“You sure do. Tell us all about this scandalous secret life that poor Mary Pat Sheehan was living,” Edwin said, settling into his chair as if it were a theater seat.
Hot coffee sprayed from Frank’s mouth. “How the hell do you know about that? Did Earl tell you? Wait’ll I get ahold of him…”
“Earl? No, we haven’t seen him for days. We heard it from Jen,” Edwin explained. “Her nephew’s engaged to Dr. Hibbert’s secretary. She transcribed the autopsy notes.”
“Man, you can’t keep a secret in this town for more than a few hours,” Frank said.
“Mary Pat seems to have kept a pretty big secret for nine whole months,” Lucy pointed out.
“It beats me how she managed it,” Jen said from her spot at the big, old cast iron sink. “Whenever I was pregnant, Bill used to swear I’d grown a couple of inches every time he looked at me.”
“Maybe that’s how she did it,” Edwin said. “No one ever really looked at Mary Pat, did they? She was just part of the background.”
They all sat for a moment until Lucy broke the unnatural quiet. “So what do you have to do with this, anyway, Frank? After all, even if Mary Pat did something to the baby, she’s dead now too. There’s no one to arrest.”
Frank hesitated. Part of him still wanted to protect Mary Pat and her family from the wagging tongues in town. But Debbie Flint already knew about the baby-selling scheme and tomorrow he’d have to tell Anita Veech. So told them about the letter and the Finns. “So now I’m trying to figure out who helped Mary Pat with the baby and who put her in touch with this Sheltering Arms,” Frank concluded.
Jen’s mouth had dropped open halfway through the story and now she wagged her head as she spoke, “I just can’t believe she’d sell her own baby. I mean, when you’ve given birth and you see that little face looking up at you for the first time, you just melt.” Jen paused in her relentless scrubbing of the counters, her eyes lost in wistful memories. “You’re in love.”
“Maybe the experience is a little different when you’re giving birth on a dirty bathroom floor, with the jerk who knocked you up as your midwife,” Lucy said. Edwin, Frank and Jen all turned to her, surprised by the harshness in her voice.
“It’s not like that,” Jen objected. “When you’re a mother–”
“Oh, right. I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been there. I’m not a member of the club.” Lucy began picking up the dessert plates, not bothering to remove the forks, so they teetered in an unsteady tower in her shaking left hand.
Jen’s eyes opened wide in amazement. “Lucy, I didn’t mean…”
“It’s nearly nine, Jen,” Lucy cut her off. “I’ll finish up here—I know you like to get home before your kids are in bed.”
Jen looked at Edwin for support, but he simply shook his head very slightly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jen. Thanks for your help.”
Frank rose as well. “I’d better be going too.”
“No, no Frank. Go on out to the parlor. We’ll have a glass of port,” Edwin instructed. Frank edged nervously toward the dining room door, watching as Edwin put his hand on Lucy’s shoulder as she stood at the sink. He murmured something, his head bent close to hers.
She nodded and straightened her back. “I’ll just get the dishwasher going,” she said with studied brightness. “I’ll join you in a minute.”
In the parlor, Frank sank into the worn leather chair next to the crackling fire. Suppressing the urge to blurt, “what was that all about?” he accepted, guiltily, the rosy–gold glass of port that Edwin offered. It reminded him of the homemade elderberry wine his grandmother used to give him for a sore throat.
Edwin rolled his port glass between his palms, warming it, before he spoke. “Lucy and I tried for eight years to have a baby. Drugs, surgery, inseminations, in vitro—we did it all, in every fertility clinic in Manhattan. It was like a merry-go-round you couldn’t get off. Every time we’d make up our minds to stop trying, some 50-year-old we knew would get pregnant with a new treatment or a new doctor, so we’d start all over again. The doctors kept feeding our hopes– it was like they wouldn’t give us permission to quit. The constant disappointment was eating away at Lucy.
“If I’d won tenure at NYU, we’d probably still be at it. Buying the inn was the best thing we could have done. We’re hundreds of miles away from the nearest fertility clinic, so the temptation is removed. We’ve made up our minds that we can have a happy life without children,” Edwin said.
Frank nodded, but he must have looked doubtful, because Edwin continued on the defensive.
“I guess you wonder why we don’t adopt?”
Frank held up his hand to stave off the confession. “I don’t wonder anything.”
But Edwin seemed determined to confide. “We’ve discussed it, and Lucy would probably pursue it if I showed a little more interest. But I have reservations about adoption.”
Frank twisted in his seat to see if any of the other guests were headed for the parlor to rescue him. He didn’t want to know all this personal stuff, but the hall was empty and Edwin clearly expected him to show some interest.
“Oh?” he managed.
“We went to this adoption support group once, and someone there said, ‘I know I could love an adopted child, I’m just not sure I could love any adopted child.’ That’s how I feel. I’m not sure I could love whatever baby we happened to get. I can’t take the chance that I wouldn’t love it—that would be too terrible, for both of us.” Edwin looked down at his hands. “I guess you think that’s horrible.”
“No, I don’t. I—”
As if on cue, Lucy entered the room and spared him from having to offer more comfort. She perched on the wide arm of Frank’s chair. “I’m sorry I’m such a grouch.”
Roughly, Frank patted her knee, “Everyone’s entitled to be grouchy sometime. Hell, I’m always a bear—ask Earl.”
Lucy was about to answer when a movement at the door caught her eye. She leaped up. “Meredith! Oh, Meredith, how are you? What did they say? Edwin, pour her a drink,” she ordered as she hugged the slender, auburn-haired woman and ushered her into the room.
Frank observed, fascinated. Police work didn’t throw women like Meredith Golding in his path much, but he’d seen plenty of her type in the four years Caroline had been at Princeton: women born knowing what fork to use, what dress to wear, what gift to bring. He wouldn’t have pegged Meredith as the wife of an environmental activist in a million years.
“Thank you, Edwin.” The glass of cognac she accepted trembled slightly in her smooth, well manicured hand. She looked at Frank. “Are you here to talk to me? I just spent four hours with the state police.”
“No, no,” he and Lucy answered simultaneously. “Frank Bennett is the chief of police here in Trout Run, and a good friend of ours,” Lucy continued.
“I was on the scene at Giant for a while this morning, Mrs. Golding. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Meredith accepted his condolences with a nod and sank into the other chair by the fire. “Maybe you can tell me if it’s usual for the state police to be so harsh to a victim’s family. They asked me a million questions about Nathan’s schedule and his plans and then they got annoyed when I told them I simply do not keep tabs on my husband twenty-four hours a day.”
Frank tried to look sympathetic. “I’m sure they’re just trying to determine the chain of events.”
“I told them they should be talking to Barry Sutter, Green Tomorrow’s lawyer, about Nathan’s schedule. But they can’t seem to track him down. I can’t imagine why—he was supposed to meet Nathan up here this afternoon.” Meredith turned toward Lucy, “I went to visit my sister in Saratoga for a few days. I hadn’t seen Nathan since I left on Friday. Then right before lunch, the police called me on my cell phone—” Meredith’s anger dissolved into soft weeping.
Lucy came and knelt beside Meredith’s chair, taking her hand, “I can’t even imagine what you must be going through. But I’m sure the state police wil
l find whoever did this.”
They all fell silent as Meredith searched out a tissue in her purse.
“I bet you haven’t eaten all day,” Lucy said finally. “Edwin can fix you a little plate.”
Meredith raised her hand in half-hearted protest but Edwin was already on his feet. “Good idea,” he said
Frank rose too. “I’ll be leaving now. Goodnight Lucy, Mrs. Golding.”
Following Edwin to the kitchen, Frank perched on a stool and watched Edwin fixing a plate of cheese, fruit and pasta salad. “Well, she’s certainly not what I expected.”
“Tell me about it. Old money WASP meets left-wing Jew–she and Nathan were definitely the odd couple. But they seemed devoted to each other.”
“Kids?”
Edwin shook his head. “He was married before. I think he had kids, but none with Meredith.”
“Lucy seems very concerned about her. Are they good friends?”
Edwin shrugged. “You know Luce—always ready with the shoulder to cry on. Meredith and Nathan have been up here maybe three times. But she and Lucy seemed to hit it off. Meredith used to be in corporate PR. The two of them would reminisce about the days when they wore suits and high-heels to work. Lucy gets a little lonely in Trout Run sometimes.” Edwin handed Frank a Tupperware container and a fork. “Here, finish this pasta—there’s not enough to save. I’ve got to bring this to Meredith.”
Frank obliged, although Edwin’s salads tended to be full of landmines like black olives and artichokes. As he ate alone in the kitchen, he wondered why Golding had only recently looked up Beth Abercrombie if he’d been to Trout Run several times.
A piercing shriek echoed back to him. He followed the sound out to the front hall, where Meredith Golding stood staring at the bushy-bearded man who’d been with Nathan and Beth at Malone’s.
“Barry, where have you been? How could you have let this happen?” Meredith faced him like an angry cat, claws extended, back arched.
“I was supposed to meet Nathan at 2:00, but he never showed. I’ve been looking for him ever since.” He patted his pockets apologetically. “I seem to have misplaced my cell phone. Where is he? What’s wrong?”
“Nathan is—” But Meredith couldn’t bring herself to say the words.
Edwin and Lucy also seemed paralyzed by the situation, so Frank stepped forward. “Mr. Sutter, I’m afraid Nathan Golding was murdered this morning on the trail to Giant. The state police need to speak to you. I can take you there now.”
Sutter staggered backward a few steps. “No…” he said weakly. “Meredith?” he turned to her, looking for support.
Meredith’s anger had passed. “You’d better go and talk to the police now, Barry. Come back here when you’re done.” Her eyes locked with his. “I’ll be waiting up for you.”
Chapter 11
“What are you calling about? Do you have a new prospect?”
“No, we have a little problem. Kimba and Chip Braithwaite don’t want the baby.”
“What do you mean, we have a problem? I told you to leave her with the Finns.”
“I don’t remember you protesting too loudly when your heard what the Braithwaites were willing to pay.”
“So why did they change their minds? Did Kimba get pregnant?”
“They didn’t like the looks of her. She’s not enough like them—no blond hair and blue eyes.”
“That beautiful, perfect baby isn’t good enough for them? God, we should have known people named “Kimba” and “Chip” would be nothing but trouble. So give the baby back to the Finns. She’ll be better off with them anyway.”
“We can’t, now. They know this is an illegal adoption. And Bennett knows about them.”
“We can get around that. They were crazy about the baby.”
“Let me think about it. In the meantime, come and get this kid. I’ll meet you halfway.”
Frank entered his office the next morning with Doris hot on his heels.
“Frank, Frank—I need to know what to do about this.”
Frank raised his shoulders towards his ears, an involuntary protective reaction to the sound of Doris’s piercing voice. The town secretary waved a piece of typewritten paper in one hand, but he was momentarily distracted by the sight of her hair. It had changed color overnight, from the familiar dingy brown to an extraordinary shade of red, bordering on magenta. She looked like Lucille Ball viewed on a TV with faulty color control.
“What–?” ‘What happened to your hair?’ Frank had been about to say, but he caught himself and finished the sentence, “do you have there?” He extended his hand and took the paper Doris clutched.
“It’s a letter from Katie Conover requesting a permit to stage a demonstration.”
“A permit?” Frank’s brow furrowed as he began to read. “What kind of permit? What kind of demonstration?”
Doris’s shrill commentary made it difficult for Frank to follow what he was reading, but the gist of it seemed to be that the writer wanted to hold a demonstration on Stony Brook Road next Wednesday. It was signed Katherine C. Petrucci, Chair, Concerned Citizens of the High Peaks.
“Who’s Katherine Petrucci?” he asked. I thought you said Katie Conover wrote the letter?”
“Petrucci is her married name,” Doris sniffed. “Except a lot of folks don’t believe she really is married to that fella. She met him in New York City and he followed her up here, you know. She still went by Katie Conover, even though her mom kept insisting they were married. Now that they have kids, suddenly she’s Katie Petrucci.”
“Women don’t have to take their husband’s name when they get married, Doris.”
“Well, I’m not the only one who thinks Katie Conover Petrucci whatever has gotten just a little too big for her britches ever since she won that full scholarship to NYU. Naturally her parents didn’t want her going to college in Greenwich Village with all them drug addicts and subway murderers and such, but they had five kids and it was totally free, so what could they do?”
Doris shifted in her seat, crossing one skinny leg over the other as she warmed to her story. “Anyway, she just turned weirder and weirder. First she wouldn’t eat meat, and then she announced she was going off to South America to help the Indians or peasants or whatever they have down there.”
“Okay, okay, I get the picture. What’s it got to do with this protest she’s planning?”
Doris straightened the lapels of her polyester pantsuit. “I’m just trying to give you a sense for what kind of person she is. So, after she finished college she moved back here with this fellow Mark and they both started teaching at the North Woods Academy.”
Doris said this with the same tone she might have used to announce they’d gone to work for the Church of Scientology. The North Woods Academy was a boarding school catering to rich kids who couldn’t get into—or had been kicked out of—more prestigious institutions.
“And then she had kids and breast-fed them till they were two years old! Why I remember one Fourth of July, Katie’s little one—mind you he could talk and had a full set of teeth—walks over to her, pulls up her shirt and starts suckin’ on her tit—pardon my French—right there at the parade with the fire trucks and the Verona Drum and Bugle Corps going right by.”
Frank laughed out loud, which encouraged Doris to continue. “Anyhow, now that she has kids she doesn’t teach at the Academy anymore. She organized a little co-op nursery school three mornings a week over at the Presbyterian Church. So that’s probably how she got the other girls to go along with her on this protest.”
“But what are they protesting about?”
“It says right there in the letter,” Doris came around behind his desk and pointed to a sentence in the middle of the letter that read, “We wish to alert the public, especially people with young children, to the unsafe conditions tolerated at the Raging Rapids attraction and the irreparable harm it causes to the environment.”
“Raging Rapids?” Frank snatched up the letter and read
it word-for-word, but there was no mention of Green Tomorrow or Nathan Golding. He sat thinking for a minute until Doris started in again.
“Well, what should I do?”
“Go ahead and give Katie her permit.” He didn’t understand what was behind this sudden interest in Raging Rapids, but he had a feeling the demonstration might shed a little light on the matter. And he suspected Meyerson would agree.
“Really? Abe Fenstock won’t like that one little bit,” Doris warned.
“I know, I’ll go see him today and warn him.”
The morning’s excitement over, Frank turned his attention to the stack of papers in his in-box. Doris continued to sit silently in the chair opposite his desk. Frank looked up. “Well?”
“What should I do about the permit?”
“Didn’t I just say to give it to her?”
“Give her what?”
“The permit!” Frank felt like he was in the middle of a “who’s on first?” routine.
“But we don’t have any demonstration permits. The last time someone wanted to demonstrate was over replacing the old covered bridge. Clyde Stevenson made Herv reject the request. Said we couldn’t afford the police overtime.”
“Well, I think Earl and I can work this into our busy schedule, so just call Katie and tell her it’s okay.”
“The Ordinance says…”
“Okay, okay, okay!” Frank could see that further argument would be useless. “How about this—go over across the hall and get a Building Permit. Cross off “building” and write in “demonstration,” then fill in the date and send it off.”
Doris jumped up immediately. A few minutes later, she was back showing Frank her handiwork.
“That was a really good idea, Frank.”
He sighed. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.
Fifty cars and two big tour buses already filled the Raging Rapids parking lot when they arrived. As they walked toward the entrance in the long, low frame building they could hear the sound of Stony Brook rushing along.
“I don’t think I’ve been here since the fourth grade,” Earl said.
The Lure Page 8