Idyll Hands

by Stephanie Gayle

“I’ll go along,” I said. “They might have questions I can answer.”

  Lewis said, “Three’s a crowd. How about I find a place to grab a bite, and I’ll pick you up back here when you’re done?”

  Three cops would be overkill. It should’ve been Lewis making the notification. Not that it’s a job any cop wants. But it was his case. “You sure?” I asked.

  “Yup. Later.”

  In the wake of their only child’s disappearance, the Gardners had split town and had split up. Elizabeth’s father had moved two towns away, and her mother had uprooted herself to San Antonio, Texas. It was to Mick Gardner’s house we drove. He lived in a tidy community of two-story Colonials. Two cars were parked side by side in the driveway. Dawson parked along the sidewalk and said, “He remarried a few years after he and his wife divorced. The new wife’s name is Kate.”

  The new wife answered the door, and I took a step back. Why hadn’t Dawson mentioned that she looked so much like Elizabeth? A second later, her husband appeared, quizzical. He put a hand on her shoulder. Did he know? Had anyone ever told him that he’d married a vision of his missing child?

  Both vibrated with curiosity. “Is this about—?” he began.

  “Let’s go inside and sit,” Dawson made the command seem like a suggestion.

  We gathered in a living room done in shades of white and beige. Some would find it tranquil. I found it unsettling. How could you relax in a room where every stain would show?

  “Detective Finnegan is from the Idyll Police Station.” Dawson hesitated, giving me room. Ready to plow on if I didn’t pick up the slack.

  “Our men recently recovered a body buried in the woods,” I said. “We took dental scans. I’ve visited with your daughter’s dentist and obtained a copy of her records. They match. The body we discovered is, I believe, the body of your daughter, Elizabeth.”

  He didn’t cry out. He squeezed his hands together and said, “You found her? Was she recently buried, or …?”

  “We believe she’s been there are least sixteen years,” I said.

  A sound escaped him. A low keening. His wife put her forehead to his and whispered, “Now we know.”

  He reared back. “Where is she? Can I see her? Can I see my baby girl?”

  He had no idea what she looked like, after spending years in a shallow grave. It wasn’t just time that had abused her, but insects and scavengers and her killer. He didn’t want to see the mummified remains of his daughter. He thought he did, but it wouldn’t be a kindness to allow him to see her.

  I ignored his question and said, “I know you’ve received a shock, but I want you to know we will be investigating the circumstances of Elizabeth’s death.”

  Tears were on his face. But he wasn’t sobbing. “She was killed.” His tone contained no doubt.

  “Yes.”

  His wife, Kate, cleared her throat. “Does Hannah know?” Ah, the former Mrs. Gardner.

  “She still lives in San Antonio?” Dawson asked.

  Mr. Gardner nodded. “Yes.”

  “Could you give us her current telephone number?”

  Mick rose quickly. “She’s going to be devastated. She always thought that Elizabeth would return.”

  “But you didn’t?” I asked.

  “No. After five years passed, I knew it was hopeless.”

  He led us to a home office. He had a computer with a large monitor. Books on patent law filled built-in bookshelves. He found an address book and pointed to his wife’s address and phone number. “Hannah will want to come back, for the funeral. We can have a funeral?” He sounded like a child asking for candy.

  “Of course,” Dawson said.

  “Where’s Idyll?” Mr. Gardner asked. I told him, describing the route he’d drive to get there. “And the spot, where you found her? Was it—”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said “Among trees, some of them birches. Lots of birds back there. Daffodils. It’s peaceful.” It was, I supposed. But she hadn’t chosen it for her final resting place. Her killer had.

  “That’s good. She always liked nature. Loved taking pictures of birds and leaves and things. She wanted to be photographer. She was taking classes. This was hers.” A print on the wall showed a bird in flight, but it was the skeletal tree behind it that grabbed the eye. The bird and tree both black against the grainy white background.

  He led us to the living room. We said our good-byes. Kate thanked us for coming and delivering the news in person, playing hostess as best she could. Her husband leaned against her.

  In Dawson’s car, he said, “Guess we should call Hannah. What time is it in Texas?”

  I checked my watch. “4:53 p.m.”

  “Quitting time. She works as a medical secretary, though she does transcription, so maybe she works from home.”

  We would call from his office. I asked about his retirement. “Sixteen more days,” he said. “And then I’m off to a life of leisure.”

  “What’ll you do?” I asked.

  “Drive my wife crazy. Maybe travel. I’d like to see Yellowstone National Park, and the Northern Lights.”

  At the station, Dawson put his office phone on speaker and dialed the former Mrs. Gardner, who now went by her maiden name, Holliday. She picked up on the second ring, breathless. “Hello? Patsy?”

  Dawson said no, he wasn’t Patsy. He explained who he was, and she said, “I remember you.” She didn’t sound happy about hearing from him.

  “We have news, Mrs. Gardner. A body was found in the woods of Idyll, Connecticut, recently. Dental scans show it to be a match for your daughter, Elizabeth.”

  One inhale followed by silence. “Ms. Holliday?” he asked, tentative. “You still there?”

  “How far is Idyll? From Salisbury, from our old home.”

  I said, “A little less than two hours, ma’am.” I introduced myself as the detective who’d found her daughter. True in 1983. Not true recently. But why complicate matters?

  “She’s been there this whole time?” she asked.

  “We’re not sure, yet. We’re running tests.”

  “She was there that whole time,” she said, ignoring what I’d told her. “That whole time, less than two hours away, and you never found her. Twenty years! It took you twenty years!”

  Dawson’s frown deepened. “We’ve spoken to your ex-husband.”

  “Mick? You told him first?” She exploded. “I was her mother! Mick barely spoke to her when she was a moody teenager. Told me to wake him when she stopped back-talking. And you talked to him first.”

  “We needed to get your number from him,” Dawson said. “If you’d like to discuss funeral arrangements—”

  “I want you to nail the bastard that killed her.” We stared at the phone. What could we say? “I know who did it,” she said.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Donald Waverly.”

  “Her boyfriend,” Dawson said. He didn’t appear surprised by her accusation.

  “Ex-boyfriend,” she said. “That’s why he killed her. He was jealous and abusive. Where is he now? Go arrest him.”

  Dawson shook his head. “We’ll certainly look into it, ma’am. I’m going to give you my phone number, if you have questions.” He recited the number.

  “I’ll be pursuing the investigation into your daughter’s death,” I said. “I’ll need to talk to you about her habits, friends, enemies.”

  “She didn’t have enemies except for a terrible ex-boyfriend who beat her up. She was a beautiful girl with a good heart.” She cried. The hiccups between sobs made us examine our shoes. “But why did she—”

  “Do you have someone who can come stay with you?” Dawson asked. “A friend?”

  “Patsy should be over soon,” she choked out, between sobs. “We’re having dinner.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Dawson said. He waited, for more yelling. We would have welcomed more yelling. It was easier to bear than the gasping sobs. She hung up. We sat, in silence. Time ticked by. Each of us lost
to thoughts of how it might’ve gone differently, but never different enough. We’d never get her girl back, alive.

  “What’s this about the ex-boyfriend?” I asked.

  “Him,” Dawson said. “She was on about him after Elizabeth disappeared, but he stuck around. Tried to help. Searched the areas with us.”

  I’d heard of many a murderer who “helped” with the case he’d created. “What about the abuse?”

  “That’s the trouble. Mr. Gardner says he never saw it. The mother claims Donald Waverly roughed Elizabeth up and threatened her after she’d broken up with him. No complaints were ever filed, and it was only after she was missing several months that Elizabeth’s mother mentioned it.”

  Several months? Why the delay? My brain immediately pointed out that I’d waited a week to report Susan missing. He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her. I was in no position to judge, but I would ask Mrs. Gardner, later, about the delay.

  “Where’s Donald now?” I asked.

  “He left town about nine months after Elizabeth went missing, when it was clear she wasn’t coming back. He gave us his contact information in case we ever found her. He wanted to know she was safe. I’ll send it to you as soon as I find it.”

  I thanked him and called Lewis, who said he’d pick me up in ten minutes. I waited outside the barracks, my eyes trained on the sky. A cloud shaped like a dragon passed by, and I found myself thinking of Elizabeth May Gardner’s photograph of the bird and the skeletal tree. She’d had promise, artistic promise, but it was gone forever. Another cloud passed, a thick ribbon of gauzy white, and I blinked away the tears I felt burning on my eyelids. Susan hadn’t had a talent. She liked a lot of things and was better at some—ice-skating, poetry, and braiding hair—than others. But she was young, and I’d had every confidence that she’d come out right. Find her path. Except she hadn’t and never would.

  CHIEF THOMAS LYNCH

  SATURDAY, MAY 29, 1999

  0645 HOURS

  “You want me to what?” Matt asked. He paused, his hand on his refrigerator door. It was white, whereas my fridge was avocado green.

  “Come to my brother’s award ceremony,” I said. “And then dinner, with my family.”

  His hand remained on the fridge handle. “And do what?”

  “Nothing. Talk, eat.”

  He opened the door and pulled out a dozen eggs. “You’re serious.” He set the eggs on the counter and pulled out a block of cheese and scallions.

  “Yes.”

  He shifted to the stove, then moved the skillet to the front burner. “Okay.”

  “Really?” I’d expected more resistance.

  “Give up a chance to meet your family? Besides, I always enjoy a free meal.” Back at the counter, he cracked four eggs into a bowl. Then he reached for the cheese grater. “But now you definitely owe me another poker lesson. Make that two.” He chopped scallions.

  “All right, all right. Hey, how big is that omelet? You invite an army?”

  “I’m hungry. I hardly ate yesterday. We did surveillance, and the idiots in charge brought the worst snacks for the van. Seriously, who eats corn nuts?” He whisked the eggs and added shredded cheese and cut-up scallions and peppers and poured the mess into the heated skillet. At first contact, it sizzled and popped. “You want one?” he asked.

  “I’m good, thanks.” I’d had coffee and a piece of toast.

  “How’s your top-secret case coming?”

  “Slow,” I said, “though we’ve made some progress.”

  “We?”

  “Detective Wright is helping me.”

  He turned to make sure I wasn’t pulling his leg. “Don’t you two get on like water and oil?”

  “It’s a process.” His oven alarm beeped, prompting me to check the time. “I better get moving.” I grabbed my coat and made for the door.

  He jiggled the skillet. “Don’t forget you owe me poker lessons!”

  “I won’t.”

  The second I walked past dispatch, it started. Dix strolled by me, humming the Rocky theme song. Hopkins stretched to one side, arms overhead. Wright was on the ground, doing push-ups. He had remarkably good form. “It’s nice to see everybody taking my memo so seriously,” I said. “Keep up the good work.”

  Wright stood up, dusted his hands, and said, “I’m good for six months.”

  “Me too,” Hopkins said. “You don’t want to overdo it.”

  I was a breath away from saying Hopkins couldn’t overdo fitness when Yankowitz chimed in. “I think your memo might violate some laws.”

  “What laws?” I asked.

  “Disability laws.”

  I set my hands above my belt and said, “Come on. None of you are disabled!”

  “Not all disabilities are obvious, Chief,” Wright said.

  “You’re telling me you have a mental disability?” I asked with a smile.

  “Shots fired!” Billy called.

  Wright shook his head. “A word?” he said.

  “Come along,” I said.

  When we reached my office, he closed the door and said, “How’s the hunt for our abortionist going?”

  I dumped the dregs of my water cup onto my plant, and rotated it slightly so that its browning leaf wasn’t facing the sun. “So far, nothing.” No need to tell him about my conversations with Detective Carmichael or with Damien Saunders. “What about Susan’s boyfriend? I owe you a bottle yet?”

  “Not yet.” He rolled his shoulders up and back. “All the boys we know about are dead ends. What if it was someone … older?”

  “Older?” I asked.

  “Maybe someone … inappropriate?”

  “Teacher?” I asked. Such things happened.

  “Yeah, or coach. She played field hockey.”

  “Any rumors that her coach was a lech?” I asked.

  “No. I’m also looking through her yearbooks. The 1971 and 1970 ones. Checking out upperclassmen and club advisors.”

  Hmm. I might need those yearbooks later, to look for girls Susan was friends with, girls who might’ve had an abortion. But I’d let him have the books for now. I picked up a memo from Mrs. Dunsmore. Brought it closer to my face.

  “You need glasses,” he said.

  I set the paper down and said, “Excuse me?”

  “You’ve been squinting at your papers for a good six months now. Just grab a pair of reading glasses from the pharmacy.”

  I growled. Reading glasses. As if.

  He said, “Maybe you can ask Finny about the coach thing.”

  Right. Because Finny couldn’t know Wright was looking into his sister’s disappearance. I was finding it difficult to navigate who knew what about whom.

  “Good. Hey, nice work on getting an ID on the woods corpse so quickly,” I said.

  He was surprised by my praise. “Thanks. A lot of it was Finny. Guy’s a bulldog when he thinks people are withholding information.”

  “Any ideas on who put her in the ground?”

  “It’s early days. Mother says it’s the ex-boyfriend. We’re trying to track him down. Last contact information we have for him is twenty years old.” He left. I heard him call out, “Yankowitz, you call that a sit-up? You have to bring your torso up, man.”

  “This is a perfect sit-up!”

  The peanut gallery weighed in with thoughts on form, the proper duration of a sit-up, and bets on how many Yankowitz could do in a minute.

  Looked like the men were having more of a reaction to the fitness memo than I’d planned. On one hand, it had proved a great cover for Finnegan’s outburst. On the other hand, it meant that Mrs. Dunsmore had been correct, again. And it wasn’t likely she’d let me forget it.

  DETECTIVE MICHAEL FINNEGAN

  MONDAY, MAY 31, 1999

  1015 HOURS

  The contact information for Elizabeth Gardner’s ex-boyfriend, Donald Waverly, was twenty years old and useless. The telephone number now belonged to a Thai restaurant, and his address, an apar
t ment complex in New Haven, had turned up no record of him. My sigh ruffled the papers on the desk.

  “Who died?” Dix asked, stopping at my desk.

  “My sense of self-worth.”

  He slapped my back. I coughed. “Buck up, buddy. I’m sure it’ll come back. Go get yourself another wife. That always cheers you up.”

  Funny fucker. As if a new wife would bring me anything but heartbreak and another siphon on my bank account. I went in search of the nearest typewriter. We’d lost one to an injury sustained during an instation football pass gone wrong. I took a seat near the desk Dix liked best. The typewriter there had a ribbon and all its keys. Score. I rolled a sheet into it and began filling in details, such as they were.

  “Oy, look who’s got the only good machine,” Hopkins complained, a bunch of papers clutched in his hammy hand.

  “You snooze, you lose,” I said, slowing my typing to one slow finger-jab every four seconds.

  “Billy’s using the other.”

  “You think watching me and complaining is going to advance your cause how, exactly?”

  “I’m on call,” he complained. “I might only have these five minutes to type this.”

  “And you might get called while typing. So, you’ll have wasted my valuable time with this interruption and for what reason?”

  “You detectives always think you come first in everything.” He raised his voice and looked at the other guys, hoping for support. It didn’t come.

  Torturing him wasn’t any fun. I finished typing and yanked the sheet through. “Your chariot awaits,” I said, waving my hand with a flourish.

  Back at my desk, I examined the reports Dawson had sent us. Elizabeth May Gardner was a well-liked girl who enjoyed photography and cooking. She had dated a young man named Donald Waverly. She broke up with him six weeks before she went missing. The cops looked into him, but he had no priors. He worked full-time at a landscaping company. He was interviewed, twice, and seemed very upset that she was missing.

  A few men who’d asked Elizabeth out on dates (she’d refused) were checked out. None of them were pursued. She’d last been seen walking along Canaan Road. Her mother said she’d gone to take photographs. Her car was found near the Scoville Sanctuary’s entrance. A few sightings of her had been reported as far as the Midwest in the weeks following her disappearance, but knowing that she ended up in Idyll, they were likely mistaken or crank calls.