by Nancy Geary
The uniformed officer beside him was Tony Angelino. He explained that Michael had already been advised of his constitutional rights. So far, he hadn’t requested a lawyer, but he wasn’t talking, either.
“Where’d you find him?” Elvis asked.
“I stopped him at the Tobin Bridge for skipping the toll. Also his truck had a broken taillight. When I approached, I saw what I determined based on my training and experience to be a marijuana roach on the floor of the passenger side, and I detected a strange odor. The suspect appeared nervous and glassy-eyed. Based on this probable cause, I arrested him for possession. When I ran the plate, the APB came up, so I notified Detective Mallory.” Officer Angelino recited the facts as if he were testifying at trial. Cop talk, Frances thought. It always contained cover-your-ass phrases, euphemisms for “I thought the guy looked shady, so I found an excuse to haul him into the precinct.” In any event, this time it had worked.
“He’s had three cups of coffee and a pack of Camel nonfilter cigarettes. He’s made no phone call.”
“Where’s the truck?” Elvis asked.
“Downstairs in the lot.”
“We’ve got enough probable cause to search, but we thought we’d wait for you since we knew you’d be coming,” the officer added.
“Why don’t you take Ms. Pratt down and show her the car. Mark and I will try to talk to the guy.”
“Is that okay with you?” Mark asked, turning to Frances.
“Sure. Thanks, though,” Frances replied. No prosecutor she’d ever known was this deferential, and she wondered whether he and Elvis just didn’t want anyone watching as they pulled the blinds and interrogated Michael the old-fashioned way. No, they didn’t seem like the type. Elvis might be unpredictable, but Mark had a soft-spoken tone of voice and he wore suspenders. If she had to guess, his shirt was custom. That ruled out any possibility that he’d get himself dirty over a witness interrogation.
Frances followed Officer Angelino back out onto the street and to a guarded parking lot surrounded by chicken-wire fence topped with curls of barbed wire. The black truck parked away from the street had a neon orange tag in the window, designating it as police property. He pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket, struggled slightly to get them on, and then opened the driver’s-side door. Inside, empty cans, packs of cigarettes, food wrappers, jumper cables, loose popcorn, and CDs lay strewn in the backseat and on the floor. The upholstered interior was stained, and the crack in the front window had been sealed with duct tape.
The ashtray was open. Inside were several butts, as well as something gold. He reached in and removed a man’s signet ring with a thick band. He held it up to his eye and then pointed it toward Frances. She could see the seal of an angel with a sword. “It’s Saint Michael,” Officer Angelino offered in explanation. “Patron saint of the weak and downtrodden. He was pretty fierce, courageous, a protector. You definitely want him on your side.” He smiled.
He returned his attention to the truck. On the floor of the passenger side lay a dark green duffel bag.
“Shall we start with this?” he asked, removing the bag.
Frances shrugged.
Officer Angelino unzipped the bag and began to sort through the contents: a pair of blue jeans, leather sandals, and a navy sweatshirt; a couple of pairs of Fruit of the Loom briefs; a spiral address book and $40 in cash; a small plastic bag of green “plant matter,” as he referred to it; and a copy of Tom Clancy’s Hunt for Red October.No more than the contents of an overnight bag. He frowned, obviously disappointed. Perhaps he was looking for this to be his first big case, a chance to work with the chief of violent crimes, maybe even to get his name in the paper. With what he’d just found, that was unlikely.
“Can I take a look?” Frances asked.
“Sure.”
Frances gazed in at the empty duffel. She ran her hand along the interior canvas and the seams. As she did, her finger felt something hard. She stopped and felt again. Slowly, holding on to the lump, she turned the bag inside out. The light instantly sparkled on the large brilliant-cut diamond in a platinum setting. The magnificent ring had been sewn into the bottom of the bag. She knew without having to call Jack for confirmation that it had been his gift to Hope when he’d proposed. There was no time to lose. They needed to get a forensics team on the car. She wasn’t about to risk jeopardizing the preservation of any more evidence.
Mark paced before the soundproof glass, watching Elvis with Michael. “He’s amazing,” Mark commented as Frances approached. “Just never stops. One moment he’s cajoling a suspect and we’re all in there laughing, and the next he threatens to eat him alive. I guess that’s why he’s effective. Everyone stays off balance.”
“We found something.” She opened her palm, revealed the diamond ring, and quickly explained that it had been missing. “According to Jack, she would never have taken it off voluntarily.”
Mark took it from her and held it up to the light. He turned it around and squinted to look at the other side of the stone. “That’s it,” he announced. “Davis’s print matched the doorknob, too. We’ve got him dead to rights on a larceny charge, but I’m willing to bet we’ve got our killer.” He clapped his palms. “Yesss.” Then he slipped the ring in his pocket and opened the door to the interrogation room. Through the intercom, Frances listened. “Michael Davis, you are under arrest for the murder of Hope Lawrence,” he announced. Even Elvis, who had been standing over Michael with one foot propped on the edge of his seat, stood up, startled. He shot a glance back through the one-way glass, but a response was pointless since he couldn’t see whatever facial expression she might return.
“Get me a lawyer,” Michael muttered. With those fateful words, the questioning was over.
21
It took Frances more than a few moments to reorient herself when she opened her eyes. Manchester; the same twin bed that she’d always slept in; her aunt’s guest room. The curtains had been drawn, but light still filtered through the lace. She pulled the covers up under her chin and focused on a speck moving across the ceiling. It was a ladybug, a symbol of good luck. Ironic, she thought.
She heard footsteps in the hallway and watched the turn of the doorknob to her room. She debated closing her eyes and feigning sleep for a few more minutes, anything to avoid the onslaught of another tortured day, but when Adelaide appeared on the threshold she sat up. Her aunt carried a tray.
“I wasn’t sure you were awake.”
Frances tried to smile. “What time is it?”
“Nearly noon. I thought you might want some breakfast.” She rested the tray in front of Frances. The coffee smelled delicious, and even the overbuttered English muffin and two small sausages looked appetizing. Frances couldn’t remember when her last meal had been. Nor did she recall ever having slept so late. She’d refused to admit how exhausted she was.
“We’ve had so much to do with the funeral arrangements,” Adelaide said. She spoke seemingly to herself, unaware of Frances’s presence. “The planning is endless, but I think I’m just having a difficult time making decisions. Should the flowers be pink or white or yellow or blue? What hymns, what prayers. Choices I would have had no difficulty making a week ago. And the Cabots call incessantly about that trust. Now they want us to meet with their lawyer. I know they’re being kind.” She paused, apparently distracted by a loose thread on her skirt. “I really don’t know what charity makes sense. Probably the money should go to the church. That’s where Hope’s heart was.” She lifted her hand to her mouth and appeared to cover a quivering lip.
“The church seems as good as anything else, if that’s what you think Hope would have wanted.”
“I suppose. I did discuss it with Father Whitney. He said the money could be put to good use—to fund the food pantry or update the Sunday school curriculum. It’s a lot of money, especially for a parish this size—” She broke off and walked over to the window to stare out at the lawn below. “Life seemed so simple a few days ago. My b
iggest worry was whether the caterers could prepare tenderloin for three hundred people and not have it be overcooked. Medium rare, I kept instructing. I wanted it medium rare. Medium rare,” she repeated, and her voice cracked. “What was I thinking? All the attention and effort and energy we pour into meaningless activities. I would rather have had one extra hour with my daughter than three hundred medium-rare steaks.”
Frances pushed the tray to one side and swung her feet to the floor. She walked over to her aunt and put her arms around her, embracing her from behind. They stood for several minutes, neither one saying a word, only the sounds of the various birds outside breaking the silence. Then Adelaide extricated herself and turned to face her niece. “How will life ever be normal?” she asked.
“It won’t. It can’t. You and Bill will have a long struggle ahead to figure out what kind of new life you can make together. It won’t be normal because normal included Hope.” As she said the words, she realized how true a sentiment it was. No one ever really recovered from a tragedy. People learned to move on because there was no other choice. “I wish I could help.”
“You do. And I’m sure you’ll continue to help us if we have to face some awful trial of that man.” She wiped her eyes and turned back to the window.
Adelaide’s words reminded Frances of all the developments of the day before, some of which she hadn’t had an opportunity to share with her aunt and uncle. When she’d returned from Boston the previous evening, the hours had disappeared in conversation of the stolen ring, news of the arrest of Michael Davis, and speculation on what would happen now. It had been after two in the morning when Adelaide and Bill finally admitted they could hear no more and retired to bed. She hadn’t had an opportunity to question them about the medical examiner’s findings or to show them Hope’s diary.
Frances took a gulp of her coffee and felt the hot liquid scald the back of her throat. The pain actually helped to orient her; the burning sensation was an experience that made the day real. “I hate to talk to you about the autopsy, but something came up that was… curious,” she said, struggling for words.
In response to the comment, Adelaide turned to face her, but she said nothing.
“Hope’s hysterectomy, why was it done?”
Adelaide clasped her hands and bent her head as if in prayer. “Why does it matter?” she asked.
Frances thought for a moment. Her aunt was right that the condition of Hope’s body couldn’t be relevant to the prosecution of a jewel thief, some lowlife who happened to slaughter a bride for the sake of her multicarat diamond. But for reasons Frances couldn’t articulate, she had a sense that the information was important, that she wasn’t looking simply to satisfy some morbid curiosity. A hysterectomy in a young woman was highly unusual, and she had enough experience to know that in an investigation, the unusual was often the most important.
Adelaide lowered herself onto the seat of a small wooden chair. “It can’t possibly have anything to do with her death.”
Frances felt a strange reaction akin to fear pulsing through her system. Her aunt was avoiding the subject, and with each moment that passed, she had the nagging sense that the truth would be shocking. “How old was she?”
“It was a long time ago. Before Hope and Jack even got involved.”
“What was wrong?” she prodded.
“I just can’t discuss it.”
“But Hope had scars!” Her frustration boiled over even as she knew she wasn’t being fair. Her perseverance was inflicting a great deal of pain. Adelaide was right. Whatever happened a long time ago, whatever secret she was dead set to keep, couldn’t be relevant to Hope’s murder, could it?
Her aunt’s face looked haggard and worn, much older than her years. “It’s not something I can discuss. Not with you and not with anyone. I’m sorry. Please don’t ask any more.”
“Does Bill know?”
“Yes, but don’t talk to him about it,” she said, standing up. She seemed frozen with her eyes slightly bugged and her hand resting on the door frame. The color had drained from her face. “Please. I beg you. Leave the subject alone.”
“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. I’m truly sorry,” Frances repeated. She wanted to add that she was also saddened by the fact that her aunt hadn’t felt comfortable enough to ever tell her that Hope was adopted, but she refrained. What was it about this family that so much went unsaid? Then she remembered the diary, the other development that she had yet to share. She wondered for a moment whether its production would only make matters worse, then decided she had no choice. She had no right to withhold Hope’s thoughts and feelings from her parents.
“There’s something I want to give you,” she said, removing the book from her knapsack. “Father Whitney brought it over yesterday for you. Here. It’s Hope’s journal.” She extended her hand.
Swaying slightly, Adelaide took the small volume and held it to her chest. “How did he get it?” she asked.
“Hope apparently left it with him the day of her wedding.”
“She kept a diary for years. There must be hundreds of them, unless she threw them out. She liked little books just like this one.” Adelaide placed the spine on one palm and let the pages fall open.
“I’ve only read parts,” Frances volunteered.
Adelaide’s shoulders slouched, and she seemed to struggle to stabilize herself. Frances grabbed her around her waist and steered her back to the chair. As Adelaide rested the book on her knees, she flipped through the dimpled pages and stared at the words without any sign that she was processing their content. Glancing over her shoulder, Frances could see that she had paused on the August 14 entry. “Perhaps if he hits me or lashes out, it will be easier… His violence is easier, easier than his sorrow.” Adelaide’s eyes filled with tears.
“Is there anything I can do?”
Adelaide swallowed. Her breathing was shallow, and Frances could see her chest rise and fall in a flutter. “This can’t be,” she whispered. “These aren’t Hope’s words.”
Frances could only imagine how unbearable it was to read Hope’s self-flagellation. As her mother, Adelaide had to wonder whether self-loathing was genetically programmed or whether something in her environment, something about the manner in which she’d been raised, had dictated her self-image. Had it been fate? But there could be no denying that the diary reflected her sentiments. “I’m sorry.”
“No. It’s not possible. I know she loved Jack, and he would never be violent. I don’t believe it. I can’t. That boy wanted nothing more than to make her his bride. I saw how he was with his father. He was willing to jeopardize everything for her.”
“But Hope’s feelings weren’t reciprocal.”
“You’re wrong. I know my daughter, and I don’t believe this. It isn’t how she felt. Jack was the center of her universe. He would never hurt her. She wouldn’t have been with someone who did. I just know that. And if he was, Hope would’ve told—” Adelaide put her face in her hands. “Someone put her up to this. Someone made her say these horrible things. This diary’s a fake.”
Frances said nothing. She could think of no way to confront her aunt’s denial without upsetting her further.
“I want you to do something for me,” Adelaide said. Frances leaned forward to catch her request. “I want you to prove this isn’t Hope’s diary.”
What was she asking? To have the pages analyzed? If so, for what? It seemed a futile exercise under the circumstances. “Does it look like her handwriting?”
“I don’t know what it looks like. Maybe I’m losing my mind. God knows I can hardly remember my name these days.” She looked up, staring intently at Frances with an expression of terror in her eyes. “Help me find out whose words these are. Tell me this wasn’t Hope. Tell me that after all we’ve been through, she wasn’t afraid of her fiancé.” She reached out and clasped Frances’s hands in her own. “Please do this for me, whatever it costs.”
Did Adelaide need to hold on to this fantasy
? If so, how could she cope if it was authentic? It seemed a ridiculous task, but at this point Frances was willing to appease her. “I’ll get it analyzed,” she replied. “And maybe you’ll be right,” she added, wishing more than ever that her words could be true.
22
Frances, Bill, and Adelaide stood before the Cabots’ front door and rang the bell, hearing its timbre resonate inside. Adelaide fingered the buttons on her pale cardigan. Glancing at his watch, Bill remarked, “I hope we can eat right away.”
“It’s very kind of them to have invited us,” Adelaide said, seeming to force an air of appreciation.
“Maybe,” Bill replied. “But I don’t understand the need to go over all this paperwork. The memorial foundation was their idea, not ours.”
Frances thought the same thing but had been hesitant to speak aloud lest she upset her aunt. Perhaps the Cabots wanted to reach out to the Lawrences, to make a supportive gesture; but given her conversation with Fiona the day before, she doubted there was such an altruistic motive. However, Adelaide had asked her to join them, and she didn’t want to disappoint.
Expecting the pinch-faced maid of her earlier visit, Frances was surprised when Jack greeted them at the door. Dark circles encased his glassy eyes, and his skin looked pale. The tails of his Oxford shirt hung out over his wrinkled khaki trousers, and his blue blazer seemed to hang askew on his frame. With one hand, he held on to the door frame for balance. In the other, he clutched a crystal tumbler filled with a brown liquid. “There’s been a change in plans. Dad wants to have dinner on the boat. They’re over at the Yacht Club.”