by Bush, Nancy
“We’re with the Laurelton Police Department,” Gretchen said, holding out her badge.
The woman zeroed in on the badge, so September showed hers as well. She blinked several times and said, “I’ll be sure and let her know. There’s an alcove with a back door to the central patio. You can either wait inside or out.”
“Inside,” Gretchen said.
“It is hot,” the woman said, trying on a smile that looked like it was a bit rusty.
September and Gretchen moved to the area she mentioned and sat down on a padded bench beside each other. They could look through the windows to the enclosed patio. Several elderly women were seated under the covered section, half in wheelchairs.
“You ever think about being old?” Sandler asked.
September turned to her in surprise. “Not really. Do you?”
“I just can’t see it happening to me,” she said. “I’m gonna burn out early.” Before September could think of a response, she added, “Dom’s off tonight, so we’re going out, thank you, God. He’s probably no better than any of the rest, but there’s got to be something more than the job.”
A large woman with heavy breasts and short gray hair appeared from around the corner. She wore pink scrubs and when she came toward them her brows were drawn into a line and her eyes were full of suspicion. “I’m Sofia Markam,” she stated, stopping directly in front of them.
“I’m Detective September Rafferty,” September said, standing to meet her. “You spoke to my brother, Detective August Rafferty, a few weeks ago about Dr. Frank Navarone. In that interview, you mentioned that your sister worked at Grandview when it was still a mental hospital, possibly when Dr. Navarone worked there. I was wondering if I could get in touch with your sister.”
“I never met any Detective August Rafferty.”
“He goes by Auggie,” September said.
“I spoke to a man who said his brother was Hague Dugan. He didn’t give me his first name.”
September held a beat. “Um . . . yes . . . he was working undercover.” This was a half-truth because, yes, though Auggie worked undercover on various task forces, it hadn’t been quite that way on the Zuma case. Damn him for forgetting to tell her what he’d told Sofia.
“Could I see your ID?” she asked.
September dutifully pulled out her badge again, as did Gretchen who was starting to look annoyed.
She examined the badge carefully, then handed it back, and crossed her arms under her ample breasts. “You want to reach my sister?”
“Yes. When did your sister work at Grandview Mental Hospital?”
“About ten to fifteen years ago, give or take. The hospital closed over five years ago.”
September quickly calculated that Glenda would have been about fifteen or sixteen at the time. That fit.
“You want to know more about Navarone? I thought he finally got put in jail.”
“We’re investigating the death of his niece, Glenda Navarone Tripp,” September admitted. “And we’re just looking for background on the hospital as well.”
“I thought he killed her to cover up something.”
“It doesn’t appear that way,” September said.
“My sister’s name is Dawn Markam-Manning,” she finally said reluctantly. “She didn’t work there long. A couple of years is all. Let me give you her number.” September pulled out her notebook and Sofia gave her the digits. “She works nights at Laurelton General,” she finished.
“Thank you.”
As they walked back down the hall, Gretchen said, “Laurelton General. Everything keeps circling back to our area.”
“Yeah.”
“Auggie didn’t tell her he was a detective. Any idea why?”
“I’m sure he had his reasons, but I wish he would’ve told me. Sofia’s a lot like . . . well . . . Mrs. McBride.”
“Oh, that’s just wonderful.”
September smiled. “You don’t have to go. I don’t even want to go, but in the name of being thorough, I might as well interview her while I’m here.”
“I’ll meet you in the Jeep,” she said and they parted ways at the reception area.
September walked down the hall, aware of an underlying smell of disinfectant and a surprisingly enticing scent of baking bread as they neared the lunch hour. She hadn’t liked hearing Gretchen’s assessment of how she expected to burn out early and realized she wanted the whole enchilada: career, love, marriage, and a family. She understood her sister July’s desire to have a child, not that she was ready for that yet herself, but she certainly hoped that was part of her own life plan.
Jake’s visage floated across her mind and she shook her head. A high school one-night stand did not a relationship make. Still . . .
It took a while for Amelia McBride to answer September’s knock. The white-haired, stooped ex-teacher came to the door leaning on a cane and peered at September sternly through sharp, brown eyes. “Do I know you?”
“I’m September Rafferty. My brother, August, was in your homeroom when we were in the second grade.”
She thought about that a moment, then said, “You’re twins.”
“Yes,” September answered. Apparently she and Auggie’s relationship was memorable enough that both Osborne and McBride remembered.
Her gaze dropped to where September’s jacket had pulled away and she saw the badge clipped at September’s right hip. “You’re a police officer?”
“I . . . yes. Both my brother and I are with the Laurelton Police Department.”
“Well, you’d better come in.” She shuffled back from the door and September entered her apartment.
The place was stuffy hot, but McBride didn’t seem to notice. Her age, probably, September concluded and decided not to ask to open a window or ask for the air conditioning to be turned on. “I retired shortly after your year,” the older woman observed as she sank with a sigh into a La-Z-Boy chair and pulled an afghan over her lap. “That was a difficult year.”
“How so?” September asked, as she perched on one of the two wooden chairs around a narrow table near the kitchenette. She couldn’t believe she needed a blanket in this room.
“It’s always a different mix of kids. Ratio of boys to girls. Social development rates. Temperaments of the families . . .” She said it grimly and September recalled the same “mean face” she’d exhibited to the kids—er—children when she was a younger woman. “We had a lot of boys that year,” McBride finished.
“The boys were what made it difficult?”
“I don’t remember their names. Wouldn’t have remembered yours if you hadn’t told me. I just see the faces.” She sucked on her teeth and shook her head. “That one child . . .”
“Yes?”
“What is it you’re looking for?” she asked.
September thought a moment, then launched into the tale of the artwork that was sent to her, how she’d seen it on the bulletin board in the picture from her homeroom class that Mrs. Peterkin had pulled up, how she was thinking someone from her class might have ended up with it.
“He would have had to have stolen it,” Mrs. McBride stated flatly.
“Maybe he took it off the bulletin board.”
She shook her head and sucked on her teeth some more.
“You were mentioning one child from the class. A boy, maybe?” September prompted.
She made a face. “We had several that were problems that year. Home life wasn’t what it should be. One of them was an object of ridicule for wetting his pants at recess. Another one brought a knife to school. Another one kept pantsing his friends.” She frowned. “Was that Tim . . . no . . . maybe he was from a different year. Had to keep sending them all to the office. It was a revolving door. Just get one back, send another one down.”
“Was there anyone called ‘Wart,’ do you remember?”
“These were second graders, my dear. They bandy around bad names all the time.”
“This might be a nickname.”
&n
bsp; She shook her head.
September felt like she might pass out if she stayed much longer, so she stood up, thanked Mrs. McBride, and then said she’d let herself out, when the older woman struggled to get up. McBride waved at her in acquiescence and ordered, “Make sure it’s locked.”
Once she was in the outer hallway, September tested the knob and found it secure. The staff had keys to all the rooms, but McBride was safe within her oven from unwanted strangers.
Gretchen was driving them back to the station as September placed a call to the number Sofia had given her for Dawn Markam-Manning. It rang four times before it was picked up. “Hello?” an impatient woman’s voice answered.
“Hello, is this Dawn Markam-Manning?”
“Who are you?” she demanded.
September quickly launched into who she was, how she’d gotten her number, and what she wanted to know in terms of information. “Anything about Grandview Mental Hospital that may have included Dr. Navarone’s niece, Glenda Navarone Tripp. I also want to—”
“Glenda Tripp was murdered. I saw it on the news. If anyone did it, it was probably her uncle. Look, I was not a fan of Navarone. Didn’t my sister tell you? He used dangerous, dangerous methods. He got his license revoked for damn near killing someone he was supposed to be helping!”
“Her uncle was cleared of any involvement in her death,” September said, realizing she’d hit a hot button.
“Keep looking at him,” she advised. “He’s a bad’un.”
Dr. Navarone was a zealot who believed in himself and his healing practices beyond all reason, but he hadn’t killed his niece. September tried another tack. “Did Glenda visit her uncle at the hospital?”
“While I was there? Maybe a time or two . . . I don’t know for certain.”
September said, “We have information that she may have had a sexual encounter during that time on—er—her uncle’s examining table.”
Dawn made a strangled sound. “How did you hear that?”
“Do you know something about it?” September asked when Dawn didn’t deny it straight out.
“Well, Glenda was kind of a wild thing, in those days. Something happened on the examining table. We all sort of suspected, so we hid it from her uncle.” There was a bit of satisfaction in her tone.
“Could it have been with another patient?” September asked.
“I don’t know.”
“All right. Was there someone with the nickname of Wart there at that time?”
“Wart . . .” She turned that over in her mind for a few moments. “No . . . we tried to discourage that kind of thing. It was like name-calling, and it would send some of the patients into a rage.” She paused, then said, “There was one, though, that stuck even with the staff. The boy’s name was Hague, but everyone referred to him as The Hague, which I didn’t get at first, until I found it was the center of government in Holland. This Hague was always ranting about something political, so he got tagged with that.”
“Hague?” September repeated, with a sinking heart. Hague Dugan couldn’t have been the one, could he? But then Dawn answered that question for her, by adding, “But he was there a few years after I left.”
“Okay,” September said with a kind of relief. It didn’t sound like Hague and Glenda could have been at Grandview at the same time. “Let me ask you about another murder victim. There was a Grandview patient around the same time, Emmy Decatur. Were you there—”
“Oh, yes. I remember Emmy.”
September gave Gretchen the thumbs up. “Was there something particularly remarkable about her?” September asked, because of the way she’d cut in.
“Only in the fact that her parents acted like she was off to college, or something. They never faced that she was in a mental institution. Bet they wish they could change things now, but it’s too late.”
“What was she being treated for? She is another victim,” September repeated, even though she had said as much, in case Dawn decided to question whether she ought to spill private information without a warrant.
But Dawn had no such compunction. “Anorexia . . . bipolar . . . recreational drugs. She was a hot mess, but she pulled it together, the last I heard. It’s a shame, what happened to her.” And then, hearing herself, she added, “I wouldn’t put this past Navarone, either.”
“Do you mind if I call you again? It might come up in the investigation.”
“Sure. But you’re wasting your time. Dr. Frank Navarone is your man.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” September said and clicked off.
“So?” Gretchen asked as she turned the Jeep into the station.
September brought her quickly up to date. “A lot of pieces, but no jigsaw puzzle,” she finished.
“That’s the way of it. It’ll come together.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I am,” she said confidently.
Chapter 15
By the time September was home, through the shower, dressed, and applying some new makeup, it was almost seven o’clock. Jake was undoubtedly on his way, but she felt rushed and a bit overwhelmed. She’d tried on three different outfits, frustrated with herself for caring so much, and in the end she’d chosen a mid-calf black skirt and a salmon-colored sleeveless top with silver hoop earrings, the kind she eschewed while on the job.
She’d put a call in to Auggie, wanting to basically chew him out for not being square with her about what he’d told Sofia, the nurse at Grandview Senior Care, and leaving her to fumble her way through the interview. He didn’t answer, so she hung up and texted him her complaint, figuring he’d get that before a phone message.
Now, she slid her phone in a side pocket of her messenger bag, slipping her Glock into the bag’s large interior along with her wallet. The whole thing felt too bulky for her outfit, but she didn’t care. Slipping on a pair of black leather sandals, she took a hard look at the image in the mirror, seeing storm clouds in her blue eyes directed solely at herself as the doorbell rang.
“Okay,” she told herself, not quite sure what she meant by that, as she went to answer the door.
Jake stood on the other side in a pair of black pants and a gray shirt, darkly handsome and surprisingly serious. She felt her smile of greeting fade on her own face. “What?” she asked him.
But he was gazing at her in a way that made her self-conscious. “You don’t look like a cop,” he finally said.
“That’s good. I thought maybe there was something else wrong.”
She gave him a long look, but he just said, “You ready?”
“Just let me get my bag.” She grabbed up the messenger bag and then walked ahead of him down the stairs to his Tahoe. “Where are we going?” she asked, as they headed out of the lot.
“Have you ever been to La Mer?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He drove south, but though they held a conversation, it was all small talk. His mind was elsewhere, probably on whatever he wanted to talk to her about. Thirty minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant that looked high over Lake Chinook. September climbed from the Tahoe and glanced at the black and silver awning overhead as they walked to the front door. They entered an anterior room with rich, dark paneling and piped in string music. The maître d’ smiled at them and led them past intimate booths with flickering votives to the back patio, also beneath a black and silver canopy, and to a table for two that overlooked the green lake far below.
As soon as they were seated, September leaned forward. “Okay, out with it. You’re starting to make me crazy.”
“I thought you weren’t going to be a cop. Where’s the small talk?”
“I’m not good with it,” she said seriously.
“Point taken. Neither am I, really.” He picked up the wine list, looked at it, then set it aside. “I saw my dad last night. Both of my parents, actually. I wanted to talk to them about your mother. After searching through the attic with you, and finding that no
te, and everything . . . I wanted to ask my dad about the day Kathryn died. I wanted his take on it.”
September made a face. “Oh, Jake. No . . . I’m sorry I blamed him. I thought—”
“This wasn’t about how you acted about him when you were eleven. After you found the note, I just wanted to know if he thought it could be true. About your father and Verna.”
“I know you thought I jumped to conclusions.”
“I did. I did think that. But my father . . .” Jake looked at her, his eyes searching hers. “He remembered that day. And he remembered the note your mother got. She was upset and driving fast and the accident happened. You were right, Nine. The note set her off.”
Her throat felt hot. She hardly knew what to say. “It’s not fair, you know,” she said. “My father tried to shift blame to Nigel. He said . . .” She drew a breath.
“I know what he said.”
“I knew it wasn’t true. I always did. I just wanted to blame someone else besides my father.”
He reached across and clasped her left hand with his right.
She felt a quiver overtake her from head to toe, and she had to pull back though she didn’t want to. Emotion thrummed through her like a live wire. This was crazy wild, a seesawing ride that ran from low to high and back again. It was dangerous. Especially because it was Jake.
“Can we . . . talk about something else?” she asked on an intake of breath.
“Sure.”
“I wish I were hungrier.” She half-laughed. “Sorry.”
“We can leave,” he said.
“No, we can’t leave. We just got here. Don’t be so understanding, Westerly,” she said.
“It’s back to Westerly, huh?”
“Makes it a little easier for me. But, no, I don’t want to leave. I’m just, absorbing.” She nodded several times.
The waiter came and took their drink order. She asked for a glass of Pinot Gris and Jake had a scotch on the rocks. Then they both ordered salmon with a basil pesto sauce and September did her best to do it justice. By the time their waiter brought the check September had recovered a little bit of equilibrium, and when Jake reached for her hand again as they walked beneath the front canopy and across the lot to his Tahoe, she was able to clasp it without feeling like she was going to fall into a schoolgirl faint.