As he watched her as they drove uptown, he felt distinctly sorry for her. He knew how desperate she was to find the child, and he was beginning to think they weren't going to. He had begun to feel that way in the Lindbergh case too, and he had wanted so badly to be wrong, but in the end he wasn't.
They ran in through the kitchen once she was home, and she thanked him for bringing her back. But Malcolm was far less grateful to him the following morning. The papers were smeared with Marielle's visit to Charles in jail, with photographs of her everywhere, and one of John with his arm around her as she got into the car.
When Malcolm came home he was livid.
“What was that about, Marielle?”
“He was shielding me from the press,” she said quietly. And he'd been right. The photographers had had a field day.
“He seems to be enjoying it. Was it his idea to take you to see Delauney?”
“No, mine. I ran into him there. And Malcolm …I'm sorry. I just had to see him … I wanted to hear what he'd say.”
“And did he tell you how he killed your son? Did he tell you that? Or did he cry about his own son?” Malcolm was raging.
“Malcolm, please …”
“Please what …your lover …your ex-husband, your whatever you want to call him takes my son and you want me to feel sorry for him? Is that what you did? Go to tell him how sorry you are for him? You know who I'm sorry for? I'm sorry for Teddy …our little boy who is probably dead somewhere, who may have been kicked or stabbed or broken or hurt …” She was screaming as she listened, her hands over her ears, unable to bear it a moment longer.
“Stop! Stop! Stop! She ran shrieking from the dining room and went to her own bedroom. It was too much to bear. Too much was happening. And everyone seemed to blame her. It was her fault for knowing Charles, for having been married to him, for not having been able to save her own child, Charles blamed her for that too, and now Malcolm blamed her for Teddy's kidnapping.
John Taylor came back to see her that afternoon, and was kind enough not to mention the furor in the press, but he didn't have any other news either. They were going to search Charles's house again, just in case. And this time when they did, they found one of Teddy's toys, it was a little teddy bear, concealed right in Charles's own bedroom. There was no longer any doubt at all. And this time, even Marielle believed them.
In mid-January, preparations for the trial were under way, and there was still no news of Teddy. It had been three and a half weeks since he'd been gone, and Malcolm had gone back to Washington for a few days to attend a joint secret session of the House and Senate Committees on Military Affairs, and to see America's ambassador to Germany, Hugh Wilson, who was home for a brief visit.
Marielle was alone in New York, in the house surrounded by guards, and it had been almost a week since she'd seen John Taylor.
She was going through some papers one afternoon, trying to keep her mind off Teddy, and stay out of his room. She couldn't bear listening to the radio anymore. Either it was news of the trial, which rattled her, or she heard Teddy's favorite broadcasts, like The Lone Ranger, which made her cry and depressed her. And Marielle had come to hate the sight of Shirley Temple because she reminded her of Teddy. They had finally sent Miss Griffin off for a brief vacation to see her sister in New Jersey. She too was almost hysterical by then. And it was a relief not to have to look at her when Marielle went upstairs. Now she could be alone in his room, with his clothes, his toys, the little things he'd used, like his hairbrush. Sometimes, she just stood there for hours, and touched them, or sat in his favorite chair, or lay on his bed, trying not to think of his last night there.
Haverford appeared in the library that day, as she put away the last of her papers. His eyes were gentle and kind. He felt desperately sorry for her, although he would never have said it.
“There's someone here to see you. A Miss Ritter. She says she has an appointment.”
“I don't know anyone by that name.”
“Yes, you do.” At the sound of the words, Marielle turned, and saw a young woman enter the room where she was working. She was small and had red hair and was about Marielle's age, and she looked familiar but Marielle couldn't place her. And for an instant, she found herself praying that this would be some kind of threat, or extortion request, someone who could lead her to him, but those hopes were almost dead now. The ransom had never been picked up, and was still sitting in the locker in Grand Central Station.
“Who are you?” Marielle looked puzzled, and Haverford stood ready to defend her. And then suddenly Marielle knew. She recognized her as the reporter who had forced her way into the house early on, and the girl looked suddenly frightened as she glanced at the butler.
“May I talk to you alone?”
“No …”I'm sorry …you can't.” Marielle sounded far braver than she felt. The girl seemed very bold and sure, and Marielle was being very careful.
“It's important, please …” the young woman begged. She was wearing another of her incongruous outfits.
“I don't think so. How did you get in here?”
“We made an appointment for this afternoon.” She tried to brazen it out but Marielle knew better. She hadn't had an appointment of any kind in over a month, except with investigators and policemen.
“I'm sorry, Miss …”
“Ritter. Beatrice Ritter. Bea.” She smiled, trying to find some hook into Marielle, something that would catch Marielle's interest enough to ask her to stay, but Marielle knew better.
“…you'll have to leave….” For an instant, the girl looked bitterly disappointed, and then she nodded.
“I understand. I just wanted to speak to you about Charles.” The sound of his name was like an electric current in the room and Marielle stared at her.
“Why?”
“Because he needs you.” It was all much too complicated to discuss with a stranger.
“Madam? …” Haverford looked at her inquiringly, and she didn't know why, but she decided to let the girl stay, if only for a moment. She nodded, and he left the room, but he alerted two policemen as he left and Marielle saw them near the doorway.
“I don't understand why you're here. Did Charles send you to see me?” She had heard nothing from him since her visit to the jail, not since they found the bear that had finally convinced her he was guilty.
But Bea Ritter wanted to be honest with her, and realized she had to make her point quickly, before she was asked to leave. Charles had told her himself that Marielle would never see her. “I'm with AP. And I don't think he did it. I want to see if I can help find out who did. I want to know if you'll help me.” It was as clear and concise as she could make it.
“I'm afraid I don't agree with you, Miss …Ritter.” She groped for her name. “I didn't think he did it either, but two things have been found now to link him to my son, the pajamas my son was wearing when he left, and his favorite teddy bear. And no one else has come forward.” Marielle had no doubts now.
“Maybe the real kidnappers are afraid to, or have good reason not to. There has to be some reason.” She was so convinced of Charles's innocence. She had spent hours with him, and she could not believe him capable of the crime. But Marielle no longer believed in his innocence. She stood up quietly, wanting the girl to leave her.
“I'm afraid I can't help you.” Her eyes were too full of pain, her heart too heavy. She didn't want to listen to this girl plead for Charles. All she wanted was her son back.
“Do you believe he's capable of it?” She had to know. She wanted to know if Marielle believed him. But Marielle was afraid of what this girl would put in the papers.
“I do believe he's capable of it. There's simply no other answer. And he threatened to do it.” She was finally convinced, even if this young woman wasn't. After all these years, her heart had finally hardened to Charles Delauney.
“He was drunk.” It was obvious that she'd talked to him, and Marielle was annoyed that she was so persistent. She was bri
ght and strong and incredibly determined. She wore her hair in a short bob, and she was wearing a cheap navy blue coat and dress, and a ridiculous hat with a red flower, but in an odd, perky way, she was pretty.
“Being drunk is no excuse. I'm sorry …” She walked to the door and Bea Ritter didn't move.
“Mrs. Patterson, he loves you….” The words stopped her in her tracks, and Marielle turned to stare at her in anger.
“Did he say that to you?”
“It's obvious.”
“It hasn't been obvious to me in years, and I don't want to hear it.” She was finally very, very angry at him, and mortally wounded by what he'd done. But Bea Ritter refused to share Marieile's point of view.
“He's innocent.” She was so determined, so sure, that it almost haunted Marielle as she listened, but she didn't want to be haunted by Charles again. He had taken her baby.
“How dare you say he's innocent! If he is, where's my child?”
“He doesn't know. He swears.” Her eyes never left Marieile's face. “If Charles knew, he'd tell us.”
“You don't even know him.” But she knew him better than Marielle thought. She had spent hours with him, in the jail, after bribing two policemen. At first it was just a story, an interview, but for some odd reason, she believed him. She was sure he was telling the truth, and she had promised herself that she would do everything she could to help him. In fact, she had gone to Tom Armour, at his request, and begged him to represent Charles. The two were acquaintances from years past, but until that point, Armour had refused all of Charles's letters and phone calls. It was Bea who turned the tide, who begged on his behalf, who convinced the young criminal attorney that Charles was in fact innocent, in spite of how grim things looked against him. And she had reminded Tom that if he didn't take the case, and Charles lost, he would be put to death … an innocent man. She insisted that Tom could make all the difference. Thanks to Bea Ritter, Tom Armour had finally agreed to represent him.
“Will you help me?” Her eyes begged and Marielle didn't want to hear her, just as Tom Armour hadn't wanted to, but he had. Bea Ritter was uncomfortably convincing.
“Find my son and I'll believe you,” Marielle said coldly.
“I'll try.” Bea Ritter finally stood up. “May I call you if anything comes up?” Marielle hesitated, and then in spite of herself, she nodded. “Thank you.” Bea stood for a moment, looking at Marielle, as though wondering about all she'd heard, and then she thanked her again and left, as Marielle watched her.
Marielle was still sitting at her desk, thinking about her unhappily, when John Taylor arrived with the U.S. Attorney. He was a tall, thin, spare, somewhat frightening-looking man, who seemed absolutely certain that Charles Delauney had kidnapped her child, and what's more, he was certain he had killed him. Marielle flinched as she heard the words, and John Taylor ached as he watched her. It was a far cry from Bea Ritter's plea to help him.
The U.S. Attorney told her they had scheduled the case for March, and he explained to her that they expected a guilty verdict, and hoped for every possible cooperation from her and her husband.
“What does that mean, Mr. Palmer?”
“It means that I expect you to be at the trial, to sit there and make the jury care. We want them to know what losing your boy has meant to you, so they convict Mr. Delauney. And if we're lucky, and can prove or even imply that he crossed state lines with the boy, we'll get the death penalty, Mrs. Patterson, and nothing less!” The way he said it made her shiver. He also made her feel that he was going to try to convict Charles on the emotions of the case, more than the evidence. And it worried her to be put “on display” during the trial. Taylor didn't like it either, but he understood it. William Palmer was a highly respected prosecutor, but not much of a human being. “Of course, if we find your son by then, we'd like to see him in court too, but only briefly.” Marielle sat there thinking that she would have loved that. If only they would find him and he could be there.
“Anything else?” She was being flip with him because what he was saying was so awful, but he didn't seem to get the point as he stood up and prepared to leave her.
“We'll let you know.” He readjusted his glasses, stared at her as though evaluating how good a witness she'd make, and picked up his briefcase. “I'd like to see your husband when he gets back from Washington, if you'd let him know.”
“I'll tell him.” He left and Taylor stayed on, and she sighed as they sat down on the couch. It had been an endless month, a hideous time, and they still had no idea what had happened to Teddy. There had been no calls, no tips, only a few bum leads, and a handful of crackpot sightings from New Hampshire to New Jersey.
“He's sweet.” She was referring to the U.S. Attorney, and Taylor laughed as he lit a cigarette and watched her. She was a good sport, among other things, when life wasn't crushing her to extinction.
“He's better in court than in the drawing room.”
“Lucky for him.” And then she looked inquiringly at John. In an odd way, they had become friends. Sometimes she felt as though he was her only ally. “I imagine the trial will be really awful.”
“It'll be rough. And they'll bring out things you won't like … at least the defense will, maybe your time in the hospital, or something like that. They have to do what they can to discredit you.”
“Why? I'm not accusing Charles.” Although most of the time she now believed he did it. It was only now and then that she had doubts about Charles's guilt. She told him then about Bea Ritter.
“Stay out of it. You'll only get hurt. Whatever the press gets hold of, they're going to twist and use to stab you in the back with.” She agreed. But what if the girl in the funny hats was right? She was so smart and so intense and so earnest. “I don't know what to think sometimes,” she admitted to John dejectedly. “And what difference does it make anymore? Teddy's gone. The rest is all so unimportant.” Her eyes were so big and sad as she said it. She had lost three children in one short lifetime.
“It isn't unimportant to Charles. His life is at stake. He's going to be clutching at straws for his survival.”
“Who's his lawyer?”
“He picked a good one. A man named Tom Armour. Smart, young, he can be brutal in court, but if anyone can save Delauney's neck, he will.”
“I don't know if I'm glad or not. I don't know what I think anymore. Malcolm says he did it. And when they found the bear …” Her eyes filled with tears and she blinked them away. “But I don't know …when I went to see Charles, I believed him when he said he didn't. But if he didn't, where is Teddy?” It was the one question no one could answer, and as he watched her, he felt so drawn to her, he could hardly listen to her questions. He had never felt like that about anyone, not even his wife, and certainly not the women he usually dealt with in investigations, but there was something about her that just drove him to distraction. Something so vulnerable and soft that all he wanted to do when he was near her was reach out and touch her.
“I wish I knew the answer to that,” he finally said, but his eyes caressed her as they sat on the couch and it grew dark. It was another cold night, and she was alone, as usual. Malcolm was away, and in spite of the police everywhere, the house seemed so empty and lonely. He wished that he could take her to dinner somewhere, somewhere where there was noise and laughter and smoke and music. He wished he could take her away from it all, from men who beat her and broke her heart, and others who ignored her. He knew more about Malcolm Patterson now than he cared to know, and one thing he knew for sure was that Marielle was getting less than she deserved from everyone. And John Taylor wished that he could make things different. “I wish I could make all of this go away for you, Marielle.” It was an unprofessional thing for him to say, but it really touched her.
“That's sweet of you. So do I, I guess. … I used to believe that difficult things happened for a reason. I'm not sure I believe that anymore. Too much has happened to me.” It was impossible to believe that through totall
y unforeseeable and hideous circumstances, the woman had lost three children. “Do you have children?” She knew so little about him, and yet she had known for a month now that she liked him.
“Two. A girl fourteen and a boy eleven.” And then, suddenly he was sorry he'd said it, but she seemed peaceful as she nodded.
“Andre would have been eleven” …and the little girl eight …the baby who died without ever taking a breath, and with no name …just baby girl Delauney.
“Jennifer and Matthew.” He filled in to distract her.
“Do they look like you?” She was smiling, enjoying just talking to him about normal things, not kidnapping and murder.
“I don't know. People say he does. It's hard to tell What about you? What do you like to do when life is normal?”
She smiled at the question. “I like to swim, and go for long walks, and ride … I like music … I used to paint years ago, but I haven't in years …” Not since the hospital, but she didn't say that. “I like all the silly things I used to do with Teddy.” Everything always came back to that, in the end, it was all she could think of. “We saw Snow White, the day …the day he …”
“I know,” he said softly. He remembered. She nodded then, feeling sad, and he put a hand on hers, and she looked at him wondering why he cared, why he was so nice, but she was grateful that he was there. He always seemed to be there when it mattered. “Marielle …” He spoke her name softly, and the air seemed not to move between them, and then without saying anything, he leaned toward her and kissed her. She felt her whole body melt close to him as he took her in his arms and held her close, and all she could think of was the power of him, the excitement and the strength, and the kindness. She didn't know what to say to him when he pulled away from her and they both looked surprised, but it was obvious from her face that she was happy.
“I'm not sure what to say now …except that you mean a lot to me …and I'm not sure I could have survived all this without you.”
“I want to be there for you …” He wanted to give her more than that, but he didn't know how to say it. He pulled away slowly, and sat back against the couch, wondering at what he had done, and why, except he knew he'd had to do it. He could never have given her any of the things she had. All he could give her was the one thing he knew she didn't have, and hadn't in years: love. And one thing he was sure of, Malcolm Patterson didn't deserve her. She was looking at John quietly, and she looked more peaceful than she had in a long time, as she touched his hand and then kissed it.
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