Clare caught Russ’s glance and once again had the sensation of knowing exactly what he was thinking. Not all of it. Her cheeks flushed. He turned toward the Rouses. “And you two.” His voice whipped across the room. “In addition to the criminal charges you’re facing, you can expect bills from the volunteer fire department, the mountain rescue squad, and the state police diving team for services rendered during your faked disappearance. And I will personally urge Debba Clow and her mother to lodge civil complaints against the both of you.” His mouth worked, as if he had bitten into something disgusting. He glared up at Mrs. Rouse, who was standing behind her husband’s chair, her arms around his shoulders. “Was that all an act?” he asked her. “Waving the gun around? To cover up his footsteps? Throw us off?”
The expression on Renee Rouse’s face was enough to convince Clare that her behavior hadn’t been part of a plan. Mrs. Rouse opened her mouth, but her husband cut her off before she had the chance to speak.
“She didn’t know anything. It was entirely my fault. Everything’s been my fault.”
Russ didn’t take his eyes off Rouse. “Mark, take notes. I think Dr. Rouse wants to tell us what the hell’s been going on.”
Mark Durkee flipped a pad open and clicked his pen.
“If you have information that will exonerate your wife, now’s the time to spill it. The DA’s going to have some sympathy for a woman who’s been driven to distraction because her husband’s disappeared. She’s going to be less kind to a co-conspirator.”
Allan Rouse looked up at his wife. His face sagged in new folds. He seemed immeasurably older than he had when Clare had first seen him, only a month ago. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know it doesn’t help, but I did it for you. To protect you.” He twisted to face Russ. “I ran away. Because.”
The room was silent except for Clare drip-drip-dripping onto the carpet. “Because,” Russ prompted.
“Because I’ve been using the Ketchem endowment money for personal expenses.” He glanced up at Mrs. Marshall. “I’m sorry, Lacey.”
She stared at him. “For how long?”
He looked at his shoes. “Since your mother died.” He lifted his head. “I needed it, Lacey. I had a growing family, and I was bleeding away my prime earning years in the clinic. Even with the extra cash, I was still making thousands less than my peers.”
Mrs. Marshall held herself stiff, but her hands were shaking. She clasped them together. “Allan. My mother died thirty years ago. Are you telling me you’ve been embezzling from her trust all these years?”
“I needed it,” he said. He twisted around, looking toward his wife again. “I wanted us to be able to afford a decent house. And to put money away for the kids’ college tuition.” He reached for her, the handcuffs clinking against each other. “I didn’t blow it on crazy stuff. I just wanted to provide a good living for us.”
Renee took his hands. Her brown eyes swam. “Sweetie, don’t you know you didn’t need to give me things?” Her voice was thready, choked out of a tight throat. “All I ever wanted was you, and our children, and a quiet life here at home.”
“It wasn’t that much,” he said. “Just enough to give us some breathing room.”
“It was three hundred thousand dollars,” Mrs. Marshall said. Her tangerine-colored lips tightened. “That my mother intended to serve the poor and the sick.”
Rouse whirled. “Your mother owed me,” he said, all trace of apology gone from his tone.
Russ held up his hands leaving wet stains behind on the chair’s arms. “Stop right there. Before we go any further, Dr. Rouse, I want your statement as to what happened the night of March nineteenth. Debba Clow, in a sworn statement, claims you called her, asked her to meet at the Ketchem family cemetery at Stewart’s Pond, and, during your discussion, fell, injuring your head.”
Rouse nodded. “I had been thinking a lot about Mrs. Ketchem. And Mr. Ketchem. Since I got the news about losing the trust money.” He glanced at his wife. “I didn’t really do any work when I went to the clinic that afternoon. I just needed time to think. There was a letter, from Lacey, to the board of aldermen, and when I read it, I knew that they’d be looking at the records of what I had done with the Ketchem funds. All I could picture was the scandal. Public disgrace. Prison. I decided to kill myself.”
Mrs. Rouse let out a strangled moan. Her husband went on. “But I got to thinking about that Clow woman. And I thought, if I could just persuade her about the immunizations, that would make up a bit for what I’d done. Mrs. Ketchem would like it. So I did just like she said. I asked her to meet me, and we went, and we talked.” His mouth twisted, and all at once he was the old Allan Rouse again. “The stupid woman couldn’t get it into her head that infectious diseases can kill you no matter how many homeopathic remedies you dose yourself with. You just can’t teach some people.”
“Did you fall accidentally?” Russ said.
“Oh, yes.” Rouse touched his head. “Worried me. I thought I might have concussed myself. But my vision was good, and I was alert. I didn’t want that idiot Clow woman driving me back home. I intended to return to the clinic, leave Renee a note, and then use my gun.” Mrs. Rouse made the noise again. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” The doctor patted her hands as well as his cuffs allowed. “I just didn’t want any of this to touch you.”
“So what happened?”
“I guess the blow to my head was worse than I thought. I got into my car, started it up, and promptly drove myself into a tree.” His gaze drifted to some middle distance. “I remember sitting there, in the dark and the cold, and thinking this was it. I had reached the absolute lowest point of my entire life.” He shivered. “And then another car stopped to help me.” His voice took on a note of wonder. “Skiers, going home to New York City. And it came to me, just like that, that I could go with them. That I didn’t have to die. I could just… disappear.” He looked up at Mrs. Marshall. “Like Jonathon Ketchem did.” He glanced at Russ. “It was like I had been weighed down with heavy chains, and suddenly, I was free. I took my wallet and the cash I had taken out for our trip. I left everything else behind. I told them I lived in the city and they drove me the whole way. Once I was there…” He spread his elbows, showing off his scavenged-from-the-Dumpster attire. “It’s very easy for a sixty-five-year-old man to vanish in New York City.”
“So what brought you back?”
Clare thought of Hugh’s phone call and knew before Dr. Rouse opened his mouth. “I read a story in the paper yesterday morning,” he said. “About Renee.” He looked up at her. She clapped her hands over her reddened cheeks. “I couldn’t let her go on wondering what had happened to me. I knew I had to come back and explain everything.”
“We appreciate that,” Russ said.
“Sweetie, why didn’t you tell me in the first place? I would have helped you.”
Rouse shook his head. “I don’t know. First it’s one thing, then another, and another, and by the time you realize what’s happening, the trouble’s grown like a tumor and taken over your brain.” He looked at Clare. “I’m sorry about locking you in that cellar. I just wanted to see Renee. I was still thinking that somehow I could get away from all this.”
“I want to know why you had Renee call me,” Mrs. Marshall said. Her usually pale cheeks were pinpointed with bright pink, and her voice was charged. “Was I to get an apology as well? Before you vanished for a second time?”
“I owe you an explanation,” Rouse said.
“I should think so.”
“Your mother would have understood. We grew very close those last months before she died. Near the end, she confided in me. So I’d understand what the clinic truly meant to her. It was a work of…” He looked to Clare. “What’s it called when you do something to make up for a sin you’ve committed?”
“Expiation. Atonement. Redress.”
“That’s it. Lacey, for your mother, the clinic was a way to atone-”
“If you’re going to tell me my mother
killed my father, save your breath.” Mrs. Marshall crossed her arms. “I already know.”
Dr. Rouse stared.
“We sent a dive team into Stewart’s Pond looking for your body,” Russ said. “They brought up remains tentatively identified as Jonathon Ketchem’s. The M.E. ruled cause of death was blunt-force trauma with a wide, flat instrument.”
“A frying pan,” Rouse said under his breath.
“Ahh,” Mrs. Marshall sighed. “So Chief Van Alstyne was right.” Clare looked at the older woman for any signs of distress or grief, but she seemed to have gained strength from Rouse’s confirmation. Maybe having her father restored in memory outweighed the knowledge of what her mother had done.
“But you don’t know why.” Dr. Rouse’s voice grew more certain.
“There are only a few reasons why people kill their spouses, and we see the same sad stories over and over again.” Russ shifted forward in the barrel chair, as if he were about to rise. “Repeating one of ’em isn’t going to help Mrs. Marshall. And it certainly can’t make a difference to either of her parents at this point.”
Dr. Rouse continued to look at Mrs. Marshall. “I know why,” he said. “Do you want to know? Do you want to know what I’ve been carrying around ever since your mother made me her secret accomplice? God only knows, I’m tired of hauling it around.”
Clare glanced around the room. Everyone, including Officer Durkee, was looking at the slim woman at the far edge of the archway.
“Yes,” Solace Ketchem Marshall said. “Tell me.”
Chapter 39
THEN
Thursday, March 13, 1924
She saw them arrive in the pale silver light before dawn. She was up early, after the first good night’s sleep she had had in three days, to check on Peter and Lucy. They were both sleeping, exhausted to the bone by the relentless coughing that had finally gotten all of the clinging phlegm out of their throats yesterday. They were cool to the touch when she laid hands on them, and as she walked soundlessly out of the back bedroom, where she had quarantined them, she thought about sending Jon over to the Norridges’. Mrs. Norridge bottled up lemon juice, and honey and lemon tea would help soothe the children’s raw throats.
She paused at the kitchen window and there they were, three trucks this time-three!-barely visible against the ground fog rising from the water field. They turned up the barn lane and disappeared into the huge hay barn.
The scrape of boots on the floor turned her away from the window. Jon entered the kitchen, dropping a kiss on her cheek before opening the bread box and pulling out a half loaf. “How are they?”
For a moment, she thought he meant the men in the trucks. Then she recollected herself. “Better. They both slept through the night, and I expect sleep will be what they need for the next few days. I was hoping you could run to the Norridges’ and pick up some of her lemon juice.” She went to the icebox and grabbed a crock of butter. She dropped it onto the table next to him and watched while he sliced off a thick piece and buttered it. He liked something in his stomach before morning milking.
“Sure. I can take Jack along. Get one of them out of your hair.”
She hugged him. “Would you? Thanks.” She stepped back, her eyes falling on the window again. “They’re here again. Three trucks this time.”
“Huh. They must be hauling enough booze to float the fleet down in New York City.” He patted her fanny, which always made her jump to make sure no one could see. “Don’t worry about it, honey. They’ll stay out of our way and we’ll stay out of theirs.”
“Have you gotten the money for this month yet?”
He tipped back his head and laughed. “You’re the practical one, aren’t you?” He grinned at her and she couldn’t help smiling. “It’s already swelling our bank account to unheard-of proportions. Demon Rum is going to make you a rich woman, Janie girl.”
She slapped at his arm. “Rich or poor, those cows aren’t going to wait. Get on with you.”
She had breakfast ready and Jack and Mary up by the time he returned from milking the herd and turning them out to water. Jack was a handful, cranky one moment and tearful the next. She clapped her hand to his forehead but didn’t feel any fever coming on, thank God. She poured an extra lick of maple syrup into his oatmeal to keep him quiet while she buckled Mary into the high chair. She heard the splash of water at the pump outside where Jon cleaned up, and handed the baby her spoon.
He came through the back door, his normally cheerful face somber.
“What is it?” She laid his oatmeal bowl at his place and crossed to the stove to turn the eggs. “Something wrong with one of the cows?”
He glanced at Jack, busy scooping oatmeal into a pile and stirring syrup around it. “Seems the police have had extra patrols out. There was a close call. Some gunfire.”
She turned toward him. “Good Lord. Anyone…” She didn’t want to finish the sentence.
He shook his head. “No. But it’s best if there isn’t any activity tonight.”
She spread her hands. What?
“No traveling tonight,” he said, checking Jack again to see if he showed any signs of interest in the adult conversation. “Maybe tomorrow night.”
“Oh, no.” She flipped the eggs off the skillet onto a plate and slapped the cover on. “That wasn’t the agreement. One night per visit, that’s what they pay for.”
Jon stood up from the table and crossed to the stove. He took her into his arms. “Janie, girl,” he whispered in her ear, “these are desperate men with guns. If they want to extend their stay, they’re going to do it.” He released her and sat back down to his breakfast. “After all, what are we going to do?” He took a bite of oatmeal. “Call the cops?”
She cleaned off the breakfast dishes and helped Peter and Lucy to the privy, since they were both so weak they could scarcely stand. Peter made her wait outside, but she sat with Lucy, singing and smoothing her hair while she did her business, and then propped them up on pillows and gave each of them a tray. Sweet tea and milk bread. She had just cracked open The Blue Book of Fairy Tales for a read when she heard Mary wailing from the nursery. Jane had gated the two littles in with enough blocks to make an entire city and the toy farm and Lucy’s doll things-which were normally off-limits to Mary and therefore very enticing-and she had counted on at least a half hour before any crises. She was wound up to light into Jack, since she figured he had whacked Mary a good one to make her cry, so she was shocked beyond speech when she stepped over the gate to see her four-year-old sprawled unmoving among the tiny farm animals.
She snatched him up. Mary sobbed and sobbed, reaching for her mother for comfort. Jane sat on the floor Indian-style and rested her son in her lap while wrapping one arm around her frightened toddler. Jack was hot to the touch, but pale, his lips and the edges of his ears and nostrils tinged almost dusky blue. His little chest shuddered beneath his shirt, heaving with the effort to breathe. Jane pried his mouth open and recoiled when she saw the gray and white blotches coating his tongue and throat as far as she could see.
Dear Lord, she thought. The black diphtheria.
There was no choice for it. She abandoned Mary, howling, in the nursery, where at least the gate would keep her out of harm’s way. She wrapped Jack in a baby quilt and clutched him against her shoulder, hoping the upright position would help his breathing. Then she set out across the barnyard to find Jon.
The wind was raw in her face, the bite of it bringing tears to her eyes, and she half walked, half ran along the fence until she saw him. He was manuring the cornfield, and he pulled Gig and Haley up when he saw her. He was off the seat and halfway across the field when she reached him. “Jack’s sick,” she said, before he had a chance to ask what she was doing wading through the mucky soil in her house shoes.
He wrapped his arms around them and kissed Jack. “Hey, little man,” he said. “You’re not feeling good?” His voice was easy, but when he turned to her, his face was drawn.
“I think
it’s the black diphtheria,” she whispered.
“How could it be?” He lowered his voice as well, although the only creatures within earshot were the horses, standing stolid and disinterested in their harness. “The other kids-”
“Maybe they had something else. Or maybe they had it easy. Or maybe I’m wrong.” Her voice broke. She took a deep breath to calm herself. She had to stay calm. “We need the doctor to see him. Hitch Gig and Haley up and go fetch him.” Jon looked over to the silage barn. “Now,” she said.
She returned to the house while Jon took the horses to the barn. She propped Jack into the padded chair in the parlor, covered him with a quilt, and wheeled the butler’s table, one side extended like a tray, next to him. Upstairs, Mary had collapsed onto a quilt and fallen asleep, her fat cheeks red and streaked with the salt trail of tears. Jane eased her and her quilt off the rug and laid her in her crib, giving her a guilty kiss for leaving her alone to cry herself to sleep.
She set the kettle on to steam Jack and looked in on the olders. Peter was reading to himself from the fairy tales, and Lucy had fallen asleep. Peter looked up when she came in. “Mama, where were you?” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “I heard you run out of the house, and Mary was crying and crying. It was really annoying.” At that moment, Jane could have kissed him for his seven-year-old’s inability to see past his own nose.
“Jack’s sick, and I had to get your daddy to go fetch Dr. Stillman. I’m back now. Let me know if you need me, but do it quiet. Lucy needs her sleep.”
In the parlor, Jack roused enough to protest when she draped him with a pillowcase and slipped a pan of steaming hot water beneath him. Beneath the clock chiming noon, she could hear Jon entering the kitchen. She hurried in. He was standing there, not reaching for his good coat, not taking a cup of milk before the road, not doing anything. Just standing there.
Out Of The Deep I Cry Page 37
