Daughter of Ashes

by Marcia Talley

  ‘Did what?’

  Caitlyn smiled wickedly. ‘Kendall had the knack for staying on friendly terms with all her ex-boyfriends. Me? I loathe my two exes, not that I ever married either of them. Boyd is my one and only.’

  ‘Is he here? Boyd, I mean?’

  ‘My husband? Sadly, no. He’s in the National Guard training recruits up in Elkton this weekend. And there’s another of Kendall’s conquests,’ she said, indicating with a sideways jerk of her head the Chicken à la King who had just entered the church and had stopped to chat with Sheriff Hubbard.

  ‘Whoa, Nellie! Are you saying that Kendall and Clifton Ames were once an item?’

  ‘It’s common knowledge, Hannah. Happened not long after Dwight started dating Grace. But if Kendall hoped to make Dwight jealous, she failed miserably. Grace was, is a treasure and Dwight knew it.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘He married Grace just like that. And just look at them,’ she continued. ‘See the way he looks at her when she’s talking, like what she’s saying is the most important thing in all the world, like The Sermon on the Mount or something.’

  But I was looking in the other direction, toward the rear of the sanctuary where Clifton Ames seemed to be pointing out something in the program to the sheriff. How come he got a copy and I didn’t? I thought sourly. ‘Is Sheriff Hubbard a music-lover?’ I asked Caitlyn.

  ‘Andy? Nah. Not sure why he’s here.’ She nudged me with her elbow. ‘Expecting trouble from the brass section, maybe?’

  ‘Maybe he’s keeping his eye on a suspect,’ I suggested.

  ‘Well, I think he’s interviewed pretty much everybody in town. Half of them are in this room tonight, you’ll notice.’

  ‘He interviewed you, too?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. They even asked for a DNA swab – for purposes of elimination.’

  ‘You gave them one?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure. Why not? I didn’t kill the stupid bitch.’

  Nobody had asked Paul or me for a DNA sample, but I didn’t tell Caitlyn that. Fortunately, I was saved from having to think of a way to gracefully change the subject by the conductor’s return to the podium. Within seconds, the orchestra was off and running with the Mendelssohn.

  When the concert was over, Caitlyn and I followed the crowd out to the meditation garden on the east side of the church where a table had been set up to serve lemonade and assorted cookies and cakes donated by the Women’s Fellowship. My hand was hovering over the platter of chocolate-chip cookies with the hope of landing on the one having the most chocolate chips when Sheriff Hubbard approached us.

  ‘Caitlyn Dymond, may I speak with you for a moment, please?’

  Caitlyn laughed. ‘My, how formal we’re being this evening, Andy. Have some lemonade,’ she added, gesturing at the table with her acrylic glass. ‘You’ve been working too hard.’

  Hubbard didn’t smile and made no move toward the lemonade.

  ‘What?’ Caitlyn said, her face suddenly ashen. ‘It’s Boyd, isn’t it? Something’s happened to Boyd!’

  With her free hand, Caitlyn grabbed my arm and squeezed. ‘Oh, Hannah, if something’s happened to Boyd, I’ll just die!’

  ‘It’s not Boyd, Mrs Dymond. Is there someplace we can go where we can talk?’

  Caitlyn stiffened. Lemonade sloshed over the rim of her glass and dribbled over her hand, but I don’t think she noticed. ‘Andy Hubbard, you tell me now or I’m not moving from this spot!’

  Hubbard flushed; sweat beaded his brow. ‘Caitlyn Dymond, I am arresting you for the murder of Kendall Barfield.’ As if on cue, Hubbard’s deputy materialized out of the boxwood, a pair of handcuffs dangling from his hand.

  ‘Noooo!’ she moaned as Hubbard read Caitlyn her rights.

  ‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.’

  I grabbed Caitlyn by the arm and pulled her close. ‘Do not say anything, Caitlyn, you hear me? Tell him you want to call your attorney. Tell him now.’

  ‘I don’t have an attorney, Hannah,’ she croaked. The acrylic glass she held cracked and fell to the lawn in pieces as the deputy gently turned her around and, looking up at me apologetically, handcuffed Caitlyn’s hands behind her back.

  ‘Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?’ Hubbard said.

  Caitlyn nodded.

  ‘Yes or no? I’m sorry, Caitlyn, but you have to say it.’

  Her voice wavered, but she managed a quiet, ‘Yes.’

  The chit-chat in the garden had died down. The burry chirp of an evening grosbeak filled the sudden silence; a car somewhere in the distance tooted its horn. ‘I can’t say anything to you without a lawyer present.’ Caitlyn’s eyes locked on mine. ‘My children! What about my children!’ she shouted into the crowd of concertgoers as they parted to let the officers dragging Caitlyn weeping and stumbling through.

  ‘Someone from Social Services …’ Hubbard began.

  ‘You’ll do no such thing!’ I shouted. I lurched after Caitlyn. ‘I’ll pick up the kids, don’t worry. When you get to the station, call Boyd. You hear me? Tell him that I have the children. He’ll know what to do.’

  ‘I didn’t do it, Hannah,’ she wailed. ‘Honestly, this is all a huge mistake!’

  ‘Couldn’t this have waited until Monday morning?’ I snapped at the sheriff’s heels as his deputy folded Caitlyn into the back seat of the police vehicle and closed the door. ‘I can’t think of anyone who is less of a flight risk than Caitlyn. You know that as well as I do.’

  ‘The warrant came through at the end of the day and I didn’t want to wait until morning to serve it,’ the sheriff explained.

  I knew the tactic. Arrest the suspect late on Friday and let them languish in a cell over the weekend, breaking down their resistance while waiting to be arraigned when the court convened again on Monday morning. It seemed a dirty trick to play on the mother of three young children whose husband was a Weekend Warrior sacrificing family time to serve his country.

  Caitlyn had slumped in the back seat of the patrol car, her head bowed as if trying to make herself as small as possible. I rapped on the window to attract her attention, pressed my fingers against the glass. ‘I’ll make some calls. Stay quiet. Stay cool.’

  On the other side of the glass, Caitlyn, with tears streaming down her face, pressed her fingertips to mine.

  The sun had not yet risen the following morning before there was a knock at my front door. I crawled out of bed, staggered to the bedroom window and pulled the curtain aside. In the gray light of dawn I saw a Honda Pilot parked in the drive. I opened the window and called out, ‘I’ll be right down,’ to whomever might be standing on the porch below.

  I crawled into a pair of jeans, threw a T-shirt over my head and padded barefoot down to the front door. I opened it a crack and peered out.

  ‘I’m Boyd Dymond, Mrs Ives,’ my visitor said, although I hardly needed the introduction. Caitlyn’s husband was dressed in rumpled camouflage fatigues and combat boots caked with dried mud. ‘I’m here to pick up the kids.’

  ‘Come in, come in,’ I said, holding the door wide. ‘They’re still asleep upstairs. By the time I got them tucked into the sleeping bags we use for the grandkids, it was kind of a late night. Let’s not wake them up just yet.’ I studied his swollen eyelids, the ravaged, unshaven face. ‘Looks like you could use a cup of coffee.’

  ‘Frankly,’ Boyd said, stepping into the entrance hall, his camouflage cap crushed in one beefy hand, ‘I’m all coffeed out, but I could sure use a glass of ice water.’

  I got Boyd settled in the kitchen with a tall glass of ice water, then made myself a cup of coffee and joined him at the table. ‘How’s Caitlyn?’

  ‘She’s still at the county jail,’ he told me. ‘She’ll be arraigned on Monday.’

  ‘On what possible evidence?’ I asked.

  Boyd pressed a thumb and forefing
er to either side of his nose and massaged his tired eyes. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Caitlyn was pissed, really pissed about that salesperson of the year thing. The guy who won the trip?’

  I nodded, encouraging him to continue.

  ‘Caitlyn had trained him, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘I saw how upset she was at the picnic,’ I told Boyd. ‘But going from upset to murder is quite a leap.’

  ‘Oh, Caitlyn didn’t kill Kendall, Mrs Ives. She wouldn’t kill anybody. We’ve got three kids! She couldn’t … wouldn’t do that to them.’

  ‘On what evidence are they holding her, then?’

  ‘Apparently they have witnesses. One of the musicians was on a break, having a smoke by the pool. He claims to have seen Caitlyn on the patio by the swimming pool, yelling at Kendall in front of one of the cabanas. Some kids hanging around the pool claim to have seen it, too.’

  ‘Are the witnesses sure it was Caitlyn?’ I asked.

  ‘There was no mistaking my wife, not in that red poppy sundress she was wearing.’

  ‘Right. I see.’

  ‘Anyway, Caitlyn admits to a lot of shouting and arm waving, says she told Kendall she could take her job and shove it where the sun don’t shine, but that’s all.’

  By this time I’d stopped breathing altogether. ‘And?’ I prodded.

  ‘According to this drummer’s story, in the middle of all the shouting, Caitlyn grabbed Kendall’s scarf. Caitlyn denies this, of course.’

  ‘Ouch!’ I said. ‘But did this drummer actually see Caitlyn strangle Kendall?’

  Boyd bowed his head and spoke into his hands. ‘No. His break was over. He got called back to the bandstand so he doesn’t know what happened after that.’

  ‘I’m no expert, Boyd, but I honestly don’t see how they can charge Caitlyn with murder based on such circumstantial evidence.’

  ‘That’s what I told the cops, but unfortunately there’s more.’

  ‘More?’

  ‘They found one of Caitlyn’s fingernails caught up in Kendall’s scarf. They matched it to Caitlyn’s DNA.’

  I flashed back to the picnic, to Caitlyn’s ruined patriotic manicure. ‘Damn.’

  ‘What am I going to do, Mrs Ives?’

  ‘Well, first, you can start calling me Hannah.’ After a moment, I asked, ‘Do you have a good lawyer?’

  Boyd nodded. ‘Caitlyn’s father has connections. The guy left a dinner party in Baltimore to drive over here and meet with her. He’s there with her now.’

  ‘Excellent. I’m sure he’ll be able to get Caitlyn out on bail.’ I stood, walked behind his chair and rested a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ll bet she’ll be home by dinnertime on Monday.’

  Boyd studied me with sad eyes. ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘Of course I’m right. Now, you’re going upstairs to wake up those children and tell them they’re going out for breakfast.’

  ‘Breakfast? Where?’

  ‘Where else? McDonalds.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  ‘Did that woman, could that woman, somehow know that here before her very eyes … sat a Negro? Absurd! Impossible! White people were so stupid about such things for all that they usually asserted that they were able to tell and by the most ridiculous means: fingernails, palms of hands, shapes of ears, teeth, and other equally silly rot. They always took her for an Italian, a Spaniard, a Mexican, or a gipsy. Never, when she was alone, had they even remotely seemed to suspect that she was a Negro.’

  Nella Larson, Passing, Knopf, 1929, pp. 18–19

  With three unfamiliar children in the house, it had been a long, restless night. After Boyd belted his kids into the Honda and drove them off to McDonalds, I went back to bed, fully dressed, sleeping through the alarm that would have gotten me up in time to go to church.

  Shortly after noon, I crawled out from under the covers, dazed and blinking into the sunlight streaming in through the bedroom window. I wolfed down a peanut butter sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup, then checked in with Paul.

  ‘Boyd came for the children,’ I told him. ‘And Caitlyn’s father has sent over a hot shot lawyer, so things are under control for the moment.’

  After commiserating with me for a minute or two, Paul told me he was going sailing with his sister, Connie and her husband, Dennis.

  ‘I hate you,’ I said. ‘I hate you all. Tell them I said so.’

  Paul laughed. ‘What are you planning to do today?’

  Before Caitlyn’s arrest had thrown everything out of kilter, item number one on my To Do list was interviewing Ronald and Bernadette Nightingale in Sturgis, Maryland. There was nothing more I could do to help Caitlyn, so visiting the Nightingales had just shot back to the top of the list. ‘I’m planning to drop in on a couple who almost certainly knew Nancy Hazlett as a teen,’ I told him. ‘They were in their twenties back then, so that means they’re pushing ninety now. If I’m lucky they’ll still be at that address and they’ll still have, you know, all their marbles.’

  In recent years, I’d volunteered in the memory unit at Calvert Colony, a high-end continuing care retirement community near my home in Annapolis. I knew, first hand, what havoc old age could wreak on the mind. ‘Time, as they say, may be of the essence.’

  ‘Good luck, then. Be careful, my dear.’

  ‘Always,’ I said. I blew a kiss into the telephone and hung up.

  The drive from my home to Sturgis took less than twenty minutes. Following the advice of my GPS – in the voice of comedian John Cleese – I entered the town and turned left onto a quiet, tree-lined and curb-less street.

  Your destination is ahead, on the right.

  I slowed and studied the house numbers. Number 308 Oysterbay Road was a neat, one-story rancher immediately next door to a modest, white clapboard church. An oversized white sign installed on the lawn in front of the church told me in big red letters that I’d reached Bayside Methodist Church. Smaller black letters below invited me to worship there on Sunday at eleven a.m. or, if I preferred, to attend a praise service at seven p.m. on Wednesday night. ‘Taste and see that the Lord is good,’ read the bottom of the sign and, below that: Pastor John Neal.

  Although it was Sunday, church was long over, the parking lot empty. I pulled in, parked, walked the short distance back to number 308 and climbed the front steps. There was no sign of a doorbell, so I opened the screen door and knocked briskly on the solid wood door behind it.

  My knock was answered by an apple dumpling of a woman wearing a blue-checked apron dusted with flour. ‘Sorry,’ she said, wiping her hands clean of flour on the apron. ‘You caught me making cookies for the bake sale on Saturday.’

  I introduced myself. ‘And you must be Bernadette Nightingale.’

  ‘I am indeed. Come in, come in,’ she said, stepping aside to let me pass. ‘I need a break anyway. Would you care for some iced tea?’

  ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

  Bernadette’s gray eyes peered at me from behind a pair of round tortoiseshell eyeglasses. That, plus the no-nonsense, short-cropped hair gave her an old-fashioned scholarly look. ‘No trouble at all, Hannah,’ she said. ‘I’ve just brewed a pitcher. It’ll only take a minute to get it together.’

  ‘I’d love some tea, then,’ I told her. ‘It’s been a hot day.’

  ‘So, how can we help you?’ she asked as she led me past the kitchen. My stomach rumbled as the unmistakable smell of warm chocolate and vanilla wafted into the hallway, teasing my nostrils and making me regret my skimpy lunch.

  We. That was a good sign. Ronald Nightingale must still be alive.

  ‘My husband and I just moved to Elizabethtown,’ I told her as she opened the screen door leading to the back porch and we stepped through.

  ‘Are you looking for a church home, then?’ she asked, smiling. ‘Although Sturgis is a bit out of the way for Elizabethtown, isn’t it?’

  I smiled back. ‘We already have a chur
ch home, I’m happy to say. Saint Timothy’s in Elizabethtown.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Episcopalians.’

  ‘Dyed in the wool,’ I said.

  ‘My husband is retired now, but he used to be the minister at the Methodist church next door, back before the merger. We were EUB in the old days.’

  ‘EUB?’ I’d never heard of that denomination.

  ‘Sorry. Evangelical United Brethren Church. We merged with the Methodists in 1968.’

  ‘This was the parsonage, I gather?’

  ‘Yes. When they built the new parsonage – perhaps you saw the fancy brick house around the corner? – the church allowed us to buy this one.’ She smiled. ‘A love gift, really. Except for the years we spent doing missionary work, we’ve lived here since our twenties, so we were very grateful.’ She gestured toward a wrought-iron chair. ‘Won’t you have a seat?’

  ‘Paul and I just bought the old Hazlett place on Chiconnesick Creek,’ I told her as I scooted the chair out from under the table and sat down in it. ‘Perhaps you know it?’

  Bernadette stared at me for a moment without blinking. Then she closed her eyes, took a deep breath and blew it out slowly through her lips. When she opened her eyes again, it was to say, ‘I knew this day would come.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ I asked.

  She chewed her lower lip, then said, ‘It’s a long story.’

  I smiled in what I hoped was a friendly, non-confrontational way. ‘I’m not in any hurry.’

  Inexplicably, her face brightened. ‘I’m sorry, I promised you some tea! I’ll be right back.’

  I shot to my feet and said, ‘Can I help?’ Now that I’d come so close, I didn’t want to let the woman out of my sight.

  She raised a cautionary hand, chuckled, said, ‘No, no. It’ll only take a minute. I’ll be right back,’ and disappeared into the kitchen.

  I passed the time by admiring the beautifully manicured lawn and her well-tended vegetable garden, surrounded by chicken wire fencing to protect it, I assumed, from hungry deer. Tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, carrots – I was constructing a mental salad when Bernadette called out, ‘See, that didn’t take long,’ and reappeared with a tray holding a pitcher of tea, three glasses, a plate of cookies dusted with confetti-colored sugar, and an elderly man I took to be her husband.