The Ashford Place

by Jean Copeland

  “Mom, it’s her child, not mine. Besides, I’ve hung out with Chloe several times. She’s an awesome kid. I’ve really enjoyed the time we’ve spent together.”

  “If it were any other reason…”

  “I haven’t made any final decisions yet.” She faced her mother to plead her position more earnestly. “Look, I know it seems like it’s all happening so fast, but you don’t understand how I feel about Ally. She’s the most amazing woman I’ve ever met.”

  “Jim, are you just going to sit there like a boob?”

  Her father craned his neck to glance over at them. “Just don’t move her in until you’ve seen her through a winter.”

  Belle and her mother looked at each other.

  “The winter?” Belle said.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” her mother asked.

  “They get a ton of snow up there,” her father said. “See how she is during a bad bout with cabin fever. If you can stand her through a New England winter, you know she’s a keeper.”

  Belle laughed at her father’s bad dad aphorisms.

  “Is that how you knew you wanted to marry me?” her mother asked.

  “Nah…You were working at the restaurant at the time. I didn’t want one of those horny Italian waiters getting his mitts on you.”

  “Oh, Jim.” Her mother tried to hold back a smile.

  “You snagged yourself a real romantic there, Ma.” Belle tapped her mother’s knee as she rose from the sofa.

  “Would you like some ice cream, hon?”

  “I’d like to know I have your support on this if that’s the decision I make.”

  “We’d feel better if we knew you’re giving this enough thought, Isabelle,” her mother said. “I don’t think I have to remind you…”

  “But you will anyway…”

  Her mother pretended to swat her with her iPad. “I don’t have to remind you that your previous hasty decisions have gotten you into more than one fine mess.”

  “Can’t argue with her there, princess,” her father said, his eyes still riveted to the game.

  Belle sighed. “Okay, fine. You guys win. I’ll spend the remainder of my years a cold, hard-hearted woman ruined by bitterness and regret. At least you have one daughter who’s made a proper home and life for herself.”

  Her mother smiled. “Speaking of Carolyn, have you asked her opinion?”

  “She said if I was smart, I’d stay single for the rest of my life and enjoy all my disposable income in ways she can only dream of.”

  Her father laughed. “That’s my practical firstborn.”

  “You know we’ll support whatever decision you make, Isabelle,” her mother said. “But make sure you give yourself enough time to think it through.”

  “I will, Mom,” Belle said.

  She hugged her mother and kissed her dad on the forehead before leaving.

  Despite how badly her idealistic heart wanted her parents to be wrong, she knew they’d given her some spot-on perspective.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Belle sat on the newly painted steps of the veranda at dusk sipping iced green tea, still reeling from Ally’s earlier phone call. Three-finger Phil’s DNA had come back a negative match. With no leads left for male DNA, Judy’s rapist was all but guaranteed eternal impunity.

  She absently raked her fingers through Red’s coat, shaking wisps of fur into the air. The tea was supposed to relax her, as was calmly stroking the dog, but she was still stewing.

  “I don’t get it, Red.” She held his face as she vented. “Do you know how many cold-case detective shows I’ve watched where something as microscopic as a carpet fiber ends up breaking a fifty-year-old case wide open?”

  He licked her mouth, then directed his attention toward a couple of blue jays scuffling on the front lawn.

  “Anyway, I appreciate you stopping by to check on me.”

  She draped her arm around him and picked up her cell phone, muttering, “I’m hoping Karma’s real, and he’s receiving his in some Dante’s Inferno-type dimension of hell.”

  She called Craig’s sister, Charlene, to give her the courtesy of letting her know how her lead about Phil had panned out.

  “Oh, he’s alive, and you actually found him?” she asked.

  “Yeah. That’s something, isn’t it? The investigators are top-notch.”

  “That’s wonderful. Was he able to give you the information you were looking for?”

  “Unfortunately, no. He’s pretty gone with Alzheimer’s. They were able to determine he isn’t the father of the deceased child, though.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought that’s what you were hoping to find.”

  “It was, but it’s also essential to rule people out.”

  “Yes, I suppose,” Charlene said.

  Belle allowed the silence to linger for a moment as she gathered the nerve to ask Charlene her next and what would possibly amount to her last question.

  “Charlene, would you mind if I ask you something personal—about your family?”

  “Um, okay…”

  “When I’d talked to your brother,” she said delicately, “some family issues came up. Craig said your parents had divorced because your dad drank and was abusive.”

  “Yes, he was. Craig and my mom got the brunt of his violence. He was the oldest and always tried to defend our mom—and us. He’d make my little brother and me hide before Dad staggered into the house. Boy, there were never three kids happier about their parents divorcing than us when Mom was finally able to get away from him.”

  “Your dad never beat you?”

  “I didn’t say that. I got it once in a while, too, but I got other abuse, being a girl and all.”

  Aha! That bastard. Belle was exhilarated at the possibility that she was about to solve the mystery all by herself grilling Charlene. She swallowed her exuberance and steadied her voice.

  “Craig said that Judy didn’t like to go over to your house.”

  “She came over a few times. But as a general rule, we never wanted friends over our house. The way we lived was too embarrassing.”

  “Forgive me for asking this, Charlene, but did your father ever…sexually abuse you?”

  “No,” she said emphatically. “No. He never did that.”

  Belle wasn’t buying it. Charlene was denying the direct question reflexively out of humiliation, even after all these years.

  “But you said he did different things to you, being a girl…”

  “Oh, no. That isn’t what I meant. He wouldn’t punch me either, but he enjoyed doing other abusive things. He’d shove me around or throw his dinner plate full of food all over the kitchen and make me clean it. Or dump the kitchen garbage can on the living-room carpet for me to clean. Charming things like that. He was just a cruel, petty drunk toward me.”

  Just. As if psychological torture was somehow less devastating.

  “Charlene, do you think there’s any way the man Judy wrote about hurting her could’ve been your father?”

  “You mean hurt as in molested?”

  “Yeah.”

  After a lengthy pause, she exhaled into the phone. “I honestly don’t think so, Isabelle, and it’s not that I’m trying to protect the man’s reputation. He’d destroyed that and our family name decades ago.”

  “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t offend you by asking that.”

  “Don’t apologize. I’d never realized how common that was until I finally came to terms with what happened to me, thanks to a wonderful therapist and supportive husband. Only that wasn’t one of my father’s crimes.”

  “Wait. Are you saying you were sexually abused, too, but not by your father?”

  “Yes,” she said firmly. “The bastard has to be dead by now, but my therapist helped me understand that my healing hadn’t been about him for a long time.”

  “Was it another member of your family?”

  “No, but he was someone I should’ve been able to trust.”

  “Th
ey always are. Was it a priest? Was it Father McKeenan?”

  “No, it wasn’t a priest,” she replied but made no offer to name the guilty party.

  “Look, I know this must be uncomfortable to talk about, but was it someone Judy also knew?”

  “Yes.”

  “Charlene, who was it? He could’ve been Judy’s rapist and the baby’s killer. If he had kids, the cops can question them, get DNA samples from them.”

  “A guy named Bobby Morgan. His father was a big deal.”

  “Morgan? That was the sheriff’s last name. Was it the sheriff’s father?”

  “No,” Charlene said coldly. “It was him.”

  “Him? Him as in the former sheriff of Danville molested you?”

  As she waited for Charlene’s reply, she stood as motionless as a mannequin, her mouth parted and her cell phone fixed to her ear.

  “He’d only just got on as deputy at the time,” Charlene said, “But yeah. I heard he went on to become sheriff.”

  Charlene had to be mistaken after all these years. She wanted her to be—for Ally’s sake. But deep down she knew Charlene wouldn’t be mistaken about an incident like that.

  Belle inhaled slowly to gather herself before replying.

  “That son of a bitch,” Charlene spat. “I hope he’s rotting in hell.”

  “He may end up there eventually, but he’s not there yet. Not quite.”

  “What do you mean ‘not quite’? You’re either dead or you’re not.”

  “He’s in hospice now. It’s a matter of days, hours even. Who knows?”

  “Please forgive my lack of empathy, but I hope his death is slow and painful.”

  “No need to apologize,” Belle said. “From what I’ve heard, it is.”

  It suddenly occurred to her that time was no longer their friend in this case. With Bob maybe having literally hours to live, how was she supposed to break this crushing news to Ally and convince her to convince the dying man’s wife they needed a sample of his DNA? Especially if it was to corroborate a claim of child sex abuse against him from over fifty years ago?

  Sure. No sweat.

  “Not that I’m doubting your credibility in any way, Charlene. The problem is I’ll have to drop this bomb on his colleague who’s investigating Judy’s case, a woman who’s been extremely close to him…You’re absolutely certain Bob Morgan was the man who molested you?”

  “I know it was a long time ago, but I’ll remember that man and what he did to me—what he took from me—until the day I die.”

  “Would you be willing to give a statement to the investigators if need be?”

  “If I didn’t live in California, I’d go with you right now.”

  Belle smiled at Charlene’s moxie. “If you didn’t live in California, I’d hug you right now.”

  Charlene chuckled into the phone.

  “Seriously though,” Belle said. “Thank you for sharing your story with me. This could make all the difference.”

  “I hope it does, for Judy’s sake. And thank you for letting me. It’s even more freeing to talk about it openly and not in the confines of therapy. I guess I really have come to terms with it. Will you keep me posted on what happens?”

  “Absolutely. Thank you again.”

  She ended the call, her hands still shaking from Charlene’s stunning disclosure. She needed to tell Ally, but the mere thought of uttering those words to her left her mouth dry and pasty.

  She picked up her cell. It was still hot from her conversation with Charlene. Should she call her or text to see where she was? She couldn’t tell her something like this over the phone. It would have to be done with sensitivity, in person. But then the look of horror on Ally’s face would be permanently seared into her brain. And she’d be the one who put it there.

  She went to the freezer and pulled out a bottle of citrus vodka. After a shot that burned her throat like making snowballs with bare hands, she fixed herself a drink and sat at the island counter until she stopped trembling.

  ***

  After some profound soul-searching and two stiff ones, Belle decided she needed more time to mentally prepare before enlightening Ally. They had dinner plans that evening with Chloe, and she wanted to enjoy them before bringing down the heavens on Ally and the rest of Danville.

  Cradling a small arrangement of flowers in one hand, Belle tapped on the half-open door of Sheriff Bob’s hospice room before nudging it open. From her chair beside her husband’s bed, Shirley looked up from her needlepoint and smiled.

  “Belle. How sweet of you to come by. Those are so lovely.”

  Belle placed the bouquet on the rolling bedside tray. Shirley got up to hug her, then slid another chair beside hers.

  Sheriff Bob was asleep. Or drugged. Or both. He looked pitiful—nothing like the uniformed public servant she’d first seen out and about several months earlier when she began working on the house. The disease and the attempts at a cure had ravaged him. His eyes were sunken in his skull beneath blueish, paper-thin lids, his body like a med-school cadaver dressed in plaid pajamas for a fraternity prank. He seemed barely alive as she studied his chest for the movement of breath. This was not at all the figure of a child-abusing monster, yet Charlene’s accusation against him pulsed with life.

  With a DNA sample, it could be confirmed beyond question.

  “Was Ally here?” Belle asked.

  “Yes. You just missed her. She left about twenty minutes ago.”

  Belle sucked at her teeth in feigned disappointment, but she’d known exactly when she’d left and had timed her own visit to ensure Ally wouldn’t be there when she arrived.

  It was a morose errand on her part. After speaking with Charlene, she’d wanted to see Bob as the predator she’d portrayed him as, not through the filter of the kindly father figure Ally knew, the man who’d hurt one little girl in the most unspeakable way and possibly hurt another—maybe even murdered his own son.

  She glanced side-eyed at Shirley as she thought such appalling things about her dying husband. So many more were tumbling into her mind.

  They’d had one child, an adopted daughter, who wanted nothing to do with them as an adult. What had Shirley known about her husband’s predilections? Had he stopped messing with young girls after he’d married her? Or was his own daughter one of his victims and hanging out at a bar somewhere toasting to his terminal illness?

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Shirley? Anything I can get?”

  “Thank you, doll. We’re all set for now. How’s Chloe?”

  “She’s good, busy getting her summer reading and math work done.”

  “That’s right,” she said, finishing a stitch. “School will be starting before we know it. Bob always loved welcoming the kids back on the first day each year.”

  I’ll bet he did, Belle thought, repulsed.

  Bob coughed a little in his sleep, and Belle flinched.

  “I better get him some more water.”

  “I can go for you.” Belle sprang up from her chair.

  “No. That’s okay.” Shirley laid her needlepoint aside. “I’d like to stretch my legs a bit and hit the ladies’ room while I’m up. Would you mind?” She motioned toward Bob as though releasing him into Belle’s care.

  “Yeah, yeah, take your time,” she said, hoping Bob wouldn’t pick the precise moment his wife was gone to die.

  When Shirley left the room, Belle tightened her stare on him. His lips moved. Was he about to speak? Make a deathbed confession? Should she have taken out her cell phone and started recording?

  Nothing. It must’ve been a muscle spasm or something.

  She glanced over her shoulder toward the hall, then pretending to look out the window by his bed, she leaned over him and uttered in a barely audible whisper, “You did it, didn’t you? You raped Judy and buried that infant. C’mon. Clear your conscience before it’s too late. It’s not like you’ll go to prison.”

  If he was at all lucid, that statement would’ve roused him
. Maybe it was too late after all.

  Too late for a confession, but not too late for…

  She eyed his water cup, then jerked her head toward the door when she heard the squeaks of sneakers on linoleum.

  It was only a hospice volunteer passing by.

  She exhaled, turned back toward the bedside tray table, and continued slogging her way through the moral quagmire she’d dove into headfirst.

  Shirley would be back any minute. If Belle was going to snatch the straw from Bob’s cup, she needed to act immediately.

  She slid the Ziploc Baggie out of her shorts and deposited the straw, holding it toward the bottom. She pinched the bag closed with her thumb and index finger, and stuffed it back into her pocket.

  Whatever came of it from there, at least Belle had made every effort to do right by Judy, baby Ashford, and Charlene Wheeler. And anyone else who’d had the misfortune of being tainted by his evil.

  She returned to her chair, her knee bouncing as she pretended to read a magazine, waiting for her opportunity to leave. As soon as Shirley returned, she’d be out of there to stash her plunder until she figured out how to approach Ally.

  When she finally came around the corner, Belle leapt up, and the magazine flapped to the floor. “Well, I have to be going now. Are you sure there isn’t anything I can help you with?”

  “Yes, dear. I’m fine, but it’s nice to know the offer is there. Thank you.” Still holding the plastic pitcher of water, she gave Belle a peck on the cheek. “Oh, what happened to Bob’s straw,” she said, more to herself.

  Belle panicked for a second as Shirley glanced around the table, then the floor. It gave her an idea.

  “Oh, um, I noticed it on the floor, so I threw it out. I’ll go get another one.” She bolted out without giving Shirley a chance to respond and returned with a new straw.

  “Thank you again for taking time to visit with us,” Shirley said. “You’re a good neighbor, Isabelle.”

  Belle managed a smile through her mounting guilt. How would she ever be able to look Shirley in the eyes again, especially if she was truly innocent of the knowledge of Bob’s secret pastime?

  Then again, what if she wasn’t?