard.

  When I returned, Paul was waiting for me in the car. ‘Success?’ he asked as I slid into the passenger seat.

  ‘Step one,’ I said. ‘Now for step two.’ I convinced him to sit in the car with the air conditioner running, hoping to identify the owner of the Mustang when he – or she – left the party.

  Twenty minutes later, though, even the van carrying the band had packed up and gotten out of Dodge. The parking lot stood empty of all but the police vehicles and a dozen private cars, including the Mustang. Paul convinced me it was time to go. ‘Sorry that hanging around longer didn’t answer your question,’ he said.

  ‘Au contraire,’ I told him as he aimed the Volvo down the drive toward the main road. ‘It tells me that whoever was driving that Mustang was either family, or an employee.’

  ‘Or both,’ Paul added.

  SIXTEEN

  ‘O it’s broken the lock and splintered the door, O it’s the gate where they’re turning, turning; Their boots are heavy on the floor And their eyes are burning.’

  W.H. Auden, ‘O What is That Sound,’ 1936

  I was surprised on Monday morning when Dwight showed up for work.

  ‘How’s Rusty?’ was the first thing out of my mouth.

  ‘Stable,’ his father told me. He looked like he’d lost sleep. A small patch of stubble under his left nostril made me wonder if he’d crawled out of bed early and shaved in the dark.

  ‘You didn’t have to come to work today,’ I said.

  ‘Nothing I can do at the hospital, and if I don’t work the bills don’t get paid.’ Dwight set his toolbox down on the porch. ‘Besides, Grace is with him.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I said. Then added quickly, ‘I’m so sorry about Kendall.’

  He shrugged. ‘I feel bad when anyone dies, but Kendall was dead to me a long time ago, Mrs Ives. I can count the times we’ve talked over the past two years on the fingers of one hand.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you were at the picnic yesterday?’

  Dwight looked blank, then said, ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘Does Rusty stay in touch with his mother?’ I asked, quickly changing the subject.

  Dwight snorted. ‘Hardly. Grace is the only mother he’s ever known. She was a stay-at-home mom, you know. Didn’t start doing volunteer work until Rusty started school.’

  ‘I don’t suppose Rusty is allowed visitors?’

  ‘No,’ he said simply, the one word encompassing a world of sadness.

  ‘You’ll keep us informed?’ I asked.

  Instead of replying, Dwight patted the pocket of his work pants and pulled out a small packet of business cards held together by a rubber band. He slid one out from under the band and handed it to me. ‘Grace is on this website, Caring Bridge, posting updates.’ He tapped a corner of the card. ‘The URL is on there.’

  I fingered the card and turned it over, filled with admiration for the woman who loved her stepchild so much that she’d designed these cards – featuring a clipart figure of a running quarterback glancing over his shoulder, arms extended, preparing to receive a pass – and printed them out on her home computer.

  ‘I’m familiar with Caring Bridge,’ I said truthfully. As a cancer survivor, I had many friends who’d faced the same challenging road to recovery as I had, who’d found comfort and support from social media websites such as Caring Bridge. ‘I’ll be sure to visit and post a few notes of encouragement.’

  ‘Thanks. Grace will appreciate that.’

  I wondered as I fingered the card if I should tell Dwight about the black Mustang I’d seen at Kendall’s party, but decided it would be cruel to get his hopes up before the police had had time to track down its owner and investigate.

  Dwight trudged off and was working alone, installing copper flashing ar
ound the newly repointed chimney, when Sheriff Hubbard and one of his deputies paid us a visit. He left his hat on the entrance hall table I’d recently imported from our home in Annapolis, and followed me into the kitchen where we sat around the table drinking iced tea.

  Paul’s conversation with Kendall had been observed, but not, as I had worried, by the security cameras. ‘I’m amazed Kendall didn’t have cameras trained on Liquid Asset,’ I said. ‘It’s got to have thousands of dollars’ worth of electronic equipment on board.’

  ‘There is a camera aimed at her usual berth,’ Hubbard explained, ‘but in order to accommodate all the visiting boats they moved Liquid Asset out to the end of the dock. We got miles of footage of a couple making out on a jet ski,’ he told us with a rueful grin, ‘but nothing on the Liquid Asset herself.

  ‘When you were talking to Mrs Barfield,’ he continued, addressing my husband, ‘how did she seem?’

  ‘I really didn’t notice anything unusual, Sheriff Hubbard, but then, I’d only just met the woman so what was usual for her …’ He shrugged. ‘She seemed cheerful, not at all preoccupied, not even with the party preparations. Her staff and the caterers had everything well in hand and she seemed relaxed, genuinely having a good time.’

  Hubbard’s eyes ping-ponged from Paul to me and back again. ‘Do you know anyone who had a grudge against her?’

  I answered for the both of us. ‘We did, actually. I have to be upfront about that. Before we bought this house, we made an offer on another of her listings. The offer was accepted, and then for reasons I still don’t clearly understand, we had the rug pulled out from under us.’

  ‘That was one of the things that Kendall and I were discussing on the dock that day, actually,’ Paul added. ‘Seems it was simply a failure of her staff to communicate. She told me it’s all ironed out now.’

  ‘Besides,’ I cut in, ‘we bought this place and, renovations aside, we couldn’t be happier with it.’

  ‘Anyone else?’ Hubbard wasn’t going to let us off the hook so easily.

  ‘As my husband pointed out,’ I replied, ‘we’d only just met the woman, but from what folks say around here, Kendall wasn’t everyone’s friend.’

  Sheriff Hubbard blinked, grunted, but made no further comment. Was he staring me down? Daring me to lie to him? While I debated whether to mention Caitlyn’s serious grudge against her boss over the loss of the best salesperson award, Sheriff Hubbard pocketed his notebook, signaled to his deputy that it was time to go, and stood. ‘I appreciate your cooperation, Professor and Mrs Ives. You’ve been very helpful.’

  Following their lead, we stood, too. ‘Any time,’ Paul said.

  ‘Have you been able to trace the owner of the Mustang?’ I asked as I walked the officers to the door.

  Sheriff Hubbard paused to retrieve his hat from the hall table. As he settled it again on his head, he said, ‘We have, but you must know that I can’t share that information with you.’

  ‘Can’t blame a gal for trying.’ I managed a smile. ‘Do you know who was driving the car, then?’

  ‘We do. But again …’

  I held up a hand. ‘Sorry, but it seems highly suspicious that the car that ran Rusty off the road is also parked at Rusty’s mother’s estate on the day she gets murdered. I’m thinking that Rusty and his mother must have shared more than a simple X-chromosome.’

  ‘Well, if that something occurs to you, Mrs Ives, I hope you’ll let us know.’

  Hubbard was halfway down the walk when he turned back. ‘I have some information for you about Baby Ella,’ he said, as if tossing a pacifying tidbit my way. ‘I spoke with the medical examiner’s office this morning, and there seems to be no sign of foul play. The child was a girl, as you suspected, from six to eight months old.’

  ‘Did they say how she died?’

  ‘From the condition of her lungs, he suspects she died of a serious respiratory infection. It’s hard to say precisely, but the baby may have had polio.’

  Polio! That news stopped me in my tracks. One never thought much about polio these days, the disease having been eradicated in the United States by the late seventies or early eighties, as I recalled, thanks to Jonas Salk’s vaccine.

  ‘There was a polio epidemic sweeping the country in the summer of 1951,’ Hubbard continued.

  ‘And Baby Ella was wrapped in newspapers from around that time,’ Paul observed.

  ‘Exactly so,’ Hubbard agreed. ‘So, I don’t think we have a crime here.’

  ‘Isn’t there some law in Maryland about failure to report a death, or unlawful disposal of a body?’ I was grasping at straws, I knew, desperate to hold someone responsible for all the years little Ella spent walled up in our chimney.

  Hubbard frowned. ‘Well, ma’am, maybe there is and maybe there isn’t, but in this case, I have absolutely zero inclination to go looking for someone to prosecute for it.’

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘The woods were made for the hunters of dreams, The brooks for the fishers of song; To the hunters who hunt for the gunless game The streams and the woods belong.’

  Sam Walter Foss, Dreams in Homespun, ‘The Bloodless Sportsman,’ 1897

  In the 1960 classic, I Hate to Cook Book, Peg Bracken wrote a chapter entitled, ‘Leftovers: Or, Every Family Should Have a Dog.’ The same might be said for walks in the country. For long walks back home in Quiet Waters Park, I often borrowed my daughter’s labradoodle, Coco, but on that particular morning several days later, with Paul stuck back home in Annapolis, tied up with some endless government paperwork involving sexual harassment awareness training, I was dog-less and on my own.

  After polishing off a bagel with cream cheese and my second cup of coffee, I inverted the mug over a peg in the dishwasher, exchanged my cozy slippers for running shoes and set off.

  First stop was the end of the dock where I checked Paul’s crab pot, like he’d asked me to. I hauled the wire cage up by the rope which attached it to the dock, but all I found in the one-way trap was a waterlogged chicken neck.

  I dropped the trap into the water and continued exploring the flora and fauna along the shore until the ground grew marshy and started sucking greedily at my shoes.

  At the surveyor’s pipe that marked where our property ended and the neighbor’s farm began, I made a ninety-degree turn, sighting along the property line to a small grove of trees where another ninety-degree turn would take me along our boundary to the main road. As I walked, I was grateful nobody had enclosed either property with barbed wire or chain-link fencing; the cornfields on my right delineated our land from the neighboring farm clearly enough for me.

  About halfway along, I was surprised by a doe darting out of the corn and bounding across my path, swift as a gazelle. In its turn, the doe startled a wild turkey, which spread its wings and flapped out of the weeds and into the sky. I paused to marvel at them, breathing in the summer air, heavy with the scent of rich Maryland earth and new-mown hay.

  At the grove of trees, the cornfield made a curious detour. I wondered why the trees – a cluster of ancient oaks – hadn’t been cut down to maximize the land available to crop. I dived under the low-hanging branch of a lone sugar maple and stopped in my tracks. The dense canopy shaded a cemetery about the size of a two-car garage enclosed by a rusted fence of iron piping, looped together with ornamental chains. Eight large headstones were scattered about, tilted at odd angles as the ground around them had settled or been disturbed by hungry tree roots.

  That the cemetery was old, I had no doubt. A few of the headstones dated, I was sure, to colonial days. The round-faced angels, their eyebrows and nose carved into the slabs by a stonemason in one deft, U-shaped stroke, told me that. I knelt before one crooked stone and deciphered the first inscription, partly by feel as the years and the weather, as well as the moss had taken their toll on the porous limestone:

  Albert Anthony

  Only child of

  Albert C & Harriet A

  Hazlett

  Born in
Salisbury

  Oct 19, 1848

  Died at Elizabethtown

  May 18, 1851

  Aged 2 years &

  7 months

  Rest, sweet child, in gentle slumber …

  The remaining inscription had been covered by the encroaching earth. A maple seedling had taken root at the base of little Albert’s grave. I pulled it out before it had a chance to send out roots to further disturb his tiny bones.

  This was no formal cemetery of modern oblongs lined up in precise rows, yet someone had been caring for the graves. No weeds grew inside the enclosure; what little grass there was had been neatly mowed. A vase of plastic flowers – roses and carnations – their color not yet faded by exposure to the elements, had been placed in front of another headstone which read:

  Mary Charlotte Hazlett

  1890–1950

  Sleep on, sweet Mother, and take thy rest

  God called thee home, He thought it best.

  This had to be one of the Hazletts mentioned in the land records dealing with the sale of Our Song to Liberty Land Development Corporation back in 1952.

  Just beyond, my eyes were drawn to a stone planter about the size of a window box, overflowing with black-eyed Susans, the state flower of Maryland, and very much alive. It marked the grave of a Samuel Hazlett who had shuffled off this mortal coil in 1845. Samuel had rated an urn with a flaming finial, draped with bunting. A half skull peeped out from under a tasseled curtain carved into its base, surrounded by broken columns and a few twists of ivy.

  All the residents here seemed to be Hazletts, the family that had originally owned the land upon which Our Song and the farms and homes of our immediate neighbors had been built.

  To my right were a cluster of three smaller headstones. I cringed: infant graves. Two children had lived only days, the other less than a year. I thought about Baby Ella, who had lain so long in our chimney and had no grave. An epitaph on one child’s stone simply read: II Kings, iv: Is it well with the child? It is well!