Close to Home

by Jenna Bennett

Mother flushed beneath the expertly laid makeup. “Oh.”

  “Yes?”

  She squirmed. “Denise mentioned him. I assumed you’d told her he was the father of the baby.”

  “No,” I said, “I didn’t think that was anyone’s business but my own.” I had mentioned Rafe’s name a couple of times, so I wouldn’t have been surprised if Dr. Seaver had drawn her own conclusions, but I hadn’t come right out and told her.

  “I’m afraid I accidentally let it slip,” mother said.

  She must have wanted someone to commiserate with. Someone who already knew the details. A woman, not Dix or Sheriff Satterfield.

  “I guess you haven’t been able to bring yourself to tell Audrey, have you?”

  Mother shook her head, her cheeks pink. I took pity on her. She can’t help being who she is, prejudices and all, any more than the rest of us can. And she’s my mother; I love her.

  “Did Dr. Seaver say anything interesting?”

  “Just that she was surprised,” mother said.

  I’d assumed that. “Anything else?”

  Mother glanced at me. “What would she say, darling? As you pointed out, it’s no one’s business but yours, really.”

  “I thought maybe she’d mentioned Elspeth Caulfield, or something. She was Elspeth’s doctor too, back when Elspeth was pregnant.”

  “Oh,” mother said. “Yes, in fact. She did. She mentioned how you had tracked down Elspeth’s son—”

  “David.”

  “—and how the boy had gotten adopted by a well-to-do interracial couple who couldn’t have children of their own, and how he’s doing very well. Much better than he would have been had his mother been allowed to keep him.”

  “That may be true,” I conceded. “But Elspeth was seventeen, and if she wanted to keep her baby, I think she should have been allowed. Instead, the hospital told her he was stillborn and gave him to someone else. Elspeth probably spent years thinking her baby died.”

  And as someone who’d just gone through a miscarriage, I couldn’t imagine carrying a child for nine months and then having it ripped out of my arms when it was born. Or even worse, carrying it for nine months, giving birth to it, taking care of it, and then having it disappear, like Marley’s Oliver.

  I glanced at mother. “What do you think about Marley Cartwright? If Sheila was friends with her, is it possible she didn’t do anything to little Oliver?”

  Mother hesitated. “Bob believes she did.”

  “But that’s his job. It doesn’t mean you have to agree. You’re allowed to have your own opinion, even if your boyfriend doesn’t share it.”

  Mother flushed delicately at the idea that she had a boyfriend. Still, she stood by her man. “I don’t know Marley, darling. I have no way of knowing whether she’s guilty or not. But if Bob says so, I’m inclined to believe him.”

  Of course.

  “I’ll just have to talk to her myself,” I said, and settled back into the seat.

  Instead of going home, mother drove into Sweetwater, to the square, and we ended up having lunch with Audrey. While we were sitting there, Bob Satterfield stopped by for a sandwich, and that may have been the reason mother wanted to eat at the Café on the Square in the first place. She’d kept her relationship with the sheriff a secret for a while—at least from me; the others had had their suspicions, being around more—and she was in that stage where she blushed prettily every time the two of them met in public. I wouldn’t be surprised if she went out of her way to haunt places where she thought he might show up.

  At any rate, when he saw us there, at a table for four, he came over to sit with us while the kitchen put together his roast beef on rye to go. He greeted mother with a wink, Audrey with a smile, and me with a polite nod. It was obvious he was upset with me, probably on Todd’s behalf, and although he treated me cordially and correctly, it was without any of his usual jovial warmth.

  I didn’t let it stop me. “How’s the trial going, sheriff?”

  The sheriff allowed that as far as he knew, the trial was going well.

  “Todd said the prosecution finished their case last week and now it’s the defense’s turn?”

  Bob Satterfield nodded.

  “Would you have any idea whether the defense planned to call Sheila to testify?”

  “Sheila?” Sheriff Satterfield said. “Why?”

  “They were friends. Sheila called Marley the day she died. I just wondered whether it might have something to do with the case.” And whether—although it was far-fetched—the trial might have something to do with why Sheila was killed. If, for instance, someone wanted to keep her from testifying...

  But no, that didn’t make much sense, did it? What could she say, after all, that was explosive enough to kill her over? She had no proof that Marley didn’t kill Oliver. If she did, the defense would have presented it already, and avoided the trial altogether. It would be different if Sheila was testifying for the prosecution, and she had proof that Marley did kill Oliver. That might be worth killing for. For Marley, anyway. But Todd would have mentioned it, if so.

  “No idea, darlin’,” the sheriff said. “I didn’t interview her back then. Knew she knew Marley, but didn’t think she knew anything about what happened. If she did, she never said.”

  “If she and Marley stayed friends, Sheila must have believed that Marley was innocent, don’t you think?”

  “Suppose so,” the sheriff said. “Course, that don’t mean nothing, darlin’. Just that Sheila was a good friend who was loyal to the people she cared about. Doesn’t mean Marley isn’t guilty.”

  I realized that. Sheila hadn’t been stupid, though. If she believed that Marley was innocent, it was either the truth, or Marley was a truly superior actress. And that wasn’t the impression I’d gotten. To me, Marley Cartwright had come across like a woman on the ragged edge of sanity.

  “You investigated the case, right? What made you think she did it?”

  “Well, now, darlin’,” the sheriff said and leaned back on the spindly chair, “it wasn’t like that. At first we thought the baby was kidnapped. We went door to door in the whole subdivision. We looked at hours of video surveillance, and talked to anyone who’d talk to us. Place was gated, and the only people going in and out were the residents, plus a few domestics. Cleaning and lawn crews, mostly, it being summer when it happened. We investigated all of’em. Nobody saw nothing, everyone came out smelling like roses.”

  “No criminal records? No sex offenders?”

  Mother clicked her tongue, and the sheriff glanced at her, but chose to answer my question. “There’s a couple in every town, darlin’. Even in Sweetwater. But nobody that had anything to do with this.”

  “So what happened? Why did you decide to focus on Marley herself?”

  The sheriff scratched his head. “Not sure I rightly remember, darlin’. Reckon it mighta been that doctor, Miz Seaver, coming in to say Marley was some kind of psychotic. Think that mighta been what started us looking more seriously at her.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “Dr. Seaver told you that?”

  “Reckon she did, darlin’. Why? Is it important?”

  “I don’t imagine it is,” I said. “Just interesting.”

  Everywhere I turned, I found myself fetching up against Denise Seaver. She’d been Elspeth’s doctor back when Elspeth was pregnant, and she’d been Sheila’s doctor now. She’d been Marley’s doctor, and she was mine. She’d even been LaDonna Collier’s doctor thirty years ago, and had helped deliver Rafe. She’d known Dr. Rushing, Sheila, Marley, Elspeth, me... Sheila had called her the day she died, and Dr. Seaver had testified at Marley’s trial. She knew all of us, and it seemed that of everyone, Denise Seaver would be the one who should be able to put together whatever was going on. Of everyone, she must be the one with the most knowledge about the situation. But even if she had the knowledge, with that damned doctor-patient confidentiality I’d counted on to cover my own buttocks, I didn’t stand a chance of prying any in
formation out of her.

  My train of thought derailed when the waitress brought Sheriff Satterfield’s sandwich and he prepared to leave. “Dinner at the Wayside Inn tonight?” he inquired of my mother, who blushed prettily and glanced at me.

  “Don’t mind me,” I said, “I’ll be fine on my own.” And if I got tired of the mansion and my own company, I could always visit Dix. Or Catherine and Jonathan. Or someone else. Like Marley Cartwright.

  “You can have the car,” mother told me, “in case you decide to go out. You’ll pick me up, won’t you, Bob?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him.

  “’Course,” the sheriff drawled back. “What kinda gentleman would I be if I didn’t?”

  He winked. Mother giggled—actually giggled—as he sauntered out, and she and Audrey put their heads together and stared after him like a couple of school girls.

  Chapter 21

  After mother headed off to the Wayside Inn with the sheriff, I took the Chrysler to Dix’s house, where he and the girls were eating grilled cheese sandwiches and watching Pippi Longstocking. He gave me directions to Marley Cartwright’s house. “Around the corner, three blocks, left on Warwick, right on Arundel Court. It’s the house with all the curtains drawn.” He wiped Hannah’s face and added, “Why are you going to see Marley Cartwright?”

  “Sheila thought she was innocent,” I said. “I want to know why.”

  “How do you know that Sheila thought she was innocent?”

  “Marley said so,” I said. Dix just stared at me. “I know that’s just Marley’s word. But they stayed in touch. They had lunch together just before...”

  I glanced at the girls, both of whom were staring up at me with wide, unblinking eyes, and reworded my statement, “last week, and on Friday, she called Marley from Nashville.”

  “What about?” Dix wanted to know.

  “Nobody seems to know. Marley didn’t pick up, so Sheila left a message. I heard it, but all it said was for Marley to call about something important.”

  “And she didn’t?”

  “I guess by the time she did, it was too late.”

  Dix thought for a second. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “You guys are watching a movie. I’ll be back in an hour or so, I’m sure.”

  “If you’re not, should I call the sheriff?”

  “He’s having dinner with mother. If I’m not back in an hour, feel free to call my cell. Or drive over there. But I’m not worried.”

  “She’s on trial for murder,” Dix said.

  “Sheila thought she was innocent. Maybe she is.”

  Dix shrugged. “Be careful.”

  “I’m always careful,” I said. And if it wasn’t entirely true, I’d never gone looking for any of the trouble that seemed to find me.

  Nonetheless, after I’d wound my way through Copper Creek and was sitting in the driveway outside Marley’s house, I rifled through my purse and pulled out what looked like two matching lipstick cylinders. I’d bought them a couple of months ago, after Tamara Grimaldi told me it might be a good idea to get some protection. One ‘lipstick’ contained a tiny dispenser of pepper spray, the other a 1.25” serrated blade. It wasn’t long enough to stab anyone in the heart, at least per the expert in the weapons store, but I could use it to slit someone’s wrist if they were incapacitated, and I could certainly use it to buy myself a little time to get away. Any amount of blood tends to be distracting, even if the knife isn’t too big, and what it lacked in length it made up for in sharpness. I slipped both into the pockets of my cardigan, one on each side, before I exited the car and headed for the door.

  Like Dix’s house, and all the other houses in Copper Creek, Marley’s home was a big brick McMansion. All the curtains were pulled across the windows, just as Dix had told me to expect, and there was no sign of life. Under normal circumstances, I’d have thought the place was empty, but because I’d been warned, I knocked and waited. And waited some more. And knocked again.

  “Who is it?” Marley’s voice said eventually, from inside.

  I introduced myself. “We spoke at Sheila’s funeral last week. Remember?”

  “Of course I remember,” Marley said, irritated, and opened the door. “I’m not stupid.”

  She looked rather the worse for wear, with her makeup smudged and her hair done à la bird’s nest, dressed in a pair of oversized sweatpants and a faded T-shirt that hung from her shoulders. The arms visible below the sleeves had passed slender and edged into bony more than a few pounds ago.

  “Sorry.” There was a distinct odor of alcohol emanating from her. I pretended not to notice. In her position, I might have felt the need for a stiff drink or two myself. “Can I come in for a minute?”

  “Are you sure you dare?” Marley asked, but she swung the door open. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll take a kitchen knife to you?”

  I blanched, and surreptitiously felt for the pepper spray in my pocket. “Do you plan to?”

  “Of course not.” She tossed her head, and for a second I caught a glimpse of the woman she must have been before all this happened. Beautiful, spirited, and disdainful. “People act like they think I will. They go out of their way to avoid any contact with me. I have to drive to Franklin to go grocery shopping so people won’t point and whisper.”

  She closed the door behind me with a thud, and flicked the lock. I shot a nervous glance at it over my shoulder.

  “You coming?” She padded barefoot across the bamboo floor toward the family room in the back. The setup here was the same as in Dix’s house, so I knew what to expect.

  “Sure.” She didn’t ask me to take my boots off, so I didn’t, just followed her down the hallway and into the combination eat-in kitchen/great room at the back of the house.

  The TV was on, but the sound was muted, and a bottle of tequila was sitting in the middle of the table. Unlike at the front of the house, the curtains were open on the big picture window overlooking the backyard. I could see the outline of trees against the midnight blue sky.

  “No neighbors back here,” Marley said in explanation. “Out front they keep looking at me. But back here there’s no one. Just a bunch of trees and a little creek—” Copper Creek, presumably, “—and then another row of houses on the other side. Drink?”

  She lifted the bottle.

  I shook my head. “No thanks.”

  “That’s what Sheila said last time she was here.” She sloshed a bit of tequila into a glass and took a sip. “You pregnant, too?”

  “I was.” I sat down in one corner of the sofa without waiting for an invitation. “I had a miscarriage last week.”

  “Sorry.” She tossed back what was left in the glass.

  “Me too. When was Sheila here?”

  “I told you. Day before she died.”

  “Of course.” Sheila had said she had plans. That’s why she couldn’t go anywhere with me when I asked. “She came here after her doctor’s appointment.”

  “Right.” Marley filled the glass again. “Bitch.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Dr. Seaver. She testified at the trial last week. Said I was a danger to Oliver. That I was taking medication for depression. And that I was psychotic.”

  “Wasn’t it true?”

  She shot me a look. “If I’d been thinking about hurting my baby, don’t you think I would have asked for help?”

  “I thought you did,” I said. “From Dr. Seaver.”

  Marley snorted. “I wouldn’t ask that woman for the time of day.”

  I must have looked surprised—Denise Seaver had been Marley’s doctor, hadn’t she?—because she added, “I was overwhelmed, OK? My husband had left me—he was catting around the whole time I was pregnant, and as soon as Oliver was born, he moved out. Bastard.” She drank a little more tequila. “So yeah, I was struggling. I was on my own with a newborn, and no help from anyone. Oliver had colic, so he didn’t sleep much. Neither did I. And I was worried about not being able to
take care of him, you know? I had no husband to support us. I thought I might lose the house, and we’d have to move, and I’d have to get some kind of job, and I was scared.”

  I nodded. Given the circumstances, I would have been scared, too. “But you didn’t think about hurting Oliver?”

  “Of course I didn’t think about hurting him! I loved him!” She drained the glass and slammed it down on the table. “I wasn’t psychotic. I have no idea why Dr. Seaver would say I was.” She shook her head. “She was always stopping by to see how we were doing, and commenting on how tired I looked. How difficult it must be to have the responsibility all alone. How I looked like I was having a hard time coping.”

  “She seems very concerned with child welfare,” I said lamely. Denise Seaver had tried to convince LaDonna to give up Rafe, and she had referred Elspeth and the Caulfields to St. Jerome’s, where someone had arranged David’s adoption. In both cases, it was because she thought the children would be better off with someone other than their biological parents.

  Something tickled the back of my brain—something about Dr. Seaver and David, or Dr. Seaver and the Flannerys—but it disappeared before I could hang on to it.

  Marley scowled. “She tried to convince me that Oliver would be better off with a mother who was healthy.”

  That hadn’t been very nice of Dr. Seaver. Especially under the circumstances. Poor Marley had had enough on her plate without that.

  “You and Sheila were friends back then, right?”

  Marley nodded. “We met at the gym. She was almost ready to give birth to Hannah when I got pregnant with Oliver, and we talked a lot. After Oliver was born, she came over sometimes to see how I was, but I was so angry about everything that I wasn’t very nice to her.”

  “I’m sure she understood,” I said.

  “She did. She was a nurse, you know? She said that it’s normal for mothers whose babies have colic to be exhausted and irritable and to cry a lot.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “That bitch Seaver didn’t think so. She told the jury at the trial that I was suffering from fatigue and depression and delusions.”