by Inga Vesper
‘Stop that.’ Ruby grabs Barbara’s arm and brings her to a halt. ‘Come on, baby. You have to tell me. Where did she go?’
Instead of an answer, Barbara freezes. She points a finger over Ruby’s shoulder and beams. ‘Oh, look. There’s Mommy now.’
Up the driveway walks Mrs Ingram, in her yellow dress and the matching hat. She holds Lily by the hand, the two of them strolling in unison, Mrs Ingram bending a little at the hip to reach all the way down to the bulb of Lily’s fist.
Barbara tears herself away from the tree and runs down the path. ‘Mommy,’ she yells. ‘Mommy.’
Mrs Ingram lets go of Lily and opens her arms. Barbara throws herself in and is lifted high into the sky.
‘Oh, darling,’ says Mrs Ingram and plants a kiss on the girl’s hair. ‘You are getting heavy.’
Then her eyes meet Ruby’s and she breaks into a smile. ‘Ruby, perfect timing. Could you take these two? I’ve got to go to work.’
Ruby cannot move. The spell is not quite broken. It could have been Joyce on the path. Joyce, in the afternoon light, laughing and playing with her kids.
‘You look spooked,’ Mrs Ingram says. ‘Any more men stalking the woods?’
‘It’s Barbara,’ Ruby replies and takes Lily’s hand. ‘She called you “mommy”.’
‘I know. It’s not the first time.’ Mrs Ingram’s face grows serious and she lowers her voice. ‘I told Frank the girls should see a doctor. It is too much stress for their little heads. Oh, Lucille. Yoohoo, we’re home.’
Mrs Haney senior peers out of the door. ‘Ruby, you have work to do.’
‘I was just running after Barbara,’ Ruby replies. ‘She was outside, and—’
‘You let go of that child.’ Mrs Haney senior yanks Lily away from Ruby and shouts back over her shoulder: ‘Frank, I wish her not to touch the children.’
Ruby slips back into the kitchen, where the floor has dried. She leans against the sink and breathes, twice, thrice, until her heartbeat slows down to a level where she ain’t gonna keel over and drop dead.
Outside, Lily starts wailing. There is a commotion in the hallway and soon Mrs Haney senior raises her voice from the living room. ‘The children need a proper home. I have said before, I don’t mind taking them back to Pennsylvania, out of this infernal heat.’
Mr Haney’s answer is inaudible, but his mother replies: ‘It’s too much to put on poor Nancy. And I’ve raised children all my life.’
The rest of the conversation is drowned out by Lily’s screams. Soon after, Mrs Haney senior pops her head into the kitchen, wailing Lily on her arm and Barbara, her face all closed up, by her side.
‘I am going out with the children,’ she says. ‘I want you to leave now. Frank is in no state to supervise your work.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Ruby looks at Mrs Haney senior’s feet. ‘Of course. It’s been an hour and—’
‘You’ve done hardly any work at all. I don’t see why you should get paid.’
And with that, she sweeps out of the house and slams the door. A few seconds later, a car engine roars and fades out.
Ruby takes off her apron and hangs it away. She empties out the bucket and puts it under the sink. Then she steps onto the terrace and slides the kitchen door shut. Now the geraniums are gone, the garden has lost its color. All that remains are a few dried-up, paper-thin petals, huddling in the corners.
She walks around the house. The stillness is making her nervous. When she reaches the living room windows, she hears Mrs Ingram’s voice. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ There is something treacly in the quietness of her voice. ‘It calms the children down. And that would help you, wouldn’t it? Frank, darling, I—’
‘Hush, Ruby is still here.’
‘No, your mother sent her home.’
Ruby presses herself against the wall. If she walks on now, she’ll have to go past the window. They’ll see her. And a pulsing nausea in her guts tells her that would be very, very bad.
‘It’s not right, Nancy,’ Mr Haney responds. ‘I don’t want them to forget their mother. Please. Next time they call you “Mommy”, you tell them not to.’
Mrs Ingram sighs. ‘But I am tired of being Auntie Nancy. I want more, Frank. You know that I would be a wonderful mother.’
‘They have a mother.’
A sharp, little laugh. ‘Yes, one who is pumped full of chemicals. Who lets the help run the house and dumps her own children with the neighbor at every opportunity. You know how much I’ve been taking care of these kids, Frank. Come on, let me take care of you . . .’
‘Get off me.’
Something clatters in the lounge. Mrs Ingram’s voice, when she next speaks, is whiny, almost pleading. ‘What’s wrong with you, darling?’
‘This can’t go on. This . . . You coming over here. Joyce is missing.’
‘Darling. You’re so tense. You—’
‘Of course I am damn tense. It’s been a week.’
‘Yes. A week, Frank. Now think about how I’ve felt, for more than a year. All that waiting and hoping and running for the phone and not leaving the house, just in case you—’
‘Come on, it’s not like I forced you into it.’
‘But I didn’t think you’d drag it out for so long.’ Mrs Ingram’s voice somersaults. ‘You’re insane to wait for that frigid, uptight bitch.’
There is a pause. Ruby digs her nails into her thighs. The memory of Mrs Ingram’s sheets floats into her mind, the look she gave her. Now she understands. Mrs Ingram really was showing off. Marking her territory. The sheer primitiveness of that makes her skin crawl.
‘She’s my wife,’ Mr Haney says, his voice deep and vile. ‘You knew that from the start.’
Mrs Ingram laughs. ‘Ha. Tell me, darling, what do you see in her?’
‘She’s the mother of my kids. That’s what I see in her.’ Mr Haney seems to hesitate. ‘The good life.’
Mrs Ingram scoffs. ‘The good life. And here you are, mocking me for wanting just the same. A house and a husband and two beautiful girls to love me.’
‘Nancy, you’re mad.’
Another little laugh, like the clink of glasses. ‘I know you’re not the perfect husband. Darling, did you do it? Did you tidy that lovely, crazy wife of yours right out of your life?’
‘Shut up.’
‘No, I won’t. I know you weren’t in Palmdale. Where the hell were you, Frank? Hiding? Waiting? Burying a body?’
‘Nancy, darling, I would never—’ Mr Haney makes a sound that’s almost a sob. ‘Oh, God. Please, not you, too. I’m innocent.’
‘I drove to Palmdale on Sunday night. I wanted to surprise you.’ Mrs Ingram sighs. ‘I even took Monday off. All morning I waited for you in that motel. But you didn’t show up. And when I finally went to the convention center . . . well, they didn’t let me in. But I saw your day badge on the table. Frank, you didn’t go to the conference. You weren’t there.’
‘I . . .’ A groan. ‘I was just driving. Clearing my head . . . I needed to get away from the house . . . Nancy, you must never, ever tell anyone about this.’
‘Of course not. Same as I won’t tell anyone about you forgetting that you gave me your gun on Friday.’
Mr Haney groans. ‘God, Nancy, please. I feel like everyone is after me. Promise you believe me. I did not hurt Joyce.’
There is a pause, filled only by the sound of shuffling. Then Mrs Ingram’s voice again, soft and light, like Marilyn Monroe’s.
‘I promise, darling, if you promise you’ll marry me when all this is over.’
‘Nancy, I—’
‘Hush. I know what you need, darling. I know best.’ More sounds of shuffling, and then a quiet little moan.
Enough. Ruby sneaks along the wall, back toward the terrace. She walks up to the garden shed, flexes her toes and jumps. Her fingers grab the ledge and strain under her weight. Lord, she’s not a child no more, but a woman with the weight to prove it. She scrambles against the wall, sets her toes right and h
eaves herself up.
The tar on the roof is soft with sunlight. Her shoes leave little indents as she tiptoes across. At the far end, she counts to three and jumps.
She lands with a thud and rolls into the trees, where she listens for noise from the Haney house. But nothing stirs behind the fence.
All right. She struggles to her feet, shakes out her blouse and wipes her tarry palms on some moss. The lake is just a few yards away and she sits down at the bank.
The water lies serene and the houses are quiet. Candy houses in a magic forest, where women disappear and witches guard their palaces and their enchanted men.
She can’t make sense of what she’s heard. Mr Haney wasn’t at his convention. He insists he doesn’t remember giving the gun to Mrs Ingram. Her. How she appeared, in that dress, and Barbara running toward her . . .
A peal of laughter echoes from the forest. Ruby spins around, but there is no one there to see. The noise dies down before she can locate it, and the stillness returns. The only sound remaining is in her head, where her thoughts are whirring at light speed.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Mick
O
n Sunday night, Mick finds a Moses basket on his doorstep. He picks it up, but then he sees that the baby is a skeleton. It’s Sandy. Something’s gone terribly wrong. He tries to hide her so Fran won’t find out. But she does anyway and backs him into a corner. Mick turns around, his heart pumping, the weightless baby in his arms, and it’s not Fran but Joyce, in a yellow dress and immaculate lipstick. She holds a knife in her hand and he realizes then, with debilitating horror, that it was his own blood on the kitchen floor all along.
He wakes up. His mouth tastes like vomit and his sheets are drenched with sweat. Carefully, he turns to check if he’s woken Fran. Nope, she’s still piling up the Z’s in blissful innocence. Her naked shoulder peers from the sheets, and the sight of it sends a little swirl of warmth into his guts.
He’d expected a row. After McCarthy’s arrest, he missed dinner over the paperwork and came home late, his ear still hot from his calls to Ruby and Florence Delawney and Sergeant Major David Potter from the US Armed Forces base in Philadelphia, who confirmed everything Mick already suspected about Jimmy McCarthy.
But Fran didn’t sulk. Instead, she poured some whiskey and they sat down in the kitchen and talked. Really, properly talked. She listened patiently to his sweaty, sweary account of Jimmy’s arrest. He apologized for working so hard. She flashed him a smile, and he remembered the gun barrel in his face and took the opportunity to kiss that soft spot on her shoulder.
The station is busy with Monday cases – wife-beaters, drunk drivers and the occasional loose woman recovering from a long weekend. Mick makes some strong coffee and airs his office. The sky is blue like a Sanforized sleepsuit and the sea breeze smells of salt and gasoline.
His mind drifts to the case of Deena Klintz. Deena – born with brains and enough moxie to want something better from life. She knew about Joyce and Jimmy. After Joyce’s disappearance, she might well have put that knowledge to use. A bit of blackmail here, a bit of hush money there. Until Jimmy put an end to her games.
Someone crosses the hallway. Moments later, a voice like a foghorn shatters the silence. ‘Fuck me, what kind of hellish brew is that?’
‘Yankee blood, Murphy,’ Mick yells. ‘Proper good stuff. Choke on it.’
The door bursts open. Murphy enters, looks around for a chair and frowns. ‘Blanke, you troglodyte, the polite thing is to offer the chief a seat.’
‘I made a request two weeks ago.’ Mick grins and sips his coffee. It is strong and dark and dreadful. ‘Seems my boss hasn’t processed the forms.’
Murphy gives him a dark look. ‘You better fill me in. Who’s this McCarthy and what do we have against him?’
‘Quite the pile. He was Joyce’s lover before she met Frank. Went to Korea with the last shipment and couldn’t forget her. After he returned, he asked her to leave Frank. She refused. They lost contact after the Haneys moved down here, but a few weeks ago he showed up again. On Saturday he broke into the house. He simply walked through the back door and said he was looking for some paintings.’
‘And that’s all?’
‘He owns a gun. It’s in the lab for ballistics tests. And then there’s the fingerprints on the beer bottles in Deena’s trailer.’
‘What about them?’
‘Two fingers missing, same as the ones on the bottle found in the Haney house. I spoke to McCarthy’s sergeant major. McCarthy was a Korean prisoner of war. He lost them under torture. Plus, a silver car, just like what he drives, was seen at both crime scenes. Mrs Ingram, Joyce’s neighbor, saw it the afternoon Joyce disappeared. And Deena Klintz’s neighbor said she saw a silver car drive away shortly after she heard the exhaust bang. But I think it was the shot.’
‘Why would this fellow kill Deena?’
‘Joyce and McCarthy used to meet at Deena’s house, so she knew of their affair. Joyce spoke to Deena that afternoon. She might have told her McCarthy was coming over. When Joyce disappeared, Deena might have tried to blackmail him. I saw her on the day after Joyce Haney vanished. She was coming from the house, putting something into her purse.’
‘How the hell did she . . . ?’ Murphy moans. ‘Hodge.’
‘Yep. We found one of Joyce’s paintings in her trailer. Perhaps there were others that would have given Jimmy away. But Jimmy McCarthy wasn’t going to bow. He’s a violent man, and Korea made him worse. The army gave him a dishonorable discharge because of his rages. I wouldn’t be surprised if—’
‘OK, let’s say he killed Deena. But Joyce?’
‘She didn’t want him. So, if she didn’t want to come willingly . . .’
‘God, Blanke.’ Murphy’s eyes widen. ‘Do you think he kidnapped her? Maybe she’s still alive.’
A gentle wave of nausea sweeps along Mick’s throat. ‘I don’t think so. Kidnapping takes planning and cool. This was a crime of passion. Things gone wrong between lovers.’
‘I thought she was frigid.’
‘With Frank, anyway.’
‘What kind of woman closes up against her husband but lets another guy taste the clam?’
Mick shrugs. ‘Let’s assume Joyce and Jimmy were in love. Or at least they had an affair. He wants her to come away with him. Joyce sends her daughter outside so Barbara won’t see the strange man in Mommy’s bedroom. But then she changes her mind. They fight. He runs off. Joyce phones Deena and tells her about it. Deena called several times that afternoon. But then Jimmy returns. He injures Joyce, or maybe even kills her. He gets rid of the body and leaves the area to lie low, until Deena contacts him. She wants money to keep quiet. He goes to her place and shoots her. And that’s that.’
‘All right. Say, who’s the lady who witnessed the car? Is she trustworthy?’
‘Mrs Ingram. A family friend. Lived in the area for a while. She’d notice a strange car.’
‘That’s good.’ Murphy shifts his weight. ‘In fact, that could be the deciding clue. If she is willing to testify. Tell her she’ll get half the money now, and half after the court case. And you need to talk to Frank Haney. Give him a little pressure. He’s not entirely off the hook. We still need an explanation for the dead baby.’
‘Will do, boss.’
Mick waits for Murphy to leave and calls Mrs Ingram. She repeats what she said at the exhibition and swears she didn’t know Jimmy was back in town until Ruby pounded on her door. Yes, she’s prepared to go to court and testify about seeing Jimmy’s car drive away just before Joyce was found missing.
He didn’t mention the break-in on Friday to Murphy. A tiny part of him worries about that. It’s the wonky puzzle piece, the bastard cousin in this case. Why did Jimmy McCarthy want the paintings? He should have run, should have driven north and never looked back. Why did he stick around? Why did he book a room under his own name?
He wipes the doubt away. Who knows why scumbags like Jimmy McCarthy do what t
hey do?
*
Once again, traffic stalls around the Harbor Bridge construction site. Ahead of Mick, cars snake over the dusty hills. The Buick’s engine hisses and splutters from the constant stop-start.
He recalls a time when a passing car was enough to bring the kids out running from the backyards of Troy. For little Mickey Blanke, a ride in the car was the neatokeano. It meant you were either going to a wedding or to the hospital. He remembers vividly how it made you feel like John Carter in a rocket ship to Mars. Now, he is the proud owner of his very own car, and mostly he just rolls along at walking speed, cursing and groaning and sweating through his shirt.
It takes him half an hour to find a parking space near the Griffin Corps headquarters, and he still has to walk three never-ending LA blocks. But at least the receptionist, pretty in a cellophane-wrapped sort of way, is courteous and friendly. She calls Frank Haney and asks him to come down. Five minutes later they are sitting in the deli across the road, mugs of weak coffee steaming between their palms.
Haney is looking tired. The strain has carved deep lines around his mouth. His eyes lie in shadow and his skin is porous and sallow. Mick tries to be cordial, to make this a chat among men, a sympathetic attempt at the truth.
‘Yes, I know of Jimmy, of course.’ Frank bites his lip. ‘Nasty piece of work. Joyce dated him before . . . well, before he joined up.’
‘You’ve never met him?’
Frank snorts. ‘Of course not. I would have booted his sorry ass all the way back to Korea.’
‘Did you know he was in the area?’
‘If I had, I would never have left Joyce alone.’
‘Deena said Jimmy and Joyce were going to run off.’
‘Deena was a two-tongued snake. I wouldn’t trust a word from her mouth.’ Frank Haney’s guard goes up almost as quickly as it came down. ‘Well, I didn’t mean to . . . She was not a particularly pleasant woman.’
‘Yet Joyce and her were friends.’
‘I guess. Maybe Joyce felt sorry for her.’
‘Why do you think Deena would tell me the relationship between your wife and Jimmy was serious?’