From Cradle to Grave (9 page)

Morgan, taken aback by Dick’s outburst, wished she could disappear. Instead, she was rooted to the spot.

Astrid swiped one of her knuckles over her own tears and struggled to maintain her composure. ‘Morgan has something to say to us,’ she said, lifting her small, pointed chin. She nodded at Morgan. ‘Go on.’

‘Mr Bolton,’ said Morgan. ‘Astrid. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am for your loss.’

‘Thank you,’ Dick said dully. Then he peered at Morgan. ‘I remember you,’ he said. ‘You were at the baptism.’

‘Yes.’ Morgan admitted. ‘I was Drew’s godmother.’

Dick Bolton covered his keen blue eyes with a shaking hand and his voice was a wail. ‘Why? Why did she do this to us?’

Morgan shook her head without replying.

Dick Bolton dropped his forearms heavily to the arms of the chair. He looked dazed. Astrid looked at her husband with sorrowful eyes. She folded her arms over her chest. ‘Well,’ she said to Morgan. ‘What is it you wanted to talk about?’

Morgan looked from one to the other. ‘First I wanted to say how sorry I am. All I can tell you is that the Claire I have always known . . .’

‘What is she talking about?’ Dick asked miserably.

‘Please,’ Astrid said in a warning tone. ‘Just be brief. We’re very upset.’

Morgan drew in a deep breath and plunged. ‘All right. Here’s the thing. I’ve been to see Claire today. She asked me to come here and . . . and ask for your permission . . . She wants to attend the funeral.’

Astrid eyes widened. ‘Oh no, you can’t mean that.’

‘It’s up to you,’ said Morgan. ‘Whatever you say, that’s what we’ll do. She wouldn’t be standing or seated . . . with you. She’d have to stay off to the side. With guards.’

‘Are you insane? That woman killed my son. And my grandson,’ Dick exploded.

Astrid shook her head, and blew her nose into a tissue.

Morgan did not try to offer any explanation. There was no way for her to make this request less onerous. She assumed that they understood that. It was simply up to them to render a verdict. The last word.

The room was silent. Finally, Astrid broke the silence. ‘I don’t know how she could ever think to show her face there.’

Morgan stifled a sigh. She did not have the heart to protest or plead Claire’s case any further. What could she say? These people had a right to their anger.

Suddenly, there was a tapping on the door of the den. Then the door opened, and Fitz stuck his head in. ‘Excuse me,’ he said.

Astrid looked at him impatiently. ‘Fitz, not now . . .’

Fitz raised a hand. ‘Um . . . Eden’s grandparents just showed up here from West Virginia. They are looking for their granddaughter. What do I tell them?’

Morgan frowned. It was really the first time she had even thought about Guy’s daughter, who had appeared so inopportunely at the christening. ‘Guy’s daughter?’ she asked. ‘Is she still in town?’

Dick Bolton seemed to summon some of his old spirit. ‘They have the nerve to come here? Those insane rednecks?’ Dick muttered in disgust. ‘Don’t let them in.’

‘Dick, don’t,’ Astrid murmured. She turned to Fitz. ‘Did they try the Spauldings? That’s where she was staying.’

Fitz shrugged. ‘I think they did.’

‘Well, then I don’t know,’ said Astrid wearily. ‘I haven’t seen her since the night before . . . since the night of the dinner.’

Eden, Morgan thought. She had almost forgotten that Eden had been the spark that ignited this tragedy.

‘Are you expecting Eden to show up here?’ Fitz asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Astrid. ‘She certainly hasn’t called to offer her condolences for our grandson . . .’ Astrid’s voice cracked. ‘Or my stepson.’

‘Tell them to go home,’ Dick thundered. ‘We don’t know anything about that kid. Tell them to leave. They’re not welcome here.’

Astrid took a deep breath. ‘No. No, darling. Wait. That would be rude. They’ve come a long way and they’re worried about their granddaughter.’

‘After what they put us through,’ Dick cried. ‘I don’t owe those people a thing.’

Astrid ignored his protest. ‘Offer them some food or something to drink and tell them to wait, if you would, Fitz. I’ll be with them in a minute,’ said Astrid calmly.

Fitz nodded in agreement and withdrew, closing the door.

Astrid turned to Morgan. Despite being middle-aged, she had a still-refined face and erect carriage, which seemed to only be sharpened by her grief. ‘Look, you’d better go,’ she said. ‘This is a family matter. This is not really the place for you.’

‘Yes, all right,’ said Morgan.

‘Just tell Claire we said no,’ said Astrid. ‘No, she can’t come. Our lives are ruined because of her.’

‘Wait a minute.’ From his club chair, Dick Bolton’s voice interrupted with surprising strength.

Morgan turned and looked at him in mild surprise. She was ready for him to hurl a parting insult at her.

‘On second thought, maybe she should be there. Yes. Tell her she can come,’ he said. ‘To the funeral.’

Astrid turned on him. ‘Dick,’ she exclaimed.

‘I want her there,’ said Dick. ‘I want to see her face.’ He looked from Morgan to Astrid. ‘That’s final. She can come.’

Morgan felt a chill. She did not dare look at Astrid, who was gasping with dismay. Of course Morgan realized that there was menace embedded in Dick’s permission. How could Claire expect any reception at this funeral other than a completely hostile one? Still, it was the answer Claire wanted, and Morgan would bring it back to her. She only hoped that Claire would not regret her choice. As she murmured her goodbyes, Morgan did not ask about arrangements, or press Dick Bolton for his reasons. She would find out the arrangements. Whatever his reasons, Morgan felt certain that they had nothing to do with compassion.

TEN

A
t a tiny storefront health food place called Nature’s Pantry, Morgan sat at one of the five tables and ordered a California sandwich from a college student-aged waitress. While she was waiting for her food, Morgan called the county jail and asked to speak to Claire. She was told that prisoners couldn’t receive calls until five o’clock. Morgan said she would call back. Then she called Noreen Quick’s office and asked to speak to the attorney.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Berenice, who recognized her name right away. ‘That’s not gonna be possible. She’s at the doctor’s. She started having contractions.’

‘Oh,’ said Morgan. ‘Really? Was that . . . expected?’

‘She’s not due for another month,’ Berenice confided.

‘Do you happen to know if she found out about Claire’s house from the police?’

‘What about it?’ asked Berenice.

‘Well, I don’t know when the police will allow me to go inside,’ said Morgan.

‘Oh, I don’t know anything about that,’ said Berenice. ‘Why don’t you go over to the station house and ask them yourself? Do you know where the police station is?’

Morgan thought grimly of her visit to Claire in the holding cell.

‘OK, I can do that. I guess you don’t know if Ms Quick will be back at work tomorrow. I suppose it all depends on the baby.’

‘Well, even if it’s a false alarm, I can tell you that she was on complete bed rest with her last baby for at least a month before it was born.’

Morgan was somewhat surprised to be apprised of such personal information about the attorney’s life, but it certainly seemed in keeping with the estrogen-saturated atmosphere of that law office. Morgan found the openness rather disarming. ‘I’m just worried about the case,’ she said. ‘You know, my friend Claire’s defense . . .?’

‘Oh, Ms Quick’ll still be working. She’ll just have to work from home. From her bedroom. Until the baby’s born. Believe me, it won’t slow her down much. She’s a dynamo.’

‘Yes, she seems to be,’ said Morgan.

‘Just drop by the police station and ask them about the house. Somebody there will help you.’

Morgan told Berenice that she would handle it, and tucked her phone away as her waitress appeared carrying a sandwich on brown bread stuffed with alfalfa sprouts. Morgan ate her food, bland to begin with, without tasting it, paid the cashier, and hurried out the door.

Although she did not know the village of West Briar very well, she was not about to forget her way to the police station. She went in, and asked the sergeant on duty if she could speak to someone about Claire Bolton’s case.

The sergeant spoke on the phone and then looked at Morgan. ‘Detective Heinz can see you for a few minutes. He’s in the squad room, second door on the left.’

Morgan thanked him and followed his directions to the squad room. She entered timidly and looked around. Uniformed officers and men in ties and shirtsleeves were mingling at the desks in the large, white room which took up half of the first floor of the building. A good-looking young man in uniform asked if he could help her. ‘I’m looking for Detective Heinz?’ she said.

The young man pointed to a large, bald-headed man with half-glasses and a goatee scowling at a computer monitor in the corner. He was wearing a blue-striped shirt, a gold knit tie and a large, elaborate-looking watch that could probably track the time in three time zones. He did not look up as Morgan approached his desk. ‘Detective Heinz?’ she said.

‘Just a minute,’ he said without looking up. He finished tapping something into his computer, and then rolled his chair back about a foot. He frowned at Morgan. ‘What?’ he said.

‘My name is Morgan Adair. I’m a friend of Claire Bolton’s,’ she began.

‘I see,’ he said. His face showed no emotion.

Morgan pulled her power of attorney papers from her tote bag and turned them toward the detective so that he could see them. ‘Claire has asked me to . . . help get her life in order. She gave me power of attorney while she’s in jail.’

Heinz raised an eyebrow and folded his arms over his chest. ‘And what does this have to do with me?’

‘Well, I need to get into her house to sort through her papers and . . . you know . . . take care of her business. And her cat. I have to feed her cat. And I hope to stay at the house while I’m in town. Yesterday I wasn’t allowed to enter the house because of your investigation.’

Heinz raised a hand and waved it, as if to wave away her concerns. ‘You can go in. We’re through with the place. We don’t need anything in there.’

‘You’re sure? Nothing?’ Morgan asked.

Heinz shrugged. ‘The investigation is closed. Your friend confessed.’

‘So, you aren’t looking into any other possibilities?’ Morgan asked. ‘I mean, don’t you keep digging?’

Heinz folded his hands on the top of his desk, in a fashion which suggested that he was restraining an urge to reach out and shake her. ‘You’ve got real life confused with television shows. Do you see these files, Miss?’ Heinz asked, inclining his bald head toward a tower of Manilla folders on the corner of his desk. ‘These are investigations I’m still working on. Lot of it is small stuff. Break-ins. Fraud. Domestic disturbances. Every one of them’s got to be addressed. So, no, I don’t really have time to keep digging, as you say, in a case where I have a videotaped confession. That’s the gold standard in any courtroom in the land. She did it. It’s a slam dunk. End of story.’

‘Well, actually, she’s going to plead not guilty, as I understand it.’

‘Good luck to her,’ said Heinz sarcastically.

‘Claire just seems a little . . . confused to me,’ Morgan persisted in the face of his uninterest. ‘She mentioned something about an accident.’

A gap-toothed smile spread across the detective’s face and he shook his head. ‘Did she now? She’s calling it an accident. Hey Jim,’ he called out to a rangy, brown-haired man at a neighboring desk.

The other detective looked up from his computer. He had a smoker’s complexion, and folds in his eyelids.

‘Meet Jim Curry,’ said Heinz. ‘We questioned your friend together. He and I were both there when she confessed to murdering her husband and her baby. Jim, this gal’s a friend of Claire Bolton. Seems like our Claire is now thinking that it might have been an accident.’

Jim Curry smiled wryly and shook his head. ‘Yeah. Right,’ he said.

Morgan felt that he was twisting what she was trying to say. ‘I didn’t mean that,’ Morgan protested. ‘I just said . . .’

‘You’re wasting my time, miss. Now, I’m a patient man . . .’ said Heinz.

Morgan gazed at the detective. She doubted that very much. He seemed explosive, and anything but patient. For a moment she tried to imagine Claire – confused, depressed Claire – being questioned by this domineering man. ‘Maybe she was frightened,’ Morgan said.

Heinz took a deep breath, as if he was going to lash out at her. Then, suddenly, his manner changed and he spoke to her slowly, and not unkindly, as if she were a child in preschool. ‘Listen to me, Miss. I know you’re upset about your friend. None of us wants to think that the people we care for could do something like this. But this was a heinous crime. Innocent people do not confess to a heinous crime. They just don’t. Guilty people confess. Your friend is guilty.’

Morgan met his gaze without flinching, but in her heart she knew that what he said was clearly true. She had heard of cases where people confessed to a crime they didn’t commit. But in those cases it always seemed to be someone with a low I.Q. Or a young kid. And even then, there were always lingering doubts. When it came right down to it, it was impossible to imagine confessing to such a crime if you were innocent. And Claire was not claiming to be innocent. Claire was guilty, and Morgan was going to have to find a way to live with it. Morgan nodded. ‘I understand that what you’re saying about a confession is true. I mean, who would admit to such a thing if they didn’t do it? It doesn’t make any sense.’

‘No, it doesn’t,’ he said.

‘It’s just so hard to believe that Claire could have done this thing.’

‘I’m sure,’ he said.

‘So,’ said Morgan with a sigh. ‘I’m . . . I appreciate, you know, that you’re letting me get into the house.’

‘No problem,’ said Heinz, inclining his head toward her.

‘I’m sorry I bothered you about this.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Heinz calmly, swiveling in his chair so that he was once again facing his computer. ‘I’m here to help.’

Dressed in the chicest of workout clothes and listening to her iPod, Farah skipped down the steps of Sandy Raymond’s house. Morgan approached and called out to her. Farah lifted her earbud from her ear, and beamed in welcome.

‘I came for my things,’ said Morgan. ‘And I wanted to thank Sandy.’

‘He’s inside. Guess where?’ said Farah inclining her head toward the house. Her shining, wavy brown ponytail bobbed like an actual horse’s tail, falling halfway down her back.

‘On the computer?’ Morgan guessed.

‘Inside. Playing Wii. It’s a beautiful day!’ she cried in exasperation.

‘Yes, it is,’ said Morgan.

‘Second floor,’ said Farah. She glanced at her watch and waved as she broke into a trot.

Morgan thanked her and started up the steps to the house. She entered the foyer and called out to Sandy. A voice responded from upstairs. Morgan climbed the staircase, and searched the rooms on the second floor until she came to a room which looked like the control room on the Starship Enterprise. Sandy was standing with a wand in his hand, facing his virtual opponent on a giant screen. He was jumping back and forth, whacking at the air with the wand.

‘Sandy,’ she said.

‘Yeah,’ he replied without looking at her.

‘I came for my things. The police said it was all right so I’m going to stay at Claire’s house for the time being.’

‘Oh. OK.’

‘I just wanted to thank you for your hospitality.’

‘No problem,’ he said, lungeing at the screen.

‘I’ll just go get my stuff,’ said Morgan, backing out of the room. She tried to recall what Claire had said about her life with Sandy when they were engaged. She seemed to remember that they used to go out in the evening, rode bikes now and then, and went for walks. They even went horseback riding once on vacation. She did not remember Claire ever saying that Sandy was a computer addict, but that was the impression that Morgan now had of him.

She went down the hallway until she found the room where she had slept. The curtains were still closed and the bed was unmade as she had left it when she ran out in the morning. Her suitcase lay open on a long tan suede ottoman at the foot of the bed. Morgan pulled back the drapes and quickly threw her things into the suitcase, and zippered it up. She set the wheeled bag down on the floor. Then, she hesitated, wondering whether to remove the sheets from the enormous bed. Normally, when she stayed in someone’s house, she would take the sheets off so her hostess wouldn’t have to do it. But she had never stayed in a house the size of a hotel before. Obviously Sandy needed a household staff to maintain the place. Well, household staff or not, she decided to err on the side of being a considerate guest. She leaned over the bed and began to remove the pillowcase from one of the pillows.

‘Just leave it.’

Morgan turned and saw Sandy standing in the doorway, his arms folded over his sweaty T-shirt. ‘Are you sure?’ said Morgan.

‘The housekeeper will change them tomorrow.’

‘Ah,’ said Morgan, replacing the pillow in its case, and pulling up the sheet and the duvet. She smoothed the duvet out as best she could.

‘How’s Claire doing?’ Sandy asked.

Morgan turned, and reached for her suitcase, lifting the handle. Then she shook her head. ‘Not too well. Very depressed.’

‘Not too surprising,’ said Sandy.

‘No. Under the circumstances,’ Morgan admitted.

‘She shouldn’t have left me,’ Sandy said.

Morgan frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you have to admit,’ said Sandy. ‘Her life would have turned out differently.’

‘It’s not as if her life is over,’ Morgan said.

Sandy shrugged. ‘It might as well be.’

Morgan stifled an angry retort. If that’s what he wanted to think, let him, she thought. It wouldn’t do any good to argue with him. She would not be giving up on Claire so easily. Morgan rolled her suitcase past him out into the hall and headed for the stairs. ‘Thank you for having me last night,’ she said stiffly.