by Inga Vesper
‘Bitch.’ Ruby puts down the pot and lashes out, but Mimi dodges into Pa’s room, where Ruby last saw the hatbox on top of the closet, next to the broken guitar and the suitcase with Momma’s church dresses.
Tears press at her eyes once more. The geraniums turn into splotches of red and brown. She picks up the pot and maneuvers it toward the kitchen. She’ll put it up on the fire escape and hope for the best.
Pa, driven out of his room by Mimi’s frantic searching, comes in just as she jimmies the window open. ‘What the hell is that?’
‘Gift from the boss,’ Ruby murmurs and hauls the pot upwards. ‘I’m just gonna—’
At that moment Mimi rushes into the kitchen, hatbox in hand. ‘Here, Pa,’ she shouts. ‘Can I have—’
And she bumps right into Ruby’s back.
The pot drops from her arms; she tries to grab it but it’s too late. It hits the floor with a crack and breaks apart into three shards. Earth spills out, and flowers and petals and tangles of dried-up root.
‘Idiot.’ Ruby pushes Mimi into the hall. ‘You stupid bitch. They gonna take that out of my pay.’
‘You’re clumsy as a cow,’ Mimi retorts. ‘Anyway, those were damn ugly.’
Pa grabs them both and pulls them apart. ‘Girls, stop it. Mirabelle, get your ass to your room.’
‘I’m going out with Pam and Ginnie.’
‘No, you aren’t. You’re staying put till that room of yours is cleaned up. And Ruby, you take that shit out of my kitchen. We ain’t got space.’
‘But Mr Haney gave me—’
‘I don’t care. Throw it out and stop fighting with your sister.’
Ruby sobs. She doesn’t want to, but she just can’t stand it anymore. The yelling, the anger, the damn awful heat. And now that she’s out of work, it’s gonna be this way all day, every day.
She takes the trash can from under the sink and begins to pick up the shards. What was left of the geraniums is now flattened by the weight of earth. Their roots are entangled around a few white sticks, and when she pulls at them, they come apart. She picks them up and dumps them, then shovels the earth up with her hands. Underneath the roots is something else, something curved and white. Porcelain? An old, white planter?
She brushes the earth away and picks it up.
The world stops. Her breath sticks in her throat. A cocoon rises up around her, drowning out all sound. She can do nothing but stare at what is in her hands. So small and delicate and terrible.
Pa turns around. His jaw drops. He says something, but the words do not make it through. He reaches out and pulls her up. The tiny, white skull falls from her hands and onto the earth, to nestle once more among the roots where it has been sleeping all this time.
*
Next thing she knows, Joseph is there. He pulls her to his chest and everything goes dark. She finds her breath again. It comes out in great heaves against the warmth of his shirt. Somewhere behind her, Pa is exclaiming, ‘Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord.’ Mimi is crying. Even Joseph shakes. He keeps repeating something. ‘I told you there’d be trouble. I told you. I told you.’
Ruby stays motionless until he pushes her away. He darts over to the window and pulls the curtains shut, even though only Superman could possibly get a look in. Then he kneels down and pokes at the skull with a fork.
A baby skull. Ruby, now freed from her spell, cannot stop looking. It’s so perfect. Round and white, with large eye sockets covered in dirt. She wants to clean them out so the little thing can see. Joseph prods at the earth and finds what looks like a hand with tiny finger bones. There are more bones nestling among the roots. The sticks. The sticks are bones. It’s a whole baby. Buried under the plants.
Joyce’s baby. Joyce had a baby and she never told no one. Except me. She told me to take care of it.
‘Blanke,’ Ruby says. ‘We need to call Detective Blanke.’
Joseph looks up and anger bursts onto his face. ‘I told you not to get involved.’
‘And I told you I ain’t involved. This is not my fault.’
‘You brought this home.’
‘Joyce always said I should look after them.’ Ruby’s voice goes brittle as paper. ‘She told me to take care of—’
Joseph jumps up and grabs her shoulders. ‘Ruby, goddamn. What’s going on? What did she tell you? What do you know?’
‘I know nothing.’ She pulls his hands off. ‘Please. Let me call Detective Blanke.’
‘No detective. We’ve got to get rid of that.’
‘You can’t.’ Ruby looks at the little skull again. ‘The detective needs to know. It’s important. Please, let me call him.’
‘The hell I will.’ Joseph starts spooning earth and bones and wilted petals into the trash can with his bare hands. ‘We’re gonna dump this. Somewhere far away. Glendale, perhaps, or somewhere on Cross.’
‘No.’ Ruby throws herself against him. ‘Leave it.’
‘Ruby, you’re hacked. Get off me.’
‘No.’ She punches Joseph’s arm. ‘It’s a crime scene. Leave it.’
‘Ruby.’
‘Don’t touch anything.’
Joseph drops the earth from his hands, scattering bone fragments. ‘Do whatever. But I’m gonna cut out.’ He throws a dark look at Pa and slinks out of the kitchen.
‘Suit yourself!’ Ruby shouts. ‘Save your sorry ass and don’t ever haul it back in here again.’
‘Ruby, honey.’ Pa’s voice is very soft. ‘Maybe he’s right. We shouldn’t—’
But Ruby cannot bear it no more. She grabs the change she got from her bus fare and darts out the door. No way she’s gonna call from Mrs Estrada’s phone. She runs down the street and on to Brookes, and keeps running and running until she finds a pay phone that isn’t all smashed up. And all the way she is praying that the detective is in his office.
Chapter Twenty
Mick
S
ometimes there is no way to sugarcoat things. There is a dead baby spilled out over the Wright family’s kitchen floor. Mick makes sure to breathe slowly. He’s seen skeletons before, and this is not the worst specimen. There was poor Giuliani in the acid barrel, with bits of flesh hanging from him like rags from a scarecrow. Or the remains of the prostitute who washed up on East River, with all the soft bits nicely chewed away and only her girdle and stockings holding her together.
But those were adults. Failed, nasty, dangerous adults, who maybe didn’t deserve what they got, but did their share of bad things to folks who didn’t deserve it, either. This one . . . this is different.
The baby peeps at him from hollow eyes, a little fairy head growing in the ground. Flower petals lie scattered over the skeleton. The geranium roots have grown through the ribcage, embracing it with an odd gentleness. The sight moves something deep inside him. Little baby angel. Why were you hiding from us?
Behind him, Ruby sniffles. ‘What are we going to do?’
He gets up. Ruby is sitting slumped on a kitchen chair, terror written all over her face. Her sister lingers in the bedroom door. Old Mr Wright is pacing up and down the hall, muttering prayers under his breath.
Ruby looks up, and with a shot of embarrassment Mick realizes he’s been staring. He clears his throat and considers touching Ruby’s arm to stop her from shaking, but then decides to pour her a soda instead.
‘Here,’ he says. ‘You need sugar, as my wife would say.’
She drinks in small sips. Tears brim in her eyes and Mick desperately searches for the right words, and finds nothing. ‘Lay it on me, now,’ he says. ‘Tell me everything that happened today.’
Haltingly, Ruby explains. Mick listens until he’s sure she has gotten it all out.
‘So,’ he says, ‘Joyce told you to look after the geraniums? When?’
Ruby shifts in her chair. ‘A few weeks ago. I was watering the pot. She came out and we were talking about how nicely they were coming on. She said this was her favorite treasure, and’ – she stifles a sob – ‘and if she was ever going
away I should look after it.’
‘She said she was going away?’
‘Something like that.’
‘And that didn’t strike you as odd?’
‘I thought she meant a vacation or something.’ Ruby’s eyes swivel toward the heap of earth. ‘I swear I didn’t know about . . . about this.’
Mick nods. ‘Of course.’
‘But they won’t see it that way. They’re gonna say I knew what was inside. They’ll wonder why I asked to have it. And Mr Haney’ll blame it all on me.’
Yes, that’s a problem Mick’s been thinking about. ‘I’ll figure something out,’ he says. ‘This won’t come back to you.’
Old Mr Wright pokes his head in and mutters darkly: ‘That’s what Ruby said before. And now look at that mess.’
‘Have you got a crate of sorts?’
Ruby thinks. ‘We have a tray.’
‘Can you spare it? You probably won’t get it back.’
She pushes a chair up to the cupboard and produces a battered breakfast tray covered with flower-patterned oilcloth.
‘That’ll do.’ Mick takes a pan lid from the dish rack by the sink and gingerly scoops up the baby’s body. Then he brushes up as much earth from the trash as he can and adds the shards. Finally, he covers the tray with a dish cloth.
‘What are you going to tell them?’ Ruby asks.
‘Oh, something or other. Can I use your phone?’
‘We ain’t got one.’
‘Oh.’
‘Why? Who’re you gonna call?’
‘The chief. He needs to get a medical examiner in.’
‘Don’t you have a radio?’
‘Sure. But I don’t want the whole station to hear.’
‘And . . . and there won’t be trouble?’
‘I’m going to get yelled at a fair bit.’ Mick grins. ‘But don’t worry about that, OK? Now, I’ll take that thing away and you lay low for a few days and get some rest. Treat yourself to something.’
He immediately wishes he hadn’t said that. But Ruby nods, the closed-up look creeping back into her eyes.
He means to say something more, but can’t. There’s a barrier in between them, built up over centuries. And try as he might, he cannot tear it down.
*
If Genevieve Crane is surprised to hear from him again barely two hours after he left her Pontiac, her voice does not betray it. In fact, she sounds a little amused.
‘I need your help,’ he says, ‘but it could potentially lead to a bit of trouble.’
‘I’m all ears,’ comes the response.
‘Some evidence in the Haney case has shown up, but I cannot reveal how exactly I got it. I need to keep someone out of the conversation. So, how would you feel about having taken a drive this morning, along President Avenue?’
‘I think I might have quite enjoyed that.’
‘Good. Now, during that drive you ran into Ruby Wright, didn’t you?’
‘I guess so, if only I could recall who she is.’
‘Joyce Haney’s cleaner. She was carrying a big pot of geraniums, wasn’t she? Joyce’s geraniums.’
‘Oh, yes. I remember.’
‘And since she was struggling with the heavy pot, you offered to take it for her. And that’s how I came to spot it on your lawn after we went to see Deena. You asked me to carry it round to the garden for you. But clumsy me, I dropped it in your driveway.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes, and you gave me an old breakfast tray to carry away the shards.’
Mrs Crane chuckles. ‘That sounds very much like me. But tell me, Detective. What surprise have you found in the flowerpot?’
Mick clenches his hand around the receiver. ‘I’d rather not say. Not yet.’
‘Come on, I have to know. I’ve made it a habit not to lie for a man without good reason.’
‘You’re not lying. You’re just helping me establish the truth.’
‘The truth about what?’ There is an edge in her voice now. ‘What on Earth have you found?’
Now that the truth has stared up at him from a pile of earth, he is somehow reluctant to voice it. It’s always been his theory that Joyce had a dark, little secret she concealed even from her loving husband. Especially from him.
‘Well . . .’ He squeezes his chin with his free hand. ‘Remember how we talked about abortion?’
A little pause. ‘Yes?’
‘I have uncovered evidence that Joyce Haney might have had another child.’
‘And you think she aborted it?’
He pictures the perfect little skull, the finger bones as delicate as lace, the ribcage, enmeshed in roots.
‘I am not sure.’
‘You think the child might be alive?’
‘It is definitely not alive.’
‘Oh,’ Mrs Crane says, and then, more quietly, ‘Oh, my.’
‘Please. I will explain it all eventually. Right now I just need your assurance that if my boss freaks out you’ll back me up. And in front of Mr Haney, too.’
‘All right.’
‘Thank you. Listen, I’ll call you, and maybe then we can talk it over.’
‘Sure,’ she says. ‘But, Detective, I must ask for a favor in return.’
Mick holds his breath. ‘Yes?’
‘I know why Joyce went to see Dr Morton. She needed more medication. The amount she was getting from her regular doctor . . . they just weren’t enough. She was over-excited. Nervous. Exhilarated. Frank found it difficult to cope with her.’
‘Did you recommend this doctor?’
Another pause. ‘Yes. But . . . this is the favor I need from you. I will lie for you about the flowerpot, and you will ensure Dr Morton is not linked to me or my committee. He acts in the best medical interest and with utter professionalism. He is very understanding toward the women.’
Mick lets that sentence hang. But Mrs Crane is wise enough to say nothing more. For a few seconds, her breathing is the only sound on the line, calm and constant like the distant rush of waves.
‘All right,’ he says. ‘You got yourself a deal.’
*
Two hours later, Mick watches Wilson, the medical examiner, bend over the tray of bones. He cannot help mention the abortion theory, which prompts Wilson to point out that this baby was ‘carried to term’.
Mick eventually deciphers this to mean that it was fully grown, and that whoever carried it would not have been able to conceal the pregnancy. It’s been dead for a while, which is sort of staring them in the face. But Wilson cannot estimate a cause of death or the age of the corpse. The only guess he deigns to make is that the child has probably been in the pot for at least three years, judging by the absence of flesh and the roots growing through the elfin ribcage.
Mick lets his mind wander. Three years. Just before the Haneys moved to Sunnylakes.
‘We’ve got to get Frank Haney in,’ he says to the bones. ‘The man has some explaining to do.’
*
Murphy sends Hodge and Officer Souza to the house. One hour later, Haney, flanked by the two officers, is paraded through the station. He looks anything but happy.
‘Was that really necessary?’ is the first thing he says when he’s made to sit down opposite Mick in the interview room. ‘You’re making me look like a criminal in front of the whole neighborhood.’
Mick leans across the table. ‘That’s what worries you? Don’t you want to know what’s new? Why you’re here?’
‘If you had found Joyce, you would have called me.’
‘True. Well, here’s the surprise. We found something else.’ Haney looks up, fear dancing in his eyes. Almost imperceptibly, he leans away from Mick.
‘Your housekeeper,’ Mick says. ‘She took a pot of geraniums away today?’
‘Yes. Why? Whatever she said, she’s lying. We let her go, so she’s probably trying to—’
‘She said nothing. She gave the flowers to Mrs Crane, where I confiscated them. During transport, the pot was brok
en. Want to guess what was inside?’
‘I don’t know. And I’d appreciate it if you got to the point.’
‘Well.’ Mick balls his fists. ‘We found skeletal remains.’
Haney snaps for air. His chest heaves up twice and his voice breaks. ‘Joyce?’
‘An infant. A newborn baby.’
Silence. Then a shudder runs through Frank Haney’s body as if the man is bursting apart from the inside.
But Mick’s not here for sympathy. ‘Care to explain?’
‘I don’t know.’ Haney gasps. ‘I don’t know. I . . . I can’t imagine how it got there.’
Yes, you very well can, Mick thinks.
‘Mr Haney, I ask you again. Do you know whose baby that is?’
‘No.’
‘It’s Joyce’s flowerpot. How long has it been in the possession of the family?’
‘I really don’t know. The flowers were her job. I only deal with the mowing and the trimming and the—’
‘Mr Haney, did you move here with the pot or did you buy it in Sunnylakes?’
‘I don’t know. The movers—’
‘I will call them for the inventory list. It’s just more work for me.’
‘I think we did bring it from Philadelphia.’ Haney slumps. ‘Yes, Joyce insisted we take it in the car. She loves geraniums and . . . Oh, God.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t . . . I can’t . . .’ All of a sudden, tears well up in his eyes.
‘How many children do you and Joyce have?’
‘Two, Detective. Just two.’
‘Judging by the decomposition, we estimate the child to have died at least three years ago. Just before you moved to Sunnylakes.’
‘Yes . . . perhaps.’
‘Mr Haney, is there anything you want to tell me?’
‘I love my wife,’ Frank Haney stammers. ‘I love her. I never meant . . . Oh, God help me.’
‘How did that baby end up in the flowerpot?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was your wife pregnant before you moved to Sunnylakes?’
‘There was no baby.’
‘So, she was? What happened? Did she have an abortion? A very late one?’
‘Never. She would never . . . There was no baby.’