Cast a Blue Shadow

by Gaus, P. L.

  In the kitchen, Caroline rinsed out her Lincoln mug and poured herself a cup before the coffee had finished brewing. Evelyn, watching, read the expression on Caroline’s face and anticipated the need to talk about matters that had been left unsaid over the years.

  “You may have been too hard on Ben Schlabaugh, Caroline.”

  Caroline bristled instantly. “He nearly killed her!”

  Evelyn refrained from comment, and Caroline sat down at the table, heat dissipating quickly from her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Evelyn. I was there when he brought her in, lying in the back of that wooden cart like something out of fifteenth-century Europe. My land, Evelyn, she was nearly dead.”

  “Another way to look at it is that he actually saved her life.”

  “How can you say that? He had her hidden for three months, and you yourself swore out a complaint as her psychiatrist.”

  “Her parents always maintained that they knew where she was, and that Ben Schlabaugh was engaged to her and was caring for her as they wished.”

  “He used a midwife, Evelyn. They almost killed her.”

  “I haven’t told you everything, because after she got to know you, she asked me not to.”

  “Do you know that the only support that she got from her so-called Amish Brothers and Sisters,” Caroline said, “was the bishop showing up once at the emergency room? We didn’t know if she would live or die, and there stood that sanctimonious creep with two pillowcases full of money. ‘We pay cash’ is all he said. Turned and walked away like he had done nothing more than talk to a bank teller.”

  “What you don’t know is that Ben Schlabaugh helped pay her psychiatric fees when her family was shunned for buying a car.”

  “You mean turning Mennonite,” Caroline said.

  “It’s all the same to Amish. Once you’re out, they’re off of you like a dirty shirt.”

  “It’s too harsh, Evelyn. How many poor souls get cut loose like that every year? They never seem to make it, out in the world.”

  “When they find a new church home,” Evelyn said, “they seem to be OK.”

  “Then thank God for Cal Troyer.”

  Evelyn let a silence pass and then gently said, “Did you know that, when Martha first started talking again, it was to Ben Schlabaugh?”

  Caroline started crying, and Evelyn reached across the table to take her hand. “Caroline,” she said. “I’m going to tell you everything I can about Martha Lehman without breaking her confidence. You know most of this, but you need to remember before we talk to Ben tomorrow.

  “I first saw Martha when she was nine years old. It was spring. Her father brought her in and said, ‘You are a head doctor. Make her talk.’

  “For five years, I saw her every week, and she never said a word. So I devised other ways to draw her out. I brought her brothers and sisters into her sessions, and without exception, she was cold toward her older siblings and protective of the younger ones.

  “I’d start poems for her, and she would write out the finish to them. We worked jigsaw puzzles, and as soon as she got the border finished, she would lose interest.

  “By the time she was fourteen, I had concluded that she had been sexually abused as a very young child, perhaps as early as five years old, and that she was in jeopardy again as a teenager. That’s when I told the parents they should move. That’s when Cal Troyer got involved. He helped them understand how they could make a change and not forsake their faith. The bishop had them convinced that to leave an Amish sect meant a total loss of faith. At that point, she had her child.”

  “It’s Ben Schlabaugh’s,” Caroline said.

  “I’m not so sure anymore.”

  “It’d be easy enough to tell,” Caroline said.

  “Schlabaugh is Amish. He’d never agree to a blood test.”

  Caroline drew her hand away from Evelyn’s and dried her eyes with a napkin from a wooden holder on the table.

  Evelyn continued. “After her son was born, I saw Martha for another year and a half. Like I said, she first started talking to Ben Schlabaugh. He’d bring me bits and pieces of what she said. I won’t go into everything, but by the time she finished with me, she was talking freely, and went home to her newly-turned-Mennonite family. You picked up with her after that.”

  “She got her G.E.D.,” Caroline said. “She’s on one of our scholarships.”

  “I know.”

  “I hear a ‘but’ in there somewhere.”

  Evelyn locked her fingers together on top of the table. “There was always more work to do, Caroline, even before this episode.”

  “You said she talked freely.”

  “We never addressed her real problem.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “She’s still vulnerable to the deep psychological consequences of some early childhood episode. Her silence now may have been triggered by something else, but she still faces the need to confront old issues. Her memory will eventually bring it back. This new pregnancy may be the thing that has put her into relapse. Or the Favor murder could have done it. But, until her mind and heart are strong enough to handle the pain, she won’t be able to remember her childhood. And until those memories are cleansed, she can’t be truly healed.”

  “How long could that take?”

  “Some people don’t recover memories of severe abuse until they are forty or fifty. Then their world caves in, and they don’t know why. In therapy, sometimes, survivors can work through the trauma that they, as children, could never face.”

  “And you think Martha is like that?”

  “Very possibly. All we really know is that she’s not talking again.”

  “You said she’s protecting someone.”

  “That someone may be the very small and helpless Amish girl of five she used to be.”

  24

  Saturday, November 2 11:20 A.M.

  PROFESSOR Branden stopped at home on the college heights at the east edge of town and spoke briefly with his wife and Evelyn Carson, confirming that Martha was sleeping and, for the present, safe.

  At the courthouse, he found the long Favor limousine parked along the east sidewalk, blocking the spots at the hitching rail reserved for buggies. A county worker in tan Carhartt coveralls was tucking a note under the wiper blades on the driver’s-side windshield.

  Branden drove around behind the red brick jail, parked beside the bank building in an alley that had been plowed, and went up the short stack of concrete steps into the back of the jail, passing a man shoveling off the last patches of ice. The back door put Branden inside a long hallway. To his immediate left was the squad room, with lockers for the deputies and desks for the family court detectives. On his right were the doors to Interview A and B. He poked his head into B and found the Favor children, with lawyer DiSalvo, seated around a rectangular gray metal table, their winter coats hung over the backs of their chairs. They had been talking when Branden had opened the door, but fell silent as soon as they saw him. DiSalvo said, “Mike, can you hurry this along?”

  Said Branden, “I just got here, Henry. I’ll track down Robertson, and then we’ll get you all home as soon as we can.”

  In Interview A, Branden found Ricky Niell talking with Jenny Radcliffe. Her winter coat was piled on top of the metal table, and she was fiddling with her cigarette lighter. She glanced up forlornly at Branden, and Niell gave a little wave, indicating that they were fine for the moment just talking.

  Further down the hall, Branden passed Robertson’s office, door closed, on the left, and at the end of the hall he found Ellie Troyer-Niell in a long, flowered dress, putting her hair up in a bun. She smiled at him with her hands behind her head, working pins into her hair. Finished, she came out from behind her counter and hugged the professor. Leading him by the arm, she sat him down in her office chair beside a desk banked with radio electronics and stuck her left hand under his nose. “What do you think of those?” she asked, and waved her fingers in front of his eyes.

  Branden wo
bbled his head as if dizzy and took Ellie’s hand to inspect the diamond ring and wedding band. “Very nice,” he said, and kissed the back of her hand.

  On the intercom speaker, they heard Robertson say, “Ellie?” from his office. She pulled Branden out of her chair, sat down, pushed a button, and said, “Doc’s here, Sheriff. You think we ought to keep him, or chase him back up the hill?”

  They heard Robertson bellow through the thin, pine-paneled wall. “Tell him he’s under arrest for conspicuous consumption in a recession. Man’s got four cars, Ellie.”

  Branden leaned toward the microphone and motioned for Ellie to hold the button down. “And you and Missy have made how many trips to Chicago this year? I hear it’s the Chicago Renaissance Hotel, no less.”

  “I like that town,” came the answer. “And how’s about some coffee in here?”

  Ellie switched off, and walked Branden back down the hall to Robertson’s door, carrying a carafe of fresh coffee from the maker on her desk. She pushed through the door ahead of the professor, took a mug from Robertson’s credenza, and poured coffee for Branden. Then she went around the room, giving refills to Captains Newell and Wilsher. She stopped last at Robertson’s massive cherry desk and sat on the corner there, waiting for all the world as if she expected Robertson to say something pleasant. Robertson held out his coffee cup and said, “Please,” and Ellie poured out the last of the brew. At the door, she turned, said, “I’ve seen all of your suspects, Sheriff. They don’t look like killers to me,” and left.

  Branden took off his coat, held it across his lap, and dropped into a leather chair in front of Robertson’s desk. Wilsher was seated to Branden’s left. Newell stood by the north windows of the large corner office, gazing out at the snow. Before anyone could speak, Ricky Niell came in, closed the door, and said, “I don’t think Jenny Radcliffe is going to tell us very much.”

  Robertson leaned back heavily in his swivel chair and balanced his coffee cup on his belly. “Odds are she didn’t kill Favor,” he observed. “For now, let’s get our facts straight, before we talk to any of them further.” To Branden he said, “Then I’m gonna want to see your Martha Lehman.” To everyone, he added, “In the meantime, we run everything else, just like we would normally do.”

  “Assuming Martha didn’t kill Juliet Favor,” Branden corrected.

  “For now, at least,” Robertson agreed.

  Ricky pulled a chair away from the wall where Robertson had tacked up his collection of law enforcement arm patches, sat down, straightened the creases of his uniform pants, and said, “That whole house was wide open when I got there, and I think it probably was unlocked all night, too.”

  “That agrees with what Bliss told me,” Newell said. He sipped some coffee, turned away from the windows, and took a seat to Branden’s right, facing the sheriff. “Four or five people could come and go, front and back doors and all, plus two separate staircases, and they might never see each other.”

  “The house is noisy,” Branden said. “You can easily hear what’s going on in the next room.”

  Newell said, “The intercom system can be set so you could hear a conversation on the first floor while listening from the second or third floor.”

  “What’s on the third floor?” Robertson asked.

  “A workout room and a sauna,” Newell said. “It’s pretty nice. And she’s got a workout schedule tacked to the wall that would tire out a horse. She’s got a chart on the wall, where she has been marking off reps for each workout. She had to be in great shape.”

  “You’d know if anyone would, Bobby,” Robertson said.

  Branden asked, “Do I have it right that Sally Favor overheard her mother talking to Sonny about the kids’ trusts?”

  Niell said, “Right. She was going to put them on an allowance, rather than let them have their money.”

  Robertson said, “Jenny doesn’t think Sally will lose a dime, once the will is executed.”

  Observed Niell, “They didn’t know that last night.”

  “Right,” Robertson said. “So that might have been a motive at the time. That and two dozen others. But mother and daughter had a fight over it in front of Henry DiSalvo. I’m sure he could tell us a thing or two about that family.”

  “It’s more complicated than just the family,” Branden said. “Even professors are suspect. Phillips Royce, for instance, will inherit some money. Probably a tidy sum.”

  Wilsher said, “There’s no evidence of blood at the scene, except on the foyer floor, on the stairs, and in Favor’s bed. Her head of course, too.”

  “We don’t have a cause of death, yet,” Robertson said. “At least not an official one.”

  “Nothing from Missy?” Branden asked.

  “Working on it,” Robertson said.

  Niell said, “I think Jenny disliked Favor more than Sally did. Stands to reason, I guess.”

  “Why?” Robertson asked.

  “She’s protective,” Niell said. “Of Sally. And as tough as she is, Sally has still cried a tear or two over this. There might be a wedge we could drive between the two.”

  Newell asked, “Is there any way to map the movements, or make a chronology of who was where? Maybe for the dinner party, or later last night?”

  “There were people everywhere,” Branden said. “Bar, kitchen, library. Plus the parlor and dining room, which you’d expect for a dinner party.”

  “Bliss isn’t going to be any help,” Robertson said. “Even if he were inclined to help, he was in and out, plowing a lot of the time. I don’t think he even saw Favor retire.”

  Wilsher said, “I’ve still got men shoveling snow. Not going to find anything, is my guess now.”

  “We do know who left after the crowd, and in approximately what order,” Branden said.

  Robertson nodded, said, “But not only those left in the house can be regarded as suspects. Someone could have come back.” He looked pointedly at Branden.

  Branden wondered nervously when Wilsher’s men would bring in the bloody clothes from Sonny Favor’s car. As long as Martha was under Dr. Carson’s care, Robertson would have to wait to learn anything more about Martha. Just a few more hours. Time to let Martha heal, he thought. Time to get her back to talking, before she faced the aggressive sheriff.

  Wilsher said, “I doubt if we’re going to get anything out of the three kids. Not if they’re smart.”

  “It’s Henry DiSalvo who’ll prove to be the smart one,” Robertson said.

  “And Bliss,” Branden said.

  “I don’t like him,” Newell said. “Won’t tell us anything about the family.”

  Robertson rocked forward in his chair and set his cup on the desk delicately. He took a pencil and began to tap the eraser end slowly on the rich cherry wood. “Ricky, you stay on Jenny for now,” he said. “I’m guessing that DiSalvo will keep Sonny and Sally together for interviews. Mike, you can help with that.”

  Branden nodded, stood up, and hung his coat on a rack beside the door.

  “Bobby,” Robertson concluded, “you help Dan with the physical evidence. Find out what Missy has, as soon as she’s got something. This case is going to boil down to that. The physical evidence. Because I doubt anyone is going to confess. The bloody clothes, first. And don’t forget the green pitcher. I especially want to know about that.”

  Out in the hall, Niell took the professor aside and said, “Did you know Favor had affairs?”

  Intrigued, Branden said simply, “Yes,” and waited.

  “With the art professor?”

  “Her current,” Branden said.

  “With Dick Pomeroy?”

  “There were rumors.”

  “How about with the president of your grand institution?”

  “Arne Laughton?”

  Niell nodded.

  Branden arched an eyebrow.

  “Then there’s something more with Sonny Favor’s girlfriend,” Ricky said. “She evidently had it going on with your art professor, too.”

>   25

  Saturday, November 2 11:45 A.M.

  SERGEANT Ricky Niell retrieved his uniform waistcoat from the peg in the sheriff’s office and exited the jail through the main entrance in front of the Civil War monument on the snow-covered courthouse square. He circled the tall sandstone courthouse using the plowed sidewalks, and crossed Monroe Street, where the Favor limousine was still parked in spaces reserved for buggies. Several curious Amish lads had their hats off, pressing their faces to the tinted windows of the long vehicle. The worker in Carhartt coveralls was standing in slush at the curb, talking indignantly with the driver of a tow truck backed up to the rear bumper of the limo. Niell allowed himself only a wry smile on the outside, but inwardly enjoyed a head-back belly laugh. Without comment on the imminent towing operation, he bought a pack of cigarettes at the BP station and walked into the back entrance of the jail with a sense of satisfaction that almost troubled him.

  Inside Interview A, he took off his coat, handed the cigarettes to Jenny Radcliffe, and sat down next to her, near the end of the gray metal table. She opened the pack immediately, lighted one for herself, and offered one to Ricky. He declined.

  After a suitable pause, Ricky said, “I checked in the other room, Jenny. I got the impression Sally wants to see you.”

  “I’ll go over there,” Jenny said and started to rise.

  Niell touched her forearm. “I’m afraid Sheriff Robertson won’t allow that.”

  “What a pig!”

  “It’s Sally’s lawyer, too, Jenny. He’ll agree with that. You’ve got your own lawyers coming down from Wooster, not that you need them.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Mr. DiSalvo will keep you separate. That’s how he’ll handle his responsibility to Sally and Sonny. He’s their lawyer, not yours.”

  “If you told her that I wanted her in here with me, she’d come.”

  “I suppose it’s worth a try,” Ricky allowed, sympathetically. “I doubt Robertson would go for it, though.”