by Alice Walsh
“He blames me for Ariel’s death,” Claire said.
“Has he told you that?”
“No,” Claire admitted. “Not in so many words.” Absently, she looked out the window. “Bram’s restless at night, up at all hours. And he’s started drinking.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t blame you.” Lauren put a reassuring hand on Claire’s arm.
“Most marriages can’t survive the trauma of losing a child,” Claire said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I don’t know the statistics, but I can understand why. In the past when one of us was in crisis, we drew strength from the other. But now both of us are in so much pain, we just avoid each other.”
“Have you considered professional help?” Lauren asked. She should have realized Ariel’s death would put a strain on their marriage.
“I have an appointment with a grief counsellor after the memorial service,” Claire said. “Bram refuses to see her. In any case, I doubt anyone can restore the wreckage our lives have become.”
Chapter 16
As Lauren drove her car into the university chapel parking lot, photographers aimed cameras with telescopic lenses in her direction. At least they won’t be allowed inside, she told herself as she searched for a parking space. The lot was full and she had to drive around campus looking for a place to park. After some time, she found a spot near the Student Union Building.
It was cold, and a raw wind bit her face as she made her way to the chapel. As she neared the building, television reporters rushed toward her with their black bubble microphones. “Ms. LaVallee, do you think the killer will show up at the service today?”
Although Lauren had expected this, she was at a loss for words.
“Killers often show up at the funerals of their victims,” another reporter shouted.
Before Lauren could reply, Cyril Hynes, a security guard who worked for the university, appeared. “Come with me,” he said, taking her arm. “It’s really crazy around here.” By this time, more people were walking across the lot, and Cyril gestured for them to follow.
A swell of organ music greeted Lauren as she pushed open the heavy wooden doors to the chapel. The air was thick with the mingled aromas of burning candles, wood polish, and altar wine. An usher handed Lauren a program and led her to a seat at the back. She slid quietly into the polished pew and looked around. The chapel was already packed, and more people were streaming in. A poster-sized photograph of Ariel stood near the pulpit. Next to it was a small brass urn. Teddy bears, balloons, and flowers festooned the foot of the altar. Lauren studied the program, sadness washing over her. Ariel’s picture was there again on the front page, along with the dates of her birth and death.
It had been a long time since she’d attended church, Lauren realized as she watched ushers lead mourners to their pews. When she lived in Montreal, she used to enjoy watching Daniel “celebrate mass,” as he called it. Most of his sermons were about feeding the poor and taking care of “the least of these.” A deacon had once criticized him for being too liberal.
She watched as Patrick Shaw and Annabelle Chandler were led to a pew a couple of rows ahead of her. Annabelle was wearing a dark dress with a black shawl. Patrick wore a suit and tie, his blond hair carefully slicked back.
Lauren looked around the packed chapel. Bram and Claire sat in the front row with Claire’s parents, Emma, and Father Barry Williams, the priest. Anya Kaminsky, Mitch Cromwell, Andrew Collins, and a couple of Bram’s colleagues sat in the pew behind them. Not far behind were Claire’s students and faculty from the university.
Reverend Hunt, the chaplain, followed by a procession of chapel assistants, made his way to the altar, and the congregation rose. “Let us pray,” he began, and the mourners bowed their heads. “Dear God, you have called from this earth Ariel Elizabeth Warren.”
While the chaplain led the mourners in prayer, Lauren scanned the bowed heads. Was Ariel’s killer among them as the reporter had suggested? The thought unsettled her and she tried to banish it from her mind.
The chaplain finished praying, and the children’s choir sang “Jesus Loves the Little Children.” Then, one by one, various relatives and friends made their way to the altar.
Mitch said Ariel was the granddaughter he never had, that he would miss her sunny smiles. After Bram, Emma, and Claire’s parents expressed what Ariel’s short life had meant to them, Father Williams took the podium. “I baptized this precious child,” he began. “Little did I know that less than a year later, I would be eulogizing her.” He opened his arms as if embracing the congregation. “There is nothing more devastating than the death of a child. We have heard the heart-rending testimonies of those who knew and loved little Ariel. Her death seems so senseless, so contradictory to the natural order of things. At times like this, our faith is truly tested; we wonder, where is God?”
Claire spoke last. “Ariel was our gift from God,” she said. “Not only to Bram and me, but to all the people who knew and loved her.” She recited a poem she’d written for her daughter, her voice trembling, nearly breaking, as she read. By the time she finished, the congregation were dabbing at their eyes.
Following the service, Bram and Claire, along with Father Williams, stood by the chapel door. People stopped to offer condolences as they passed. Lauren remembered the priest; he had once come to the law firm to show support for a member of his flock whom she was representing. He’d been a great help to Claire during this difficult time and had often visited her at the jail.
Lauren was waiting to have a word with Bram and Claire when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned around to see Andrew Collins. “I was going to call you,” he said. “I was hoping we could get together.”
“Oh?” Lauren said, taken by surprise.
Andrew lowered his voice. “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about. Can I take you out to dinner tomorrow evening?”
Lauren thought of the things she had planned for the rest of the weekend: a meeting with Anya, clients to see. She and Emma were planning to drive to St. John’s to see the production of Othello playing at The Hall. “Tomorrow’s not good for me, I’m afraid. How about next Friday?”
“Can we meet sooner? This is something I don’t want to put off for too long.”
Lauren raised an eyebrow. “Well, we can have dinner at my house on Tuesday. Bring Riley if you want.”
“I was actually hoping to talk with you in private…without the kids.”
“Sounds serious,” Lauren teased.
“It is serious,” Andrew said, his voice grave.
“Come anytime after seven-thirty. I’ll have Bailey in bed by then.”
He nodded his head and turned to leave.
Lauren watched him walk away, his gait weary. What could he possibly have to tell her that was so important?
Chapter 17
Lauren rang the doorbell outside Dr. Kaminsky’s condo, taking in the SOLD sticker plastered across it in bright orange letters.
A moment later, Anya answered the door looking smart in a red blouse and black pants, her long hair swept back in an elegant French braid. “Come in, Lauren,” she said brightly.
“Thank you for seeing me so early on a Sunday,” Lauren said. “I’m sure you have better things to do on your day off.”
“This will benefit me as much as it will you.”
Lauren slipped off her shoes. “You were able to sell your home, I see.”
“Yes, but unfortunately my house on Duffy’s Mountain is still on the market. I may have to lower the price again.”
“It’s beautiful up there. I’m sure someone will be interested.”
“It is a long way from town,” Anya said, “and the price of gas keeps going up.”
Lauren followed Anya into the dining room. Cartons and boxes were stacked against the walls, dishes and ornaments piled on a sideboard. “Doesn’t Andrew Collins ha
ve a cottage on Duffy’s Mountain?”
“Andrew is my nearest neighbour. When he and Sylvia were together, they came to the mountain nearly every weekend. He seldom comes anymore.” She pulled out a chair from around the dining room table. “Have a seat,” she said. Anya was about to sit down when her cellphone rang. “I better get that,” she said. “It might be the hospital.” With the phone to her ear, she walked into the kitchen.
Lauren opened her briefcase, found the document she needed, and placed it on the table. While she waited for Anya, she studied the pictures on the wall. A photograph of a teenage Anya hung over the dining room table. Sitting next to her was a boy who looked to be a couple of years older—Anya’s brother, she guessed. There was also a photograph of a man and woman who she assumed were Anya’s parents. On another wall was a painting of a country house surrounded by birch trees; it looked amateurish, kind of folksy.
Amid the clutter on the table, Lauren noticed a set of nesting dolls. Instead of the typical stylized image of a woman in a red peasant dress, the outermost doll depicted Joseph Stalin. Lauren picked it up and pulled apart the middle. Inside were dolls depicting Gorbachev, Brezhnev, Lenin, and other Soviet and Russian leaders.
Lauren had no sooner reassembled the set when Anya came back into the room.
“I was just admiring your nesting dolls.”
“A gift from a friend in Russia.”
“A clever idea,” said Lauren.
Anya took at seat at the table. “Yes, I thought so.”
Lauren gestured to the painting of the country house. “Is that your work?”
“I dabbled in art,” Anya said, “but ballet was my true love. I wanted to take lessons, but my parents scoffed at the idea.”
Lauren smiled. “They wanted you to have a more practical career.”
“No, they wanted me to get married,” Anya said without emotion. She gestured to the photo of the teenage boy on the wall. “My brother, Dmitry, was groomed to be the doctor in the family. After we fled to Canada, he applied to as many as fifty medical schools but was rejected every time.” She smiled wryly. “I was accepted into St. James, the first school I applied to. I did it simply to show my parents I was more capable than their darling son.”
Lauren didn’t know how to respond, so she said nothing.
Anya pointed to the portraits on the wall. “We moved from St. Petersburg to Chechnya when I was a baby.”
“I’ve read about the war there. It must have been horrible.”
“It was hell,” Anya said. “One day we were living a normal life and the next, thousands of armed soldiers had invaded our city. The images are still with me like scenes from a bad movie. Bombs, gunfire, armoured vehicles in the streets. My family tried to flee to Dagestan, but its borders were closed. We camped on the border and went without food for days on end.” Anya shook her head as if to clear away the memories.
Lauren stared at her, unable to come up with an adequate reply.
Anya smiled. “It is all behind me now. I am excited about my new life in Alaska.”
“Claire said you’ve been planning this move for over a year. Where in Alaska are you going?”
“Savoonga. It’s an Inuit village that is very remote. I saw a photograph of it in National Geographic and decided I wanted to live there.”
Lauren looked at Anya with admiration. “You are an adventurous one. The people of Savoonga are lucky to get you as their doctor.”
“Thank you, Lauren. I will try to live up to that.”
“The worst thing about living in a college town is watching people move away,” Lauren said. “Even in the short time I’ve been here so many friends and colleagues have left. Frances and Annabelle are moving at the end of the term.” She turned to the document in front of her. “And speaking of moving away,” she added, picking it up, “an affidavit will allow you to give a sworn statement without going to court. By signing it you’re simply attesting, under oath, that your statement is true.”
“As long as I do not have to return from Alaska to testify.”
“The affidavit should be enough,” Lauren said. “However, there are no guarantees. The prosecutor may want to cross-examine you. I need to go over your statement to make sure everything is accurate.” She began to read: “On February 12, around 3:00 p.m., Claire Ste Denis called the clinic. She was very distraught—so distraught the receptionist could not understand what she was saying. I took the phone, and was able to get her calm enough to tell me that her baby, Ariel Elizabeth Warren, was not breathing. After calling 911, I decided to drive to the Warren-Ste Denis home.”
Lauren stopped reading and glanced at Anya, who gave a nod of confirmation.
“I arrived at 33 Sumac Lane at approximately 3:15,” Lauren continued. “Paramedics were already on the scene. They tried to revive the infant, but she had been dead for some time. The mother, Claire Ste Denis, was in a desperate state. Because she was so agitated, I gave her a sedative and helped her to bed. At the time, I concluded the cause of death was sudden infant death syndrome.”
Lauren looked at the doctor. “You knew Ariel was dead before the ambulance left,” she said. She’d often wondered why Anya had left the house that afternoon, letting Lauren believe the baby was still alive.
“I am sorry about that,” Anya said. “I know you and Claire are close and…well, I did not know how you would take the news.”
You thought I’d become hysterical, and you didn’t want to have to deal with that along with everything else, Lauren thought. But in a way, she could understand Anya’s decision.
“I now wonder if I made the right call by sedating Claire,” Anya said. “But she was incoherent and distraught.”
Lauren nodded, recalling what she’d read in the police report. “I’m surprised the paramedics didn’t call the police, considering that Ariel died at home under dubious circumstances.”
“I suppose the fact that I was a medical doctor who felt certain the cause of death was SIDS factored into their decision.”
“That makes sense,” Lauren said. She shoved the papers back in her briefcase and rose to her feet. She could see by the clock on the dining room wall that it was nearly 11:00. She and Emma were driving to St. John’s to see a play at The Hall. The play was at 1:00, and it was nearly an hour and a half drive. She would have to get a move on if they were going to make it.
Anya walked her to the door. “Take care, Lauren,” she said.
“You too, Anya, and good luck with your move.”
Lauren was walking to her car when her phone rang. She looked at the number: S. Roberts, long-distance. “Hello?”
“Lauren LaVallee?” the caller asked.
“Yes, this is she,” Lauren said, as she opened the car door and got in.
“This is Stella Roberts. My daughter Jade was a student in your criminology class.”
“Oh, yes, Ms. Roberts. How can I help you?”
“I was wondering if you’d heard from Jade.”
“I had a call from her the day before she left. Must be…oh…almost a month ago now. She wanted to meet with me. But the next morning she sent an email saying she wouldn’t be coming back to my class. That’s the last time I heard from her.”
“I’m very worried about Jade and Cara,” Stella continued. As she talked, Lauren became aware of the distress in her voice. “None of her friends have heard from her. It’s like she dropped off the face of the earth.”
Lauren felt a familiar dread. “Have you notified the police?”
“They said Jade was an adult, that she didn’t have to inform me of her whereabouts.”
“Maybe Jade needs some alone time right now,” Lauren said. “Maybe she’ll call once she’s settled.”
“I don’t know. I’m very concerned. I hope Jade didn’t…leave Cara with someone.”
“I’m not sure I foll
ow you, Ms. Roberts.”
Stella hesitated a moment before answering. “Jade mentioned that someone offered her money for Cara. At the time, she told me she’d never give up her baby, but…I’m worried.”
Lauren recalled what Jade had said the day she and Emma went to visit her: I could have got thousands of dollars.
“It’s a terrible thing,” Stella went on, “to think your own daughter could do something like that.”
Lauren gripped the phone. “You believe Jade sold her baby?”
“Jade can be impulsive, and…well…I did consider that possibility.”
“Do you know who offered Jade money?”
“Jade didn’t say who the person was, but I know for certain that she received a sum of money from someone in the drama department. She said it was a loan.”
Lauren gasped.
“I won’t keep you,” Stella said, “but if you hear from Jade, could you please call me?” She rattled off a number where she could be reached.
“Of course,” Lauren told her.
Lauren stared at the phone for a long moment, her mind racing. Was it a coincidence that Frances and Annabelle had adopted a baby around the time Jade and Cara had gone missing? Dinah Marie was around the same age as Cara. So much about the adoption was odd. Claire said Annabelle and Frances had switched doctors. Had they moved to Deep River so no one would recognize the baby? Lauren knew she wasn’t the only one who thought it strange that the couple never brought their new baby around the university. Come to think of it, she had never even seen a picture of Dinah Marie. And whenever there was mention of a baby shower, Annabelle or Frances would come up with some excuse for why they couldn’t have people over: the baby had a cold; they were too busy. Lauren frowned. Had Jade sold them her baby? Frances and Annabelle were leaving for Arizona at the end of the term. If they had Jade’s baby, no one would ever know.
