And I was pushing fifty and feeling like a child, sitting next to Daddy’s old friend, who’d bounced me on his knee when I was a toddler. If Daddy couldn’t be there, Seton was the next best thing.
“Why doesn’t Mother like me?” I asked.
His smile multiplied the wrinkles in his kindly face. “You’ve always been something of a rebel, Margaret.”
“Her dislike goes deeper than my rebellion. I toed the line for Mother for the first twenty-two years of my life, until after Greg was murdered, but from my earliest memories, I sensed a distance between us, a coolness on her part that I’ve never understood.”
Seton sighed and stirred sugar in his coffee. “It’s a long story.”
“If you’ll tell it while we wait, maybe it will take my mind off worrying.”
He paused for a moment, as if contemplating what to say. “Just bear in mind that what I’m telling you is only from my personal perspective. I’m a neurologist, after all, not a psychologist.”
“Okay. I’m listening.” I dumped three packets of sugar in my coffee and tried to warm my cold hands on the foam cup. Hospitals were always cold, as if in hopes the frigid temperatures would somehow thwart death.
“Did you know that your father and Nancy were once engaged to be married?”
“Your Nancy?” Seton’s wife of over fifty years had died last spring.
Seton nodded.
“I never knew that.”
“It’s ancient history, something we never talked about, your father and I, but it’s a fact your mother never forgot.”
“What happened? I mean, why didn’t Daddy marry Nancy?”
“Because of me.”
“But you were his best friend.”
“That’s how I met Nancy, at a fraternity party in Gainesville when Philip and I were both undergraduates. We couldn’t help it, Nancy and I. Even though she was engaged to your father, we fell deeply in love. We explained it to Phil, and he understood.”
“Did she break his heart?”
“He wasn’t happy about it. He and Nancy had grown up together here in Pelican Bay. Their families were close, and almost from infancy, everyone had assumed that they would marry. I believe Phil was in love with Nancy, but she said she hadn’t known real love until she met me.”
The story was beginning to sound like a script for Jolene Jernigan’s Heartbeats, but it was a facet of my parents’ life I’d never known, and I was fascinated.
“So where did Mother come in?”
“The following year, your father proposed to Priscilla. Like Margaret, Priscilla was a local girl he’d known all his life.”
“Did he love her?”
“Not at first.”
“Then why did he marry her?”
Seton smiled. “Because in those days, that’s what people did. Men had their careers, women kept the home fires burning, had children, and supported their husbands in their endeavors.”
“Did Mother know he didn’t love her?”
“She was always jealous of Nancy,” he said with a nod, “but she shouldn’t have been.”
“Why not?”
“Because by the time you were born, your father had grown to love Priscilla deeply. She was a delightful companion, a superlative hostess, a boon to his practice. He worshipped the ground she walked on.”
“And they lived happily ever after?”
Seton frowned and shook his head. “I wish I could say so, but there was always a cloud hanging over their marriage.”
“Me?”
“Good Lord, no, Margaret. You were your father’s darling…but that was part of Priscilla’s problem.”
“I don’t understand.”
“And I’m not sure I can explain it properly. You see, your mother, for all her bluff and bluster, is a very insecure woman. She was never able to let go of the fact that she had been Philip’s second choice, not even after he’d learned to love her more than he’d ever loved Nancy.”
“But what’s that got to do with her feelings about me?”
“She could see the way your father adored you, totally and unconditionally. We all saw it. But her inferiority complex kept her from realizing that Phil adored her the same way.”
“She resented me?”
His smile was gentle. “Not you. She resented that you received what she wanted desperately, your father’s love.”
“But you say she had it.”
“There are none so blind as those who will not see.”
“So she projected her jealousy of Nancy onto me?”
Seton nodded and sipped his tepid coffee. “Unfortunately for you. But she’d deny that fact with every fiber of her being if you confronted her with it, because she won’t allow herself to face it.”
That my mother had resented my father’s affection for me cut like a knife, but it also explained her attitude, the distance and disapproval that, until now, I’d never understood but had felt personally responsible for.
“Did Daddy know?”
“He sensed your mother’s discontent, but he was never able to convince her that she came first in his life.”
“Because she kept pushing him away?”
His gray eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You knew that?”
I shrugged. “Mother keeps everyone at arm’s length.”
“She’s afraid of being hurt, of not measuring up,” Seton said.
“Of not being Nancy?”
He nodded. “The irony is that Philip loved your mother more than he ever loved Nancy.”
“And the tragedy is that Mother never knew.” I tried a bite of the custard and had to wash it down with a swallow of coffee. “Where’s the TV Dr. Phil when you need him?”
Seton finished his pie and patted his lips with his napkin. “If you look back over all the ways you rebelled, going into police work, refusing to marry and raise a family, those acts were salt in your mother’s wounds. Priscilla, who had conformed in every possible way to her picture of the perfect spouse, never felt Philip’s approval, while her errant daughter had her father’s unquestioned affection. She became a bitter woman where you’re concerned.”
“Why tell me this now?”
“Your mother’s an old woman. Even if she survives this stroke, her time is limited. I’d hoped that age would give her wisdom, but Priscilla has never recognized her insecurities, so she can’t let them go. I don’t want you going through the rest of your life thinking there was something you could have done or said that would have changed her. There isn’t. This is Priscilla’s problem, one I fear she’ll never come to grips with.”
Seton had turned my view of my mother on its head. I’d always considered her strong, impervious to life’s vagaries, in control. I’d never guessed that her self-confident facade was a cover-up for self-doubt.
I sighed. “She always approved of Caroline.”
“She had to,” Seton said. “Caroline is an extension of herself. If she didn’t affirm Caroline, she’d be rejecting the life she’d chosen for herself.”
“Has Mother ever been happy?”
Seton shrugged his bony shoulders. “That’s a question I can’t answer except with another. Can people who aren’t honest with themselves be happy?”
I felt an overwhelming sadness for Mother and the life she’d never lived, the happiness she’d never known. I prayed harder than ever that she’d survive this stroke and that her close call would give her insight, make her examine her past more closely. And, selfishly, that then she’d be able to love me.
“More coffee?” Seton asked.
I shook my head.
“Then let’s go see how your mother’s faring.”
CHAPTER 5
After returning from the cafeteria and saying goodbye to Seton, I called Bill from the waiting room courtesy phone, told him about Mother’s stroke and that, according to both her doctor and Caroline, she was resting comfortably.
“I can be there in an hour and a half,” he said.
“I�
�ll be okay,” I assured him. “Will you finish in Sarasota tomorrow?”
“I should be back in Pelican Bay by dinnertime, unless you need me sooner.”
How much I needed him scared me, but I wasn’t about to admit it. “I’ll keep you informed.”
“I love you, Margaret.”
I glanced at the sea of faces in the waiting room, as many watching me as CNN. “Back at you,” I said, and hung up.
Outside of ICU, I spoke with Caroline again. Hunt was on his way to the hospital from the airport, Mother was still resting comfortably, and I was feeling about as useful as a chaperone at a bachelor party. When Caroline insisted there was no reason for both of us to stay, I didn’t argue.
Rather than return to my lonely condo after leaving the hospital, I drove to Mother’s house, a Mediterranean-style mansion designed by Misner in the twenties, that sat on two acres of waterfront property. I parked out front and took the path around back to the kitchen entrance. The entire house was dark when I knocked on the door.
“Estelle, it’s me, Maggie.”
Estelle, who’d been with Mother since before I was born, lived in a suite of rooms off the kitchen. I knocked again, and light spilled from the kitchen windows. Locks rattled on the kitchen door, it swung open, and I was smothered in the embrace of the woman who’d been more of a mother to me than my own. As always, Estelle’s scent of Ivory soap triggered memories of happy times and unconditional acceptance.
“Miss Margaret, bless your heart. What you doing here?” Her ebony face, unwrinkled despite her seventy years, glowed with pleasure, and her delight in seeing me warmed my heart.
“I came to give you a report on Mother.”
Estelle drew her terry-cloth robe tighter around her ample curves and tightened the sash. “Miss Caroline done called from the hospital just a few minutes ago.”
“Then I’ll let you go back to bed.”
“You do no such thing. I haven’t laid eyes on you since Thanksgiving. You think I’m gonna let you walk out now without sitting down for a visit?”
Unlike Mother, Estelle was never too tired or too busy to be bothered by me. I slid onto the chair at the big kitchen table where I’d sat every afternoon after school, regaling Estelle with my childhood woes and accomplishments. Except for new appliances, the kitchen, with its old-fashioned glass-faced white wooden cabinets, black-and-white floor tiles in a checker pattern, and high windows that flooded the room with sunshine during the day, hadn’t changed.
“You had your dinner?” Estelle asked.
“Yes,” I lied, even though my leftover linguine lunch was a distant memory. She’d ply me with food otherwise, and I had no appetite.
Estelle eased onto a chair opposite me at the table and folded her hands, gnarled with arthritis, on the tabletop. “I hear you gonna marry your Mr. Malcolm.”
I nodded. “Next February. Valentine’s Day.”
If I didn’t get cold feet and chicken out. Bill had proposed Christmas Eve and suggested a long engagement to give me time to get used to the idea of marriage before taking the plunge. Not that I didn’t want to marry him, but I feared ruining a decades’ old friendship. Bill claimed that friendship made the best foundation for marriage, and I was staking our future on the hope that he was right.
“I’ll mark that date on my calendar,” Estelle said, “’cause I been waiting a long time to bake your wedding cake. I’m happy for you, child. You been alone too long.”
“Look who’s talking.”
Estelle appeared surprised. “I’m not alone. I’ve always had you and Miss Caroline and Miz Skerritt.”
Skepticism raised its head. I knew what a tyrant Mother could be. “Is Mother good to you?”
“She treats me fine. Even helped put my nephew Tyrone through medical school.”
“I never knew that.”
Estelle shrugged. “Miz Skerritt don’t talk much about her business.”
“She hasn’t talked much to me about anything.”
Estelle reached across the table and patted my hand. “Miz Skerritt keep to herself. In lots of ways, she’s not real sure of herself.”
Bill had tagged my mother as insecure the first time he met her. I’d brushed his assessment off as an erroneous first impression. After my talk with Dr. Fellows, I knew better.
I squeezed Estelle’s hand and leaned back in my chair. “How come everybody knew about Mother’s insecurities but me?”
“’Cause she’s your mama, honey. Hard to see anything past that.”
Estelle was right. Mother had always loomed large and invincible in my life. I found it hard to believe she was lying helpless in a hospital room.
“Have you thought,” I asked, “about what you’ll do when she comes home? You’ll need to move her bedroom downstairs, hire more help—”
Estelle laughed. “I won’t have to do diddly. I ’magine Miss Caroline will take care of everything. You know how she is.”
“A force of nature.”
“Like her mama. I just go with the flow.”
I glanced at the clock over the sink and shoved to my feet. “It’s late. I’d better go. You’ll call me if you need me?”
Estelle nodded and enveloped me in another hug that made me feel less like an orphan than I had when I arrived.
Caroline’s morning call at seven o’clock to inform me that Mother had spent a peaceful night and was regaining some mobility on her right side had yanked me out of a sound sleep. I rolled over, punched my pillow and pulled the covers over my head, but I couldn’t go back to sleep. My to-do list for the day, topped by contacting Jolene Jernigan and attending Deirdre Fisk’s autopsy, kept scrolling through my brain.
I flung the covers back and headed for the shower.
In my office an hour later, bolstered by coffee and glazed doughnuts from the bookstore coffee shop, which mercifully opened early for the downtown breakfast crowd, I sat at my desk and stared at a photocopy of the newspaper article from Deirdre Fisk’s purse.
Was one of those men the worst kind of killer, a sexual predator who murdered children? Or had one of them simply borne an unfortunate resemblance to the man who’d abducted Deirdre more than sixteen years ago?
Only one thing was certain. Deirdre wasn’t talking.
I quickly ruled out the governor. Not only was he basically a good man—for a politician. He’d lived too long in the public spotlight. Hiding such a dark secret would have been almost impossible with the kind of scrutiny he’d endured, especially from his political enemies. Any hint of dirt on him or his family had been unearthed and aired long ago.
I made a list of the names and addresses of the other four men in the photo, then reached for the phone. First I called the florist and ordered a bouquet of spring flowers to be delivered to Mother at the hospital.
Then I punched in the number for Jolene’s cell. Her sleepy and irritated “What?” when she answered told me I’d awakened her.
“Sorry to call so early, but I’ve found Roger.”
“Damn, you’re good.” Her husky voice came from a throat that had inhaled too much cigarette smoke.
She sounded so pleased I hated to burst her bubble. “Not that good. Gracie won’t give him up. She wants an apology first.”
Her sigh of exasperation resonated in my ear. “Then tell her I’m sorry and pick up the dog.”
“She wants more than a simple apology.”
“Like what?”
Like if you die, she’ll forgive you. If you don’t, she’ll see. “I have no idea. Maybe a significant raise, a personal letter asking forgiveness, some kind of extravagant gift.”
“Grovel and take her back? Under those circumstances, she’d make my life hell.”
I sighed. Gracie was the bug, and Jolene definitely wanted to be the windshield. “Then your only other option is to call the police.”
“No cops. No publicity. You think of something. That’s what I’m paying you for.” She broke the connection.
I was b
eginning to understand how Gracie felt and was sorry Jolene didn’t have another dog I could kidnap. But wishful thinking wouldn’t get Roger back. Maybe Adler’s suggestion of Bill’s impersonating Animal Control wasn’t so bad after all. As I left for the medical examiner’s office, I decided to run the idea by Bill when he returned from Sarasota.
The April morning was another chamber of commerce winner: brilliant blue skies, warm temperatures and a fresh salt-laden breeze. Looking at Deirdre Fisk’s pale body on the stainless-steel autopsy table in the Medical Examiner’s Largo complex, I couldn’t help thinking of the hundreds of thousands of young people without a care in the world currently thronging the Florida beaches. Deirdre, on the other hand, in her short lifetime had suffered more than any human should ever have to bear.
Doris Cline, the medical examiner, dressed in green scrubs and a clear plastic face mask that reminded me of space travelers in old sci-fi movies, worked with efficiency and an effervescent cheerfulness that belied the grimness of the setting.
“It’s good to see you again, Maggie.” With a digital camera, she snapped pictures of the body from every angle with all the enthusiasm of a wedding photographer. “When the Pelican Bay PD folded and you retired, I was sure you’d never witness another of my autopsies.”
“This homicide may be related to some cold cases,” I said, “ones Malcolm and I had in Tampa in the late eighties.”
“That’s why I asked Maggie to be here,” Adler said.
He stood on the other side of the table, breathing through his mouth, hugging a barf bucket and swallowing hard. Despite his macho appearance, he had a tough time at autopsies. Some cops eventually learned to disconnect from the horror of the procedure; others never did. I suspected Adler fit in the latter group.
“No defensive wounds,” Doc said as she continued her examination. “Nothing beneath her nails to indicate a struggle. Appears our victim either knew the shooter or was taken completely by surprise.”
With her thick gray hair, tan and fit body and boundless energy, Doc reminded me of a perennial cheerleader. How she maintained her upbeat attitude amidst all this death and decay mystified me. She had to be a special breed.
Spring Break Page 5
