She had circled several possibilities, and started making calls. The first was a nanny for a lady doctor—no good, she wanted three references. The second, a companion for an elderly man. Again, references were needed, and the man’s son was a lawyer. The third, had led her to Sandra Becker, who made no mention of needing references. Ashley had liked Sandra immediately and she felt a welcome bond as they fell into easy, comfortable conversation. Her new boss was maybe ten years older than Ashley, very pretty, with blue eyes, curly black hair, and tons of energy. She had two little boys, age four and seven, for whom Ashley would be a combination nanny and housekeeper. She’d have Saturdays off when Sandra’s mom was free to watch the kids.
The Beckers lived in a four-bedroom house on the edge of town. Ashley was given the master suite as her apartment, bathroom, closet, sitting area, and bedroom. She would have the use of Sandra’s Taurus during the day for errands, and Sandra would take the van. Ashley had identified herself as Marcy Powers and no proof of identity was requested. How soon could she start?
“Naturally, I’d like to see your home and meet the children.” Ashley struggled not to sound overly anxious, but she’d wanted to shout, Now, I can start now.
Sandra had locked up the art gallery, and they drove to her house, an adobe-style, on a cul-de-sac in a pleasant looking neighborhood.
“Bart, Justin, meet Miss Powers,” Sandra ushered two redheads into the cluttered kitchen. “Sorry, didn’t have time to put the breakfast things away.”
The little one, Justin, held up his hand for a high five and waited for Ashley’s response. She brought up her palm to slap against his. The older one trailed behind, engrossed in a handheld videogame. Ashley stuck out her hand, and he took it with a shy smile.
“It is ‘Miss,’ isn’t it?” Sandra asked as they walked into the littered living room. “You can see why I need you.” Sandra gestured to the floor cluttered with toys. Ashley noticed how hassled she seemed and realized how lucky her mother had been to have the Mendozas. But before Paul, Vivian, too, had been a single mom back when Rory was a little kid.
“Yes, Miss,” she said.
“Now, tell me,” Sandra asked when Ashley had settled into a chair in the living room. “Why are you looking for a nanny job?”
“Mrs. Becker, I’ll be honest with you. I’m pregnant. It was a mistake. My family feels I’ve dishonored them. So I can’t go back to them. But I’ll be an excellent nanny. I’m a hard worker. And dependable.”
“What about after the baby?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, let’s worry about that later. I’m offering you the job for now. It doesn’t pay much, but you’ll have a home, food, a car to use.”
“What is the salary?” Ashley asked, wondering how she would judge it. Before September eleven she’d never really cared what anything cost. Since then she’d survived on the $680 she had in her wallet that morning, $500 worth of traveler’s checks she’d cashed as she left the Waldorf, and the money from Aunt Bea. As for the rest of her money, in a bank somewhere, it was useless. She couldn’t get at it without leaving a financial trail.
“One hundred twenty dollars a week. Of course that assumes six days and all the housework.”
“Okay, Mrs. Becker,” Ashley held out her hand. “When can I start?”
“Call me Sandra. As far as I’m concerned, you can move your things in tonight.”
That had been four weeks earlier.
Now with the two boys in tow, she headed for the library. She sent Bart to the children’s room and kept Justin at her side. She logged onto the computer, going straight to the Philadelphia Inquirer site. She searched for any Parnell reference. What she found made her heart stop. On the front page of the local section, she read that her own memorial service was scheduled in two weeks. Hands shaking, she turned off the computer. Should she call someone in the family to stop the public mourning?. She slumped back into the chair, trying to envision the service at Saints Peter and Paul. Who would say what? Would Conrad have a role? She felt sure that he would insist, but would Frank allow him to speak? Or maybe now that she was dead, nobody cared. She wondered who knew that she was pregnant? Did Conrad know? She willed that he did not. Protecting her child from him was now her life. Staying dead was the surest way to do that.
During her previous trips to the library, Ashley had checked out books on hypnosis. She had learned how effortlessly Conrad, with his expertise, had manipulated her, systematically isolating her from her family and friends. And she could not stop thinking about Crissy. He must have controlled her, too. Then he’d killed her, or had her killed. When she heard or read about the attacks on September eleven she relived the explosion of that car, so close to her that day, and imagined her body, like Crissy’s, blown into a million pieces.
Ashley had also checked online for medical articles about pregnancy and bone marrow donation. Rory’s leukemia haunted her. In running away from Conrad, she had abandoned the sister who’d been like a second mother to her. But she was sure that Rory was still alive. If not, there would have been a story in the Philadelphia Inquirer. That is, unless Frank had successfully excised Rory from the Parnell public relations circuit.
Based on the medical literature, Ashley had formulated a tentative plan. After she reached her second trimester, when procedures were less risky to the fetus, she would approach Ruthie for help in arranging an anonymous marrow donation. She wasn’t sure about the medical and legal implications, but she was determined to try. Nonetheless, the tiny weight of the baby would not allow her to jeopardize that life.
“Marcy, can I get a book?” Justin tugged at her jeans.
“I have one for you.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a Dr. Seuss, about red dogs and blue dogs, Justin’s favorite. Then bending down, she tied his shoes.
“Marcy, why are your hands shaking like that?” he asked. Then, “I have to pee.”
Ashley took Justin’s hand and headed to the children’s reading room to collect Bart. As the Becker kids trotted into the bathroom, Ashley pictured little Ricky and Tyler, all of the Stevens kids, without a mother—unless she did something before it was too late.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
NOVEMBER 2001
Ashley’s memorial service took place at the same time as thousands of others around the country. Cardinal Sean officiated at the Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul, his third service in less than a year for a family member. After the services Frank, Dan, and Gina assembled at Devon where they were to meet with Jack Preston, private investigator.
Since Meredith’s death, Frank had returned to his office in the Russell Building in Washington. The problems of terrorism and anthrax consumed his days, and his nights were haunted by his impossible loss. Functional, but not at the top of his game, he knew he was no longer presidential material.
The Parnell extended family had settled back into a sad, but steady routine, only to be disrupted by a visit from Welton to Frank’s Philadelphia office. Welton, still insisting that Ashley was alive, had hired his own private investigator to find her. The man claimed that he had located a witness who’d identified Ashley on a train headed for Chicago six weeks earlier.
“I keep telling you that I know, I feel, she’s alive,” Welton kept repeating with aggression and passion. “They found her ring in the surface rubble. Now you tell me, if she was buried at Ground Zero, wouldn’t she and the ring be under the mess? Ashley’s suffering posttraumatic shock, I tell you. And now, that she’s been seen alive, you Parnells have to admit you’re wrong.”
Frank had been skeptical, but he had asked Matt to call in Jack Preston, the private investigator whom Carl Schiller had tapped for the original Welton investigation, the same one who’d dug up the information about the Welton/Moore marriage, Welton’s estranged brother, and the shady rumors about Welton’s past.
Now as Frank waited with Dan and Gina and Matt and Carrie for Preston to arrive, he remembered that just before getting into th
e limo on that dreadful day, Meredith had urged him to dig deeper into Welton’s background.
“I have everything set up in the library,” Mrs. M. announced. “Peter has a fire going there since you Floridians aren’t used to this chilly weather.”
“Guess I can take this off then.” Dan slipped out of his coat. “I had to buy it in the airport. I’m always forgettin’ how blasted cold it gets up here.”
On the way into the library, Gina lingered to admire the artwork hanging in the hall. Frank overheard Carrie reminding her mother of being dragged to museums as a little girl to study the American Impressionists. Frank made a mental note to ship the entire collection to Gina. He’d been thinking about moving into the Devon home. If he did, he’d replace the Impressionists with Meredith’s collection of modern art.
“Seems weird to be back in our childhood house,” Dan said.
“Yeah, lots of memories.” But for Frank, none of his mother. He’d been four when she died and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t conjure up a single memory. He vowed not to let Meredith’s memory slip away from Elise.
“How’s Elise?” Carrie asked as if reading his thoughts.
“Good. But with Ashley gone, I’m thinking about making a change and moving here. Meredith wanted Elise around horses and all, but the truth is that Elise doesn’t share Meredith’s passion,” Frank said. “Elise would rather be with other children. There are kids in this neighborhood.”
“You can always enroll her in a riding academy,” Dan suggested.
“I’ll keep the horses in Bucks County so she can ride on weekends. I’m doing my best, but I’ve never been worth a damn as a father.”
“Don’t be so tough on yourself,” Dan said.
And Frank replied, sounding sad, but sincere, “Elise is my life now.”
The resulting silence was interrupted by the door chimes.
“Must be that private investigator,” Dan said, and trying to lighten the mood, “Spencer for Hire. I love that Robert Parker. Matter of fact, Jack Preston’s picture reminds me of Hawk. Shaved head, two hundred and fifty pounds and all muscle. Ex-FBI. Has a law degree.”
Mrs. M. returned with a hunk of a man who did look like Hawk. Introductions followed as Mrs. M. served coffee and cakes.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Preston bowed dramatically to Gina and Carrie. His voice was booming yet articulate. “I’m happy to be back on the Conrad Welton case because I believe that doctor’s a very bad actor. As for Miss Ashley Parnell, excuse me, Dr. Parnell, let me say first off, that I do not know whether she is alive. But what I have found out is that Welton hired a P.I. to look for her. He tracked down a witness who claimed to have seen Ashley on that train headed for Chicago.”
“None of us believed him,” Dan said. “Welton’s a pathological liar. Right?”
“About this, he was accurate,” Preston said. “But now it may be a moot point.”
“What?” All four responded in chorus.
“C. W. Crane, the P.I. for Welton, ran a lookout on credit cards, routine in cases like this. We now know that a telephone call, charged to Ashley’s ATT card, was made in Santa Fe, New Mexico.”
The family members stared at each other in disbelief.
“Now it could be a fluke—like somebody got access to her card. But a call in Santa Fe was charged to it. Just one, a local call. C.W. flew to New Mexico last night.”
“New Mexico?” Dan repeated.
“Good friend from med school’s doing a residency in Albuquerque,” Preston said. “Name’s Ruth Campbell, but she’s heard nothing from Ashley. Either she’s telling the truth, or she’s putting on a good act. But I want to question her in person. Immediately. Can I use your plane?”
“So perhaps Ashley is alive?” Frank raked the fingers of both hands through his hair. “Welton was right all along?”
“We have to get out there. If she’s as far away as New Mexico, she’s hiding.” Dan said. “Hiding from Welton. He must have done something to really spook her.”
“You got it,” Preston responded. “That guy’s got a bad history, but no time for all that now. About the airplane, a Lear, if I’m not mistaken?”
“Mr. Preston, are no secrets safe from you?” Carrie asked.
“Not if I’m doing my job, and please, call me Jack. My hunch is that we’re going to get to know each other quite well as we peel the onion on this case.”
“Just remember,” Matt said, as he punched in the number of the private terminal. “We can’t have any leaks, even in the family. Just the five of us. Okay?”
“Not even Rory?” Gina asked. “Finding Ashley would mean so much to her.”
Frank made the decision. So far only he and Carl knew about Ashley’s pregnancy. “There’s something else,” Frank said. All eyes focused on him. “Jack, you need to know this too. Ashley is pregnant. She told Carl the night before she was killed—or disappeared. It’s why she could not give the bone marrow for Rory that day. She went to the clinic, but they wouldn’t proceed.”
“Rory and Chan don’t know?” Gina clarified. “Or Welton?”
“No, just Carl and us,” Frank said. “I don’t see any reason to tell anyone else at this point.”
“Keep it tight,” Preston said. “Too many involved and we’ll lose control. We don’t want to tip our hand to Welton. Sure he doesn’t know that she’s pregnant?”
“We don’t think she contacted him after she found out,” Frank said, “and he hasn’t mentioned it.”
“I got the plane,” Matt announced. “It can leave within the hour.”
“Got room for me?” asked Dan with a goofy look. “I’ve never been on the family plane,” he explained. “I hate flying, but to find Ashley—”
Carrie interrupted, “What do we think Ashley’s doing for money?”
“She can’t have much,” Preston said, tucking his small notebook inside his jacket. “She left with a few hundred dollars and hasn’t tried to access any accounts. That’s why Crane was keeping a watch on her credit cards. Friends, perhaps?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Marcy,” Justin jumped up as Ashley walked in the front door. “Wanta play Power Rangers?””
“After dinner.” She tousled his hair as he hugged her legs. She gave her older charge a friendly tickle, knowing that he couldn’t tear his eyes from the Nintendo screen for even a nanosecond.
Sandra called from the kitchen, “Glad you’re home for dinner, although it’s only Hamburger Helper. That’s one more thing we have in common. We’re marginal cooks.”
“Things my mother never taught me. But I think I’m getting better.”
“If you consider pizza and Chinese take-out getting better.”
Ashley laughed. “Can I help you with anything? Salad, maybe?”
With time, Ashley had come to consider Sandra Becker more a friend than an employer. Sandra trusted her to run the household, and the women had become best buddies. Ashley had Saturdays off, and usually she just hung out at the house, but that day she’d driven to Albuquerque. She’d planned to look up Ruthie at the University of New Mexico Medical Center. She longed to apologize to her for dropping out of her life when she’d met Conrad. Ruthie had been the closest friend she had ever had. She’d also wanted to ask Ruthie’s advice about pregnant bone marrow donors, but now she had another problem too. That morning she’d noticed splotches of blood in her panties. Spotting was a scary sign at three months gestation. Ruthie, always so practical and such a good doctor, would help her figure out whether anything was wrong. After she got over the shock of seeing her alive.
She walked into the lobby to ask if Ruthie was on call. Like all children’s hospitals, the lobby made a valiant attempt at cheeriness, at attempt overshadowed by reality. This was a place for very ill children. This was a place where Ashley wanted to be. After much thought and research, she had decided that she wanted to be a pediatrician, a neonatologist to be specific. Being in a hospital again opened up a compartm
ent in her mind that she’d slammed firmly shut. Her future as a doctor had been put on hold, but it would soon change.
At the information desk, surrounded by concerned parents, she asked whether Dr. Campbell was on call. The answer was yes; did she want Dr. Campbell paged in the neonatal unit? Again a yes. They handed her the phone, but the unit announced that Dr. Campbell was doing a procedure. “Would she like to leave a message?”
Ashley hung up. Her good idea now seemed dubious. She thought, I abandoned you and now I’m asking for your help? Ashley left the hospital and debated with herself during the drive from Albuquerque to Santa Fe whether she should try to call her friend later that day.
“Hungry?” Sandra asked, interrupting Ashley’s renewed debate as to whether she would call Ruthie.
“Yes. Tired and hungry,” Ashley admitted.
She’d skipped lunch as she’d wandered about the University of New Mexico medical complex, refusing to part with even a dollar of her cash. Reluctantly, Sandra had agreed to pay her in cash, even though her employer existed on plastic and had to make a special trip every week to the ATM.
Ashley pulled out a head of lettuce, a tomato, and a cucumber with one hand and, and with the other, she retrieved three slices of American cheese. “Just going to wash up,” she called. “Be back in minute.”
On the way to her room, she hastily unpeeled the plastic wrappers and stuffed the cheese slices into her mouth. Back in the kitchen, she poured a twelve-ounce glass of milk. “For the baby,” she said, dabbing at the white moustache. “Amazing how much better a little food can make you feel.”
“You haven’t gained much weight,” Sandra remarked. “You should have seen me when I was pregnant. Especially with Justin.”
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