She Wore Mourning

by P. D. Workman

  “Right. That makes sense.”

  “Is that everything, then?” Halloran demanded. “I really do have to get back to work here.” He made a gesture to take in all the piles of paperwork on his desk.

  Zachary nodded. “I’ll be in touch.” He started to rise from his chair.

  “She can’t paint blue,” Halloran said suddenly.

  Zachary froze halfway out of his chair, then sat back down. “What?”

  “Since her son died, she can’t paint blue anymore. We’ve had her therapist in, and we’re working on it, but it’s damn inconvenient. What do you do with an artist who can’t paint the color blue?”

  “What do you do?”

  “We can’t put blue on her palette, but we can put purple or green. Each time we film, we put a little less red and yellow in those blends, trying to work back to pure blue. But the woman can’t paint blue skies or water. When you’ve got an artist, who is famous for painting landscapes, and she can no longer paint blue skies or water…”

  “But you can’t fire her for that.”

  “No. Of course not. That would be discrimination against the mentally ill. We have to find landscapes that don’t include blue. Sunrise and sunset. Trees inside a forest, with no view of the sky. We’ve started throwing in some portraits and still lifes, even though that’s not her thing.”

  “Nobody with blue eyes.”

  Halloran nodded. “Nobody with blue eyes. Combine that with trying to edit out her verbal tics…”

  Zachary raised his brows. “Her tics…?”

  “You’ve talked to her?”

  “Yes.”

  “She didn’t repeat a prayer when she was talking to you? For her son?”

  “Oh.” Zachary nodded. “May he hold you in the hollow of his hand.”

  “That’s the one. We can’t have her saying that every two minutes in the show. It has to be edited out. Every single time. She isn’t even religious. I think she’s an atheist!”

  Zachary wrote a few notes in his notepad. “You would say that her behavior has changed since her son died and that you have concerns about her mental stability.”

  “That better not get out to the press.”

  “No, I’m not talking to anybody about it, just making an observation. I wondered whether you shared any of Molly’s concerns, and it would appear that you do.”

  Halloran wrung his hands together briefly. “I hadn’t realized how much we have been accommodating her the last few months. Yes, we’re all concerned. If this show was to tank because of her mental instability…” He shook his head. “It would be very bad for the network.”

  Zachary pondered the information he had gleaned from Halloran and the few network employees he had managed to talk to as he scrolled through lengthy Facebook feeds and other social network sites, compiling background on his latest targets of interest.

  Isabella’s inability to paint the color blue was intriguing. The first thing that came to mind was that blue was the color to signify the birth of a baby boy. Even as they grew up, pink was for girls and blue was for boys. Neither color was exclusive, of course, and gender norms were changing too rapidly to keep track of it all, but in his mind, and in the minds of his generation and older, blue was for boys. Declan’s room was decorated in shades of blue and Isabella had said that she would never redecorate or repurpose his room. She intended to keep it just as it was. She must have associated her son with the color blue, and that was what prevented her from painting with it.

  He had observed the verbal tic without realizing what it was. While annoying, the repetition of the little prayer was appropriate. For someone who was religious, but for someone who was an atheist, or close to it, it was just one more indicator of how deeply she was suffering from the overwhelming pain and guilt at the death of her son.

  Zachary’s mind went to his own family, and suddenly he was no longer able to see the screen. He stopped scrolling. For a few seconds, or perhaps longer, all he could do was sit there, with old memories and impressions washing over him, holding him paralyzed. His heart thudded dully in his chest, each beat painful. Why, after all that had happened, was he still alive, still carrying on as if he were a normal person?

  He remembered the word that Kenzie had suggested. Not normal, but neurotypical. He liked the flavor of the word. It pathologized people with normal brain patterns, the same way that people with normal brain patterns had been pathologizing the atypicals for hundreds of years.

  Thinking this through helped to take him away from the memories. He was able to break out of the clutches of the past and look at his screen once more.

  After checking through the feeds of his current subjects of investigation, he searched for Spencer’s and Isabella’s accounts. Unsurprisingly, Spencer’s was sparse. Maybe Isabella had set it up for him, as he didn’t seem the type who would normally use it himself. Facebook was too messy for someone as tidy and orderly as Spencer.

  Isabella had a couple of accounts. She had a personal account. He could see Molly and Spencer on her friends list, but mostly, names and faces of people he didn’t know, who had nothing to do with the case. She also had a fan page for The Happy Artist. He didn’t know whether she had set it up and answered fan queries herself. Chances were, it had been set up by the network, and they were the ones managing it. There were fans sending their condolences, but mostly it was excitement and discussion over her latest shows. The accident had taken place months ago; it was no longer in the public’s awareness.

  Isabella’s personal account, however, was another story. She tended to post Madonna-like woman and child pictures and memes about grief and loss. Zachary saw that Spencer had posted a number of these somber posts onto Isabella’s timeline. No jokes and cute kittens for the couple. They were obviously still deep in the grieving process.

  The phone rang, and Zachary picked it up without looking at the caller ID.

  “Goldman Investigations.”

  “Mr. Goldman, this is Eugene Taft’s assistant? We talked before? I told you I would call you?”

  “Yes,” Zachary agreed.

  “If you would like to come down to the police station, you will be given access to the Bond accident investigation file. You won’t be able to make any copies or take anything with you, but you can make notes for your case.”

  “Great. Will that be available today, or do I need to wait for it to be pulled from storage somewhere?”

  “We’ve already pulled it for you. You can come down anytime.”

  “Perfect. I’ll be down to see it soon.”

  “You’ll need to sign a confidentiality agreement. The information on the files is only to be used in your own investigation, to verify the results of the accident investigation to the family. You are not, under any circumstances, to speak to the media or release any information to them. The police force always has to be sure to keep the details of a death out of the public eye, so that they can be sure of who has legitimate information and who might just be repeating information the police already have and trying to pass themselves off as knowing them first-hand.”

  Zachary turned this over in his mind. He took a sip of his cold, bitter coffee. “Does that mean the police force had doubts in this case? That there were details held back from the public that would only be known to someone who was there on the scene when it happened?”

  “I don’t know anything about the specifics of this case. I am speaking in general terms.”

  “You don’t know if they had any suspicions about a third party being involved.”

  “No, I don’t know anything about it,” she repeated.

  Zachary hung up the phone, still wondering whether she was telling the truth or trying to give him a heads-up.

  Spencer looked surprised when he answered the door and found Zachary on his doorstep once again. He stood there looking at Zachary.

  “I didn’t know you were coming by again, Mr. Goldman.”

  “Zachary.”

  “Zachary. Di
d you find something out? Something of significance?”

  Zachary thought back to poring over the police records. All the handwritten notes, pictures, and bits of scribbles. He wished that he could put his finger on one piece of evidence and say, ‘here it is, this is what the police missed.’ But so far, he was just seeing the same routine information pointing to an accident. No evidence of foul play. No one who wanted to hurt either Isabella or Spencer by hurting their child. There were lists of the registered sex offenders in the area with notations or brief interviews beside each name. Alibis. No one had seen any of them around the Bond home or near Declan. None of them had done any work there.

  “No, I haven’t found anything out. I just wanted to speak with you and Isabella again, now that I have a bit more information. Just a few additional questions.”

  Spencer didn’t answer immediately, then gave a sigh and stepped back to allow Zachary in. They went back to Spencer’s office as before and took their seats.

  “I don’t know what else I can tell you,” Spencer warned. “I wasn’t the one supervising Declan when he disappeared. I don’t know anything except that he was in our yard, and then he drowned in the pond.”

  “I understand. How has Isabella been doing?”

  Spencer shook his head. “You were here. You saw her.”

  “I did, but I don’t think I’m getting the full picture. I think there is a lot more going on than I can see. Than anyone who doesn’t live here would see.”

  “Of course… that’s true of anyone.”

  “I talked to Isabella’s producer and some of her coworkers.”

  “Yes…?”

  “Were you aware that she can’t or won’t paint the color blue?”

  “No. I don’t have anything to do with her painting. Why, what does that have to do with anything?”

  Zachary found it hard to believe that he wouldn’t know even that little bit of information about his wife’s painting. Wouldn’t it have come up in conversation? “Does the color blue have any significance for Isabella that you are aware of?”

  “Blue.” Spencer looked at him blankly. “No. Why?”

  “I’m just wondering if it has something to do with the case. Maybe she associates it with something. It could be a clue to what happened to Declan.”

  “No. Compulsions don’t really work that way. They aren’t logical or symbolic.”

  “Sometimes they can be traced back to a particular trigger,” Zachary pointed out.

  Spencer cocked his head, and his eyes narrowed at Zachary. “What would you know about that?”

  “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Sometimes… but not always; and as far as Isabella not being able to paint the color blue… no, I don’t think it has any significance at all. It’s just one of those bizarre things.”

  “What is it that concerns you the most about Isabella right now? Is there anything that worries you?”

  “The praying gets on my nerves more than anything. I’ve gotten used to her… messiness… the way that she collects things… but that same prayer over and over again, it grates on my nerves.”

  Zachary nodded. “I can see how it would. She’s doing it a lot, then?”

  “Compulsions are something that you can suppress for a little while by exercising self-control. I can sit here and not clean my hands again, probably for the whole time you are here. Or if I have to go to an outside meeting; but eventually, the urge becomes overwhelming, and I have to act.”

  Zachary nodded. “And her praying?”

  “She can stop while you are here. For a while. As soon as you are gone, she’ll start up again.”

  “Her boss said that they were working with her therapist. Has he come here too? Does he make suggestions of things that you and she can do to address her issues?”

  “He’s never been here. That’s the first I’ve heard of him going to her work. We are private people, Mr. Goldman. We don’t like putting ourselves on display.”

  Spencer didn’t, perhaps, but Isabella did. Every week.

  “Is there anything that would help Isabella? Her mother hoped that if I found something, it would alleviate her guilt and help her to recover. What do you think?”

  “I don’t think this is doing her any good.” Spencer shook his head. “I think she needs quiet. Not to be disturbed by people like you and by the network. Just give her some time by herself to sort it all through.”

  “I see.”

  “We have a couple of friends who are moving back to town. The Raymonds. I’m hoping that seeing them again, having a girlfriend she can talk to… maybe that will help. They moved to New York seven or eight years ago, and we haven’t really seen them since. Maybe they can bring back memories of what it was like before we had Declan. We—she—was happier then.”

  “She doesn’t have many friends that she can talk to?”

  “No. It’s not easy for someone like Isabella to make friends. She’s so emotional, and she lets herself get caught up in her compulsions. People want you to be normal.”

  “Neurotypical,” Zachary suggested.

  “Normal,” Spencer repeated.

  “Okay. Is there anything else? Have you thought any more about what happened the day your son disappeared? Anything at all.”

  “I’ve told you all I know.”

  “Maybe you could outline what a typical day was like around here. For Declan.”

  Spencer made an irritated noise in the back of his throat and shook his head.

  “He would get up in the morning on his own without being wakened. If Isabella was working, he would come find me, and we would have breakfast together. I would play with him, maybe read with him. Then he would play quietly until lunch. I would make sandwiches for us both. Turn on one of his cartoons, and he would fall asleep. When Isabella got home, she would wake him up and do something with him.”

  He stopped and looked at Zachary.

  “And after that?”

  “That’s when he disappeared,” Spencer said. “His day didn’t go any further than that.”

  “But on a regular day, what would happen after Isabella played with him?”

  “Our supper hour was pretty early. Then I would take Deck for his bath and get him ready for bed. We would read stories. Maybe watch a TV show. Then he would fall asleep around eight.”

  “That all sounds pretty… quiet. He didn’t get rowdy and noisy? Get into things when he was supposed to be entertaining himself? Argue or cry?”

  Spencer scowled, scratching the back of his neck. “Of course. Those are all normal child things. You asked what a typical schedule was. That’s what I gave you. But he wasn’t a trained dog; he had a mind of his own.”

  “So, he would disobey.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he ever leave the yard before when he knew he wasn’t supposed to?”

  “No, never.”

  “I want you to think about it,” Zachary insisted. “He never tried to reach the latch? Never climbed the fence to get a ball that he threw out of the yard?”

  Spencer considered these scenarios, actually thinking instead of just answering defensively. “He was a pretty quiet child. Not like some of the little demons you see around here. He usually tried to do what he was told.”

  Zachary waited for him to work through his answer.

  “There was one day when I couldn’t see him in the yard. When I went out to look and see what he was doing, he was talking to a woman over the gate. Not the back gate, the one to the front.” Spencer made a motion to the side of the house where it could be found, out of sight of his windows.

  “Ah. So how did you react to that? What did you tell him?”

  “First, I told the woman off for talking to him. Kids may not know better than to talk to strangers, but adults should know better than to approach children who don’t know them.”

  “How did she react?”

  “She was angry and defensive. She said he talked to her, and she just stopped to answer him
because he was so cute.”

  “And then you told Declan…?”

  “I told him he had to stay in the back where I could see him. Not out of sight of the windows. And that he wasn’t supposed to talk to adults who came up to the house. If someone came up to him, he should come inside and get one of us.”

  “How long was that before his disappearance?”

  Spencer rubbed the center of his forehead, thinking about it. “It’s hard to say. I don’t remember that clearly. Maybe it was a few weeks or a couple of months.”

  “Did you ever see the woman again?”

  “No. Not someone I ever saw again.”

  “Did you tell Isabella about it?”

  “Hm… Yes, I think I did. Just so she would be aware that part of the yard was out of view of the windows, and she should make sure Deck didn’t go over there… if he was out of sight, she should check there and make sure someone wasn’t trying to talk to him.”

  “And did she do that the day he disappeared? Did she go outside and check that part of the yard?”

  “Yes, of course. So did I. We both checked every inch of the back yard. It was obvious he wasn’t there.”

  “The police didn’t find any helpful footprints.”

  “No. They didn’t find much of anything,” Spencer agreed.

  “Did it surprise you that there wasn’t a clear trail to follow?”

  “No. Conditions that day… it was pretty dry. It had been for a while. The ground was hard and dusty. Declan wasn’t heavy enough to leave a trail to follow.”

  “And there were no footprints from a third party. No one who shouldn’t have been there.”

  “No.” Spencer shook his head. “He just wandered off, Mr.—Zachary. Maybe somebody had been in the yard and left the gate open. Somebody looking for bottles or something worth stealing. Or the woman who talked to him that day, to get back at us for being such rotten parents, in her eyes. Or maybe it didn’t latch securely when I took the garbage out because the wind caught it and kept it open. But he just wandered out. He wandered out, and he drowned, just like a hundred other kids.”