From Cradle to Grave (19 page)

Morgan stood up, her heart pounding. She felt ridiculous saying no. But she had to. She didn’t want him inside. Especially now that it occurred to her he might have had a motive. ‘I’m sorry,’ Morgan said. ‘They changed the locks.’

‘Who changed the locks?’ Sandy demanded.

Morgan shrugged. ‘Guy’s parents. They don’t want anyone in there. I was just about to leave.’ She indicated the path out to the cars.

Sandy looked ruefully at his bleeding hand. ‘That mangy cat has been crawling around in the dirt. Isn’t that how you get tetanus? From dirt?’ He began to accompany Morgan down the path to their cars.

‘I have no idea,’ said Morgan. She also had no idea where she was going when she got into the car, but she knew that she wanted to get Sandy away from the house.

‘Sorry about the delay. I’ll call you when I hear from Mark,’ said Sandy as he got into the front seat of the SUV. ‘Shit, I’m going to get blood on my leather seats.’

Morgan pretended to fumble with the radio console on her dashboard, until Sandy revved up the engine and pulled away from the curb. Morgan followed suit, not wanting him to look in his rear-view mirror and see her still sitting there, or worse, getting out of the car. She wasn’t sure where she was going. The house and its contents were safe for the moment. But where one worry receded, others immediately arose to fill that space. She had to find an attorney and somehow get that further testing ordered. Or at least have new tests done on the evidence that the police had collected. She could manage without Sandy’s help. But the question seemed to pursue her, and inhibit her effort to make a sensible plan. Could it have been Sandy who killed the baby?

Stop this, she told herself as she drove aimlessly along. Now you suspect Sandy. And Sandy has been kind, considering everything. You have no reason to think that Sandy had anything to do with this. Or Eden, who was just a mixed-up teenager. But somebody killed that baby. Somebody, who had wanted to destroy Claire or Guy, or both of them.

Morgan sat idling at a stop light with her blinker on, getting ready to turn. Across the street, a pretty colonial-style house was decorated for Halloween with pumpkins and hay bales and goblins hanging from hooks on the front porch. Tied to the mailbox was a trio of Mylar balloons printed with ghosts and witches. Morgan gazed at them for a moment without really thinking about them. And then, just as the light changed, she was galvanized by another thought.

She suddenly remembered those bright balloons which were tied to Claire’s mailbox, heralding Drew’s christening. The balloons she had cut down with the kitchen scissors, which were still in her coat pocket. Perhaps someone had seen those balloons and ribbons on the mailbox and been filled with envy or loathing at the good fortune of the people inside. She remembered reading a news story like that, not long ago. A woman had entered a stranger’s house, alerted, by balloons and signs in the yard, to the fact that there was a newborn inside. Of course, in that case, the woman had stolen the baby, intending to keep it for herself. But the story reminded Morgan that the intruder could have been a stranger.

Morgan felt overwhelmed by the possibilities. Claire had confessed and the police weren’t looking. It seemed that she was the only one dissatisfied with the police version of the crime. The only one determined to expose it as a lie. And she didn’t know where to begin. In that moment of flagging confidence, Morgan reminded herself that one important fact remained. If Professor Douglas’s theory was true, then stranger or intimate, the baby’s killer was at large, and Claire, despite her guilt and all her fears, was not the one to blame.

TWENTY-FOUR

T
here was a car, packed with suitcases, parked in front of the closed garage doors at the Captain’s House. The sign out in front said ‘Closed for the Season’, but the car indicated to Morgan that the owners were still there. She walked up to the front door and began to ring the bell. She could hear it chiming through the empty guest house, but no one came to answer it.

Morgan peered into the window lights alongside the door, but could see nothing but darkness inside. She pressed the bell again, knowing that somewhere inside, the proprietor, Mrs Spaulding, was wishing that whoever it was would just go away. Morgan was not going away.

After what seemed like ten minutes of waiting, and pressing on the bell, she heard footsteps shuffling up to the front door, and then the door was pulled open. Paula Spaulding looked out, her normally pleasant expression twisted into a frown.

‘We’re closed,’ she said. And then managed to force a smile at the sight of a former customer. ‘Oh, hi,’ she said. ‘Miss . . .’

‘Adair. Morgan Adair.’

‘Right. Of course. I’m sorry, Morgan. I thought I told you. Last weekend was our last available weekend. We’re leaving for Sarasota today.’

‘You did tell me,’ said Morgan. ‘I’m not here for a room. Well, I need a room, but that’s another matter. You did tell me that you were closing. I’m not here about that. Actually, I’m looking for Eden.’

Paula Spaulding looked surprised. ‘You know Eden?’

Morgan quickly explained her connection to Claire.

‘Oh, my gosh,’ said Paula. ‘So, that baptism you were on your way to last week . . . That was for . . .’

‘It was for Eden’s half-brother. Drew. My godson.’

‘Oh, dear, come in,’ said Paula. ‘I’m so sorry. Here. Come in and sit down. I didn’t mean to be rude. Really. I’m just in a hurry to finish up here. My husband’ll be back any minute and ready to go. But oh, I’m so sorry about your godson.’

‘Thank you. So am I,’ said Morgan.

Paula indicated one of the wing chairs in the parlor and Morgan sat down. Paula sat down too. ‘I’d offer you something to drink . . .’ said Paula, ‘but I’ve cleaned out the refrigerator . . .’

‘That’s all right,’ said Morgan. ‘Really. I’m just wondering. Is Eden still staying here?’

‘She was. But she left for home,’ said Paula. ‘I mean, I thought she was headed back to West Virginia after her father’s funeral. But her grandparents called me and it seems she hasn’t arrived home yet. I guess she took a detour,’ said Paula.

Morgan nodded. Then she said carefully, ‘Did Eden tell you who sent her the clipping about Guy and Claire’s new baby?’

‘Oh, I did,’ said Paula.

‘You did?’

‘Yes. Although I wonder now if it was a mistake.’

‘You mean, because of what happened.’

Paula nodded. ‘You know, I felt responsible in a way because her mother was working for me when she got pregnant with Eden. And then, after Kimba’s death, Eden’s grandfather wouldn’t allow her father to come near the child. I was sure that Kimba would want Eden to know her father. After all, a child has a right to know her own parents, don’t you think?’

‘Yes. I think so,’ said Morgan.

Reassured, Paula continued. ‘Eden was happy when she first got the clipping. She called me, and I invited her to come up and stay. I’m sure you think I’m a busybody and I should have stayed out of it, but Kimba was . . . very dear to me. She came to work here as a chambermaid the summer after her first year at art school. She and her friend Jaslene. They were so much fun. Oh, those girls made me laugh.’ Paula smiled fondly at the memory. ‘They were just a couple of young girls wanting to live in a beach town, work hard, and enjoy being young . . .’

Paula’s cheerfulness collapsed into a sigh. ‘Of course, once Kimba got pregnant . . . Well, you know . . .’

Morgan didn’t want to stem the flow of her recollections. ‘Sure,’ she said.

‘Anyway, I was so happy to have Eden here for a visit, motorcycle and all. I never dreamed it would all end the way it did . . .’ Paula said, shaking her head.

‘No. No one could have foreseen that,’ said Morgan.

Paula grimaced as she continued. ‘The papers all said that your friend . . . killed them because she was mad about Eden. Do you suppose that’s true?’

Morgan wanted to deny Claire’s guilt, to explain her new theory. But she stopped herself. Instead, she shook her head. ‘No. I don’t think that was it.’

‘To be honest with you, in spite of everything, I felt a little bit sorry for your friend. I mean, I had the baby blues myself after my second child. It’s no fun. And I kept asking myself, how could her husband not have told her about Eden? Or his marriage to Kimba?’ Paula wondered.

‘I don’t know,’ Morgan admitted. ‘You know, Eden seemed very angry at the funeral.’

‘Well, naturally. After all, she’d just met her father, and then he was gone. I suppose that would upset anyone.’

‘It was more than upset,’ Morgan insisted. ‘She was definitely angry. At Guy.’

‘Sometimes people – especially when you’ve had a lot of fantasies about them – they can be disappointing.’

‘That’s true,’ Morgan conceded.

‘Eden had a lot of information coming at her. She wanted to find out all that she could about her mother, too. She pumped me about everything I knew. I thought Jaslene might be able to tell her more than I could. She and Kimba were such good friends. Jaslene is a big shoe designer in New York City now,’ Paula said, as proudly as if she were talking about her own daughter. ‘Have you heard of Jaslene Shoes?’

‘No, but I’m not that fashionable,’ said Morgan.

‘Well, success hasn’t gone to Jaslene’s head the way it does with some people. I encouraged Eden to give her a call. Unfortunately, it turned out that Jaslene was in Milan. So Eden left her a message. Then she went to stay with her aunt for a couple of nights.’

‘Yes. Her Aunt Lucy told me that Eden spent some time with her.’

‘That’s right,’ said Paula. ‘And then yesterday, after the funeral, Eden must have come in the house, gathered up her stuff and left. She left a note, thanking me, saying she’d be in touch. And, as I said, I haven’t heard from her since. Those motorcycles can be dangerous,’ Paula fretted.

‘She seemed to be able to handle it pretty well,’ said Morgan in an effort to be comforting.

Paula sighed and stood up. Her expression was worried, but she nodded in agreement. ‘I suppose. Well, I’d love to sit and talk but I’ve still got a few things to do before we’re ready to leave.’

Morgan stood up as well. ‘Thank you for your time. I’ve got to be going too. I’ve got to go find myself some place to stay. I wish you were open until Christmas. This is such a beautiful house.’

‘Oh heavens,’ said Paula. ‘I’d be completely burned out if I was open until Christmas.’

Morgan smiled. ‘I can understand that. Well, thanks again.’ She shook hands with Paula Spaulding and headed for the front door.

‘You know,’ said Paula.

Morgan turned and looked at her.

‘I’ve got a house-sitter coming next week. But I wouldn’t mind having someone staying here until then. Of course, you’d have to check the heat, take in the mail, water the plants and all.’

‘You mean, stay here in the house?’ said Morgan.

‘I wouldn’t pay you. But I wouldn’t charge you either. And you’d have to wash your sheets, and make sure the kitchen was spic and span.’

‘Oh. I’d gladly do that. That would be great,’ said Morgan.

Paula smiled. ‘Well, that might work out for both of us. Come on with me. I’ll give you a quick tour.’

When the tour was over, Morgan, thanking Paula profusely, left the guest house and went back to Claire’s cottage to pick up her things and feed the cat. She did not linger in the cottage, for she was all too aware of the sickening smell which Astrid had remarked on earlier. She was careful to lock all the doors when she left, wondering how long she had before Astrid overruled her objections and blanketed the place in house cleaners. Morgan knew that she had to find another attorney, but short of the Yellow Pages, she had no idea where to look. She thought about calling Oliver Douglas but she knew that he would advise her to wait for Mark Silverman. Besides, she had asked enough of Oliver Douglas. She needed another plan, but she was at a loss. It seemed as if she was completely alone in this quest to help her friend. Alone and inadequate. She knew nothing about attorneys or the law, yet she had to do something. Her head ached at the thought of it. She reminded herself that at least, for now, she had a place to stay.

Morgan stopped in at the hospital briefly to see Claire. Claire’s face seemed to be somewhat less yellow and waxy than before, but otherwise, there was no change in her condition. Morgan pulled a chair up beside the bed, took Claire’s hand and whispered into her ear, ‘Someone else killed Drew. Not you, Claire. Someone else did it, and we’re going to find out who. I’m going to be staying at the Captain’s House for a while. The lady who owns the Captain’s House is letting me house-sit. So don’t worry. I’m fine there. And I won’t leave you alone.’ If Claire heard Morgan’s whispered promise, she gave no sign.

By the time Morgan returned to the Captain’s House, Paula and her husband were already gone. A cheery note on the door told Morgan to make herself at home and enjoy her stay.

Morgan let herself in to the lovely old house and turned on a few lights to dispel the shadows of dusk. The house, so inviting when Paula was at the desk, now seemed isolated and gloomy. Morgan set her bag down in the maid’s room behind the kitchen which Paula had indicated would be hers. A far cry from the spacious guest rooms upstairs, the maid’s room held only a twin bed, a ladder-back chair and a small dresser. But the wallpaper was a beautiful yellow and blue toile pattern, and the room had a circular mullioned window which gave the tiny room a distinct charm. Morgan set her bag down on the chair, and rummaged in it for a sweater to put on against the chill. After she had pulled the sweater over her head, she pulled her abundant chestnut hair up into a ponytail. Paula wanted the heat kept low, now that there were no guests, because the house was so expensive to heat. Morgan intended to be the perfect caretaker.

Morgan unzipped her boots and left them beside the bed. Then she padded into the kitchen in her stocking feet, and opened the refrigerator. As Paula had announced earlier, the refrigerator was all but empty. She closed the door, and went into the long, narrow pantry, searching among the foodstuffs until she found a can of chili to heat up. She took it back to the counter, found a bowl into which she poured the contents, and then slipped the bowl into the microwave. While she waited for the chili to heat, she looked out the window at the darkening sky. The lonely sliver of moon hung high, a platinum crescent against the vast, deep blue, while a metallic ribbon of ocean rippled at the horizon, beautiful and cold.

Morgan shivered, as the timer dinged. She had no sooner sat down with her bowl when her cellphone rang in her pocket. She fished it out and answered.

‘Morgan. It’s Fitz.’

‘Hey,’ she said, surprised, and, actually, happy to hear his voice. ‘How are you?’

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Sorry I got a little testy with you about Guy.’

‘That’s all right. I shouldn’t have said those things about your friend,’ Morgan assured him, eager to have their rift mended. ‘And I’m really glad you called. How’s the wrestling camp?’

‘Bunch of knuckleheads,’ he said fondly. ‘Two injuries so far and counting.’

‘Hmmm,’ she said. ‘That’s too bad.’

‘Ah, it’s normal,’ he said. ‘What’s happening there? How’s Claire?’

‘She’s the same. But I am very grateful to you.’

‘Really,’ he asked, sounding pleased. ‘Why?’

‘For taking me to meet Oliver Douglas,’ she said. ‘Because you did that, I finally have some hope.’ Briefly, she told him about Oliver’s analysis of Claire’s confession, and her own need to find a criminal attorney. Fitz listened quietly. Morgan began to think that she had said too much. She waited for him to dismiss her concerns and hang up. Finally, he spoke.

‘Forget the other lawyer,’ said Fitz. ‘You haven’t got time to waste. Go and tell the lawyer you’ve got. Tell her what you just told me.’

‘Noreen? She’s not going to listen to me,’ said Morgan.

‘You make a very persuasive case,’ said Fitz.

‘She’s just going to get mad at me for interfering in something I don’t know anything about,’ said Morgan.