From Cradle to Grave (21 page)

She heard a sleepy voice mutter something unintelligible.

‘I don’t know. Didn’t say,’ she heard Tim say, and in the time it took to hand a phone across a pillow, Simon answered.

‘This is Simon,’ said a voice blurry with sleep, but faintly anxious, all the same, at being awakened so late.

Morgan could hear the other man’s voice beside him, asking who the caller was.

‘Dunno,’ said Simon’s muffled voice. ‘Turn the light on, will you? I can’t see. Hand me my glasses. They’re on your side. Next to the clock.’

Her face flaming, Morgan ended the call.

In a moment, the phone rang in her hand. She hesitated, and then answered it.

‘Morgan, it’s Simon,’ he said. ‘Why did you ring off? Is something wrong?’

Everything, she wanted to say. Instead, she was mute. Frantically, she tried to create rationalizations. The two men were still at a hotel, perhaps in a room with twin beds. The phone was on a table between them. Tim just happened to pick it up because he was a lighter sleeper than Simon and so when it rang, Tim got up from his bed and . . .

‘Morgan, it’s three fucking o’clock in the morning. What is going on?’

‘I forgot about the time,’ she said.

‘Oh,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry I woke you up,’ she said. ‘You. And Tim.’

Simon sighed. ‘Oh, he’ll be asleep again in a minute. The man sleeps like a stone,’ he said, and she felt chilled by his easy familiarity with Tim’s sleeping habits.

‘Simon . . .’ she said. She didn’t want to ask him, but she was weary of lying to herself. She had to know. Right now. ‘Are you and Tim . . . together?’

He could have laughed, saying that of course they were together. They were on a trip together. She willed him to say it. To make light of her question. But he did not laugh, or make an excuse. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘I see.’ She waited, once more, for him to make an excuse, but he didn’t. ‘So . . . to you I’m just . . . a friend,’ she said.

Simon was silent for a moment. Then he said gently, ‘Of course you’re a friend.’

All her months of hope and fantasy seemed to blow away, like a dandelion puffed on by a child’s breath. Her heart felt ashamed, shriveled. ‘It’s late. I’ll call you back another time,’ she whispered.

Simon did not protest. ‘That might be best. Good night, Morgan,’ he said.

For a long while she could not summon the strength to get up from the bed. After a while, she forced herself to get up and take a shower. She went into the den and turned on the television, but she did not concentrate on anything she saw. She kept picturing Simon and Tim, in bed together.

Morgan forced herself to stop. What a fool you are, she thought. Claire had been right all along about Simon, although she had been too kind to say it directly. Even though Simon had flirted with her, clearly enjoyed her company and had agreed to go on this trip to the Lake District with her, the fact remained that he had shown no interest in her as a lover. He had never made the slightest physical overture. She could never even accuse him of leading her on.

But he did, she thought, her heart aching. He acted . . . interested. Why would he do that, if he was a gay man, she wondered desperately. She tried to piece it together in her mind, to force it to make sense. Was it cruelty? Did he want to embarrass her? That didn’t seem like Simon. Or was it just curiosity, to test his own attractiveness, even though he knew he was not going to take it any further? Morgan realized that she could think about it all night, but no matter whether it made sense or not, it was true. Any hope she had ever had for Simon needed to be jettisoned, along with all of those fantasies which were not going to come true.

When she couldn’t stand to think about it anymore, she flipped off the television and the lights in the den, and went into the narrow bed where she was going to be sleeping. She was afraid she would lie awake for hours. But she fell quickly into a deep sleep, and was having a complicated dream involving Claire and Fitz and her long dead parents, when suddenly a sound disturbed her sleep and she was instantly, completely awake.

Confused at awakening in the unfamiliar house, she took a moment to get her bearings. She realized that the sound was an intermittent banging noise and that it was coming from the front of the house. For a few moments she lay there, paralysed with fear, and then, chiding herself for her anxiety, she forced herself to flip the switch on the bedside lamp. She quickly pulled on a robe over the T-shirt she had worn to bed. Then, cautiously, she left the cozy room and went out into the kitchen, throwing on the overhead light as she went. She went down the hallway, glancing into the den, and finally entered the main room of the house, walking past the curved banister on the staircase. Immediately, she saw where the sound was coming from.

The front door of the Captain’s House was open. The night wind was blowing it to and fro on its hinges. Each time the door hit the frame, it banged back open.

I locked that door, Morgan thought. Her heart was hammering in her throat. The room was still dark, the shadows from the bright moon making hulking creatures out of the antique furniture. Morgan stood frozen to the spot, shivering, trying to deny what she knew was true. But there really was no uncertainty in her mind. She had closed the front door and locked it before she went to bed. And now it stood open.

TWENTY-SIX

F
ull of dread, as if she were approaching a scaffold, Morgan walked to the front door and closed it. As she turned the lock, and the howl of the wind was cut off, Morgan heard another sound. Someone on the staircase behind her gasped.

Morgan wanted to cry out, but her own voice seemed to be caught in her throat.

As she wheeled around, Morgan’s heart thudded so hard that it seemed to jump out of her chest. She could see a figure standing on the staircase, gripping the banister and staring at her from the shadows.

‘Who’s there?’ Morgan asked faintly.

‘Who are you?’ the stranger said.

The person cautiously descended a few steps and peered at Morgan. Morgan instantly recognized the pink hair, the dusty leather clothes, the engineer’s boots, and the glint of a stud in the girl’s nostril. ‘Eden.’

‘Hey. What are you doing here?’ Eden demanded angrily, finally recognizing Morgan.

Morgan caught her breath before she spoke. ‘I’m watching the Captain’s House for Mrs Spaulding. She left for Sarasota this afternoon,’ Morgan explained. ‘I thought you left town.’

‘I did. I came back,’ she said.

‘How did you get in?’

‘I have a key,’ said Eden, waggling a key on a plastic keychain.

‘What are you doing back here?’

‘You first,’ Eden insisted.

‘I’m here because of Claire. She’s still in the hospital.’

The girl assessed Morgan’s answer silently, while Morgan studied her, trying to imagine her stealing into Claire’s house, looking for the baby. Taking it into the bathroom. Somehow, despite all her suspicions, Morgan could not imagine this teenager taking that next step – drowning a baby.

Eden seemed to ponder her options for a moment and then she made up her mind. ‘I left something here. My ring. It must have come off while I was sleeping.’

‘So you came back to look for it?’ said Morgan.

‘Yeah,’ said Eden.

‘Did you find it?’ Morgan asked.

‘No. I looked around my room but I didn’t see it.’

‘Oh,’ said Morgan, holding on to the banister.

‘You scared me,’ said Eden.

‘You scared me,’ Morgan admitted. ‘I didn’t expect someone to let themselves in here in the middle of the night.’

‘Sorry. You can go back to bed. I’ll leave.’

‘Shall I help you look again? Maybe you missed it,’ Morgan said.

‘Why would you help me?’ Eden asked.

‘Well,’ said Morgan with a sigh, ‘I’m awake now. I don’t think my heart will be back to a normal rhythm for an hour or two.’

Eden did not apologize. ‘All right. Come on, then. I was staying upstairs in the lilac room.’

Morgan remembered the room from the tour that Paula Spaulding had given her. The walls were painted a periwinkle blue with fresh white trim, and the fabric on the curtains and bedspread were sprigged with lilacs. ‘OK,’ said Morgan, approaching the foot of the staircase. ‘What does the ring look like?’

‘It’s gold. It’s got a black stone. Onyx.’

Now that she described it, Morgan remembered seeing the ring on the girl’s forefinger. ‘I’ll bet we can find it between the two of us.’

Eden watched her as she started up the stairs. Her wary gaze made Morgan think of Dusty, Claire’s cat. ‘You go ahead,’ said Morgan. ‘Lead the way.’

Eden hesitated, and then started down the hall. She entered a door on the right, and flipped a switch on the wall. A white wicker lamp was illuminated on the bedside table.

‘We’ll need more light than that,’ said Morgan. She edged by Eden into the room, and turned on the reading lamp beside a slipper chair, and another lamp which sat on the bureau. ‘There now,’ she said.

Eden looked around the room dejectedly. ‘She cleaned the whole room.’

‘She might have missed it. Let’s look under the bed.’

‘I looked there,’ said Eden.

Morgan got down on her knees beside the bed, and ran her hand under the dust ruffle. ‘Get down at the end,’ said Morgan. Eden went glumly to the end of bed, and did the same thing as Morgan.

‘Nothing,’ Eden announced.

‘We need a flashlight,’ said Morgan. ‘I think Paula pointed one out to me.’ She got up off her knees and went out into the hall, where there was a linen closet. She opened the door, and found the flashlight sitting on a shelf of towels. She turned it on, and then brought it into the lilac room. Eden was still groping around under the bed.

Morgan got down beside her, and shone the light underneath the dust ruffle.

‘I don’t see anything,’ said Eden.

Morgan began to shine the light systematically in each corner underneath the bed. Eden sat back on her heels.

‘It’s probably gone for good,’ said Eden.

‘Oh, come on now. We just started looking,’ said Morgan, keeping her gaze on the flashlight’s path. ‘You must have been halfway home, and then you came all the way back to look for it. You can’t be ready to quit so quickly.’

‘I wasn’t on my way home,’ Eden said. ‘I was in New York City.’

Morgan straightened up and sat back on her heels. ‘Really? By yourself? That’s pretty brave of you.’

‘I went to see a friend of my mother’s.’

Morgan remembered Paula mentioning the shoe designer, the friend that Kimba knew from art school. ‘How did that go?’ said Morgan.

Eden stood up, ignoring her question. ‘I give up. It’s not here.’

Morgan got to her feet. ‘Wait. Let’s look behind the headboard. It might have gotten wedged in there.’

Eden rose to her feet also, and went around to the other side. Morgan peered down behind the elaborate oak headboard, and then shone the light in. ‘I think I see something,’ she said.

‘Where?’ Eden asked suspiciously. She came around to Morgan’s side of the bed and peered down to where Morgan was pointing.

‘That might be it,’ she agreed.

‘Let’s pull the bed away from the wall,’ said Morgan. ‘You go around the other side and we’ll lift it up so we don’t scratch the floor.’

Eden obediently went around, and held on to the bed.

‘Now, lift it. Don’t drag it,’ said Morgan. ‘When I say go.’

‘OK.’

‘OK, go,’ said Morgan.

The two of them lifted, and there was a sound of something clattering to the floor. They lowered the bed and Eden crouched down, feeling around under the bed, until she picked the ring up with a cry of delight.

Morgan came around and sat down on the edge of the bed. Eden slid the ring on her forefinger, and displayed it proudly.

‘That’s a beautiful ring,’ said Morgan. ‘I can see why you came back for it.’

Eden sat down on the bed beside her, admiring her own hand. ‘It was my mother’s,’ she said. ‘My grandmother gave it to me. It’s the only thing I have of hers.’

Morgan spoke carefully. ‘You don’t remember her at all, I guess.’

Eden polished her ring on the thigh of her dirty jeans. ‘No. Just the stories my grandparents told me. She was an artist.’

‘I guess Paula Spaulding and your mom’s friend in New York helped fill in the blanks a little bit.’

Eden shrugged, but her gaze was closed and distant.

‘There’s lot I don’t know about my parents too. They died when I was twelve,’ said Morgan.

Eden looked at her with guarded curiosity.

‘That’s why I think it was good that you came here. I mean, despite everything that happened, at least you got to finally meet your father,’ said Morgan.

Eden shook her head. ‘I should have listened to my grandfather and stayed away,’ said Eden grimly. ‘I found out things about him. About my father. Things I wish I didn’t know.’

‘If you mean that business about your mother’s accident,’ Morgan said. ‘I know your grandfather believes that Guy was to blame, but by all accounts it really was an accident.’

‘Not that,’ said Eden in disgust.

Morgan tried to hide her surprise. ‘Well, Guy didn’t give you a very warm reception, which I thought was kind of mean of him. But Fitz told me that you two seemed to be getting along. He said you were having lunch with him and sharing pictures . . .’

‘You don’t know anything,’ said Eden impatiently.

Morgan did her best not to take offense. ‘I didn’t know your father well. That’s true. But he married my best friend, and from what I saw of him, he seemed to be an OK guy.’

‘He was a rapist,’ Eden said flatly.

Morgan felt as if the girl had knocked the wind out of her. ‘A rapist?’

‘See. You don’t believe it. You think I made it up,’ said Eden, in a tone that suggested she did not expect to be believed.

‘No, Eden,’ said Morgan, squeezing the girl’s tense forearm. ‘No. Of course I believe you. Eden, did your father hurt you? Are you all right?’

For a moment Eden looked confused. Then she understood what Morgan was asking her. ‘It wasn’t me,’ said Eden scornfully.

‘Oh, thank God.’ Morgan said with genuine relief. She was still trying to absorb this terrible accusation about the man she had known. Or thought she had known. Claire’s husband. ‘So where did you hear that? Did your mother’s friend tell you that when you went to see her? What was her name? Jasmine?’

‘Jaslene.’

‘What did Jaslene tell you?’

‘It’s none of your business. He’s dead now. He can’t hurt anyone else. I have to go. Thanks for helping me find the ring,’ she said. Eden stood up abruptly.

‘Eden, listen . . .’ Morgan pleaded. ‘This could be very important for Claire’s court case. Eden, I need for you to tell me. Who was the victim?’

Eden shook her head. ‘I promised not to tell. I hope Claire is OK. It wasn’t her fault,’ she said. ‘He deserved to die.’ She shouldered her backpack and strode to the door.

‘Eden, wait,’ said Morgan scrambling to her feet.

But the girl had vanished as if she were made from smoke. All but for the clatter of her boots on the stairs. As Morgan reached the foot of the stairs, the front door was closing. She ran to it, and looked out. She could see the lights of the motorcycle down near the road, and, as she called out Eden’s name, she was drowned out by the roar of the bike as it sped from the driveway.