Stunned shock didn’t come close to describing his surprise. “I don’t understand, Nunie. You were the poster girl for victim advocacy. Why did they do that?”
“It was not only the police nor Crozier College who had interests in keeping this scandal on the down low,” she said. “The on-camera interview with the investigative reporter was the beginning of the end. My name was in the news more than Crime Victims Service and the work we did, the victims we served. To have one face, one name take the focus off the entire service was intolerable to those in power. It was resign with the assurance of a positive exit recommendation or be terminated for what they call failure to meet overall goals and objectives.”
The sad smile that creased the edges of her mouth nearly broke his heart. But she continued keeping her hands busy, making broad sweeping motions over the table top. “I resigned because it felt like it was my only recourse. I took a vacation for the first time in years, just got in my car and drove. One day I landed here in Cape Brendan—and it was the best thing that could have happened. It’s taken five years for me to say those words and truly mean them.”
Chapter Four
Nick’s regular reports to the office did not prevent attorney Robert Gallow, GYP’s resident passive-aggressive pain in the ass, from calling several times a day on one pretext or another. Research notes on an important file had gone MIA; a case that had been closed for several months suddenly reared its ugly head and required Nick’s expertise; an important client was demanding more closed-system cameras be installed for his hi-tech surveillance operation. Any one of Nick’s staff could have handled the ‘issues’ in the dark, standing on their heads.
It was resign—or suggest Gallow get a hobby. Cooking. Pottery making. Needle point. Anything to keep Bob the Boob off his back.
“We’ve a hearing in chambers tomorrow on the Anderson case,” the attorney huffed. The Boob always huffed when the pressure was on. “The client is convinced the wife is headed for your part of the state.”
Like clockwork an ear-shattering blare shook the walls of the cottage. Nick checked the kitchen window and there it was: the morning ferry from Winthrop Island, carrying a load of Canadian tourists bent on experiencing Caper Madness up close and personal. A few minutes past noon, the ferry would depart with a load of passengers back to the other side.
Man he was tired of this place, this whole routine. Between Bob the Boob’s nonsense calls, Hank’s failure to show any sign of improvement, and all the crap associated with Caper Madness, including Lola McAfee's stalking behaviors, turned Nick’s mood more foul than the weather forecast.
His uncle rarely stirred during Nick’s visits, and none of the medical professionals could offer reasons for the failure to respond. In her nightly calls, AnneMarie offered to leave the cruise early and come home, but Nick couldn’t ask that of her. She deserved this time away and really, how could it change things?
One thing remained true to form: the Ghoul Quartet’s constant threats to pack up their cellos, violas, and whatever the other stringed instruments were called and go home if their noontime recital was rained out one more time. Nick was tempted to tell them where to shove their bows.
“Are you listening to me?” the Boob whined.
“The husband thinks Siobhan Anderson might come this way because?”
“She has family in Montreal and holds dual citizenship. The kids do as well. If tomorrow’s hearing goes in our favor, he thinks she might take a hike across the river.”
And how long have you known this, Boss?
Waiting till the last minute before demanding instant response was one of the Boob’s favorite games. Withhold key information till the bitter end, then sit back and watch the staff scramble to meet the crisis. Previously, the judge assigned to the case had ordered both Andersons to surrender their passports at a previous hearing. Nick recalled vividly how the Boob pitched the fit of the century after that edict came down. At the time Nick wondered if Bob put on the act only to impress the client. For Christ’s sake, any idiot could get themselves a passport under a fake name—especially with enough cash to pave the way. In that arena both Andersons rivaled God.
“The Cape Brendan ferry isn’t the only route to Canada, Bob. She could head east to the Thousand Islands Rainbow Bridge or west to Niagara Falls.”
“Got those sites covered by other staff,” Gallow said, the huff slightly less obvious. “Plus, we’ve alerted Customs and Immigration at both sites and as far west as Detroit in case she tries an end-run and fakes us out. Do you have updated photos of her and the kids?”
“Must have left them at home in my other pants. I’m on leave, remember?”
“I’ll have my girl fax you a set of pics,” Gallow said. “What’s your number?”
Nick nearly choked. “Gee, Bob, when I took this leave of absence I had no idea I should bring electronic devices along for the road.”
“Then I’ll email them. Same address?”
Did this man not hear or comprehend? No. Wait, this was Robert Gallow, Esquire, spoiled brat. Of course he didn’t listen or understand the needs of others. “Sorry, Bob. No go.”
“Jesus H. Christ. Is there anyone in that bumfuck town with a computer? What about the public library?”
Nick checked the clock on the wall. “It’s open half days during Caper Madness. The doors closed about an hour ago.”
Gallow's scream was loud enough to singe the wires between Syracuse and the Cape. “What about family? Anyone who'd lend you a machine for a few minutes?”
Since AnneMarie took her laptop with her to Alaska and Hank considered computers akin to tools in the Devil’s workshop, they were shit out of luck. To keep the peace, Nick offered a small concession. “I’ll leave the Cape early in the morning and stop by the office before visiting hours at the hospital. Leave the photos at the receptionist’s desk with my name on the envelope.”
Petulance reigned. “Not tomorrow. You need them now. I want you available to intervene at a moment’s notice.” After a second’s hesitation, an ugly wheedle came into his voice. “No one else knows this, but the client has offered a fat bonus if the kids are returned to him with a minimum of fuss.”
Meaning no authorities, Nick thought sourly.
“The wife can pound sand as far as he’s concerned,” the Boob said. “Soon as you deliver them to the client, a nice fat check with five figures left of the decimal point is yours. Under the table of course.”
That greeter position at WalMart was looking pretty good right now. Just as he was about to respond, Nunie Doyle, carrying an old-fashioned wicker basket loaded with wet towels and sheets, passed by the window. He recalled sitting in her kitchen the other afternoon while she baked mouth watering pies and seeing a fancy computer and printer.
Anxious to get this annoying gnat off his back, he said, “Let me get back to you, Bob. I may have a solution to your problem.”
****
While Nunie finished putting whipped cream rosettes on an order of coconut and banana cream pies for Mel’s Diner, she contemplated how she’d manage the ever-mounting pile of responsibilities without going off her nutter.
Nick Forrester interrupted her mental configurations. “If those pies taste anywhere near as good as they look, the Diner should do a brisk business tomorrow.”
So focused on her own responsibilities, she’d not heard him come into the house. That would never do, she warned herself and waited for her heart rate to settle. “You startled me.”
“Sorry. The penguin told me I could come in.”
“Penguin?” she burbled.
He looked at her like she’d sprouted donkey’s ears. “Long black habit, funny looking head piece, polio boots, beads the size of walnuts hanging from her waist. She was heading out the door with a couple kids in tow as I came in.”
What in all that’s holy was the man talking about? Then it came to her that Americans of his generation often called religious sisters by the pejorative term, ‘penguins.
’ Considering their outmoded manner of dress, it wasn’t far off, but word usage was the least of her worries at the moment. To accomplish what needed doing, she had to get him out of her house. And she had to do it now.
Fabrication came as easy as breathing. “How silly of me to forget? Sister Immaculata from Saint Vincent’s offered to take my guest children to the day care center so their mother could have a bit of a lie-in today.”
Sweeping one hand in the direction of the pies on the counter, she covered the hitch in her breathing with a second lie. “I’ve been so frazzled, what with trying to finish off the pies and get them delivered before the Witchy Poos drill this afternoon, it slipped me mind.”
“This won’t take long,” he promised. “What’s today’s music?”
She checked the clock on the wall and laughed. “Twist and Shout. Which is the position I’ll be in if I don’t get these pies delivered on time.”
His frown suggested he didn’t believe the explanation. “My office just called; they need to send a couple files via email. The library is closed, so I’m hoping I might use your computer and printer. It won’t take long, and I’ll try to stay out of your way.”
A quick glance below the old treadle machine which served as a computer desk showed all folders and confidential messages were in their proper spots, a fact for which she was glad she’d remembered to straighten things up yesterday. “If you can wait for me to finish this chore, I’ll be able to give you a bit of privacy.”
After putting rosettes on the last of the pies and dusting the tops with toasted coconut shavings, Nunie booted up the computer, then signed Nick on to the ISP home page. The option of leaving him alone with her precious computer—and her more precious files—waged a bitter war with the need to get upstairs to ensure all was well.
Suddenly, her cell phone sounded the Peter Gunn Theme. She grabbed the phone from the shelf and slipped out of the kitchen into the dining room. “Yes, Michael. What can I do for you?”
****
First, last and always, Nick Forrester minded his own. No matter what.
If Robert Gallow, Esquire wanted to act the boob, no skin off Nick’s nose. If Siobhan Anderson felt the need to run away from her asshole husband, who was he to pass judgment? Never a smart idea to violate a judge’s order but as a functioning adult, she had to know if she was caught she ran the risk of criminal charges.
After calling his office and clearing the way for the Boob to send the photographs, he kicked back in the desk chair and waited for the email to come through.
And waited.
The action of stretching out his legs knocked the treadle from its groove which in turn jostled the plastic crate next to it. Manilla folders splayed over the floor, spilling pieces of paper over the hardwood floor. This would not do. Second personal rule to minding his own business came the one about not snooping. That went double for this home.
Her home.
The computer sang out, announcing he had mail. After clicking the appropriate prompts, he sent a command to the printer to give him the pictures of Siobhan Anderson and her kids. That done, he bent to pick up the folders, intending to neatly pile things on the desk, then render abject apologies to Nunie when she came back from taking her phone call.
Apologies dissolved like wisps on the fall air when he recognized what he held in his hands. A multi-page document held a title page which labeled the contents to be personal medical information on the Anderson children, including reports from sexual assault forensic examiners, psychiatrists’ evaluations, and progress reports from two psychologists. More than once his stomach lurched into his throat as he read over findings that documented evidence of chronic sexual abuse committed, both children alleged, by their father. As he flipped to the concluding paragraphs written by the experts, something Bob the Boob said rang loud and clear through his head.
...fat bonus if the kids are returned with a minimum of fuss...
By the time the printer completed its function, Nick was taking fast, deep breaths to fight back nausea. Photographs spilled onto his lap.
He looked, then looked a second time.
The faces of the nun and the two kids who’d met him at Nunie Doyle’s front door not thirty minutes ago stared back at him. “Aw geez.”
It was suddenly all so clear. Nunie's sudden visitors because of lack of rooms at the inn. The undo amount of nerves a few minutes ago in someone who regularly went to battle with uniformed officers and arrogant attorneys. All because he mentioned meeting a nun and two kids at her front door.
Over the years he’d heard about such things as the underground railroad, a system to help women and children escape their abusers when the courts could not or would not. He’d always considered it just one more urban legend. Now, faced with irrefutable evidence, he had to wonder if the Cape Brendan stop on the underground was a one-woman show by Nunie Doyle—or if other Capers were there for backup.
The departure siren sounded the ferry’s afternoon run back to Windsor Island. He looked at the pile of reports, then at the pictures. Lastly, he glanced at the pies lined up in precise order along the counter.
Yup, only one thing he could do.
****
Mick Dineen, attorney for Siobhan Anderson and advisor to local conductors was not a man who to waste time—his or others. “Can you talk?”
Nunie thought about the brave young woman and two little ones who’d spent the past few days and nights in her upstairs guest room. “Within limits.”
“I’ll keep this short. How are your guests faring?”
“Nervous, naturally. Anxious for closure. The children are a bit confused, but the mother is handling things as well as we could hope. Why do you ask?”
“I spoke with Sister Immaculata from Saint Vincent’s a few minutes ago to warn her an investigator from the law firm who represents Richard Anderson is heading to Cape Brendan. In case things don’t go in our favor, the other side is sending monitors to all entry points into Canada.”
On hearing that, she marched double-time out her front door and onto the porch, ensuring total privacy. “This firm you speak of. Does it go by the acronym GYP?”
After a pause, Dineen growled, “How did you know?”
With a glance over one shoulder, she cupped her hand over the phone. “He’s here. The investigator. He’s been in town for several weeks. Tell me what to do.”
“Get them out of there. Now.”
At that moment, the bone jarring dirge that Nick so often complained about signaled the departure of the Cape Brendan Ferry. Nunie glanced at her watch and took a breath. It did not matter what Nick Forrester thought about her or what she did in her spare time. Of utmost importance was keeping Siobhan Anderson and her children safe.
“With any luck, Michael, the girls from Saint V’s have already taken care of that.”
****
By the time Nick made it to the pier, rain poured down in a style described by the locals as pitchforks and hammer handles. Despite the horrendous deluge, Nunie stood at the end of the pier, no umbrella, shirt and slacks plastered to her long slim body. A solitary figure, fingertips of one hand pressed against her lips, the other hand raised in a farewell gesture. With the ferry now several yards out in the channel, he could barely make out the three figures, an adult, two children, standing at the rail. Maybe they were waving goodbye.
Maybe he simply wanted them to be giving some sign to acknowledge the woman who’d saved their lives.
Carefully, he moved to stand behind her, clearing his throat so as not to startle her. “Seeing friends off, Nunie?”
She nodded, swallowed visibly but did not turn to look at him. “Aye.”
He laid a hand on her shoulder, kept it there. And noted she didn’t shrug him off. “For the day or a lifetime?”
She turned. Evidence of tears stained both cheeks. “Whatever it takes.”
****
Due to the dramatic downturn in weather, the Witchy Poos postponed their drill
to the following day. After a successful performance—from the size of the crowd and the loud demonstration of approval—Nick took Nunie to lunch at Mel’s Diner. Over dessert of apple pie, for him, and coconut cream for her, they discussed plans for the Terminal Ball. As usual, both had their own ideas on how it should run.
“I’m telling you, Nicholas, people are used to dressing as their favorite fictional characters. It’s tradition,” she said as if that settled things. No discussion, no arguments.
He didn’t care if the concept of a costume ball had been handed down on a set of stone tablets. “I don’t do dances, Doyle, fancy or otherwise. And unless someone holds a gun to my head, I’ll never ever dress up as anyone other than myself.”
She simply laughed and tossed a wadded paper napkin at him. “Don’t be a poop.”
At least she was smiling. She still looked like she’d not slept in days. Perhaps his news about Hank would cheer her up. “Just before I left for Town Square, the hospital called.”
Sure enough, her eyes brightened. “And?”
“Hank can come home, pending adequate round the clock nursing care, as early as this weekend. The social worker is setting up services.”
She sat back in the bistro chair, broad smile of relief and satisfaction plastered over her narrow face. “Isn’t that grand? It will be wonderful for the Capers to see him at the remaining Madness events. And I could help take care of him.”
“There you go,” he teased, and took one last sip of really hideous coffee. “You could mug my sister for one of her uniforms from nursing school, put one of those frilly organdy caps shaped like an ice cream cone on your head, and go as Nurse Ratched.”
She stared at him with an intensity that made his balls tighten. “Did we forget to take our stool softener last evening?”
He simply laughed, then scraped the last dregs of flaky crust and spiced apples from the plate. MaryJane Monroe came to a stop at their table just as he contemplated asking for seconds. “Who are you today, Nick?” the cackling Flo asked, fist planted on one ample hip. “Perry Mason or Ben Matlock?”
Hauntings in the Garden, Volume Two Page 10
