Doro sat down again, while Cynthia leaned gently over her, both hands on her shoulders as though to assist the younger woman in her resolve. She pointed a chubby finger to the stroller.
"This," she said, "is Dorothée. Her birth was registered as July 18, 1974. Dorothée means 'gift from God'", she added after a moment's silence.
"When you showed me the document that you found in your Aunt's possessions, I knew immediately who you were. Born in this town, on that date, well, there couldn't be two of you in a place this size. And when you said you were Doro…well, that's what she was called."
Doro was breathless. Here she truly was. Her real name, her legacy, her background.
Had her grave, fearsome parents really seen her as a 'gift from God'? How did her memories, the flashes of terror, moans and degradation, fit with a preacher who was either a great orator and leader of a caring community or a con man feeding off the people? How and when had violence crept into his life and who was the perpetrator? Who was Robert Janot and what happened to him?
The pictures came to an end. Cynthia closed the scrapbook carefully and placed it on the bookshelf once more.
"There are several more documents you should see and a great deal more press," she said, keeping her voice neutral. "Do you want to take a break for dinner first?"
Doro glanced at her watch and was astonished that it was after four thirty. She remembered with a start that she had not made arrangements for a hotel.
"I haven't done anything about accommodations," she said. "I hate to do this, but maybe I should leave and come back tomorrow. As long as you're free, of course."
Cynthia smiled. "Oh, I'm free, dear! The only tasks I have are cooking or cleaning or researching. Not that I'm complaining, mind. Those are all activities I love."
The older woman hesitated only a fraction of a second and rushed on, as though afraid to frighten Doro with the intimacy of her proposal.
"Why don't you stay? Kimmy is working until seven and Nicolas, my husband, will be home shortly for dinner. I have lots of extra rooms since the children have flown the coop. That way, you won't have to drive and be alone. We can talk all night if you want. Nicolas will have a lot to say too once he finds out. It's his day with the boys, but he's always home at five. He grew up in this town and he's even older than I am, as I like to remind him, so he's a great source of information. I use his memories all the time in my research."
Cynthia's offer was tempting. To remain in this woman's company, to continue uncovering the layers of her background, to be able to discuss the results with people who were knowledgeable but neutral—the opportunity was too good to miss. Although they had only known one another for a few hours, Doro felt comfortable and safe.
By the time she consented, was shown her temporary bedroom upstairs and Cynthia went off to finish dinner preparations, it was five o'clock.
Doro went out to her car to get her suitcase and from the open lid of her trunk, she saw Flowered Shirt start up the driveway toward the porch of four Mill Street.
Of course. Flowered Shirt. Nic. Nicolas Denis.
He jumped when the lid of her trunk slipped from her hand and slammed down. She looked up apologetically as he stared at her, as though calculating how she got here. But he was not stupid. He went rapidly from the store, his daughter and the line of inquiry she'd begun.
No wonder he had appeared to be holding back in the store. He knew perfectly well to whom she could go for information. Obviously, so would his friends. Why had they been so secretive and not forthcoming?
Nicolas Denis came over and silently picked up her suitcase. They climbed the steps of the porch without speaking. From the kitchen, they could hear Cynthia singing a French folk song in a high, clear and powerful voice.
Nic did not smile nor look at Doro. He carried her suitcase up the stairs and she followed him into the blue-and-white guest room.
She could stand the silence no longer.
"Why didn't you tell me about your wife when we were in the store?" she asked.
He looked at her now, his deep-brown eyes troubled, his face furrowed with worry.
"Because of Sam," he said and Doro remembered why he was most likely a quiet man.
His tied tongue and thick accent made listening to him very difficult. She also thought back to Blue Shirt and the icy, unfriendly stare he'd thrown her as they'd left the store. It seemed so long ago now. A lifetime of information ago.
Nicolas turned and retraced his steps without another word. Soon Doro heard a murmur of voices from the kitchen, replacing the spirited singing.
She opened her suitcase and grabbed a clean shirt. In the bathroom, which was pleasant and well decorated with its comforting yellows and blues, she studied her face in the mirror. She was still young and attractive. Her eyes were her best feature, she thought, because of the unusual gray color. They were wide and set in a long, thin face framed by hair that was thick and naturally blond.
It was her mother's face before time crumpled it.
The kitchen was huge. Doro figured that she should have expected no less from the homemaker side of Cynthia Denis. There were oak cupboards everywhere. A large island with built-in shelving, four stools and a cutting board, where the amateur historian was chopping up vegetables for a salad. The room was painted a light peach, with matching ceramic tiles, and the windows were covered in cheery curtains that brightened the entire room with vivid colours and patterns. A huge wooden table with eight comfortable chairs filled the remainder of the room.
A comforting, starchy fragrance came from the oven. Warm bread was piled in a basket. Nic Denis sat on one of the stools, chomping on a carrot.
Doro felt as though she was intruding on a private scene until Cynthia smiled and Nic pulled a stool out for her. His eyes were softer. He even gave her a little sideways grin. Perhaps his wife had smoothed the way.
Cynthia had her apron on again. She playfully slapped Nic's fingers away as he reached for more vegetables and began to toss the salad.
"Nicolas is shy," she said very openly and as if to agree, her husband blushed. "It's because of his speech impediment. But now that he knows who you are, he's going to open up, aren't you, darling?"
So Nic had not told his wife that he'd already met and talked with her. Doro looked at him, but he kept his eyes averted.
"Merci, Monsieur Denis," she said softly, using the French pronunciation of his name.
"Parle-tu francais?" Cynthia asked, turning toward the stove with huge oven mitts perched on her hands.
"Un peu," Doro answered, then in English, "I know I used to. That's one of the strange things. When I began taking French in school, it was almost as though I was back to my origins. I don't use it much these days, though. My husband is English."
She hadn't meant to mention her husband. She didn't want to go further.
Quickly, she added, "But I understand spoken French very well."
Let Nic know that she had understood the conversations in the coffee shop and would comprehend anything he might try to say in code to his wife.
Cynthia intuited that any conversation about Doro's past would ruin a good dinner, so she kept up a running commentary about the village, her research, her plans for the museum, their children. Nic made occasional comments, particularly when Cynthia spoke of their children and grandchildren.
The meal was exceptional. A steaming tortière that melted into layers of aromatic and spicy tastes onto Doro's tongue, the crust fluffy and delicious, accompanied by buttery crisp vegetables, salad and mouth-watering bread. It was an utter delight and kept Doro so completely enthralled that she spoke even fewer words than Nicolas Denis.
When they were finished, Cynthia insisted on piling the dishes in the sink.
"To soak," she said. "Let's have dessert a bit later, maybe when Kimmy gets home."
Doro wondered where she would possibly put dessert. Her body claimed to be filled up and satiated forever.
Cynthia motioned to Nic. "C
ome on, you come with us to the den of history. I need your experience."
Her husband's face clouded. Once again, his eyes were cast downward, but he followed Cynthia into the den.
He appeared to adore his wife in his own deferential way. He lit up when she spoke. He touched her by leaning close or patting her hand. Yet he did not seem to have confided in her about Sam and his friends' misgivings in this particular project—or the misleading, half information distributed at the café.
And what was 'Izzy's' role in all of this? Doro was wildly curious but knew there was little she could do to clear up the puzzle. She did not want to jeopardize her position with Cynthia by revealing Nic's subterfuge.
Once they reached the den, the historian pulled out another file stuffed with newspaper clippings, all carefully preserved as before.
"This is going to be the most difficult part," Cynthia cautioned her. "This tragedy is what put our village on the map, unfortunately. Let me start back in 1976."
She proffered a photocopy of a birth registration.
"There was another little girl born in the spring of 1976. They called her Faith, but that's only from hearsay, because no one ever saw her. They did register the birth on March 13, 1976. However, she was born at home. There was no record of a christening. That fall, both Elias and Ithamar were pulled from the school, presumably to be taught at home. It was almost as though the family decided to close in on itself. Circle the wagons so to speak. Wouldn't you say, Nic? I had returned to the village by then and bought the store with the money I inherited from my parents."
Doro blinked. Another surprise—the Denis family owned the store.
"Nicolas and I were courting, weren't we, dear? You were robbing the cradle, I should say."
He nodded, but still did not look happy about giving out his personal history. Cynthia ploughed on, undeterred.
"Cécile became a hermit right after the birth of her last child," she stated, shuffling through the papers, looking for something.
"The villagers rarely saw her. Then Pastor Rob closed the church down right after he was beaten in October of 1976, not that he had many followers left by then anyway. Despite being exonerated, people had drifted away from him. He didn't seem to have the same energy. Perhaps he was suffering from doubt himself, who knows? After the beating, he was much worse, sullen and completely distrustful. I guess I can't blame him. He gradually just shut off all connections with the town. The pastor and Elias did all the shopping in the city. They were seen there once in a while. Neither Ithamar nor any of the females were ever glimpsed outside, let alone in town."
She was quiet for a moment, holding a column just outside of Doro's sight line.
"And then, in 1980, this happened."
She sat down, her soft, comforting hand on Doro's arm and gave her the article.
Chapter 27: Renae
As I drove south on Church Street, I noticed that the houses began to get smaller. It always struck me as unfair that too often, as homes and gardens shrunk, the number of playthings, bicycles and other signs of children increased.
The Sanderson house was almost at the corner of Church and Lewis. One good thing about this location was that the cemetery parkland was right behind it, so they didn't have any neighbours—live ones at least. It would be quiet and open.
I parked my car in front of the house as I had on the two other visits. They shared a driveway with the neighbours on the left and all three times there were vehicles blocking any visitors from entering the drive. At the back, the two garages were separated from the house, side by side at the edges of the property.
Their home was narrow and tall, a three-storey stucco. A covered porch had been added at the top of the cement steps. It wasn't easy to traverse the stairs and hold the door open at the same time.
The doorbell was located inside on the original brick wall, so one was obliged to open the door and walk in. But today I was greeted by a tall, thin man who already stood with that door wide open as I got out of my car.
He was the image of his children, freckled, fair and pale. Somewhat stooped over, similar to the stance held by many of the kids, but in his case it was because he was quite elderly. In fact, I was so taken aback that he was this much older than his wife that I could not help but stare at him.
He didn't look directly at me, but gazed above my head as I climbed closer and thrust out my hand to introduce myself. He said nothing, merely shook, nodded and held the door as I entered.
Once I removed my shoes and added them to the line of neatly stacked footwear, he opened the heavy wooden inside door and gestured for me to go ahead of him.
All nine children, plus Dorothy Sanderson, were seated in the living room to my right. The room was somewhat shabby. That is to say, the furniture was very old, the carpet threadbare, no knickknacks or paintings to fancy it up. But it was sparkling clean and neat.
I saw no dust, fingerprints, children's belongings, or anything to indicate use by a large family. Perhaps they only gathered in this room on special occasions.
Straight ahead of me was the kitchen, a long narrow room going right back to the rear door. A large wooden table and a dozen chairs stood orderly and sanitary, the utensils and napkins already laid out for dinner. Again, this room was not fancy, but it was extremely tidy and organized.
To the extreme right were two archways, one that led to a steep set of stairs, the other to a room that served as a small office. I knew from my previous visit, when Dorothy offered a tour of the house, that the stairs led to a second floor with three bedrooms and a bathroom.
Another set of steps went up to the third floor, where there is a second bathroom and two more bedrooms. All of the rooms were small, but well used. They all had bunk beds or single beds and lots of shelving. And believe me, everything was highly organized. It reminded me of an army barracks.
The four boys, Aaron, Benjaman, Trevor and Tyler, stood up when I came into the room. For the most part, they looked down at their hands, which were folded in front of them, though Aaron had a more direct look at me. Ben was somehow my favourite. He always managed a small smile.
They looked so regimented that I was ready to burst out laughing.
It was on the tip of my tongue to say, "Are you for real? Are you going to all chorus, 'Good morning, Ms. Ogemah'? Is this some kind of Christian army thing?"
But of course I didn't because that would be not only unprofessional but enough to get me kicked out of social work altogether.
So I put on my game face and sat in the stiff-backed armchair that Benjaman politely led me to. As soon as I was seated, the boys followed suit. They perched on hassocks and small footstools in a semicircle to the left of their sisters.
Dorothy sat on the sofa surrounded by her girls. They were all primly dressed in skirts and blouses or dresses, which once again reflected the home—not new, but definitely scrubbed, pressed and well cared for.
Cate and Jennifer sat with their hands folded in their laps and Carly and Devon had their fingers entwined in their skirts. Meghan sat on her mother's knee, perhaps being held in check, fidgeting with the zipper of her shirt. She too looked up at me and for a moment I saw a spark of mischief in her eyes—a normal, defiant, childish twinkle of impishness, but it disappeared almost as quickly as it flashed across her face.
It was amazing how alike the children were and how different their colouring was from their mother. At first it looked as though none of her genes had been passed on, but as I looked at them, the whole family gathered in front of me for the first time, I realized that there were significant similarities. Their lips were thin and their eyes wide like their mom's. The two sets of twins had curly hair like hers. Cate and Tyler's eyes were more green than blue when you looked closely. Dorothy's dark hair might have been dyed. Her eyes were an odd mixture of green and brown. Plus they all had the same sort of squared chin as their mother.
There was absolutely no sound as Carl Sanderson entered the room. He sat to his wife's
right in a chair similar to the one I had been given. When he spoke, there was an automatic shift in the room.
Every single pair of eyes, even mine, turned to look at him. We were all rapt with attention. His voice was silky, smooth and very deep, the voice of a man much younger. Though his tone was low and gentle, it was also commanding and mesmerizing. I could imagine him at a podium, selling fire and brimstone, compelling people into getting down on their knees to purge their sins.
His statement was simple, but I was suddenly tongue-tied, which was not a normal state for me. For a moment I didn't speak.
"What can we do for you today, Ms. Ogemah?" was all that he asked of me, but the way he asked it implied harassment, ignorance and intolerance and for a split second it washed over me with a guilty flush.
The next emotion I experienced, as was my wont, was an intense anger. Suddenly my intuition was raging at me, telling me there was something very dark living in this house.
"I'm here to talk mostly about Meghan, Mr. Sanderson, but—"
"Reverend," he said and I stared at him uncomprehendingly. "I am not Mr. Sanderson," he repeated as though to a slow child. "Please refer to me as Reverend Sanderson."
All I could murmur was, "Oh." Then I fumbled through my file.
"I apologize," I finally said. "The school records state that your occupation is labourer. Their information is that you work at the Burchill Mills."
"That's correct. During the day I labour at the mill, but in the evenings and on the weekend, I am the pastor of our church."
"Really? How interesting. What church is that, Reverend Sanderson?" I paused with my pen in the air, ready to write it down.
"The Church of Leviticus. The first church, the original and only church." He smiled at me, condescending, pitying. "The building that we use is located in Norvale, but the church is of course everywhere."
The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle Page 48