They ate outside on an old wooden picnic table that had been here forever. He’d scrubbed it clean and sanded it earlier in the day.
Maybe he’d pick up some stain the next time he was in town.
The food was good, much better than frozen pizza, he had to admit.
After a first taste of everything, he told them about finding Ellen Lachlan’s number in the online directory, then meeting her at a coffee shop. “Later we went to the bar, where we both had more to drink than we should have. But she had a hell of a story to tell, and I guess she had to wash it down with something that dulled the pain.”
“How old is Ellen?” Jamie wanted to know.
“Four years older than Ed. So sixty-four, sixty-five. Somewhere around there.”
“So she would have been very little when her parents brought our father home?”
“Yes. But she seems to remember it quite well. She said right from the beginning her parents treated Ed differently than her.”
Jamie had stopped eating as soon as he began talking about Ellen. “How so?”
“They would ignore him when he was crying and leave him for hours in his dirty diapers. Ellen remembers trying to change him and her mother telling her not to bother, saying that he wasn’t as special as she was.”
“Why did they treat Ellen so much better than their son?” Charlotte asked. “It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Ellen said he was a difficult baby and he grew up to be a difficult child. Willful and stubborn, something like that.”
“Lots of children are like that,” Charlotte insisted. “I see them every week during reading circle.”
“Well, the Lachlan’s weren’t equipped to handle that, I guess. From what Ellen remembers, Ed was six when he had his first beating in the barn—his father used his belt. And there were lots more. For the first two years Ellen would put salve on the welts. But when Ed turned eight, he stopped telling her about the beatings. He stopped talking to her entirely.”
Jamie covered her face, as if she was trying to block the mental image he was painting. “I don’t understand how anyone could do that to a child.”
“I wonder if he came to hate his sister,” Charlotte said. “Because she was never beaten.”
“Ellen didn’t come out and say so, but I think you’re right. She said their mother used food to punish Edward, too. He wasn’t allowed to eat the same meals as the rest of them. He was given leftovers and never dessert.”
Both Jamie and Charlotte stared down at their plates. It was hard to eat good food and listen to a story like this one.
“When he was little, Ellen would sneak him food, especially ice cream which was his favorite. But that changed, as well, when he turned eight. He wouldn’t accept treats of any kind from her.”
“I can’t bear it.” Jamie looked ready to burst into tears.
“He must have been a very angry little boy.” Charlotte’s face was getting paler with each new detail.
He wondered if she was thinking how lucky she’d been to be adopted by a family like the Hammonds.
“Unsurprisingly, Ed tried running away a lot. When he was still talking to her, he told Ellen he was planning to find his mom. He made up elaborate stories about the house they would live in, the great food she would cook for him and the fun things they’d do together.”
“Escapism like that is common in abused children,” Charlotte said.
“It’s just appalling that the adoption agency didn’t screen his parents properly. Or that the neighbors or his teachers didn’t step in to help him,” Jamie said.
“Systems have improved since those days,” Charlotte said. “But we still hear about too many sad cases of abuse. I don’t know if society can ever eliminate it completely.”
“Can you imagine how alone he must have felt?”
Jamie was fairly melting with sympathy for their old man. So next he told them about Ed being asked to drown the unwanted kittens, but choosing to wring their necks instead.
“Maybe he didn’t want them to suffer,” Charlotte said.
“I doubt he spared their suffering a second’s concern.” He’d told both his sister and Charlotte about the time his father had killed his pet kitten. He’d done it as easily as Dougal might squash a mosquito biting his arm.
“It wasn’t his fault,” Jamie insisted. “If he hadn’t been abused...”
“Not all abused children find it so easy to kill animals.”
“But he wasn’t even loved as a baby,” Jamie pointed out. “What chance did he have?”
Dougal didn’t answer, because he didn’t have one.
“What happened after he finally ran away for good?” Liz asked.
“The family never saw him again. Ellen said when he was arrested for killing his second wife, they didn’t even talk about it, even though the case was all over the newspapers and TV.”
“They didn’t feel even a little bit responsible?” Jamie looked at him incredulously.
“Maybe they did. Or maybe they didn’t. By then Alva Mae, Mari Louise, Bernice, Isabel, Charlotte’s Aunt Shirley and Crystal Halloway were all dead. Nothing the Lachlans felt could have changed that.”
There had to have been something inside Edward Lachlan, a germ of something bad that was activated by the abuse and grew into the monster that Edward became.
Dougal had been raised by a loving and kind mother.
But what if he hadn’t?
Was that same seed for evil lying dormant inside him?
chapter twenty-three
day seven after the accident
the call from the Ashford Police Department came at four o’clock on Friday afternoon. The mood in the office was lighthearted, even though most of them would be on duty this weekend. Several of Wade’s deputies were kidding with Marnie in the bullpen.
Wade got up to shut his office door.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Could you repeat?”
“I said this is Detective Todd Waverman from the Ashland Police Department.”
“Right.” He jotted down the name.
“We had a fellow come in fifteen minutes ago to report a missing wife and ten-month-old baby girl.”
A chill washed over Wade.
“He brought pictures and the woman looks like a match to your unidentified female victim from the accident last weekend.”
“Is that right?” Wade had been hoping for a break through like this. But something felt wrong.
The baby, for instance.
Not once had Birdie given any indication she might be a mother. And yes she had amnesia. But could a mother really forget something like that?
“What’s the man’s name?”
“Richard Caruthers. He’s a director at the Shakespeare Festival we have down here. His wife works there, too, or she did before the baby was born. She did make-up and hair and acted some, too.”
Checkmark to the hair and the makeup. He’d also heard her quote from Shakespeare. “Why did it take Caruthers so long to report her—them—missing?”
“He claims he left his wife and the baby last Friday at their family cabin on Hyatt Lake. That was the last he talked to her until he drove back to the cottage this morning. When he got there, her car was still parked out front, and the runabout was moored at the dock, but no one was in the cabin.”
“Any signs of a break-in or struggle?”
“I’m on my way now to take a look. But Caruthers says the place seemed normal. His wife’s purse was where she normally kept it, cash still in her wallet, on a hook in their bedroom. And her phone was on the kitchen table—out of juice.”
“So not a robbery. Could she have gone to the neighbors?”
“Caruthers says he checked, but none of the neighbors were home. He says they didn’t socialize much out there, anyway, mostly kept to themselves. I’ve got a crime scene team on the way. Just wanted to talk to you first.”
“Our Jane Doe has remembered nothing since the accident. She still doesn’t k
now her own name, and hasn’t mentioned husband, or a baby.”
Is she still in the hospital?”
“She’s staying at the Heartland Women’s Shelter here in Twisted Cedars. She came to us all bruised up—looked like she’d been handled pretty roughly in the weeks before the accident.”
“That’s interesting. Think the husband roughed her up?”
“It’s one explanation.” He was out of his chair. Pacing. Thinking. “What’s your take on the husband?”
“Seemed genuinely upset—especially about his kid. Though I take that with a grain of salt. Not just because he’s the husband and I’m not going to take his word as gospel—but he works in theatre for God’s sake. If he needed to act upset about a missing wife and kid, I guess he could.”
“Saying he roughed up his wife—what do you suppose happened to the kid?”
“God only knows.”
Wade sketched out a possible scenario. Suppose there’d been a terrible fight between this Richard Caruthers and Birdie. Caruthers does something to hurt their child. Maybe even killed him. Birdie might have been so terrified, she ran, eluding her husband until she made it up to the highway. Maybe she stayed hidden for a while.
Then Chet Walker’s truck appears in the distance. She leaves her safe spot and waves him down.
But why doesn’t she ask Walker to call 911?
Unless she was in such a state of shock she couldn’t talk. Walker can see she needs help. Probably offers to take her to the police, or a hospital.
Instead, she pulls out that piece of paper she’d ripped out of the back of Dougal’s book, where she’d underlined Twisted Cedars.
Why she would want to go to Dougal Lachlan’s birthplace, Wade had no idea. But this scenario would explain why Chet Walker hadn’t driven his usual route to Port Orford, but instead had taken the more treacherous mountain road to their town.
Wade didn’t share any of his speculations with Waverman. At this point they had better focus on facts.
“How far is the Caruthers’ cottage from the Interstate?”
“About five miles to the 66.” The detective gave him the coordinates for the cottage, and Wade went to the map of Oregon on his wall. Taking a red pin, he marked the location.
“And do the Caruthers have a house in Ashland?”
“Yup. Just sent an officer over there, too. With Caruthers’ permission she’s going to give the place an initial search. Think you could get one of your men to interview your Jane Doe on our behalf? Maybe if you mention her husband and baby, she’ll start to remember.”
The puzzle pieces of Birdie’s life were coming together fast and furious.
Birdie... He shouldn’t think of her that way anymore.
“What’s her name? The missing wife?”
“Hang on.” There was the sound of papers being shuffled. Then, “The daughter is Josephine. The woman—Joelle Caruthers.”
* * *
Wade had heard of the Ashland Shakespeare Festival, though he’d never been. A few times his Mom had taken trips with a group of women from town, though. She’d raved about it.
He found the official website for the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, and froze at the sight of the logo. It was the capital letter “O” with a short dash on the top left corner.
Birdie’s tattoo.
In his mind this cleared away any doubts that the woman the Ashland police were looking for was Birdie. But still he clicked on “OSF Company” and from there searched through the list of artists until he found a picture and biography for Richard Caruthers. The man had lots of thick, dark hair and might have been good looking except for an overly generous chin.
The attached biography had no personal details, other than listing his educational background which comprised a BA from the University of Michigan and an MA from Northwestern. Richard had been with the OSF for twelve seasons, the first eight as assistant director, and now as director. He was currently involved in a production of Henry V.
With a bit more trepidation, Wade looked up Joelle Caruthers. He found her listed in two places. In the Production Department under wigs and makeup, and also as an actor, where her credits included being the understudy for Biondello in The Taming of the Shrew and Cordelia in King Lear.
For a long time he stared at her photo.
There was no doubt this woman was Birdie. But there was also something fundamentally different between the photograph as she’d been then and the woman who’d survived that truck accident.
This Joelle Caruthers was confident, beautiful, with a hint of the siren in the gleam of her eyes. She was obviously focused directly on the camera. But Birdie, as she was now, rarely looked anyone in the eye. She was perpetually distracted by something in the distance, or off to the side.
Or, perhaps, back in her past?
* * *
Wade filled Duane in on the update, but when his deputy offered to interview Birdie, told him he’d handle it. “She’s still emotionally fragile. And at least she knows me.”
As Wade drove to the women’s shelter, the clouds that had been building since last night finally began expelling a fine mist. He turned his wipers on at their slowest speed and they’d only managed to sweep across the windshield about ten times before he arrived at his destination.
Four children, with a watchful mother, were on the playground to the left of the building. To the right, a group of six women were smoking and casting worried looks upward.
Birdie—Joelle—wasn’t in either place.
Inside, Wade checked in at the front desk. A few minutes later, Birdie—Joelle—came to the reception area, looking relieved to see him.
“I have a bad feeling about this rain,” she said, clutching his arm.
“It won’t last long. Rain in July is rare.”
She didn’t look reassured.
“We need to talk,” he said. “Someplace private.”
She studied his eyes, as if trying to get a hint of what was to come. When he remained quiet she said softly, “We can talk in my room.”
Wade followed her down the hall, then up the stairs. Her room had very little in it. One of Dougal Lachlan’s books was on the bedside table, turned so he could see the author photo, but not the title.
“Have you ever met him? Dougal Lachlan.”
She nodded. “I shampooed his hair a few days ago.”
“I mean before that. Before the accident.”
When she shrugged helplessly, he had to remind himself to be patient with her. Just because they’d found out who she was, didn’t mean she knew any more about her past now, than she had the last time he spoke to her.
All he could do was hope Waverman was right. That when he told her what he knew, her memory would be tweaked.
“We should sit down,” he said.
Birdie waved him toward the only chair—wooden, with a spindle back—then perched on the edge of her neatly made bed.
“Is it bad news?” she finally asked.
He realized he’d been quiet for a long time. “Has anything come back to you, yet? Your name? Where you came from?”
“No.” Her expression changed from trepidatious to fearful. “Have you heard something? Did someone from my past finally come looking for me?”
“You have a husband, and he called the Ashford police department today to report that you were missing.”
With trembling fingers, Birdie—Joelle—tucked her hair behind her ears, revealing a flash of her tattoo.
He pointed to it. “That symbol on your arm. It’s the logo for the Shakespeare Festival in Ashland.”
She cupped her hand protectively over the tat, and nodded. “Shakespeare. Yes, that sounds right. These lines have been popping into my head. They were old English, and seemed so bizarre. But of course, they were lines from a play.” She blinked. “So I wasn’t a hair stylist, after all? I was an actor...?”
So she was still not remembering. Or, he forced himself to consider, still pretending not to remember.
“You were both. You did hair and makeup for productions and you were also an understudy for a couple of plays.”
“And my name—?”
“Joelle Caruthers. Your husband is Richard.” He’d paused to see if the names would jolt her brain into remembering.
But she only blinked. “Joelle,” she repeated softly. “Joelle Caruthers. It’s a pretty name. But I don’t think it’s me.”
“There’s a picture of you on the OSF Company website. You look exactly like Joelle Caruthers.”
“But—I don’t think I’m married.”
His gaze went to the pale line on the finger on her left hand. “Looks like until very recently you wore a ring on that finger.”
She rubbed at the tan line, as if she could make it disappear. “I don’t like this,” she said.
“There’s one more thing, Joelle,” he said, deliberating using her name. “According to the missing person’s report filed by Richard Caruthers, the two of you had a baby. A ten-month-old girl named Josephine. She’s missing too.”
Joelle’s face had turned very pale. But she didn’t say a word.
“According to your husband, he left the two of you alone at your cottage on Hyatt Lake last Friday. I’m going to need you to come with me and give your statement.”
Wade felt like a jerk, as Joelle just sat there looking shell-shocked.
He tried a gentler tone. “Do you remember Josephine?”
Slowly her eyes filled with tears. Eventually she got up and pulled something from under her pillow. Then she turned and handed him the yellow flannel blanket that had been in the truck when it crashed.
He accepted the blanket, remembering how he’d used it to stench her wound. The blood was gone. It smelled of fabric softener.
“How did you get this?”
“One of the nurses told me it came in with me when I was admitted. She asked if I wanted to keep it. And I did.”
“Where is your baby, Joelle?” He handed the blanket back to her and she pressed the soft fabric to her check.
“I don’t know.”
chapter twenty-four
eight days after the accident
forgotten (Twisted Cedars Mysteries Book 2) Page 14