The Charity

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  “So something’s going on between you two, eh?”

  “No. I, um, I’ve learned to take my time with her,” he said trying to hold down his embarrassment. He would not make the same impulsive mistakes again. He changed the subject. “You’ve been your usual indispensable self. I noticed you lined up the appropriate witnesses to independently substantiate as much of Jessica’s testimony as possible.”

  “Shea, you were right when you noted that anything having to do with either the Wyeths or Jessica herself may be inadmissible as hearsay evidence or tainted as prejudicial. Linking Magnus to conspiracies and racketeering was one thing. Linking him with murder is another. The conspiracies and cover-up give him more than sufficient motives for murder.”

  “We can’t take the risk that one half of this case would fall apart if something happened to the other half. Doubling up on witnesses and testimony is a good strategy. This is no time to be lax. How are you doing on Sarge’s session?”

  “Well, it was easy enough to find him. He was at the diner just like Jessica said he would be,” Abbey said as she rustled through the papers. She showed a pink form to Shea and continued talking. “We took him in under protective custody knowing the Charity will try to get to him before he has time to talk to us. I moved as fast as I could with all the details so tomorrow we’ll get Sarge’s deposition. I made arrangements for a videotaped session complete with a court reporter for a full transcript. Sarge’s testimony will be as damning as Jessica’s against Magnus.”

  “I just hope Jessica is safer with Sarge giving the heavy hitting stuff. But with these guys, you can never tell.”

  “Well, with the documents and the case as they stand now, even a law student could try it and win. You’ve done a great job.”

  “Right. Thanks.” Shea looked uncomfortable receiving the compliment.

  Abbey rubbed her eyes and sat back in her chair. “You know, I’ve been pouring over the murder case documents and there’s some stuff that just doesn’t make sense.”

  Shea sat down to listen. “Like what?”

  “Well, look at Sarge. He’s ‘retired’ from the Charity, right? I mean, here’s this guy with all this dirt on Magnus and his buddies who’s no longer working actively in the group, and he’s still living. They didn’t kill him. Why couldn’t Gus just retire? Why kill him?”

  “Because he wanted out. He signed a notarized statement to that fact.”

  “He wanted out at the same time Jessica wanted into her family’s business. That’s what she said she overheard. They didn’t kill Gus because he wanted to retire. They killed him because he was protecting Jessica.”

  “Protecting? Yeah, I guess so. He always had a real soft spot for her. It was Gus who made sure Jessica was not with her family when their car crashed.”

  “Yup. And another thing bothered me. That Aunt Bridget may have come off as crazy, but she was a pretty savvy old lady. I mean, look at the trust she drew up for Jessica and the accounts she had ready for some emergency. It was like she could see this whole thing coming. Anyway, how could someone that savvy not have picked up on how successful the farm was all those years—you know, those were the farm’s most successful years by all accounts—and not notice that a couple million bucks were lost. That’s a hell of a lot of rolled oats for old Nellie.”

  “Abbey, what are you getting at?”

  “I wanted to get some dirt on Sarge to make him talk to us. I figured I could tie his statement into the sister’s disability. I took the record Jessica found in the safe deposit box, you know, the one about Erin’s brain injury? Anyway, I went into the Beverly Hospital’s record archives.”

  “And?”

  “I found that Margaret and Jim Wyeth had one baby girl. Erin. It was Margaret’s first child.”

  “Could you be mistaken?”

  “I thought maybe the birth profile on Margaret was wrong, so I looked up Jessica’s certificate.”

  Abbey grabbed another stack of papers looking for something. She then pawed through the back of a file drawer. “A file for the birth of a baby girl was there, but there was no document at all stating the names of the parents for Jessica.”

  “No birth certificate?”

  “Nope. That bothered me a lot, so I looked up the records on Margaret for the dates of Jessica’s birth and found nothing. Ah! Here it is,” she said waving a yellowed paper in the air. “Okay, here. I didn’t bother to copy it. I figured someone would question its authenticity or something so I just took it.”

  Shea looked down. The yellowed paper contained the information on the birth mother for an infant girl. The patient was listed as Bridget Heinchon. Next of kin was Gus Adams.

  “My God, Abbey! Jessica has no idea about this!”

  “Well, I’m not sure she really has to know.”

  “But why? She has to.”

  Abbey walked around her office and absently straightened papers. “Think about it. I’m not sure, but I thought Bridget was a widow. Either way, Bridget being pregnant by Gus was bad news. Either Bridget had an affair or she was fooling around out of wedlock. Gus was married to the Charity. He knew if he had any family of his own that they would harm them to get him to go along with grander schemes. The way I look at it is Gus could look like the dedicated bachelor soldier and watch his kid grow up on a thoroughbred breeding farm. Margaret would take in her sister’s illegitimate daughter to save face.”

  “So Bridget worked on the family to set up their money in a certain way and to make her guardian if anything happened to them.”

  “Yup. And Gus made sure something did. I figure ‘Auntie Bridgie’ was in that up to her eyeballs, too.”

  “No one ever bothered Jessica until she showed interest in the business.”

  “My hunch is that they would have tried to coerce her by threatening to make her family secret public—that is if they ever knew this. She was of no real interest to them until she witnessed Gus’ murder.”

  “Her father’s murder.”

  “Yup.”

  “She has to know the truth.”

  “To learn you witnessed your real father’s death and suspect that your real mother conspired to kill the only parents you ever knew? What would be the point of that? It wouldn’t change anything.”

  “Jesus H. Christ, Abbey! Wouldn’t you want to know?”

  “No. Not really. She’s gone through enough just to get back to being Jessica Wyeth. Now you want her to become Jessica Adams?”

  “But I’m not sure the theory about Aunt Bridget is right. More points to her just trying to survive than conspiring to murder.”

  “Either way, she knew a lot and was actively protecting Jessica from the Charity.”

  Shea slumped back in the chair. “This is amazing. I don’t know if I can keep something like this from her.”

  “Try.”

  They finished their work an hour later with the kind of focus only late hours and overwork could bring. Abbey stayed on, but Shea was done for the day. He gathered up his papers and clicked his briefcase shut then pulled on his coat and made his way out of the building, nodding to the security guard in the lobby as he walked through. The brass bar of the heavy doors felt cold against his bare hands, giving only a margin more reality to the night. His head throbbed with the information Abbey gave him. It fit. It was just too incredible. Maybe getting some air would help shake him out of it. Shea pushed hard to open the door and cold air greeted his face.

  The city street was deserted except for snow crews with their payloaders and dump trucks cleaning up after another storm. This winter had been a brutal one for the northeast and the weather forecast was for another nor’easter to come through in a day or so. He hoped to have Sarge’s deposition taken and be on a plane to Kentucky before it hit.

  Maybe it was his fatigue or just a desire to stretch his legs, but he chose a route toward th
e harbor. He watched with bleary-eyed fascination as the payloader scooped up a pile of filthy snow and dumped its cargo into the back of a waiting truck. The driver of the truck sat hunched behind the steering wheel as he waited with detached boredom for the signal to drive to the pier and dump the snow into the harbor. The sound of heavy gears engaging told Shea another truck was already laboring on its way to the pier.

  The cold air was gradually dissipating the fog that still swirled in his head. He forced his mind to click away at lists and facts to keep alert. Slowly, the surroundings of the street sharpened and he took habitual of inventory it. It had been years since he was a cop walking the beat, and old habits die hard. Old or not, the habits had kept him alive on several occasions.

  His eyes swept the plane of the sidewalk and each shadowed angle was instantly assessed as he walked to his car. Was the shape regular? Was the crevasse deep enough to hide a person? If a movement occurred, his mind would quickly run through the possibilities of what it might be. A slight wind would stir up papers that sounded like a body shifting its weight. A heated grate might be the bed for a slumped figure for the night. Stunned impressions from his night’s work began to fade as his inventory of the street continued.

  The sounds of the snow removal masked the normal sounds of the streets. The noises of engines grinding and gears shifting bounced off brick and glass buildings, causing more echoes. Normally Shea would have forced more attention onto the street’s camouflaged sights and feel.

  But tonight he was too tired. Too distracted.

  Shea had his head bowed with only his eyes turned wearily upward in their attempt at surveillance. The sharp angles of the shadow bulged and then slid up into the rounded figure of a man. The large trucks lumbering on the pier hid the gritting sound of sand under a soft-soled boot. The footsteps expertly fell into rhythm with their prey.

  Shea did not hear the beating heart of his predator, he felt it through the upright hairs sprung on the back of his neck. His muscles tensed as he forced his shoulders and head to remain down, in the posture of a weary man. His eyes darted from side to side trying to catch a glimpse of his pursuer in a storefront window. The location for the attack was well chosen. Only the blank brick faces of tall walls stared back at him. Shea’s mind sifted through the variables. Instinct rather than logic governed. This was not a mugging. A common thief would have sprung at him the moment he passed. This man was too well disciplined.

  The rhythm of his breathing and his walk did not change, but his brain leaped into a heightened state of awareness. Colors sharpened. Sounds grew louder.

  Alternatives? Choices? He shifted the handle of his briefcase imperceptibly in his left hand as he reassessed its weight and maneuverability. It would be good for an additional two seconds during the attack. That would have to be enough for his defense.

  Shea brought his right hand to his face and coughed, allowing his gait to slow. The opportunity was not lost on his assailant. In an instant, Shea was thrown forward by the force of the attack—the power of it was staggering. The body of his attacker hit him with a force like a blast of wind generated by an explosion, knocking the wind out of him and sending him careening to the ground. Rolling to knees, Shea brought his case to his chest and lunged forward, using it as a battering ram.

  His attacker was ready for the thrust and dodged first sideways, then forward onto Shea’s back. He slipped one arm around Shea’s neck and pulled back as hard as he could as he pummeled Shea’s head with his free fist.

  Tiny specs of light floated in and out of Shea’s vision. He brought his arms up behind his head and downward again, striking several blows before the grip on his neck loosened. He struggled to his feet gasping for breath. The split second delay cost him his life.

  A kick to his chest sent him backward against the hard wall of the building. Shea could hear and feel his bones cracking. The ‘Pop! Pop! Pop!’ of his ribs was greeted with a sound that made his blood run cold. The insane laugh of an animal rolled up the brick wall of the building.

  The black edges of his vision changed to red as he tried to see past his pain. Bright stars streaked across the face of his attacker. The grin. The face tortured to one side by a thick ribbon of smooth skin. He had seen it before. Where?

  Time slowed. He could hear his own heart beat. Thump... thump... thump. His breathing was coming in labored gasps. Something was making him cough. Thick ooze caught in his throat... he only saw the blade coming out of him... never felt a thing. He stared in fascination as a gush of blood rushed out... slipping through his fingers trying to stop its escape... So, this is what it’s like... Events were winding down. He was remotely curious about it all.

  Fight. C’mon damn it! Fight! You can do it! Get him!!

  A small voice tried to rally him forward. Get him! You know him!

  Do I? Where?

  Jessica! You ass! That’s the man Jessica described! John Doe! He’s here! Right in front of you. GET HIM!

  He pulled his eyes wide as he tried to focus again on the grinning animal.

  Get him now!! Jessica’s next, damn it! GET HIM!

  A stupor riddled his senses, saturating his thinking. Everything was happening all at once. But slowly. So very slowly.

  Protect Jessica! You’ve got to kill him to protect Jessica!!

  Eyes crossed in their effort to focus. Knees buckled as he tried to get them to hold his weight. Frame by frame he saw his fists clench, his head turn, his legs straighten.

  That’s it! You’re up. Kill him!!

  He felt the deep vibration of the plow as it rumbled toward him. Frame by frame he saw the face of his attacker laugh and fade to black.

  “I have always done everything I can to help you, Michael. You know I would do whatever it was you asked of me.”

  Electra ushered Michael into the small den off of the dining room. The Lavielles had hosted a dinner party that evening and Electra had insisted that Michael come. It was a small gathering of business people from both Harlan and Cumberland Counties. Michael recognized each of them from either his own dealings or through their reputations.

  Both Electra and Michael were casually dressed. Electra wore her trademark wool gabardine dress and Michael was in gray flannel trousers, a turtleneck, and jacket. He accepted the snifter of brandy she offered him.

  “Lainely brought me up to see a piece of property today. Nice spot. You know the far point just up from Jackman’s Ravine?”

  Electra nodded in recognition. “I didn’t know it was on the market.”

  Michael grimaced. “It’s not. Lainely did a lot of research on the property and determined it was just perfect to add to our holdings.”

  “‘Our’ holdings? Where did she get an idea like that?”

  “That part I’m not quite sure on. She said she did some research. I do know that the reporter, Colleen something or other, has been doing an equal amount of digging. If Lainely came across that information, then there is no predicting what the reporter might come across as well. I just don’t want you to get caught up in anything.”

  Electra laughed. “Well! I certainly appreciate you worrying about us. But I wouldn’t be concerned. We’ve taken great pains to make sure everything is legitimate. The worst offense here is that you’ve chosen to keep your business dealings to yourself—private. I have a room full of guests that can understand that point. Right?”

  Michael took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You’re right, to a point. I really don’t want anyone to think that they’ve stumbled across something simply because I’m reluctant to talk about it. The same is true for you. Even no news can sound like hot stuff if played in the wrong hands.”

  Electra crossed over the room and stood in front of Michael. Looking up at him, she furrowed her brow. “I don’t get it, Michael. All you’ve done is make some money and all I’ve done is make some good investments. In this day and age in
the Grand Ole U. S. of A. that’s what heroes are made out of. What has you so concerned?”

  “Electra,” he tried hard to find the right words, “I don’t care if my neighbors find out that some small time sheriff made a few bucks. I just don’t want this story to be blazoned all over every newspaper in the country. Any story connected with Jessica right now is going to do just that. Look at what’s happened with her. She can’t turn around without someone thinking they are on to a career making exclusive. People she hasn’t seen in twenty years are climbing out of the woodwork to give an interview about her. Every facet of her past is being examined and the glare of the spotlight is driving people away from her. The conspiracy theories and innuendo drag in anyone they can to sell more papers. The exposure is withering. True, false, or otherwise. I don’t want that kind of attention.”

  The edge to his voice made Electra consider his words solemnly. “So, what is it that you want me to do?”

  “Can you talk to one of your colleagues in the press, mainly that Colleen woman? She already has a lead on my real estate transactions and I want to make sure she doesn’t learn anything more. Can you gently nudge her interest away from my dealings?”

  “Is that all you want me to do?”

  “Yes. Just talk to her and find out what she knows. Then convince her there is no story with me. Okay?”

  “Why don’t you do that for yourself? I have seen you charm the quills from a porcupine.”

  “No. The least amount of contact I have with her the better.”

  They both sipped their brandy.

  “Michael, I have known you for a very long time. You are one of the most committed persons I have ever known. You’ve created jobs here with your wealth. We both know the Franklin School would have collapsed long ago without your help. I’ve helped you make “anonymous” donations to people and causes in need just so you would be out of the limelight. I’ve respected your need for privacy. Of course, I will do as you ask, but I want to know why.”

  “I think it’s best you don’t know.”

  Electra straightened her back in irritation at being shut out. “I once told you that you and Jessica reminded me a lot of each other. When you first arrived here, you craved the quiet anonymity of these back hills. Lucky for you, Lainely took a shine to you and helped you secure your position as sheriff. I have never seen anyone root so firmly to a place as you have. I do take a personal pride in how well you’ve done for yourself and am proud of how my husband and I were able to help you. Never once have we questioned what you’ve done with the money you’ve earned because all that we could see and know of you rang so true. We have never tried to stop you from doing what you felt needed to be done.”