From Cradle to Grave (8 page)

‘I see,’ said Morgan, shuddering.

‘You know, in other civilized countries, they wouldn’t punish a woman for infanticide. They would see to it that she got the help she needed. I want that for Claire.’

Morgan nodded, as if to agree, but her stomach was in a tight knot. There was no question that Noreen Quick had a point about post-partum depression. But Morgan kept picturing Claire, weeping, and saying how much she loved Drew, and how she didn’t want to fail him. She never mentioned hallucinations, or the impulse to kill him, Morgan thought. Wouldn’t she have mentioned that to me? And if she was suffering from those kinds of thoughts, how could I not have noticed?

‘If we win . . .’ Noreen continued.

‘She’ll be free?’ Morgan interrupted.

Noreen frowned. ‘No. There’s virtually no chance of that. Claire will be remanded to a mental health facility. She’ll stay there, probably for a period of years, until the judge finds that she is fit to be released.’ Noreen, her presentation accomplished, sat back in her chair.

‘A mental hospital,’ said Morgan. ‘For years.’

Noreen nodded. ‘With any luck.’

‘That’s the best she can hope for?’ Morgan asked.

Noreen narrowed her eyes and studied Morgan as if she were being deliberately obtuse. ‘Your friend confessed to killing two people, Miss Adair. What did you think she was going to get for that? A parade?’

EIGHT

L
eaving the law office, Morgan felt stunned, as if she had taken a blow to the head. Somehow she had not yet faced the fact that Claire was going to be put away for a long time. For years. But the bluntness of the attorney’s assessment had brought the reality home to her. Morgan sat in her car without moving, staring out over the wheel, trying to imagine herself visiting Claire, year after year, in some hospital for the criminally insane. It didn’t seem possible, but, clearly, it was imminent. When Morgan finally raised her key to fit into the ignition, she suddenly remembered that, while she knew where she was going, she did not know how to get there. She needed directions. Not for the first time, Morgan wished she had a GPS. But in the city, they were a magnet for thieves. She googled maps on her internet phone, but she knew she couldn’t read those little directions and drive at the same time. She was forced to get out of the car and return to the office. There, the helpful Berenice printed her out directions. Morgan thanked her, and studied the map with a heavy heart. Then, she returned to her car and drove directly from the office to the county jail.

The jail was located forty minutes from West Briar in a neighborhood distinctly less upscale and scenic than the Briars. Although the surrounding area was dense with old trees, the large, cinder block institutional building had been built on a sparsely vegetated patch of clay-like soil, surrounded by a chain link fence topped with barbed wire. The procedures for visitors were much stricter than they were for the holding cells at the rear of the Briarwood police station.

Morgan was directed to the female side of the jail, waited for buzzers and passed through numerous locked doors. The building was relatively new, even clean-looking, but the smell in the hallways was a rank combination of sweat and bathroom cleaner. Morgan held her breath. She was frisked by a female corrections officer, and then told to wait in several lines. She was careful not to complain or raise any objections. Finally, after standing among a group of weary men, women and children, who all seemed familiar with the procedures, Morgan was yanked from the line and led down a hallway and into an office to stand in front of the desk of a chubby, brown-skinned woman in a tweedy brown pantsuit. The sign on her desk read Elva deLeon, Assistant Warden.

‘You’re here to see Claire Bolton?’ the woman asked, tapping on her desk with a gel pen.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Morgan.

‘She’s being examined by a psychiatrist right now. If there’s any time left when the shrink leaves you can see her. But I doubt you will have much time for a visit. Why don’t you come back another day?’

‘That’s all right,’ said Morgan stubbornly. ‘I’ll take my chances.’

‘Whatever you want to do,’ the woman said, dismissing Morgan with a shrug. A guard escorted Morgan back to the waiting area. The other visitors had disappeared, presumably to see their loved ones. Morgan waited, until finally, after nearly forty minutes and several inquiries, she was told that she could go to the visiting area. This was a bare room, with armed guards at the doors, a few vending machines and some wooden tables and chairs, occupied by prisoners in drab blue jumpsuits and their visitors.

‘Do I sit?’ Morgan asked one of the guards.

The woman nodded, unsmiling. Morgan found an empty table, sat down and looked around. In a minute, she saw Claire appear at the doorway, escorted by a guard.

Morgan jumped up. ‘Claire,’ she called. Claire turned her head at the sound of her name and her eyes registered recognition when she caught sight of Morgan. Recognition, but nothing more.

‘Sit back down,’ said the guard.

Morgan resumed her seat. Claire was escorted to the table. Morgan wanted to stand up and hug her, but she was reluctant to defy the guard’s order. When Claire sat down and folded her white hands on the table in front of her, Morgan reached over and covered them with her own. Claire’s hands were icy cold.

‘Are you all right?’ Morgan asked.

Claire was almost unresponsive. ‘Sure,’ she managed to say.

‘Did you see the psychiatrist? How did that go?’

Claire lifted one shoulder. ‘All right. I guess.’

Morgan wondered if the shrink would tell her anything about their conversation if she asked him. It was worth a try. ‘What was the shrink’s name, Claire?’

Claire shook her head. ‘Beekman . . . Bergman . . . I don’t know.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll find out.’ Morgan leaned forward and forced Claire to meet her gaze. ‘I’ve just been to see your lawyer, Noreen Quick. She told me that you assigned the power of attorney to me. I was surprised, but I appreciate that you trust me so much. And I’ll do my very best for you. You know that.’

Claire seemed to be gazing at her from a great distance. ‘I do know that. That’s why I wanted you to do it.’

‘Claire,’ she said carefully. ‘Noreen Quick. She seems very bright, very capable. But I’m just worried that she wants to make a point with your case. She plans to use post-partum depression as your defense.’

‘I have no defense,’ said Claire dully.

‘Don’t talk like that. You told me it was an accident,’ Morgan insisted. She was amazed at herself, that she could even entertain such an explanation. That in twenty-four hours her disgust, her revulsion at the crime, was being replaced by her determination to save her friend, no matter what. Situational ethics. There’s nothing you can do for Guy or Drew, she reminded herself. All you can do now is try to help Claire. ‘You need to be sure. Even if you’re acquitted with the post-partum defense, you’ll have to live in a hospital. Maybe for a long time. If it was truly an accident, you might . . . not be found guilty.’

‘Oh Morgan, how is that possible? How could I have killed them both by accident?’ asked Claire hopelessly.

Something about that question made Morgan’s palms break out in sweat. She had the sudden impression that Claire had no idea what the truth was. Morgan stared at her friend. ‘What do you mean? Don’t you know what happened?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Claire, looking away.

‘Well then how could you ask that question? Did it actually happen the way you said? Claire, this is critical. You confessed. That means nobody is going to try to help you. But if you don’t really remember what happened . . .’

‘Stop it, Morgan. Stop. I don’t want to talk about it.’ Claire squeezed her hands into trembling fists. ‘I did it. That’s all you need to know. Let it go.’

Morgan wanted to press her but then she thought better of it. Claire looked like she was ready to collapse. She was hunched over, her head bent, her shoulders rounded, like someone trying to wait out a hail of blows. She was steeled against these questions. Steeled against Morgan.

Morgan knew that she had to take another tack. She searched her mind for a different subject to ease the tension. ‘I went to feed Dusty last night. He attacked me.’

Claire looked up at Morgan. ‘He did? I’m sorry. He’s very . . . possessive . . . of the house.’

‘I noticed,’ said Morgan.

‘Is he OK?’ Claire asked.

‘Yeah,’ said Morgan. ‘He’s fine.’

‘Wrap it up,’ the guard called out.

Morgan realized that she had to return to the most pertinent matter. ‘Yes, all right. Of course. But let’s get back to the attorney. I was talking to Sandy Raymond . . .’

‘Sandy?’

‘I stayed at his house last night. He’s very concerned about you, Claire. He thinks you need a criminal attorney. Maybe we should consider that, Claire.’

Claire reached out and touched Morgan’s forearm. Her touch was clammy. Her gaze was unfocused. ‘Listen, there’s something else I need you to do. I want to attend the funeral services for . . . for my husband and my baby. Can you arrange that for me?’

Morgan’s stomach began to churn. The idea of Claire attending Guy and Drew’s funeral was almost ghoulish. ‘I don’t know if that’s allowed,’ she said.

‘I asked the assistant warden. She said it might be possible if the family would agree. Will you ask them for me, Morgan? You can convince them . . .’

Morgan did not believe for a moment that Guy’s family would ever agree to it. ‘I’ll do my best,’ she said.

‘And don’t worry about the lawyer,’ said Claire. ‘It doesn’t matter . . .’

‘Doesn’t matter!’ Morgan cried. ‘We’re talking about the rest of your life here. Everything matters.’

Claire was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘Will you take him if I . . .’

Morgan had no idea what she was saying. ‘Take who?’

‘Dusty. Will you take him for me?’

‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ said Morgan. ‘Maybe you’re going to get out of this.’

‘No,’ said Claire. ‘No. It’s over.’

Immediately, Morgan remembered what Noreen Quick had said. Claire was under a suicide watch. Morgan grabbed her chilly hands again. ‘Listen to me, Claire. Nothing is settled yet. Don’t you dare give up. You need to hang in there.’

‘I don’t know, Morgan. What for?’

‘Well, for . . . me. For one thing. I need you. We’re . . . each other’s family, remember? Look, I won’t give up on you. I’ll fight for you.’

Claire did not smile or nod. ‘I don’t deserve it,’ Claire said.

‘Time,’ the guard intoned.

Claire stood up and Morgan followed suit. ‘Don’t you dare do anything . . . wrong,’ Morgan concluded feebly. She did not even want to breathe the word suicide.

Claire allowed herself to be led away. She looked back over her shoulder. ‘Thank you for everything,’ she said.

‘You hang in there,’ Morgan insisted. She could feel herself trembling all over. ‘Claire!’ But Claire did not turn around or look back at her.

NINE

M
organ stopped at the foot of the church steps and glanced over at the newer section of the historic cemetery, where two men with a small backhoe were digging two graves, side by side, one half as large as the other. In a sickening instant, Morgan realized that the graves were probably being prepared for Guy and baby Drew. Even though she knew that they were dead, in a way she had not allowed herself to contemplate it. She had acted as if she were here on a visit and simply hadn’t seen them yet. But watching the preparation of the graves gave her a sickening dose of reality. She turned away, her heart aching.

Around the churchyard it seemed to be a day for maintenance. An overall-clad painter was standing beneath the tall, mullioned church windows, daubing white paint on the sill from a quart can which he held in his hand. Morgan ascended the church steps, pulled open the door and looked inside. The church was silent, the warm autumn light spilling across the empty pews.

‘Damn,’ she whispered.

‘Can I help you?’ the painter asked.

Morgan started. She turned to him to explain that she was looking for Father Lawrence and realized that the bespectacled painter in the white papery cap was, in fact, the minister himself.

‘Oh,’ said Morgan startled. ‘I didn’t expect to see you there, Father,’ she said.

The minister smiled sheepishly, and carefully wiped off his brush on the rim of the paint can he was holding. ‘I like painting,’ he said. ‘I find it relaxing. My wife and I used to own an old house at my last parish, but when we moved here a new rectory had just been built. There’s nothing for me to do on this place. So, I touch up the church building. Is there something I can do for you?’

‘Actually, I was looking for you,’ said Morgan. ‘I was hoping you might be able to help me.’

Father Lawrence set his brush down on a plastic drop cloth and pressed the top back on to the paint can. He pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped off his fingers. ‘If you want to go inside to talk,’ he said, ‘just give me a moment to get cleaned up.’

‘No, that’s not necessary,’ she said. ‘It’s fine out here. It’s a nice day.’

‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’ the minister asked, looking at her with narrowed eyes.

‘Yes,’ said Morgan. ‘Yes we have. I was here last week.’ Morgan took a deep breath. ‘For the christening. Drew Bolton’s christening. I was his godmother.’

The expression in the minister’s eyes grew pained. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘Such a tragedy.’

Morgan glanced back over at workmen digging in the cemetery. Then she looked back at the minister. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is.’

The minister came around and sat down on the church steps. He gestured for Morgan to sit down beside him. A chilly breeze rustled through the leaves, but the steps were in sunlight. Morgan took a seat at the edge of a tread.

‘So, you were the godmother. Were you related to them? The victims,’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Morgan. ‘The . . .’ Morgan hesitated. She refused to say ‘killer’, even if it was true. ‘Claire, Drew’s mother, is my dearest friend.’

Father Lawrence drew in a breath. ‘I see.’

‘I’ve come to see you because of Claire,’ she said.

The minister remained silent.

Morgan glanced at him. He had taken off the painter’s hat, and was wiping his brow with the back of his hand. ‘Look,’ said Morgan, ‘I know that she did a horrible thing. I mean, I’ve known her most of my life and it was just a complete shock. I haven’t really been able to accept that she would even be capable . . .’

‘I’m sure it is a shock,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve spoken to the family, of course. They are suffering greatly.’

‘I know,’ said Morgan miserably. ‘I know they must be.’ His observation reminded her of where she had to go from here. She had to ask the family for permission for Claire to attend the services. That was a duty she was truly dreading.

‘And Claire,’ Father Lawrence said, shaking his head. ‘She seemed to be such a lovely, nice woman. She must have been tormented to do such a thing. Out of her right mind in some way . . .’

‘Yes,’ said Morgan, grateful for even this hint of understanding. ‘And she is suffering too, believe me. She’s in a terrible state. In fact, I’m afraid for her life.’

The minister frowned. ‘Really?’

‘Yes,’ said Morgan. ‘Absolutely. She’s under a suicide watch at the county jail, but you know, if a person is determined enough they can find a way . . .’

Father Lawrence nodded. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said.

‘Look,’ said Morgan, ‘I’m sure it sounds crazy for me to say this but Claire always had a lot of faith. I was thinking that maybe it would help if you could try to talk to her. I don’t know what the official church policy is when someone does something as bad as this, but . . . I’m really worried. She’s over her head.’

Father Lawrence smiled slightly. ‘The official policy, as you say, is that we’re all sinners, and that no sin, no matter how terrible, is unforgivable.’

Morgan faced him hopefully. ‘Could you go to the county jail and tell her that? I mean, I am really afraid for her. For what she might do.’

‘I guess I just assumed she’d have a spiritual advisor at the prison. Someone . . . familiar with the place.’

Morgan could see that he was balking at the idea of visiting the prison. He’d probably never had to visit an accused murderer from his parish before. She wasn’t about to let him off the hook. ‘No. She liked you,’ Morgan insisted. ‘She trusted you.’

Father Lawrence turned the painter’s hat in his hand, frowning. Finally he said, ‘I suppose I can do that.’

Morgan pounced. ‘Soon?’ she asked.

Father Lawrence nodded. ‘I think the rest of the painting can wait,’ he said.

Morgan sighed with relief. ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’

‘I won’t guarantee that I can improve her state of mind.’

‘But you’ll try,’ said Morgan.

Father Lawrence nodded. ‘I’ll try,’ he said.

The Bolton’s was the only house, built on a promontory, at the end of a cul-de-sac. It was a sprawling, modern house of one story, with a multitude of windows overlooking the sea. It was surrounded by windswept gardens and today there were cars wedged along the shoulder of the isolated road, with several police cars among the vehicles parked there. Dick Bolton was well off now, but he had friends from all walks of life in the Briars, dating back to his lifeguarding days. Morgan suspected that many of those people were turning up to offer condolences.

Morgan took the parking space of a couple who were driving away from the house. The woman in the front seat was wiping her eyes with tissue. Morgan sat in her car for a moment, looking up at the house, marshaling her forces. Finally, she got out of her car and slammed the door. She walked up the flagstone walkway, past Mexican laborers, dressed in jeans and sweatshirts, who were tending the gardens. Dick hired a multitude of Mexican workers every summer, obtaining temporary work visas for them so that they could do his gardening, clean fish in his warehouse and wash dishes in the Lobster Shack. Morgan could feel the curious eyes of the men in the crew on her, as she passed by, and she wondered if they knew about the tragedy which had befallen the family inside. Morgan rang the bell, and the door was opened by Astrid Bolton.

At first, Morgan felt relieved that it was Astrid, her shiny crown of pale blond braids a stark contrast to her black sweater and pants, who had come to the door. She was a stepmother, and Morgan knew, from conversations in the past with Claire, that Guy had a testy, difficult relationship with both his father and his stepmother. Surely, Morgan thought, Astrid would feel slightly less animosity toward Claire and Morgan than would Guy’s blood relations. But up close, Morgan could see that Astrid’s oval face was deeply lined, and her lavender eyes were red-rimmed and glittered with tears. She made no effort to be welcoming. ‘What is it?’ Astrid asked hoarsely.

‘Astrid, I’m terribly sorry . . .’ Morgan began.

Astrid lifted a manicured hand. ‘Don’t,’ said Astrid. ‘If you’re going to start making excuses for her, don’t do it. Save your breath.’

‘Believe me,’ said Morgan, ‘I have no excuses. I am as baffled by this as everyone else.’

Astrid was trembling. She was a quiet woman who, despite the ethereal fairness of her looks, seemed to have a solemn nature. The few times that Morgan had met her, Astrid had struck her as someone who maintained an even keel. But her customary composure seemed to have deserted her. ‘Please, if you don’t mind, we are just . . . destroyed by this loss.’

‘I understand,’ said Morgan. ‘And I’m so sorry. But I have to talk to you. You and Dick both, if possible. Lucy too, if she’s here.’

Astrid frowned. ‘What about?’

Morgan took a deep breath. ‘It’s important. May I come in?’

‘Dick is in no shape to see anyone. Much less a friend of Claire’s.’

‘Believe me, I wouldn’t be intruding if I didn’t have to be here,’ said Morgan.

Astrid hesitated and then, reluctantly, stepped aside and allowed Morgan to enter. As Morgan walked into the house, she glanced back at the gardening crew, who continued to look curiously at her. Astrid closed the door behind Morgan and indicated that she should come into the main room. There were clusters of people talking quietly in the low-ceilinged, folk-art decorated living room, and the dining room table was covered with platters of food.

‘Follow me,’ said Astrid grimly.

Morgan’s stomach was churning and she wished she could turn and run. But she had promised Claire. As she followed Astrid through the house, she came face to face with Fitz, his hair a mass of curls, a tweed sports coat stretched across his broad shoulders, coming out of the powder room. ‘Oh, hi,’ she said, realizing she would welcome even his leering smile at this point.

Fitz’s eyes were red-rimmed and his face was puffy. It seemed to take him a minute to register that he was looking at Morgan. He looked startled to see her at first, and then his expression hardened.

‘How are you?’ she asked.

‘Just great,’ said Fitz balefully.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

Fitz frowned at Morgan. ‘Do you really think you should be here? After what Claire did . . .?’ He stopped and pressed his lips together. Without waiting for her reply, he turned away and walked past her.

Shaken by Fitz’s reaction, Morgan tried to steel herself as she caught up to Astrid who was pushing open the door to a darkened room at the end of the hall.

‘Astrid?’ A voice called to Astrid from inside the room. Morgan could see that this room had all kinds of beach photos, surfing trophies, and electronic equipment on its custom-made shelves. The plasma-screen TV picture was on, but there was no sound. The far wall was windowed, and overlooked the sea.

Huddled in a club chair in the corner, covered by a Burberry plaid throw, was Dick Bolton, dressed in a gray sweatshirt that seemed to mirror his complexion. A sportsman, an outdoorsman, Dick was normally a robust figure. He had seemingly dwindled in his grief. He looked up at Morgan with empty eyes.

‘This is Claire’s friend, Morgan,’ said Astrid, and her voice had an edge. ‘She wanted to talk to you.’

‘And Lucy, if possible,’ said Morgan. ‘This affects all of you.’

Astrid avoided Morgan’s gaze. ‘Lucy’s not here. She’s . . .’

‘She’s too busy,’ Dick said bitterly. ‘Too busy to be with her family when her brother has just been killed.’

‘Now darling,’ Astrid chided him. ‘She’s terribly upset. This is very difficult for her. She has to deal with this in her own way.’

‘She’s spoiled. And she’s selfish and you’re the one who spoiled her,’ said Dick accusingly. ‘You have babied Lucy ever since you set foot in this house. Fussing over her diet, and her vision problems and her schooling. Thanks to you, she thinks this condition of hers makes her so special she doesn’t have to do the normal, decent things that people do,’ he cried hoarsely.

Astrid’s face was white. ‘I’ve only tried to take care of her,’ Astrid said.

Dick put his hand over his eyes and let out a sob. The room was silent except for his muffled gasps. Then, he reached out with his other hand, groping the air, and Astrid took hold of it. ‘Sorry, darling,’ he whispered. ‘That was unfair. I’m out of my mind. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Astrid soothingly.

‘You’ve been an angel with Lucy. With both of my children.’