Redemption

by Nancy Geary

  “Then what did you do?”

  “Well, I thought I heard voices in the hall again, so I opened a closet door to hide just in case someone stuck their head in. And, well... I can’t tell you what it was like to see her.”

  “You mean Hope Lawrence?”

  “Yeah. She was in a wedding dress. And she was hanging there.” He closed his eyes and wrinkled his nose as if to squeeze the image out of his mind.

  “Were you able to determine whether she was dead?”

  “I don’t know. I assume she was. She looked horrible. Her face was kind of tilted with her tongue hanging out. You know, maybe I should have checked, but I was so freaked. And as I said, she sure looked dead.”

  “Did you move or touch or alter the body in any way?”

  Michael diverted his gaze. They all knew what was coming. “I saw the ring. The diamond was huge. Worth a fortune. At least fifty grand, even at a pawnshop. And it just slid right off her finger.”

  Frances felt a well of saliva surge into her mouth. Don’t be sick. But it was hard to imagine someone callous enough to steal an engagement ring off a bride’s finger and not even bother to check for a pulse. Although it wouldn’t have made a difference. As the medical examiner had reported, Hope was dead before she’d ever been hung.

  “So you in no way harmed her.”

  “No. As I said, she was dead. I know she was. And I sure as hell had nothing to do with that.”

  Percy looked up at Mark and bit her lip.

  “Do you recall what her finger felt like when you touched it?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, whether it was warm or cold?”

  “I don’t remember. I was creeped out, you know. Here’s this broad just hanging there.”

  Frances felt all eyes on her for a moment, perhaps trying to assess whether she could handle such a matter-of-fact discussion of her cousin, but the crudeness of his narrative hardly mattered. Her interest in him was limited to whatever information he could provide. So far, nothing he’d said seemed particularly helpful to the investigation. His claim of innocence didn’t even exonerate him.

  “While you were in the Lawrence house, did you see or hear anyone else come or go from Hope’s bedroom?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you see?”

  Michael rested his chin on his hands for a moment and appeared to contemplate the question. “When I was in the closet, I heard the door open. Not the closet door, which wasn’t all the way closed, but the door to the hallway. I had to pretty much hold my breath. I was scared to be in there with that body, you know, wondering whether someone was going to find me. I saw a guy come in and go over to the dressing table.”

  “What did the man look like?”

  “Tall, dark hair, forties maybe, although the guy was pretty buff. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He was kind of foreign looking.”

  Again Mark produced an array of photographs from the folder and spread them out on the table in front of Michael. This time each image showed a handsome man with dark brown or black hair and tanned skin. Frances could see that one picture was of Carl. “Do you recognize the man you saw in Hope’s bedroom? Take your time.”

  It didn’t take long for Michael to identify Hope’s lover. Mark collected the photographs and marked the one he had selected.

  “What did you see him do?” Percy continued.

  “He went toward the dressing table, which was out of my sight, but I heard rummaging. I don’t know. I figured he was looking for something.”

  “How long was he there?”

  “Couple of minutes, maybe. It felt like days ‘cause I was shitting in my pants wanting him to leave so I could get out of there.”

  “Did you see whether he took anything?”

  “No. But he stopped at the door and used a red bandanna to wipe off the doorknob. I could see his hands doing that.”

  “Anything else you noticed about his appearance, his clothes?”

  “No. Look, I was pretty damn scared.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I got out of that house as fast as I could, jumped in my car, and didn’t look back. I knew I had to get out of Manchester as fast as possible. Figured I could get lost in Boston for a while, sell the ring, and live pretty comfortably, maybe even with my folks until I figured out my next move. Then I got busted on the Tobin Bridge and here I am.” He smiled, obviously pleased to have finished his narrative.

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?”

  “I’ve got a record. You think anyone’s going to believe me? I’d be the first one they’d finger. Plus I had the ring.”

  There was silence for several moments before Percy said, “If any of you have any questions, feel free to ask.”

  Frances replayed in her mind what she had just heard. Something didn’t seem right. The interview had been so well choreographed, the photo arrays so perfectly planned, that she wondered whether Mark was overlooking details in his rush to prosecute. Assuming Michael was credible, an assumption that she wasn’t at all sure she was willing to make, all he’d been able to say was that Penelope had been in Hope’s room around the time of her murder and that Carl had gone in looking for something after she was already dead.

  Questions spun in her head. What had Carl been looking for? She thought of the St. Michael’s ring—a man’s ring—and remembered the band of pale skin around his finger that she’d noticed the day she’d gone to his boat. Was that the ring he’d been missing? If so, when had he left it in Hope’s room? And why? Were they to assume that Carl returned to Hope’s room after he killed her to remove some sort of evidence that linked him to the crime? She glanced at the faces of Elvis and Mark, wondering what they were thinking. How could Mark be so sure of Carl’s guilt that he was willing to give immunity to a known felon?

  There was also the issue of Penelope. Shouldn’t she have been at the church by the time Michael said he saw her leave Hope’s bedroom? Frances remembered her late arrival, how she’d settled into the pew beside Sam and offered some excuse. What had she been doing before that? Was there a connection between Penelope and Carl? She shuddered to think. Did Penelope’s jealousy of her baby sister extend to wanting to share both lovers? This already small world seemed to be closing in on her.

  Mark turned off the video. Percy stood up and smiled, obviously pleased with the results she’d achieved for her client. She thanked him, nodded good-byes to Frances and Elvis, and left with Michael trailing a few feet behind her. Although his stooped posture didn’t reflect it, he had to know he’d just gotten a very sweet deal.

  Mark’s office was larger than what Frances had seen in the world of government employees. His metal desk was piled high with stacks of papers, unread memos, files, and copies of legal cases from the advance sheets. On one wall hung his diplomas—a bachelor of science from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and a doctorate of jurisprudence from Boston University Law School—and several plaques, distinguished awards from various law enforcement agencies and task forces. He snapped the plastic lid off a paper cup of coffee and took a long, loud sip.

  Frances crossed her legs, trying to get comfortable in the well-worn armchair but feeling instead the jab of springs through the foam cushion. Elvis paced back and forth in front of the plate-glass window. He seemed to be doing calculations on his fingers.

  “What can you tell us about Carl LeFleur?” Mark asked.

  Frances recounted the little she knew, including her uncle’s suspicions and their failed effort to talk to him. “From what I understand, Hope loved him very much. Even her fiancé admits that.”

  “I guess so. Carl’s blood type—O negative—matches the semen found in Hope’s stomach.”

  “We checked emergency room records last night,” Elvis explained. “He’d gone in about eight months ago for a fairly serious swordfish puncture.”

  “How’d he get that as a lobsterman?” she asked.

  “Don’t know.
I can only tell you what the records said. But O negative is relatively rare—about six percent of the population.”

  Mark flipped through several pieces of paper on his desk. “Forensics tells me the key that was found in Hope’s room belongs to a boat engine. We should have been able to guess that, given the cork. Apparently it’s pretty common to attach keys to something that will float, just in case they drop overboard. Anyway, we’re preparing a search warrant for the...” He paused and glanced at a yellow Post-it note. “The Lady Hope—cute name, by the way—to see if it’s a match. I’d put money on it. Only problem is that we need to track down a judge to sign the warrant, which is going to be tough today. There’s a charity golf tournament for an officer killed several years ago in the line of duty, and virtually the entire criminal justice system is participating. I’d be there too if it weren’t for this.”

  “I appreciate that,” Frances said in recognition of his efforts.

  “What about Penelope Lawrence?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “She’s my aunt’s daughter from her first marriage. She’s quite an accomplished lawyer. My aunt says she works prodigious hours. Single, no children.”

  “What was her relationship to Hope?”

  “Not close, from what I understand. There was some jealousy.” Frances realized as she spoke that she was minimizing the extent of the animosity between the half sisters, including the event to which she bore witness. For the second time in as many days, she thought about that ill-fated sailing expedition, the three girls in a capsized boat, the desperate effort to save her cousin, and the look in Penelope’s eyes as she’d stood on the beach, the stare of hatred, evil. Why didn’t you go for help? Frances had never said anything further. She’d wanted to believe that she’d misunderstood the meaning of Penelope’s actions. Penelope had been young. Perhaps she’d been so frightened that she’d been unable—not unwilling—to help. But what if, as Frances reluctantly suspected, she’d wanted Hope to drown? She’d failed that day, but had she harbored such rage over the years that she would kill her mother’s other child? It seemed farfetched. “She’d also had a brief relationship with Jack Cabot.”

  “Her prints were on the bottle top we recovered, the one we assume belonged to the meprobamate prescription.” He looked up. “I’m not sure where that leaves us, though.”

  “Can I ask you something?” Frances said, realizing that she would do it regardless of their response. “Wouldn’t Hope’s ingestion of the drugs have made her relaxed, even dopey?”

  “Yeah. Meprobamate is a pretty serious antianxiety medication, and her dosage was up there.”

  “And there wasn’t any evidence of a struggle, that’s what Maggie said, which is consistent with the fact that Hope was probably unable to put up much resistance.”

  “So?” Mark asked.

  “It means that even someone who was not significantly stronger, someone who might not ordinarily be able to overpower her, could have strangled her,” Elvis said, finishing her thought. “Including a woman.”

  “You’re telling me Penelope’s the killer?”

  “I’m not telling you anything. I just don’t want to overlook anything. Has there been any follow-up on the recovered money?” she asked, thinking of the ten thousand dollars that the police had found at the Lawrence home.

  “No fingerprints, if that’s what you mean. Where it came from and why it was there? Well, I guess you could say those are open questions. Could be entirely unrelated. We’ll be getting subpoenas for bank records, but I’d bet Carl’s won’t show anything like that amount of cash.”

  “But that’s the point. No one knows where it came from, and you’re telling me it’s unrelated to your suspect. Then what was it about?”

  “Maybe some guest at the wedding was planning a drug buy. There could be a hundred explanations. But I think we’re getting sidetracked.”

  Frances disagreed. The North Shore crowd was cautious about money; people were unlikely to have that amount of extra cash on hand, and it wasn’t part of Episcopalian tradition to slip greenbacks to the bride and groom at the reception. “Why are you so convinced of Carl’s guilt?” she asked.

  “Who said anything about convinced? But I like the way the evidence is falling into place.” Frances’s face must have further revealed her skepticism, because he added, “What makes you think he’s not?”

  “Aside from the fact he loved her?”

  “Come on, Frances. This isn’t a fairy tale. Crimes of passion. They happen every day.”

  “Then why’d he go to the trouble of staging a suicide?”

  “Maybe he had some reason to think a suicide was plausible. Then he wouldn’t get caught. Most people don’t understand that the police would investigate anyway.”

  Maybe. Her impression of Carl was that he had a pretty good idea of how law enforcement operated.

  “Is your uncle willing to go forward with the A and B charge?” Elvis asked, referring to what Frances had described as the discord between Bill and Carl the day of Hope’s wedding, conduct that certainly supported a charge of assault and battery.

  “I asked him after we discussed it,” she replied. “He was reluctant, very reluctant.” She thought back to the brief conversation she’d had with Bill and realized that the paucity of her description didn’t begin to capture his reaction. He’d been emphatic.

  “I want nothing to do with that man,” he’d said in a voice that bordered on a yell. She’d tried to explain the value in pressing a charge, that if nothing else, it would allow the police to pick him up for questioning, but he’d dismissed her pleas. “I know he’s dangerous, but the police shouldn’t be looking at me to give them a reason to get him off the street.” His response had seemed odd given his initial suggestion that the police focus on Carl, but with Michael’s arrest, the issue had become moot.

  “Maybe when he hears what we know now, he’ll change his mind,” Elvis said. “After all, who wouldn’t want to go after the person who killed their daughter?”

  26

  The law offices of Hallowell and McKenzie, situated on the twenty-eighth through thirty-first floors of Exchange Place in the center of Boston’s financial district, exuded success. In the mahogany-paneled reception area, Frances and Elvis perched on couches covered in deep-hued stripes as they waited with the weekend receptionist for Penelope’s secretary to escort them back to her office. On the wall hung rows of formal black-and white photographs of men in suits and neckties, all eyes seeming to survey the visitors. Brochures on the coffee table outlined the firm’s many areas of expertise, the strengths and accomplishments of its partners, and the cutting-edge services they could provide. Several casually dressed attorneys passed briskly through the reception area en route to the library just beyond.

  After Frances and Elvis had left the district attorney’s office, she’d called Penelope at her Back Bay home. When there was no answer, they’d decided to pay a visit to her at the office. Most lawyers in private practice spent at least some part of the weekend at work, and it was worth the gamble that they would find her there. Besides, they had at least several hours to wait while Mark prepared the search warrant for Carl’s boat and tracked down a judge to sign it.

  It turned out they were in luck. Penelope had been in the office since just after ten A.M., according to the receptionist’s log.

  Maria, a heavyset woman with black hair and thick-rimmed glasses, appeared in pink Bermuda shorts and led them down the hall to a small, rectangular office. It was sparsely furnished with a slipcovered couch, a bookshelf with carefully organized files, and a large desk with a collection of corporate tombstones arranged on one corner, the souvenirs given to the various legal and financial participants in every deal. Dartmouth College and Harvard Law School diplomas framed in black lacquer adorned the otherwise bare walls. The desk held an ashtray with several cigarette butts and a vase of orange roses. Penelope waited, standing at attention behind her desk in wrinkled linen pants and an untuck
ed shirt. She looked pale and her eyes were red. Frances forced a smile, which she didn’t return, and Elvis extended his hand in introduction, similarly without response. She remained frozen with her arms crossed in front of her chest.

  “What do you want?” she asked abruptly.

  “I’m sorry to have to do this,” Elvis said as he began to read her the Miranda warnings.

  “I know my rights. Just tell me what you want and why you’re here.” Elvis reached into his pocket to produce a waiver form. “I’ll sign whatever you’ve got. Let’s just get this over with. You’ve caused me terrible embarrassment already, although I suspect that was part of your plan or you wouldn’t have come here.”

  “We just wanted to find you,” Elvis replied before Frances could. “We weren’t expecting such a crowd.”

  “It’s hard enough to make partner. Just try not showing up on the weekend.”

  “I’m sure,” he said, trying to be ameliorative.

  “What do you want to ask me?”

  “What were you doing in Hope’s room just before her wedding was scheduled to begin?” Elvis answered.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I don’t mean any disrespect, but that’s where you’re wrong. We’ve got an eyewitness places you in Hope’s bedroom less than an hour before she was discovered.”

  “Oh, you do, do you?” she replied sardonically. “Isn’t that grand.” She opened her desk drawer and removed a pack of Marlboro Lights. “Mind if I smoke?” she asked, although her tone made clear she didn’t care about their preferences. She lit a cigarette and took a long drag, tilted her head up, and exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “That catering guy murdered Hope. Please leave me alone. This has been hard enough on my family.” She glared at Frances.

  “Penelope, why don’t you just tell us what happened, what you know.”

  “Why would you think I know anything? Am I my sister’s keeper?” Penelope turned her back on them and stared out the window.