“Tell me about the interview,” he said. “Everything. What you thought of Emma. Was she telling the truth? Was it really Crowningshield who knocked her up?”
She told him. “I knew you’d love it. That it was Kevin.” She walked on faster.
He ran to catch up. Already he was tired he was out of shape, and his lungs felt as if they were bursting. “But if it was Kevin,” he said, pacifying her, “what would that have to do with Denby’s death?”
“Exactly. I’ve been telling you. Kevin’s not a killer. He got her pregnant, okay; she was obviously a consenting partner. Though I agree: It wasn’t fair if he said he’d marry her—if she’s telling the truth here. But I figure he met Angie, fell in love—really in love. The old triangle. Emma loved him, but he loved Angie, didn’t want to hurt Emma, but—”
“So he let her have an abortion. Pay for the abortion—no guilt, right?”
“I didn’t say that. You make it sound so ... so black and white. Anyway, she only had the abortion after he left with Angie. Before that, she wanted the baby. She’s happy now— she made a good marriage, has all those children.”
He gave up on that score. He couldn’t move her: She wouldn’t want to lose faith in Kevin. In a way, he’d be sorry if it was Kevin. Maybe he should cool it. She’d lost faith in Pete; that was enough for one woman.
But he had to get Mac off the hook. If Mac hadn’t done it. “Do you think Emma was really telling the truth? Could she prove in court that Kevin was the man? Could it have been Denby after all? I mean, that’s the rumor that got around.”
“Oh, Denby probably started that. He loved being the Lothario. I always heard that.” She stooped to pick a stem of Queen Anne’s lace, still alive at the end of October. It was a warm day—you’d think time had ticked backward.
He suddenly realized what she was saying. “Meaning he’d have known she was pregnant.”
“Well, it got to be obvious, right? They both worked there at Killian? Anyhow, to answer your other concern: Emma kept his letters—Kevin’s. I didn’t ask to see them. But she has them, she told me.”
“Suppose Denby got hold of them.”
“How?”
“I don’t know—blackmailers have ways.” He didn’t know why he’d said that. He was searching for a motive, that’s all.
“Whoa, man.” She turned to face him, shook the lacy flower head at him. “How do we know Denby was a blackmailer? Aren’t we making grand assumptions here?”
“Maybe.” A vision of Kevin and Denby arguing at the Alibi bar flashed into his mind. “Maybe not. But I’d sure like to see those letters. You might have—”
“Who do you think I am!” she cried. “Some kind of snoop? Reading other people’s intimate correspondence?”
“If it helps find a killer—”
He could see she didn’t want to deal with that. She lunged ahead, long-legged, through the tall grasses, through an unlocked gate, into the north pasture, where the herd was grazing. He followed, got caught in the wire; it snagged his best blue corduroys. One by one, the cows turned to face him; he could swear they were laughing.
The only one who wasn’t laughing was Ruth. He’d struck a vulnerable chord. He’d as good as called Kevin Crowningshield a suspect in Denby’s killing. Though he had no proof. He’d have to see Emma Stackpole himself, her letters. For now, he had only hunches. But he had to make Ruth understand.
“Ruth,” he cried, wrenching at the wires, “help me!”
But she was hugging a cow. A cow. “Zelda, honey,” she said, “he’s caught. Should we help him or not?”
But the cow only swung her skinny white tail, then turned and trotted away, the other beasts following. Leaving him stuck in the fence.
* * * *
Kevin was back. He was coming over. Ruth had called him. Somehow she’d felt she had to. To tell him about Emma. Didn’t he have a right to know? Even as she heard his footsteps on the porch, she felt guilty, wanted to say, No, it’s nothing, nothing important at all.
But here he was. “Ruth?” He seemed eager to see her. There was an urgency about him, a nervousness. Though she understood, didn’t she? He’d lost his wife, his wife .…
“I’m glad,” she told him again as he sat on the edge of a chair in the shabby living room (it looked especially shabby with elegant Kevin in it: the old slumped sofa, the humpbacked chairs, the moth-eaten carpet), “glad you’re absolved. Glad that they found the source of the poison. Can you imagine that man Alwyn Bagshaw being so careless? So irresponsible?”
He nodded, but his face was a rock. “It was my wife he murdered. I hope they give him the book. Until they brought Mac MacInnis back, I was sure—and the police were, too, I understand—Alwyn had killed his brother, too.”
“You must have met Denby, Kevin? He worked at Killian Precision, too, at one time. I think it was Alwyn told me.”
She thought she saw his face turn pink, but it might be the sun, slanting in through the window and reflecting off the glassed-in bookcase. “Denby? Well, yes, yes, he was a janitor, I believe. Not a very prepossessing fellow. Quite the womanizer.”
“Yes.” There was a silence. Her skin was flushed because of the delicacy of the subject. She couldn’t bring herself to speak of Emma. Not yet. But she needed to hear the truth from Kevin, his side of the story, how he felt.
Instead, she offered him a beer, a glass of Otter Creek Ale. “They make it right here in Branbury. Try it?”
He nodded. He could use a drink. He’d been to see his lawyer; they were trying to settle Angie’s estate. Too much happening at once, he said; his mind was in chaos. Her stepmother was flying to Chicago next week for the memorial service, and he dreaded seeing the woman. He was flying out again tomorrow, and so he was glad she’d called him today. The ale loosened his tongue, his feelings. “It’s hard being here, where Angie and I met. You can’t know what she was like. So different from city girls, so refreshing—unsophisticated. She had dark brown hair, like yours—reddish highlights; she was lovely.”
He looked at Ruth. She felt a spasm in her cheek, covered it with a hand. “She was brought up on a farm. Like you, Ruth.”
“Actually, I wasn’t.” She had to establish a difference. “My parents lived in town; Dad was an accountant, Mother a housewife, like most women in those days. I moved here when I married Pete. Grew to like it—I surprised myself.”
“Pete doesn’t know how lucky he was,” he murmured, looking hard at her. “Ruth, I... I want to keep in touch.”
She blushed under his gaze, had to turn the tables, talk about him—that was her purpose in bringing him here. She thought of Isis. She’d promised herself to speak to Kevin about the Healing House. It would put off the subject of Emma Stackpole for a bit. “That Healing House, Kevin. People get the wrong idea—anything offbeat, you know, people are suspicious. I’m sure Isis would make a good renter, pay what you ask. If you’d let her stay on.”
“Ruth, times are hard; my investments haven’t been working out the way they should. I’ve made arrangements with a Realtor.”
“Colm Hanna?”
He gave a half laugh. “Coldwell Banker—they’re the biggest outfit around. They hustle. They already have someone interested.” He turned the glass in his hands, appeared to be polishing it. “Besides, you may not understand, but—look, Ruth, Angie died there. They could have called a doctor sooner; they never let me in so I could—Ruth, she might have lived if they’d let me see her. I’ll never”—his lips tightened— “never forgive them for that.”
She nodded. Although Angie herself had ostracized him. But this wasn’t the time to bring that up again. The silence was almost palpable. In a minute, she’d scream.
“Did Angie make a will?” She had to break the silence. “Anything that would keep you from selling?”
“Is that why you called me? What you wanted to talk to me about?” His flat voice shattered her nerves.
“No, no, I just happened to think of it now.”
“When you worked at Killian,” she said slowly, “you knew a young woman named Emma Stackpole?” She glanced at him, saw his hands tighten on the glass. “I happened to meet her—asking about Denby Bagshaw, you see. I mean, we’d just discovered it was Denby in that hole....”
“Go on,” he said. “You happened to meet her. Or you went deliberately to meet her?” His words dropped like crushed stones. But she had to get it out now.
“Yes. I went deliberately to meet her. To talk about Denby. The word was that Denby had gotten a young woman pregnant—and we thought it might have been Emma. He bragged about it around town. It was shortly before he died.”
“And what did she say—when you asked her? She’s married now, I believe,” he said, as though he’d postpone the answer to the first question.
“Her husband died several years ago. She takes in foster children.”
“She’s content, then; she likes children.”
She looked carefully at him. His face was expressionless, but he was watching her intently. “It was you who got her pregnant, Kevin. You offered to pay for an abortion.”
His face suddenly leapt to life. He buried it in his hands. “I tried. It was for her sake. I—I couldn’t marry her, Ruth. I’d met Angie, you see. After that, there was no one else. It would have been heartless to marry her, loving someone else.”
Ruth sank back in her wing-back chair. It had a bad leg because Vic had jumped on it once; it rocked a little with her weight. She felt seasick, but relieved at the same time. “Of course, Kevin, I realize that. You’d met Angie, fallen in love, that was why—I told Colm.”
His face hardened again. “What does he have to do with it?”
“He’s helping Chief Fallon, you see—a kind of moonlighting job? He and I are trying to find Denby’s murderer. Because of Glenna, you see. She was our neighbor! Is,” she amended. Though another day had passed since the “second” disappearance, as Fay called it. Fay had called again, saying there was no visible sign of Glenna Flint.
“Ruth,” he said, leaning forward, reaching out to her as if she were a little girl needing a hand to cross the street, “Mac MacInnis has confessed. Did you know that? Oh, yes. It wasn’t Glenna at all. It was Mac. He admitted it. What more do you want? He killed him out of jealousy, or some craziness. I’ll admit I was surprised. I would have put money on Alwyn. But, well, you have your murderer. What are you dragging up this other stuff for? Making Emma suffer by talking about it again? Making me...”
“I’m sorry,” she said, putting a hand on his. “I just had to know, that’s all. I just wanted to hear from you. It was Colm who dug up the Emma business. He had to, I mean,” she said, defending her friend, “in case it wasn’t Mac. We’re still not sure, you know; we’ve no definitive proof.”
“You thought Emma might have done it, that Denby got her pregnant and she was getting her revenge—or her father, someone who acted for her—that it?”
“Maybe.”
It was easier to let it lie like that. Easier than telling the whole truth. That Colm had it in for Kevin, wanted to implicate him. She was angry now, at Colm.
“If you knew how it was—I couldn’t tell Angie about Emma—it made the guilt worse, keeping it in. Did Emma tell you I sent money? Every Christmas? Pretending to be an uncle so her husband wouldn’t know? I did, Ruth, I did. If she’d had the child, if she’d insisted—well, I’d have paid for that, too.”
“Of course,” she said. She was glad when the telephone rang; when Vic called to her from upstairs, needing help with his math; when Sharon came home, big as the side of a barn, looking exhausted, dragging Ruth’s grandchild behind her.
“Nana,” little Robbie said, and Ruth scooped him up in her arms, hugged him to her. “Ice cream?” he said hopefully, and, ignoring Sharon’s frown, Ruth said, “Yes, sweetheart, right in the freezer. Nana will get it.”
“One spoonful, then,” Sharon said, frowning. “And make it vanilla. I don’t want him up half the night with a chocolate buzz.”
“You know,” Kevin whispered, following Ruth into the kitchen, “there was some question as to whether it really was my baby—she went out with some other guy just before she met me. Once even, I heard, with Denby. That’s how the rumors started. I’m the one who took responsibility.”
Ruth stared at him, couldn’t think of anything to say. Something unripe in her throat.
After Kevin left, after she dished out homemade vanilla ice cream for her grandson—two spoonfuls, since Sharon was out of the room—she called Colm. But Colm was out, his father said. “Gone to see some woman. I’ll have him call you back. Um, here it is: Stackpole, Emma Stackpole. I suppose she wants to sell her house. They call all hours of the day and night. If Colm would take over here for me ...”
“Don’t they die all hours of the night?” she asked, irritation building up inside at Colm’s errand.
There was a faint laugh. “Oh, yes, absolutely. But they usually hold off bringing them here till morning. They’re not going anywhere, anyway, are they?”
“I suppose not,” she said, thinking of Glenna—wherever she might be. In some ditch, on the side of a mountain, in somebody’s barn, asleep, or worse ...
When she put down the phone, it rang at once. But it wasn’t Colm; it was Emily. “Mom, I’m at a football game—at the high school. They’re undefeated, you know.” Ruth didn’t know—she couldn’t keep up with things. “Great,” she said.
“With Hartley, Mom. Hartley was on the search, I mean, but when her parents arrived, she had to take time out—they keep bugging her, you know.”
“Well, all right, Em. But come home right after, will you? I’ll need you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Tomorrow, I promised to go on the search with Hartley. I mean, it’s more important than school, Mom! But Mom, Wilder’s here. And guess what? Without Joanie Hayden. And he wants to sit with us. But I won’t be too eager.”
“I wouldn’t be. After all, he left you for that diamond-in-her-nose.” Ruth had to give her daughter some motherly advice. Was it enough?
But Emily had advice for her mother, too. “When Dad comes, you will be nice to him, Mom? You will, um, consider what he has to say? I mean, I’ll listen to Wilder anyhow; I’ll consider.... Mom? Answer me, Mom.”
“Of course I will,” said Ruth, feeling a headache coming on. “I’ll consider. I’ve been considering—more than you realize.”
“Thanks, Mom. Thanks. I gotta go now. Here’s Wilder.”
“Hi, Ms. Willmarth. How are you?” Wilder’s voice cracked through the wires. “Hi,” Ruth said, and then there was a peal of laughter, and Emily yelled, “Remember what I said, Mother,” and hung up.
Ruth sat still for a few minutes afterward, couldn’t seem to move her feet.
“Nana’s crying,” little Robbie told his mother, who was coming out of the bathroom, and Sharon ran to Ruth, knelt down to put her arms around her. Ruth felt her daughter’s hair warm and soft like spilled milk on her knees. “Was that Dad? Let him have it, Mother. What are you waiting for? He’s not coming back. To stay, I mean. He’s not. You have to face reality.”
Ruth nodded. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t tell Sharon it wasn’t Pete at all, but Emily. That somehow that made it even worse.
“Mother, I need help,” Sharon cried, struggling to get up off her knees. “This baby’s gravity is down. Help, Mom!”
Smiling through her tears, Ruth pulled on Sharon’s arms. Together they got mother-cum-child up out of the chair. “Whew,” said Sharon. “Any day now, this kid’ll be knocking on the door. Jack better get his ass back here. What do you suppose it is—girl, boy, or calf?”
“Quick,” said Hartley, “there they are. Run, Emily!” She yanked on Gandalf’s leash. Then she cried, “Whoa, baby, whoa. Not quite so-o fast.”
> “You can’t avoid your parents forever.” It was Emily, shouting, dropping behind. They were in East Branbury. Most of the searchers had given up on the area—for one thing, it was raining, a kind of sleet. Hartley’s hair and shoes were soaked. But if she’d been drugged, Hartley figured, Glenna wouldn’t have staggered very far from Bagshaw’s.
“Besides,” the girl confided to Emily, who had finally caught up, “I have an appointment at eleven-thirty for a head and neck massage. Some energy work, too. I made it days ago. In that Healing House. I can slip in—it’ll only take an hour.”
“You’re kidding,” said Emily. “A massage? Energy work? What do you need that for?”
“It helps you think,” said Hartley. “It relaxes you so the brain cells can operate. So you can face the world. Face your parents, you know.”
“I know,” said Emily, “oh, I know.”
“I know you know,” said Hartley. “Your dad coming up, right?”
“Right. I’m a wreck thinking about it. My mother can be so, so stubborn sometimes. Not always thinking of us, you know.”
“I know. Well, maybe she can work you in. Isis, I mean. After she’s through with me. I mean, I’ll lend you the money.”
“Well... maybe.” Emily leaned against a stump to catch her breath. They were on a dirt road behind the Healing House. “Can you slow that dog down a bit? I’m beat. I had to do chores before I came here. I’m so wet, it doesn’t matter anymore.”
They were on somebody’s farmland, Hartley saw. She didn’t know whose. The place looked run-down, “marginal as heck,” she said aloud; it had a FOR SALE sign stuck sideways in the ground in front of a clump of frostbitten bushes. A mangy dog barked at them but wagged its tail when it saw Gandalf, and then ran off at a clumsy gait. Gandalf strained at his leash; he was a wet gray ghost. A single white silo leaned toward them ominously, as if it would strike if they came any closer. A gray barn badly in need of paint squatted beside it. Its cupola told of better days, before the pigeons took over. The birds squabbled and flapped over the girls’ heads. Hartley peeked inside a dirty window and a workhorse swung its gangly neck in her direction. She had just turned away when a young boy burst out of the barn.
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