Gypsy Sins

by John Lawrence Reynolds

  She dabbed her eyes and her voice became a whisper.

  “He came around again, a week later. I’d been an emotional wreck since I saw him last. I was caught in lies on every side. I was pleased, so pleased, that he was healthy and happy. But that’s all I needed to know. So when he showed up again all I could think was, Go away! Go away! And that’s what I screamed at him, over and over. I physically pushed him from the door and he stood . . .” She choked on her sobs, shook her head and continued. “He stood on the shoulder of the road out there, crying for me to let him in. ‘I’m your son,’ he said over and over again and I had to call Uncle Roy who was almost retired by then to come over and tell him to go away or he would be arrested. I don’t know if Roy knew. I just told him to make . . . make this boy go away. Can you imagine that? A mother—a mother—doing that to her own son? But what else could I do? What . . . what would’ve happened if Parker had come home? My God, what would have happened?”

  She dabbed at her nose with the tissue and made a sobbing sound from deep within her chest.

  “Then David started to call me. On the telephone, during the day. That wasn’t so bad, not as dangerous as him being here. So we would talk for a while about all kinds of things. I liked him, he was so bright and . . . and enthusiastic, and so happy to talk to me. But it was tearing me apart and one day, while I was talking to him, Parker came through the garden and in the back door. I panicked. He wanted to know who it was and I lied again, I lied again. I said it was Uncle Roy. But Parker knew I was lying and I decided I wouldn’t talk to David anymore. The next time he called I hung up on him, but he’d call again and again, begging me not to hang up when I answered the phone, crying hysterically. This went on for a week or two until he called one morning just after Parker had left for the office. He, David, my son, seemed more controlled. He said this would be the last time he would try to see me. If I refused him, he would never call again. And I told him that’s what . . . what I wanted. For him never to call me again. And he said . . . he said all right. He would keep his promise. And before he hung up, he said, ‘I love you, mother.’ And I cried the rest of the day over that.”

  The weeks and months passed without a word from her son. The time stretched into years.

  “Three . . . three years ago last spring . . .” She swallowed, closed her eyes, and began again. “I came in the house from planting my annuals in the garden. It was one of those hot days in May when you’re not prepared for the heat. I poured myself some ice water, sat in front of the television set and flipped back and forth through the channels, looking for anything that might entertain me for a few minutes before making lunch.”

  Smiling faces danced on the screen, selling home products, laughing in situation comedy reruns, exhilarated at winning game show prizes. At first she spun past the channel with the snapshot of the smiling adolescent boy’s face. A handsome face with thick curly black hair and a wide smile.

  David’s face. The face of her son.

  “It was one of those daytime talk shows, about teenage suicides, how tragic they are. The hostess, all I remember is that she had three names and wore harlequin glasses, was talking about this boy, saying this had been a double tragedy, that this boy, this only son, had committed suicide and . . . and his father did exactly the same thing just a few months later and . . . and the wife and mother who . . . who lived in Hyannis, she . . . she lost her entire family that way and she de . . . declined to come on the show . . .”

  At that point, June Leedale lost control.

  To McGuire, it was almost a relief.

  “It was my son!” she screamed, and lifted her head and closed her eyes, howling the words in anguish. McGuire wrapped her in his arms and held her while she rocked and moaned in the agony of her personal pain, so long held within, now released in the presence of a virtual stranger.

  When the television program was over June had exploded from the house, driving to the library to search back issues of the Hyannis newspaper until she found the death notice. The following day, on the brink of a breakdown, she drove to the cemetery, located the tombstone and spent the entire morning with her son.

  She returned at least once each week to repeat her ritual.

  “I talk to him,” she said against McGuire’s shoulder. Her voice was small, pinched, muffled by the fabric of his jacket. “I ask him to forgive me, I tell him about Parker, I say how miserable I am, sometimes I describe a scene that day that made me smile. A mother duck leading her little ones across a busy highway and all the cars and trucks stopping to let them pass. Things that a mother and her son can share. And I bring him flowers and pull out the weeds from around his headstone. But mostly I talk to him. I tell myself I’m just like any other mother. Talking to her son.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  In the elaborate guest suite overlooking the Leedales’ garden, McGuire lay back on the bed, his hands clasped behind his head, listening to the muffled clatter of June Leedale preparing dinner in the kitchen.

  “It keeps my mind occupied,” she said when McGuire asked why she was preparing dinner in such a highly emotional state. She was slicing onions, smiling through her tears. “They’re the same tears,” she said, raising one hand to wipe her eyes. “Onions, sorrow, laughter. All tears taste the same. Parker will never know.”

  “I think, in some ways, he treasures you as his wife,” McGuire offered.

  She dropped her hands and stared down at them. “I know,” she agreed. Another smile, wry and cold. “Is that why he’s in bed with another woman?” She resumed working on the onions. Three thick pork chops, a container of sour cream and a mound of potatoes sat waiting their turn on the counter next to the chopping board.

  “Would you like to be alone?” McGuire asked her.

  “Desperately.” The knife chopping quickly, up and down, then the back of her free hand wiping her forehead.

  Will she ever tell him, McGuire wondered, listening to the sound of her chores drifting down the hall from the kitchen to his room. It’s the kind of secret most people would want to die with them. If Parker outlives her, perhaps he’ll discover the truth after she’s gone. Maybe she’ll leave the story for him to decipher and let him make up his mind if she was guilty or not, if she was sinned against or sinner. . . .

  He snapped his eyes open.

  Like Cora had done. In the sermon.

  She wanted to tell me in the sermon, McGuire realized. The one she wrote for Willoughby to deliver. It was there all the time. That was Cora’s way, making a mystery, a game, out of life. And it was the reason I was shot and Cora’s house torched.

  In the kitchen, the telephone rang.

  McGuire swung his feet to the floor.

  He heard June Leedale’s voice answer the telephone.

  Cora knew. She had known enough to want McGuire to act on it. But only after she was gone.

  June Leedale’s footsteps sounded in the hall leading from the kitchen, approaching the door to his room.

  But if Cora had proof of a crime being committed, why didn’t she act on it? Report it to the police?

  A knock on the door and June Leedale’s voice. “It’s for you,” she said. “A woman.”

  McGuire stood up, his body suffused with nervous energy.

  Because she didn’t have proof, he told himself. Cora had no proof. McGuire opened the door. June Leedale was already returning to the kitchen, her back to him.

  Cora had supposition and suspicions but no proof. She knew, she had known all along perhaps, that one way or another her son Terry, Terry Godwin, high school hero, Silver Star winner, had been involved in the crime that had ended Cynthia Sanders’s life so many years earlier.

  “Hi, Joe.”

  The sound of surf in the background. He could hear the waves crashing on Ocean Beach, the Atlantic murmuring its threats from beyond the horizon of her voice.

  “Hello, Barb
ara.” He leaned against the kitchen wall, the receiver pressed tightly to his ear.

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier. Are you all right?” she asked. “Do they know who shot you?”

  “They’re still looking. “ Behind him, June Leedale left the kitchen. He heard her footsteps climbing the stairs to the second floor. A pot on the stove burbled and spewed steam from beneath its lid.

  “Oh, Joe . . .” There was a catch in Barbara’s voice.

  “You’re not on Treasure Cay.” His voice was calm and quiet, and he was surprised at his own composure.

  “I’m on Green Turtle. I came over on the ferry by myself.”

  By myself. A revealing phrase.

  “How are you doing?” McGuire asked.

  “I’m okay.” She laughed nervously. “I guess,” she began, and there was another laugh, “I suppose you’ve been wondering what’s going on. Down here. With me.”

  “I think I already know. Your husband’s with you.”

  “Kind of. You, uh, you know me better than I thought you did.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “At the villa. Over on Treasure Cay.”

  “Does he know you’re calling me?”

  “Yes.” Her voice began to slide away, into tears.

  “How does he feel about it?”

  “He wants me to. Because . . . because he wants me to say goodbye. To you. And I have to, but it’s . . . it’s the hardest thing I think I’ve ever done.”

  McGuire breathed deeply. “Look, Barbara,” he said, measuring his words. “I’ve seen situations like this. Your husband leaves, he misses you, he realizes he made a mistake, he asks to come back. . . .”

  “Joe—”

  “. . . you two try to pick up the pieces and the first couple of days are terrific . . .”

  “Joe, listen to me—”

  “. . . but all the reasons he left in the first place are still there, they’re always there, they’ll always be there . . .”

  “Joe, he didn’t ask to come back. I asked him.”

  McGuire slumped against the wall. His blood had turned to motor oil, thick and sluggish.

  “I’m sorry, Joe, but it’s the truth. I wanted to be sure it was over. I loved you, but he’s my husband and before . . . before I could start making plans with you I had to be sure, don’t you see?” She was crying openly now. “I mean, we haven’t known each other that long, you and me, and there’s something kind of unreal about . . . about what you and I had here. You know, tropical island, sunshine and beaches and all of that. How real could it be, that’s what I needed to know.”

  “You called him?” His mouth filled with dry rocks.

  “Uh huh. He said he’d been trying to reach me for weeks. I agreed to meet him in Nassau and I thought it would be, you know, a question of . . . of my asking myself how in heaven’s name could I have loved this person? But that’s not the way it worked out. He was sweet and tender, like he was when I first met him, and he cried. I had never seen him cry before. And now . . . now we’re going to sort things out and, oh my God, I’m so sorry, Joe.”

  “So am I.”

  “But I had to make sure you were all right because . . .”

  “Goodbye, Barbara.”

  “. . . because you know I care for you and don’t hang up yet, Joe, please don’t . . .”

  “Good luck.”

  “Joe, don’t hang up, please. . . .”

  McGuire replaced the receiver, returned to his room, shrugged into his jacket and left the house by the rear door. He would explain his absence to June Leedale later.

  He would explain everything later.

  Bob Morton rose from behind the copying machine at the sound of McGuire’s entry.

  “Caught me at another law enforcement executive chore.” Morton grinned with embarrassment. “Damn thing sees me coming and it runs out of paper. Every time.” Morton slapped a green button on the top of the copier and the machine came to life with a whir. “What’s up?”

  “You made me an offer, couple of days ago,” McGuire said. His eyes scanned the interior of the tiny police station, resting briefly on the only other person to be seen, the sergeant named Smitty sitting in a glass-enclosed cubicle reading a magazine, his feet on the corner of his desk.

  “Yeah?” Morton watched the copies emerge from the machine. “What was that?”

  “You offered me a weapon. For self-protection.”

  Morton’s eyes flicked up to McGuire’s. “Now wait just a minute. . . .”

  “My life’s in danger and I’m still eligible for a hand gun license.”

  “But I said all that stuff when you were in the hospital. . . .”

  “Am I in less danger walking the streets?”

  “Aw, hell, McGuire.” Morton took the sheets of paper from the machine and glared down at them. “I’m trying to get home for dinner.”

  “Did you mean it?” McGuire demanded. “About the gun?”

  “Sure I meant it, but I can’t do it right now. . . .”

  “Deputize me.”

  “What?”

  “You can do it. Deputize me to assist you in the investigation of an attempted murder and arson. Serious felonies, both of them. There’s not a judge in the state that will second-guess you for providing me with a temporary license. Besides, you already acknowledged the threat to my life when you posted a guard outside my hospital room. It’s on the record.”

  Morton looked away and slapped the top of the machine with the sheaf of papers. “I still have to get somebody up in Orleans at the courthouse to sign it tomorrow.”

  “That’s fine.” McGuire leaned against the counter. “Meanwhile, state law says you can issue me a temporary for twenty-four hours.”

  Morton walked to his battered oak desk, tossed the copies in a wire basket and unlocked a lower drawer using a key suspended with others on a chain from his belt. “It’s not that easy down here, you know, getting a hand gun license. Not like Boston. Old Judge Vickers up in Orleans could turn it down, soon’s I lay it in front of him.”

  “Tomorrow morning?” McGuire was pacing behind the counter, unable to remain still. “You’ll see him tomorrow?”

  Morton withdrew a well-worn Smith & Wesson .38 Police Special from the desk drawer. “First thing. He says no, you have to hand this weapon back pronto.” Morton snapped the cylinder out and eyed the cartridges inside. “I’ll need you to sign a receipt and a release.” He closed the cylinder and dropped the gun heavily on the counter.

  McGuire hefted the gun, the weight of it familiar and alive in his hand.

  “I’m telling you, McGuire,” Morton said with a frown, “if it weren’t for the fact that you were the sharpest cop I ever saw back in Boston, no way I’d be sticking my neck out for you.” He began rummaging through a drawer in the oak desk, removing sheets of preprinted paper, discarding several of the forms until he found the two he was looking for. “And even at that, if Judge Vickers has the slightest doubt tomorrow, you get it back to me with no arguments, right?”

  “Morton, you’re a good cop,” McGuire said. “You got a belt holster for this?”

  “No holster.” Morton seemed to be growing angrier each minute. “You carry it around here, it’s gotta be visible. Consider this an overnight loan if need be, all right? Nothing longer’n that, okay?”

  “Okay,” McGuire said aloud. Overnight is all I’ll need, he added silently. While Morton’s head was down, scribbling his name on the documents, McGuire reached behind him and tucked the gun inside the waistband of his trousers where it rested against the small of his back.

  Visible, hell.

  Morton approached the counter, handed a Bible to McGuire and said, “Raise your right hand.”

  The lights within St. Luke’s Church spilled into the gathering dusk. With the car’s
engine shut off McGuire could hear the strains of the church organ echoing from within. The parking lot held one car, a small red Japanese sports convertible.

  The outer doors were unlocked and McGuire stepped cautiously up the stairs, aware of the stiffness in his shoulder and the cold weight of the snub-nosed gun against his back. Ahead of him a light shone through the frosted glass window of the door leading to Willoughby’s office. He approached the door, knocked twice and tried the knob. It was locked.

  “Just a minute.” A woman’s voice, followed by the sound of a file drawer sliding shut. There were three quick footsteps and the clatter of a dead bolt being swung aside before the door opened, revealing a woman who looked back at McGuire with a startled expression.

  “Doing some theological work, Ellie?” McGuire said.

  She was wearing a blue pea jacket over cotton sweat pants, and an oversized leather bag hung from her shoulder. Closing the door behind her, she swept past him without a word.

  “Where’s Willoughby?” McGuire asked.

  She vaulted the steps toward the church two at a time. “You’re the fucking detective,” she said, swinging open the doors.

  McGuire tried Willoughby’s office door, confirmed that she had locked it behind her and followed her up the steps. He watched her trot down the aisle to the altar organ where Jerome Harper sat at the organ console, his eyes swinging from Ellie to McGuire and back again. Ellie handed a small brass object to the organist and spat a few words in his ear. Then, throwing an angry glance at McGuire, she crossed in front of the altar and almost ran down the far aisle to leave by the other door. McGuire turned to watch her cross the foyer and leave the church. He heard her sprint across the parking lot and slam the door of her car. The engine roared to life and the car shot away down Main Street.