by Brynn Bonner
Esme shrugged and we waited.
“Sorry,” Nancy said. “It’s just such a relief. Nobody ever cared to talk about this with me, not even my husband or kids. Emmett is sort of a bygones-be-bygones kind of guy and the kids have more pressing things on their teenage brains than their mother’s old family stories.”
“You mentioned on the phone that you’d written down your granddaddy’s recollections about the Sawyer house fire,” Esme said. “Is that it?” She motioned toward a notebook on the table beside Nancy’s coffee cup.
“Yes,” Nancy said. “There’s a lot of other stuff in here, too, but he talked most about that case. I think it really haunted him. Daddy Jim was the sheriff of Quinn County back in the nineteen forties and early fifties. He served for six years, and I mean that literally; he really saw his job as a service. And he had a good record—until the fire. After that he served out his term, but he didn’t run for re-election. He took a job as a security guard at a new fabricating plant and worked there for the rest of his working life. When I was four, my grandmother died. Apparently Daddy Jim didn’t have a clue how to live on his own. He didn’t know how to cook a blessed thing and taking care of a household was beyond him. He was getting ready to retire anyhow, so he came to live with us. That was the year I started school, and with him there to take care of me after school, my mother went back to work. Both my parents were high school teachers.”
“So you two were close,” Esme said.
Nancy smiled, but it seemed forced. “We were,” she said, “only now I realize maybe it wasn’t entirely appropriate how he was with me.”
A gasp escaped my lips and Nancy turned to me and frowned, then put up a hand and fanned it back and forth.
“No, no, not that,” she said. “Never anything like that. Oh, I’m making a mess of this.” She slumped back in the booth.
Esme gave me a scowl and an almost imperceptible jerk of her chin in Nancy’s direction, which translated to You did it, you fix it.
“You’re doing fine,” I said. “I apologize, I jumped to conclusions. Go on, please.”
“Okay,” Nancy said, scooting forward and pushing her coffee cup out of the way. “What I meant to say was that Daddy Jim talked to me about some of his old cases and sometimes the subject matter, nothing sexual,” she said, glancing at me, “wasn’t appropriate for a child. As I said, he was haunted by the Sawyer case and as he sank into old age he dwelled on it more and more. He didn’t have anyone he could talk to about it. Anyone who’d listen, anyhow.”
I dug my fingernails into my palms, determined not to interrupt again, but I was itching to ask questions.
“He couldn’t ever talk to his colleagues because he’d ruined his reputation with them, and he surely couldn’t talk to my grandmother because of how she felt about the senator’s mother. She blamed Margaret Sawyer more than she blamed Daddy Jim for how things went for him.”
“How’s that?” Esme asked.
“Daddy Jim had courted the senator’s mother for a time back when she was really young, but her parents disapproved because of the age gap. He was seven or eight years older than her. But according to my grandmother, he was still pining for her when she decided to marry Alton Sawyer. Her name was Margaret, but most people called her Meg. I suppose you knew that already. Anyhow, I understand she was quite the beauty in her day. She and Daddy Jim parted ways and went on with their lives, but my grandmother always believed he carried a torch for Meg. All this I got from my mother. I don’t remember my grandmother much, but I think she must’ve been a bit of a shrew.”
“And you said your grandfather had ruined himself with his colleagues—what did you mean by that?” I asked.
“Because of what he did after the fire,” Nancy said, looking at me with wide eyes.
When I gave her a blank stare she shook her head. “Of course, how could you know? I’m sure it’s not in any official records. It wasn’t even in the newspapers but I think lots of people in the community knew about it at the time.”
“What happened?” Esme asked, softly but firmly.
Nancy sighed. “It pained Daddy Jim so badly to see how Meg Sawyer was suffering. Her husband, too. Alton was a good man; Daddy Jim said so all the time. He didn’t bear him any grudge. But he did have a soft spot for Meg, Grandma had been right about that. I could hear it in his voice when he talked about her. I’m not sure how much you know about all this, but they never found any remains of the baby. That’s pretty uncommon, at least from what I’ve learned. They usually at least find bone fragments, even when the fire is intense. And in this case, I’m not sure how hot it could’ve gotten; the Sawyers’ house didn’t burn all the way to the ground. Have you seen the pictures?”
“Only the one from the paper,” I said. “It sure looked like it burned down.”
“Yes, from that angle it did, but if you see the ones in the official fire marshal’s report,” she said, reaching into her bag, “it looks a lot different.” She handed me a sheaf of photocopies. “I hope I can trust you. Technically, I’m not supposed to have these. Or, I should say, Daddy Jim wasn’t supposed to have them. It’s all the reports from the investigation into the fire. I don’t know how or when he got them. He didn’t take them with him when he left office. They didn’t have office photocopiers back then—I checked.”
The pictures were grainy and low contrast, but I could see what Nancy was trying to tell us. The house, while collapsed in the front, humped up in the back, and in the rear views there was still a good portion of the structure standing. The shots of the interior were even muddier, but I could make out what probably had been the parents’ bedroom. It was bizarre. Some things were completely charred, like the bedposts and the dresser, yet the chenille bedspread looked to be untouched by the flames. A wooden bureau stood upright and a plump side chair had lost its legs, but the upholstery was intact and the white antimacassar draped over the top stood out stark against the ruins.
“Look at the ones of the nursery,” Nancy said. “The crib wasn’t burned, and the curtains are still in the windows behind it. They look sooty, but they didn’t burn. The rest of the room is burnt, though—look at this angle back toward the interior doorway. That’s completely burned up and it fell in when the front of the house went down.”
“So where do they think the baby died?” I asked. “Clearly not in the crib.”
“They think he crawled out and tried to go out the door but succumbed to smoke inhalation there in that area near the doorway.”
I shivered as goose bumps rose on my arms. Nancy noticed.
“I know,” she said, “it’s a gruesome thought. That’s what I meant when I said Daddy Jim talked to me about inappropriate things.”
“So am I to take it your grandfather didn’t agree with the findings?” Esme asked.
“Oh, don’t misunderstand, he was convinced the baby died in the fire. What he disagreed about was that the lack of evidence in the official report left the door open for the parents to question. So he made up his mind to do something about that. That’s what ruined him.”
“What did he do?” I asked. “What could he do?”
“Nothing officially,” Nancy said. “The reports came from the coroner and the fire chief.”
“And unofficially?” I asked.
Nancy sighed. “You have to understand, he wanted the parents to have some peace. That was his only reason for doing it. He found one of the barn cats dead one morning and he got the idea of burning the cat’s carcass and planting some of the bones at the scene so they could be ‘discovered’ by the coroner when Daddy Jim put in a request for a second sweep of the scene. It sounds horrible, I know, but he had the best of intentions.”
“Surely the medical examiner wouldn’t have been taken in by that,” Esme said. “Your grandfather had to know that.”
“Coroner,” I corrected. “They had the coroner system back then. It was an elected office, and some of them didn’t have any medical training at all. They did
, however, have the power to call an inquest if a death was suspicious.”
“Exactly right,” Nancy said. “But the coroner was a dentist in town and he knew enough about human anatomy to know the bones weren’t human. He and the fire chief grilled Daddy Jim until he confessed what he’d done. They about ran him out of town on a rail.”
“And you say this was public knowledge?” I asked.
“Well, they tried to keep it close to the vest,” Nancy said. “None of them wanted it to get out, but you know how things like that go. Some folks were saying what Daddy Jim did made matters worse, that it bolstered Meg Sawyer’s conviction that Johnny had been kidnapped and that somebody in authority was trying to cover it up. There was already bad blood between the Sawyers and some of the officials because Meg didn’t think they were taking what she had to say about that day seriously. It got really ugly after what Daddy Jim did. That’s the thing that haunted him, that he made an already bad situation for the Sawyers even worse.”
“Why didn’t the coroner call an inquest?” I asked. “It seems like this was surely a case where it would’ve been warranted.”
“I’ve always wondered that, too,” Nancy said. “I have no idea. I’m guessing after he’d made his ruling he didn’t want to back down. Daddy Jim said he was a stubborn man and kind of a know-it-all. And he and the fire chief were brothers-in-law, so maybe the coroner didn’t want to contradict him? I don’t know.”
“But just to be clear,” I said, “your grandfather believed that John David Sawyer died in that fire, correct?”
“Absolutely,” Nancy answered with a decisive nod. “Daddy Jim was certain the baby perished. He believed that with every fiber of his being, but it haunted him that he could never find the proof to give the Sawyers closure. He believed they ruled too quick. He would have kept at it but after what he did, they wouldn’t let him anywhere near the case again.”
* * *
Esme and I spent the evening examining copies of the purloined reports Nancy emailed to us when she got home. It was clear the case had been mishandled, but at the end of the day all of the officials involved in the case at the time concluded that John David Sawyer died in the fire. The problem was that they hadn’t submitted the proper evidence in the proper form to substantiate their findings. So now we were sifting through every scrap of documentation trying to locate any solid bit of evidence presented to give the findings proper weight. It was tedious work and heartbreaking to think about. I promised myself we would never take on anything like this again, particularly a case involving a baby.
Denny dropped by at the end of a long shift looking as if he hadn’t slept for weeks. This time he took Esme up on her offer of scrambled eggs and toast. I followed them out to the kitchen feeling hypocritical since I complain, in my head at least, about not having any private time with Jack, and here I was intruding on their alone time. But I wanted to talk with Denny about something that had been bugging me since my conversation with Jack the night before.
“Who was that parked out in front of your house?” Denny asked as he settled at the table.
I glanced out the window. “I don’t know. We haven’t had visitors. There’s nobody there now.”
“They left when I pulled up. Maybe I scared ’em off. I didn’t recognize the car, an old Toyota, a little worse for the wear?”
I shrugged. “Probably somebody parking to make a phone call or something.”
“A good practice,” Denny said. “I’m just suspicious by nature.”
As Esme whipped up the eggs, Denny told us about progress on the case, or rather the lack thereof. “I’ve collected a lot of everybody’s little everythings and it adds up to a whole lot of nothing,” he said, his voice sounding as weary as the rest of him looked. “For such a nice guy, Lincoln Cooper sure generated a lot of conflict—that day, anyhow. He picked up Ken Dodd at the airport that morning and according to a witness from the parking garage, they had their own little row. It was serious enough that the witness called security. She was afraid to go to her car ’cause she was parked close to where they were having their shouting match and she thought it was about to get physical.”
“I bet I can guess what that was about,” I said.
“Mm-hmm,” Esme echoed. “Cherchez la femme.”
“So I understand,” Denny said. “Dodd says they were just horsing around and the woman misinterpreted.”
“Do you believe him?” Esme asked.
“Nope,” Denny answered. “The witness was clear about what she saw and heard. I think Dodd’s ashamed of his behavior and afraid it puts him in a bad light, which it does.”
“So is he a suspect?” Esme asked.
“Of course. He was supposedly asleep in his room, alone and jet-lagged, during the window when Cooper died. That’s no alibi, so he remains on my list. Then there’s J. D. Morgan. Seems the run-in he and Cooper had that day wasn’t the trifle he let on. A couple of people in adjoining rooms called the front desk. But it was over with by the time somebody got up there.”
I told him what Emma and Gabriela had both told me about the past friction between the two. “The thing is, I don’t think they disliked each other. It was just the nature of their relationship to debate, maybe a little overzealously sometimes.”
Denny nodded, then smiled broadly as Esme set a plate of steaming eggs in front of him. “That was my take on it, too. But still, you can’t get into a dustup with a person who gets murdered that very night and not end up on a cop’s radar.”
Feeling a bit like a fink, I told him what Gabriela had said about J.D.’s foray to the spa to pillage towels on the night in question.
“There you go,” Denny said. “Even more reason to home in on him.”
“Then I guess Chelsea’s still on your screen, too,” I said. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, the argument she and Lincoln had that night.”
“You mean you didn’t want to talk to him about it,” Esme said, snatching the bread the toaster ejected and spreading a liberal coating of butter on it.
“That’s right, I didn’t,” I said. “I told Esme this earlier and she said we should go over it with you, but like Emma, I don’t want to cause Chelsea any more pain than she’s already in because I like her and can’t imagine a scenario where she’d kill somebody. But when it comes down to it, I just met the woman a few days ago and I don’t really know her.”
“You’re rambling, Sophreena,” Esme said. “Get to it.”
“Fine, here’s what’s bothering me. Some of the things Emma overheard don’t mesh with what Chelsea claimed the argument was about.” I opened my notebook and went over it with Denny point-by-counterpoint, as I’d done with Jack.
“First off, if Emma is remembering clearly, Lincoln said the truth had to come out and that it had been too many years. He and Chelsea had only been seeing each other for a little over a year.”
“Maybe it seemed like years to him,” Denny said. “Sometimes waiting to be with a person you care about can seem longer than it is. Or so I’ve heard.” He cast a sidelong glance at Esme, who pointedly ignored the comment.
“Okay, well, Chelsea said she ‘didn’t care what he wanted.’ Who is ‘he,’ and what is it he wanted? That doesn’t seem to fit if this was a dispute about announcing their engagement.”
“I’m thinking maybe she meant Ken Dodd,” Esme said. “It sounds as if he thought he had a prior claim on Chelsea’s affections.”
I tilted my head to the side, considering. “Maybe,” I allowed. “And that could fit with another thing that’s bothering me.” I glanced at my notebook again. “If Emma has it right, Chelsea said ‘he,’ whoever this he is, gave up his right to have any say ‘after what he did.’ Let’s assume for a moment that she means any say in her life. But that still leaves the ‘after what he did’ part to ponder over. Maybe that’s about Ken as well. Maybe he insulted her or deceived her, or something worse.”
“Interesting,” Denny said when I’d finished my e
xegesis. He drew out his notebook and scribbled. “I’ll follow up, but I have to be careful about how much weight to give it. Earwitness testimony is even more unreliable than eyewitness testimony. People mishear, misremember, and misinterpret things, and that’s with the parties sitting in a quiet room all together. These three were out in a howling storm at midnight. And Emma was yards away when she caught what she believes she overheard. Plus, she’s a teenager. Kids that age don’t have the maturity to interpret things right.”
“I thought of all that,” I said. “But, honestly, Emma’s not a typical teenager. She’s got a sharp memory, and I mean sharp. You can tell her a list of complicated instructions and two hours later she remembers everything you’ve said, verbatim.”
“I second that,” Esme said. “The child has a roach motel for a brain. And she’s really attached to Chelsea. If anything, she’d probably downplay things so Chelsea comes out looking better.”
“Okay,” Denny said, throwing up his hands. “I’ll talk to Bremer again when she gets back. The funeral is the day after tomorrow and they’re all leaving early tomorrow morning to go back to Quinn County. It’s my understanding they’ll all come back here and stay at the spa until Conrad Nelson’s wedding. Bet that’s gonna cost a pretty penny.”
“I don’t think money’s an issue for the Dodds, and of course Cyrus Hamilton offered to put up the senator’s party gratis,” I said.
“Yeah, he must be more worried about liability than I thought,” Denny said. “Way I hear it, there’s a waiting list, and with those rooms occupied he’s sacrificing a lucrative revenue stream.”
“I don’t think it’s the liability issue,” I said, telling Denny about my conversation with Hamilton. “Not legal liability anyway. I think he’s just trying to be a friend. His and the senator’s families go way back.”