The strangest random thoughts went through his head. Questions, images. Where would he sleep tonight? In that big empty bed? What would he do with Rosemary’s toothbrush? Throw it out? Why’d she have to be killed in the kitchen? Of all the rooms in the house? Why not the garage? Or the basement? He might even have been able to hang on to the house if she’d been killed in a room he didn’t have to spend so much time in.
But how could one avoid the kitchen? How could he not, every time he had to go in there, see his wife’s body on the floor?
He was going to have to go in there.
He’d retreated to his second-floor office a couple of hours ago after putting Matthew down in his crib for a sleep. He’d informed his employers of the day’s events, and soon after took a call from the president of the company, a man named Ben Corbett. He offered his condolences and told Bill to take as much time as he needed.
“And we have a lot of investigators at our disposal,” Corbett said. “I can put one on this if you want. I’m betting the police in a town like that can’t find their asses in a snowstorm. Am I right? I know a guy I can call up there. Weaver, his name is. Cal Weaver. Used to work for the local cops but went solo. Lived out around Niagara for a while but I think he moved back.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary, Mr. Corbett, but I thank you,” Gaynor said. “The police have a pretty good idea who did it. Some crazy woman. She’s got a history.”
“Of killing people?”
“No, but from what the detective said—he called me a while ago—she tried to steal a baby out of the hospital a while back. A nutcase.”
“Well, the offer stands. You need anything, you call me.” A pause. “Oh, and Bill.”
“Yes?”
“As much as I would like to expedite matters where your wife’s life insurance policy is concerned, I have to take a hands-off approach with this and let things go through the usual channels.”
“Of course, Mr. Corbett, I understand that.”
“Especially considering that the payout in your wife’s case . . . I don’t feel very comfortable discussing this with you at this time, Bill, so I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“That’s okay,” Gaynor said.
“As I was saying, the payout in your wife’s case is a million dollars. So the firm will be doing its due diligence, but you’ve indicated that the police already have a pretty good idea what’s happened.”
“Yes, they do.”
“Okay, then. My thoughts are with you. We’ll be in touch.”
Gaynor hung up the phone, took a deep breath, and put a hand to his chest. His heart was pounding.
He needed a drink.
He went to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a scotch, and then pulled himself together so that he could send out e-mails to clients he was supposed to meet with over the next week. Family emergency, he said, and offered his apologies. Gave them the name of an associate who could help them.
He was looking mindlessly at his in-box when he heard Matthew stirring in the next room. When the baby woke, he’d be hungry.
Gaynor went into the hallway and down the stairs, careful not to step on the slightly faded red footprints he’d left earlier. As he entered the kitchen he forced himself to look away from where he’d found Rosemary. Focused in on the fridge. Rosemary always prepared two days’ worth of bottles of formula, and there were still four of them in there. He warmed a bottle, wondering what he would do when these were all gone. He’d never made up bottles for Matthew. Didn’t have a clue how to do it.
He had a steep learning curve ahead of him.
God, where was Sarita when he needed her?
He had some theories in that regard. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be seeing Sarita around here anymore. The police could look for her all they wanted. Good luck with that.
But he had to find someone to replace her, soon. Before he went back to work. Someone who could come into the house, or maybe someone he could drop the baby off with in the morning.
God, the things that had to be worked out.
And a funeral. He hadn’t even thought about a funeral.
He took the warmed bottle back upstairs, entered Matthew’s room. He’d already pulled himself up, was standing at the railing. Pretty soon he’d be walking.
“Hey, little man,” he said. He lifted Matthew out of the crib, held him in one arm, and handed him the bottle with his other hand. The baby grabbed hold and shoved the rubber nipple into his mouth.
“Yeah, you eat up,” he said.
How did you explain to a baby that his mother wasn’t coming home? What could you say?
“We’re going to be okay,” he said softly. “You and me are going to be okay.”
Downstairs, the doorbell rang. Police, Gaynor thought. Maybe here to tell him they’d charged that insane woman. Gaynor considered putting Matthew back in the crib, but didn’t think he should leave the baby alone while he sucked on the bottle.
Gaynor carried Matthew downstairs and opened the front door. There was a man standing there, but Gaynor knew he wasn’t from the police department.
“Bill, I’m so sorry,” the man said. “My apologies for not getting here sooner. It’s been quite the day.”
“Jack,” Gaynor said.
“May I come in?”
“Yeah, sure, of course.”
Gaynor closed the door as Jack Sturgess came into the foyer.
“If you want a drink or something,” Gaynor said, “you can go into the kitchen and help yourself, but I just . . . I can’t go in there. I had to get this for Matthew, but . . .”
“It’s okay,” Sturgess said. “I just wanted to drop by and see how you and the baby were.”
“Matthew’s . . . okay. I’m . . . I’m just trying to figure out what I should be doing first. I don’t know where to begin. I mean, the priority is Matthew. I’ve gotta look after him, and I don’t know the first thing to do. I’ve never made up the formula before. Rose did that, and Sarita. I’ve talked to the office, and I’ve been in touch with clients, and I had these people here—there’re actually companies that do nothing but clean up after . . . God, I don’t know if I can hold it together.”
“You’ll be okay. You will be. But you’re right: The important thing is Matthew.”
Gaynor looked misty-eyed at the doctor. “You’ve always been there for us. Every step of the way. Rose, she was so grateful for everything you did.”
The doctor rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You all deserved happiness. And I really thought you’d found it. You didn’t deserve this.”
“I thought, when I heard the doorbell, it’d be the police. Telling me they’ve charged that woman.”
“Yes, well, that may very well happen,” the doctor said.
“I guess it’s been all over the news.”
“Pretty much,” Sturgess said.
“The detective, he called me a while ago. They know about her history. About trying to steal the baby from the hospital. They’ll nail her with this, I just know it.”
“It may never get to that,” Sturgess said.
“What are you talking about?”
“She’s in the hospital. She tried to kill herself.”
Gaynor’s mouth dropped. “You’re kidding.”
The doctor shook his head. “But . . . she wasn’t successful.”
Gaynor said. “That’s, I mean, it’s an awful thing to say, but it would almost be better if she’d succeeded.”
“I don’t know how to respond to that, Bill.”
“I’m just thinking,” Gaynor said slowly, “that if the woman had died, if there was never going to be a trial, maybe they wouldn’t have to do any autopsy on Rose. They won’t have to . . . they won’t have to do things to her, cut her open. I can’t bear the thought of it. And even if this Marla Pic
kens woman doesn’t die, if she does go to trial, I mean, for Christ’s sake, it’s obvious what happened to Rose. All you had to do was see her lying there to know. Why the hell do they have to cut her open when it’s so fucking clear what happened?”
“Bill, I’m sorry, but they’ve probably already done that. It’s standard procedure, even in deaths that are pretty straightforward.”
Matthew was pushing the bottle away. He’d had enough for now. Gaynor handed the bottle to Sturgess, placed the child on his shoulder, and lightly patted his back. When Gaynor spoke, he whispered, as if the baby were somehow old enough to understand what he might be saying.
“I’m worried about that,” Gaynor said.
“About the autopsy?”
Gaynor nodded.
“About what it might show,” he said. “What else they might find.”
The doctor studied him. “I think you’re concerning yourself needlessly there.”
“But if they figure out—”
Sturgess held up a cautious hand. “Bill, I think I have an idea what you’re talking about, and you’re taking several leaps here. As you say, the cause of death in your wife’s case is pretty obvious. It’s unlikely anyone’s going to be looking at anything beyond that. I can’t think of any reason why they would.”
“You think?” Gaynor asked, still patting Matthew’s back.
“I do. You worry about your boy, and—”
“When will they release her? I have to plan a funeral and—”
“Why don’t I look into that,” Jack Sturgess said.
Matthew burped.
“Attaboy,” Sturgess said.
TWENTY-SIX
David
DURING dessert, the phone rang. Dad, Ethan, and I were sitting at the kitchen table, finishing up some chocolate ice cream, while Mom stood at the counter rinsing dinner plates. Dad and I had both told her to sit down, that she should stay off her leg, but she wouldn’t listen. When the phone rang she was standing right by it, and grabbed the receiver from its cradle.
I watched her face drain of color while she listened to whoever was on the other end.
“Okay, Gill,” she said. So now we knew who it was, and who it was likely about. “Keep us posted.” Slowly she hung up the phone.
“What is it?” Dad asked.
Mom looked at Ethan, wondering, I guessed, whether to discuss this in front of him. But the kid didn’t miss much, and before we’d sat down to eat he’d asked what was going on with my cousin Marla, so I’d told him. I left out the graphic details, including what I’d witnessed in the Gaynors’ kitchen, but Ethan knew Marla was in big trouble, and that the police probably viewed her as the prime suspect in the death of the mother of the baby I’d found her with.
Although Ethan didn’t say it, I think it may have put into perspective the trouble he was in with regard to the pocket watch.
“It’s okay,” I said to Mom. “I’ve explained things to Ethan.”
Mom took a breath and said, “Marla’s in the hospital.”
“What’s happened?” I asked.
“She . . . Agnes and Gill had taken her back to their house. Marla couldn’t go home. She was left alone in the kitchen for a second and . . .”
“No,” I said.
Mom nodded.
“What?” Ethan said. “What happened?”
I looked at him. “Marla tried to kill herself. Is that right, Mom? Is that what happened?”
She nodded again. “I have to get off my feet.” I shot up out of my chair and pulled hers out for her. Once she was settled in, I sat back down.
“How?” Ethan asked. “Like, with a knife? Did she stab herself? Did she turn on the oven and put her head into it? I saw that on TV once.” He might as well have been asking how birds fly. Pure, simple curiosity.
“Jesus, Ethan,” Dad said. “What a thing to ask.” He looked at Mom and asked, “How did she do it?”
“Her wrist,” Mom said wearily. “She cut her wrist.”
“That’s where all the blood comes out,” Ethan said, in case we didn’t know.
“You know what?” I said to him. “Why don’t you go do something?”
Ethan wiped his mouth with a napkin and dropped it on the table. “Okay.” He knew this wasn’t the time to push it.
Once he’d left the room, Mom asked, and not for the first time today, “What are we going to do?”
Dad said, “There’s not really anything we can do. Makes you wonder, though, if she really did do it. I mean, why the hell else would she try to kill herself?”
“You,” Mom said, looking at me. “You need to help her.”
“What would you have me do, Mom?”
“Really? You have to ask that? What have you spent your career doing? Asking questions, finding things out. You can’t do that for your cousin if you’re not getting paid for it?”
“That’s low,” I said.
“I don’t care! Marla’s family.”
“You want me to go around asking questions? What if I find out something that proves she really did this? What then?”
Mom pondered that for a second. “Then you’d find proof that she had a good reason.”
“Excuse me? For stabbing some woman to death?”
“I don’t mean it like that. I mean that she wasn’t in her right head. That she wasn’t responsible for what she did. If she did it, which I don’t think she did. Marla’s always been a good girl. Not quite like the rest of us, I know, but she’s not a mean girl. She’d never do anything like that. Not unless something had gone very wrong in her head.”
“Mom, honestly—”
“And besides, if it weren’t for her, you wouldn’t be sitting there right now.”
I went silent.
Dad said, “She’s got you there.”
I looked at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not the only one with a bad memory,” Mom said. “You’ve forgotten what happened that summer at Agnes’s cabin?”
Marla had alluded to something when we were in the car.
“Wait a sec,” I said. “The raft. This is about the raft.” Back then, the Pickenses had built a wooden platform, about six by six, floated it on sealed oil drums, and anchored it a hundred feet from the shoreline. We’d go out there and dive off it.
“We’d told you not to go out there alone,” Mom said. “And especially we told you not to do flips off it. We kept telling you one day you’d hit your head on the edge.”
“Which, one day, I did,” I said, the incident now starting to come back to me.
“You knocked yourself out,” Dad said. “You did a flip, whacked your noggin on the edge of the raft, and went into the water unconscious.”
“Marla saw me,” I said.
“She was sitting on the dock, dangling her feet in the water, mooning after you—she had such a crush on you,” Mom said. “She saw you hit your head and go into the water facedown, and you didn’t move a muscle. She went running up to the cabin, screaming at the top of her lungs that something had happened. Agnes and I were sitting at the kitchen table playing cards. Agnes ran out of that cabin like she’d been shot out of a cannon. Jumped in the boat and went out there and got you.”
“I don’t really remember it,” I said. “I only remember being told about it, after.”
“You lost about a day,” Dad said. “Of memory. Agnes saved your life, but she’d never have had a chance if it wasn’t for Marla.”
“Think about that,” Mom said. “And you’ve got nothing else to do. You might as well be doing something useful.” She put her hand to her mouth, then reached out and touched my cheek. “I’m sorry. That was an awful thing to say.”
“And it’s not exactly true, anyway,” Dad said. “The boy got a job offer today.”
Forty years
old, and still “the boy.” Still that boy who fell off that raft and nearly died.
“You did?” Mom said. “What is it?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I have to think—”
“Randall Finley offered him a job as his right-hand man,” Dad said. “How about that?”
Mom looked nearly as horrified as when she’d taken the call from Marla’s father. “Finley? That horse’s ass? He’s offered David a job?”
“What’s wrong with Finley?” Dad shot back. “He’s a good man.”
“What’s he want David for?” she asked him.
“I’m right here,” I said.
“Gonna help him take another run at the mayor’s seat,” Dad said. “I bet, with David’s help, he could do it, too.”
Now she looked at me. “I forbid it.”
I sighed. “I haven’t given him an answer yet.”
“It pays a thousand dollars a week,” Dad said.
“I wouldn’t care if it paid a hundred thousand dollars a week,” she said. I had to admit, for that kind of money, right now I’d have done PR for the Taliban.
There was a knock at the door. Mom started to push herself away from the table, but Dad was already on the move. Once he was out of the kitchen, Mom said, “You can’t be serious.”
“It’d help until something better comes along,” I said. “I’m not a fan of the guy, but it’s a paycheck.”
She put her hand on mine a second time and closed her eyes. “Do what you have to do. I haven’t got the energy for this, not with everything else that’s going on. But I want you to help Marla. Will you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I don’t know how. But . . . okay. I’ll . . . I don’t know . . . I’ll ask around. Maybe find something that helps.” I smiled sheepishly. “I don’t know how I could have forgotten about the raft.”
“We nearly lost you,” Mom said, and sniffed. “I can still see little Marla, busting into the cabin, looking like she was almost in shock, saying, ‘David! David! David’s gone!’ I’ll never forget it.” She caught a tear with her finger before it had a chance to run down her cheek.
“Someone for you,” Dad said, standing in the doorway, looking at me.
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