In the Cradle Lies

by Olivia Newport

  “You think he’s knotted up about something and that’s why he’s so bent on Hidden Run?”

  “It’s a reasonable working theory.”

  “‘The truth shall make you free,’” Jillian said.

  “Jesus was on to something, don’t you think? Nothing on Jackson?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Who knows, an old friend might have a piece of the truth a grandson doesn’t.”

  Jillian slipped off her stool and picked up the empty oatmeal bowls. “Time for church. I’ll be right back down.”

  She put the bowls in the sink and went up the back stairs. Nolan took his phone out of his pocket. The weather had cleared, and his afternoon was uncommitted. Patrick’s latest message said he was still in Denver. Maybe they could meet today. Nolan scrolled through his contact list and found the number he almost never used. The last time he’d called it was when his father was hospitalized for unexpected bypass surgery and Nolan was appointed to let Patrick know, even if no one in the family thought he would come from Seattle. He hadn’t, but he did call their mother during the long hours of waiting while Big Seamus was in surgery.

  Patrick didn’t answer. After four rings, his curt voice mail greeting came on, and Nolan spoke into the cyber void of wherever phone messages went.

  “Patrick, it’s Nolan. If you’re free today—Sunday—I could drive over to Denver to meet. I’m headed to church now, but let me know. Anytime in the afternoon or evening will work.”

  Nolan ended the message and exhaled. He might have missed his chance. Patrick had called Jillian two days ago. Maybe he’d gone back to Seattle. He could be on a plane right now. If he didn’t call back, Nolan might feel the same repugnant soup of culpability and reprieve as that day Patrick’s car squealed away and Nolan didn’t stop him. That’s what Paddy had not forgiven Nolan for in the end.

  Not just failing to stop Patrick.

  But not wanting to stop him.

  Being glad the volatile brother was gone.

  And Paddy had been right. That’s what Nolan couldn’t forgive himself for.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Near St. Louis, Missouri, 1948

  The tinge of antiseptic tickled Matthew’s nose, but he had no free hand to assuage the itch and had to settle for scrunching his nostrils.

  “Don’t do that,” Judd said. “You are not four years old. I’m conducting business here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Matthew hefted the box of cabinet door samples. Though not full-size, they were heavy nevertheless. Judd insisted on quality. If expanding from producing hardware that went on the cabinets to also selling the cabinets themselves was going to succeed, Ryder Manufacturing would take no shortcuts. In only two years, Judd’s pace of expansion had been unrelenting. One capital crusade followed another, and while Matthew knew nothing of the details, the evidence of success was clear. Ryder didn’t yet manufacture its own cabinets, but Judd had his eye on that prize as well—and the promise of increased jobs and prosperity it would bring to Maple Turn.

  “We’ve been here before, haven’t we?” Matthew asked.

  Judd eyed him peripherally. Matthew had his answer. He was small, not in school yet the last time his nose twitched this way. Antiseptic, yes, but also a faint scent that reminded him of the English lavender his mother worked hard to grow in a sheltered corner of her garden, as if in this particular medical establishment someone made an effort to blunt the harsh chemical odors wafting in the halls. When his mother brought lavender into the house, Matthew had sneezing fits.

  They weren’t all that far from home, or from St. Charles and Grandpa Ted’s general store and rolling property and fishing holes. Matthew was sixteen now and mentally marshaling arguments for why his father should allow him to drive the Buick. So far he hadn’t asked. He wanted a failsafe approach before he raised the question, including his mother’s support, but ultimately, driving was an essential skill for his exit plan. Wherever he landed, he wanted to be able to say he knew how to drive and held a valid license.

  “I’m dressed for the meeting, aren’t I?” Matthew would be sure to straighten his tie once he set down the load in his arms.

  “I won’t require your assistance today beyond setting up.”

  Matthew stifled a sigh. Judd’s response was not unexpected. Matthew’s read of his father was rarely wrong. Judd always required that Matthew dress in nice slacks and a shirt and tie when he traveled with him on sales calls, but Judd’s mood in the car would signal whether Matthew would be at his side learning the business, as Judd would explain to customers, or sitting outside a closed door in a rickety wooden chair or, if he was lucky, a more modern aluminum one styled after chairs designed to withstand use on naval vessels.

  This clinic was recently updated and not quite finished, so it wasn’t too late for Judd to pitch his cabinets and hardware. Operating in the wing of a hospital fairly separate from the main services, it occupied space that formerly belonged to administrative offices. Judd pointed with an elbow, and Matthew turned a corner into a waiting area. At least the new clinic already had new chairs. His gaze took in the side tables. The magazines, stacked neatly in overlapping rows, weren’t even out of date yet. He could pass the time comfortably. In truth he didn’t care about learning the business. He was only there to placate his mother and because Judd had him on the clock after school. He’d get paid whether he was in the meeting or not. His seventeenth birthday was within sight, bringing options with it. If only his shoulders would fill out to match his height, it would be easier to pass for eighteen when necessary. Maybe he would finish high school, or maybe he wouldn’t. He refused to tie himself down on that point. He just needed to learn to drive. Already he had a list of notes he would write to his mother on postcards from wherever he went. A visit home would only come when enough time had passed for her to accept the permanence of his move away from home.

  Judd spoke softly to a young woman at the reception desk. The name plate said Miss Couchman. She waved them through a gray door and pointed to where they could set up their wares.

  “We don’t have a conference room,” she said. “Dr. Kemmons suggested using the hallway so he could get an idea what the cabinets might look like out here. Then you can talk in his office about the details.”

  “Good thinking,” Judd said. “This will work fine.”

  “He’s got a couple of patients, but he should be free soon.”

  Matthew set his box on the floor and began unloading it, following Judd’s lead to set door samples on the narrow table and lean them against the wall. Then they began sorting an array of hardware options that would complement the samples.

  “I want to see my baby!” A woman shrieked behind them and pushed past the patient being escorted through the gray door.

  “Mrs. Liston, you can’t be back here without an appointment.” Miss Couchman’s stern steps followed the distraught woman.

  “Don’t tell me where I can’t go.” Mrs. Liston shirked off the receptionist’s touch. “They said my baby died.”

  “I was very sorry to hear that.”

  “I don’t want your pity. I want to talk to somebody.”

  Matthew released a half dozen pewter knobs in his hand from an unplanned height, and they clattered to the tabletop.

  “Matthew!” Judd’s hushed rebuke was instant.

  “It’s very sad when a mother loses a baby during birth,” Miss Couchman said, “but it’s a matter to discuss with someone at the hospital, not the clinic.”

  “No one at the hospital will talk to me. I’ve been to every office they have. Do you know I never even saw my baby?”

  “Again, I’m very sorry, but I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  Judd nudged Matthew and whispered, “Mind your own business.”

  Matthew picked up another box of handles, this one polished black with gray rims, and set them out, but his head was cocked toward the commotion. Miss Couchman maintained an astringent demeanor for someone
as young as he judged her to be—surely not yet thirty.

  “If my baby died, why didn’t I see him?” Mrs. Liston wanted to know.

  “I’m afraid I can’t answer that question,” Miss Couchman said.

  “Or why don’t I have a death certificate? It’s been a month. Is my poor little baby in a cold refrigerator somewhere in the bowels of this place?”

  Mrs. Liston’s pitch was so shrill Matthew’s spine shivered in reaction.

  “Matthew, this has nothing to do with you.” His father’s voice was low and firm. “Turn away.”

  “She’s pretty upset,” Matthew said.

  “But you are not the one who upset her. You are here to work, not to get involved with patients you know nothing about.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Matthew opened another box. Judd turned his back to the upheaval and pulled a notebook and catalog from his briefcase to study.

  “They just say they’ll take care of things, but they tell me nothing. Nothing!” Mrs. Liston jabbed the air toward the receptionist. “Since I can’t get anywhere with the hospital, I decided to see the doctor who was looking after me before the baby came, and that’s Dr. Kemmons.”

  “I’d be happy to schedule an appointment if you’ll just step into the lobby.”

  “You don’t understand,” Mrs. Liston growled. “My appointment is now. I’m not leaving without answers. I can take care of my own baby. I want to see him, and I want a death certificate. Then I will bury him myself.”

  “Mrs. Liston,” the receptionist said, “it’s not really my place, but I did work for the hospital from the time I left school until we opened the clinic a few months ago. In cases like this, the baby is cremated and a grave is provided. It’s for the best.”

  Mrs. Liston screamed. Matthew faltered backward into his father, who was still flipping pages in his catalog.

  “Matthew, watch where you’re going.”

  “Pop,” Matthew said, “something’s going on here.”

  “And it’s being taken care of. Maybe you should just go to the waiting room right now.”

  Matthew shook his head.

  A nurse exited one of the exam rooms, and Mrs. Liston rushed toward her. The nurse caught her wrists as her arms flew up.

  “Tell me where my baby is!”

  “Stillbirth. I’ve tried to explain,” Miss Couchman said. “She’ll be notified in due time where the grave is.”

  The nurse released Mrs. Liston’s arms but gripped her around the shoulders. “I’m sure that’s the case. Perhaps we can help shake loose the paperwork.”

  “Yes, of course,” Miss Couchman said. “Do we have your phone number in our records, Mrs. Liston? I’ll look into it and call you.”

  “I haven’t got a phone.” Mrs. Liston glared, her face streaked with angry tears. “Somebody knows something about what happened to my baby, and I want to know what it is. My baby was not stillborn. I heard him cry. I want to know what happened to him. There should be a death certificate. There should be a cause of death. What sort of hospital would cremate a baby and not tell the mother?”

  “A kind hospital,” Miss Couchman said, “full of people who want to spare you any more pain and expense than you have already endured.”

  The nurse patted Mrs. Liston’s back.

  “Let go of me.” She jerked out of reach of anyone and set her feet in a defiant dare. “Where’s the doctor? I want to talk to him right now.”

  The nurse glanced at Miss Couchman and nodded. “Fine. I will let him know you are here.”

  Matthew glued his back to the wall. Judd flipped another catalog page.

  When the nurse returned, a second nurse followed along with the doctor.

  “Hello, Judd,” Dr. Kemmons said. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

  Judd nodded without looking up.

  “You must know something,” Mrs. Liston bellowed. “There must be something in my records. You were my doctor when I was expecting. You were supposed to be there when my time came.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry that at the last minute I couldn’t be there, but I assure you the man I sent to attend you was a fine doctor.”

  “He wasn’t my doctor. He was a stranger who came at the last minute, patted my hand, and took my baby. Now they’re telling me I didn’t hear him cry. But I did!”

  “Mrs. Liston, please. You’re not doing yourself any good getting all worked up.”

  “Don’t insult me. Wouldn’t the hospital give you information about what happened when my baby was born?”

  “I would have to look and see.”

  “Fine. Do it.”

  “Mrs. Liston, I have a full schedule today. Patients in the exam rooms, more in the waiting room, a meeting with these gentlemen.”

  “My baby died! My baby died!” Every word rising through her throat twisted into a sob.

  “Perhaps we should see about admitting you to the hospital,” Dr. Kemmons said.

  She recoiled. “You mean the mental ward again.”

  “If you calm down and become reasonable, it might be for your own good. You can get some rest, and people there can help you through your grief about the baby you lost. It’s been a month, and you still seem to be in crisis.”

  “I’m sorry I’m not grieving on your convenient schedule.” Mrs. Liston’s eyes flashed toward Judd. “You! You were there! I saw you. Tell me what happened.”

  Matthew’s breath drew sharp.

  “Look at me when I’m speaking to you.” She lunged toward Judd and yanked on his elbow, sending his catalog and notebook flying and forcing him off balance before pummeling his chest.

  Matthew might not have the broad shoulders he wished for, but he towered over the woman, and his reflexes kicked in. In two long strides he had hold of her and pulled her off Judd. No one should get hurt, not even dispassionate Judd. That wasn’t how his mother or Grandpa Ted raised him.

  “Can someone call security?” Matthew wrapped his long arms around Mrs. Liston’s thrashing.

  “Already did,” a voice responded from the reception area.

  Judd couldn’t help looking at Mrs. Liston now.

  “You know something about this,” she said, digging her fingernails into Matthew’s hands. “I don’t forget faces. I know you were there, right outside the door as it opened when I heard him cry when they took him away.”

  Two hospital guards arrived and escorted the flailing Mrs. Liston out.

  Dr. Kemmons followed. “I’m going to admit her,” he said to a nurse. “Try to reach her husband. I’ll be back as soon as I can, but this could take awhile.” He glanced at Judd. “Sorry about your boy.”

  “I’ll get something for your scratches,” the second nurse said to Matthew.

  He shook his head. “I’m all right.”

  “Some disinfectant would be wise.”

  “Do it, Matthew,” Judd said. “You don’t know anything about that woman.”

  “I’ll be right back.” The nurse scurried off.

  Other clinic staff scattered in their efforts to restore order to the patient flow.

  “You all right, Pop?” Matthew said.

  Judd picked up his catalog and notebook and smoothed them. “Yes, thank you.”

  “You don’t know her from anywhere, do you?”

  “Of course not. Look at her state of mind. It’s complete nonsense. Why would I know anything about a woman’s deceased baby in a town I only visit occasionally for sales calls?”

  “I thought she might be confused about where she recognized you from.”

  “I’ve never met her, Matthew.”

  “What will happen to her?”

  “That’s not our concern. But under the circumstances, I suggest you get your scratches disinfected and we pack up. We can reschedule this call for another day.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jillian hit SEND.

  The unidentified body in the morgue in Denver had a likely name and two candidates for next of kin that detectives coul
d look for. Jillian had done her work based on the personal papers found among the man’s possessions. Three old letters, long out-of-date documents from across the country showing three different names and assorted addresses, a couple of photos with first names written on the backs, a twenty-year-old church bulletin, three spiral notebooks of smeared ink. After the coroner determined the man had died of natural causes and there was no foul play to investigate, the Denver police kept the originals of everything except the mostly illegible spirals and sent those, along with copies of everything else, to Jillian to decipher. In cases like this, she had to remember the parameters of what she was being paid to do and a reasonable time frame for results. Otherwise she’d be tempted to try to reconstruct the narrative that would bring this man to such a dismal end.

  But they weren’t writing a movie script. All they wanted was an identity they could verify and a next of kin to notify, and Jillian was confident she’d accomplished that, so today she closed the file and sent her invoice.

  She glanced at the time. A pile of work still awaited, but her back was stiff. Her dad would say she spent too much time hunched at the computer, and she would be hard-pressed to argue.

  Get up and move, Nolan would say. Talk a walk. And go farther than the coffeepot.

  Uncle Patrick hadn’t called back. Nolan had fidgeted around the house all day yesterday waiting. By supper he was berating himself for goldbricking. For more than a week he had avoided Patrick’s calls. If his brother never wanted to speak to him again, he would deserve it, he said.

  Jillian hoped that would not be the case—for both brothers’ sakes. And for hers. Her dad hadn’t revealed the full story. Maybe she didn’t need to know it, but he needed the weight of a long-ago moment off his shoulders, if it was possible—and he had to talk to Patrick before she could press him for more details.

  Jillian shuffled folders around on her desk, bringing to the top of the stack the unofficial one that bore no label. It held a couple of sheets torn from a yellow legal pad where she had written notes about Matthew, Tucker, and Ryder Manufacturing, along with a handful of articles she’d thought worth printing from newspaper archives around the region. One she’d come back to again and again, looking between the lines for a glimpse of the true Matthew Ryder. It was one of those quick Q©A formats, with fairly simple questions intended to elicit brief answers to run in a format that took up the same amount of printed space every week. This one had appeared in a local business journal nearly thirty years ago. Jillian had highlighted three questions.