Home For the Homicide (A Do-It-Yourself Mystery) (24 page)

“So you and I would most likely have blue-eyed children because we both have blue eyes. All of Jill and Peter’s kids have dark hair and eyes because Peter’s coloring is dominant and Jill’s is recessive. But if Pepper ends up with blue eyes, it’s not because Jill had an affair with the milkman.”

“Pretty much,” Derek said. “Sometimes a recessive gene can crop up after generations of being latent. It’s just the luck of the draw. And biology.”

“Bummer.”

He arched his brows. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I just thought I’d discovered something that it turns out I didn’t discover after all.”

“What’s that?”

I took a breath and marshaled my thoughts into what I hoped was coherence. “Henry Silva was there, at the nursing home, with Wayne. And I realized how much he and Ruth look alike. Same head shape, same nose, same ears. Same blue eyes.”

“They’re first cousins,” Derek said, “so that’s not surprising. And their mothers weren’t just sisters, but identical twins. I’d say that isn’t noteworthy at all.”

Probably not. Nonetheless he’d asked, so I figured I’d better carry my train of thought through to the end. “Henrietta had brown eyes. I noticed it when I spoke to her. Henry said she had the Silva eyes.”

“So?” Derek said.

“So Mr. and Mrs. Green both had blue eyes. And they had two blue-eyed daughters. And probably a blue-eyed son, although I didn’t think to ask Ruth what color Arthur’s eyes were. She probably wouldn’t have been able to remember.”

“Infants’ eyes change color anyway,” Derek said. “They’re sometimes born with blue eyes that turn brown later.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. They say that all infants are born with blue eyes. That’s not true. Black and Asian children are usually born with brown eyes. So are a lot of Hispanics and for that matter white babies. But some are born with blue eyes that change to brown or hazel later, too.”

“So Henrietta might have been born with blue eyes that changed.”

“Sure,” Derek said. “Especially since her mother had blue eyes. But Henrietta inherited the dominant gene if her eyes were brown. Why are you so interested in this?”

“I told you. I noticed how similar Henry and Ruth looked.”

“And it’s likely to be because their mothers were twins. Identical twins even have the same DNA profile.”

The tingling spider senses turned into a steady buzz, and the thought that had streaked across my brain last night slunk back in, and stayed long enough for me to get a good look at it.

“What if . . .”

“Yes?” Derek said when I trailed off.

“I’m still bothered by the fact that the baby’s DNA didn’t match Ruth and Mamie’s. She told me—Ruth did—that her parents were happy together. They stayed together after Arthur went missing. Or died, I should say, although they didn’t know that, I guess.”

Derek nodded.

“I didn’t ask her straight-out if she thought her mother might have had an affair, but I didn’t catch any whiff of that in anything she said.”

“She might not have known,” Derek pointed out. “She was just a little girl.”

It probably wasn’t something Lila would talk to her daughters about. Or that they’d notice, at least if she were being careful. But children can usually tell when their parents’ marriage is on the rocks, because of the arguing and such, and Ruth hadn’t said anything about it.

“You may be right. But what if Mrs. Green didn’t have an affair?”

“She had to have gotten pregnant somehow. She had a baby. And it wasn’t her husband’s.”

“What if it wasn’t her baby?”

“How could it not be—” He shook his head. “No.”

“What do you mean, no? It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Logically, maybe. But the rest of it . . .”

“Just listen to me,” I said. “Sonya and Lila were identical twins, right? You said yourself they had the same DNA. And they both had blue eyes. Mr. Green’s eyes were also blue, so he and Lila had blue-eyed children, but Mr. Silva’s were brown, so Henrietta had brown eyes.”

Derek nodded. “I’m with you so far. Those are facts.”

“Lila had Ruth in 1939, and Mamie in 1941, and then a miscarriage or two before she had Arthur in early ’49.”

“Did Ruth tell you that?”

I nodded. “She also told me that Sonya had a miscarriage, as well as a pair of twins that died. Two little boys. One died almost immediately—it didn’t thrive, Ruth said . . .”

“Failure to thrive,” Derek said, nodding. “We’ve gotten better about that these days, at least in our part of the world, but sixty or seventy years ago, we didn’t understand it as well. All it means is that the baby wasn’t getting what it needed to grow and develop the way it should.”

“Physically? Or mentally?”

“Physically,” Derek said, “although failure to thrive physically can lead to abnormal intellectual, social, or emotional development later on. There are two kinds . . .” He trailed off, glancing at me.

“Go ahead.” It was interesting, and besides, I just enjoy listening to Derek talk.

“Endogenous, or organic, failure to thrive means there’s a physical reason the baby isn’t getting enough nutrients to gain weight the way it should. Could be milk allergies or celiac disease or something obvious, like a cleft palate. Meanwhile, exogenous or nonorganic failure to thrive means that the caregiver isn’t offering, or isn’t able to supply, enough food. A mother might not be producing enough milk for the baby, or might not have the money for enough formula. Some idiots—excuse me—don’t feed their babies enough because they don’t want them to be overweight.”

“That’s crazy,” I said.

Derek nodded. “We got off the subject there, though. Sonya’s baby failed to thrive.”

“Ruth said it died almost immediately. And then the other twin died a few months later. Crib death. And then Sonya had a miscarriage, as well. Ruth said she was desperate to give her husband a son, because Henrietta couldn’t carry on the Silva name.”

“Oh,” Derek said.

“Yep. So finally she had Henry, and her sister had Arthur. They both had baby boys, and only a week or two apart.”

I could see the light dawning in his eyes now, and knew he was coming around to agreeing with my point of view. Or at least coming around to the realization that maybe I wasn’t as crazy as he’d originally thought.

“Henry Senior had his heir, after years of trying, and everything was great. How far do you think Sonya would have been willing to go if something happened to that baby?”

“Far,” Derek said. “I don’t know, though, Avery . . .”

“Just listen. Ruth said that there were no marks on the baby, and no signs of anything having happened to him, so let’s just say the baby we found in the attic died of SIDS. Sudden infant death syndrome. Crib death.”

Derek nodded.

“Imagine Sonya finding him and panicking, because suddenly her husband has no heir to carry on the name. She hasn’t managed to give him what he wants, her babies keep dying, and there’s only Henrietta left, and Henrietta is a girl. Ruth said that Henry Senior didn’t care about Henrietta, only about Baby Henry.”

“All right,” Derek said.

“She isn’t getting any younger. Her childbearing years are coming to an end, and there are no guarantees that the next baby will survive, either. Henry Senior might replace her with someone younger and more fertile.”

Derek nodded.

“So there she is, with a dead baby. And there’s her sister’s baby, all rosy-cheeked and healthy. And so much like her own. Henrietta looked a lot like Mamie and Ruth, too, apart from the eye color.”

Derek nodded.

“Lila was at the hairdresser’s. There was only Ruth and Mamie at home, and the baby was sleeping in his carriage on the front porch. It would take less than a minute to make the switch. Chances were nobody would see her, or if they did, they wouldn’t think anything of her being there, because she was the baby’s aunt, and she looked just like the baby’s mother. If anyone had seen her, they might even have assumed she was her sister.”

I paused. Derek didn’t seem inclined to interrupt, just kept watching me with a sort of horrified fascination. So I continued. “She sent Henrietta to play with Ruth and Mamie, to draw them back to the playhouse and keep them there—and they were probably happy to go, because Ruth said Sonya didn’t like to let Henrietta play with them. She was afraid Mamie would rub off, I guess. Ruth said the Silvas were always telling the Greens that they should have Mamie put away.”

Derek nodded.

“So Henrietta took Ruth and Mamie to the backyard, to the playhouse, and they played tea. Meanwhile, Baby Arthur was asleep on the front porch by himself, on the other side of the house. I imagine Sonya just walked up, put the dead baby in Arthur’s carriage and Arthur into her own, and called to Henrietta that it was time to go.”

“And nobody realized it was the wrong baby?” He sounded skeptical. “What about the clothes? Wouldn’t they notice that the baby was wearing different clothes?”

“They were children,” I said. “Mamie wasn’t quite right in the head, even then, and Ruth was in a panic once she realized that the baby wasn’t breathing. I don’t imagine she looked at him all that closely. Arthur and Henry probably looked alike to begin with. Most babies do, and their mothers were twins. And nobody else saw him, remember?”

“I remember,” Derek said. “But if you’re right about this, Avery, Sonya couldn’t count on Ruth putting the baby in the attic. That was Ruth’s idea, and it turned out to be a big bonus for Sonya. But she had to have planned for the fact that her sister would see the baby. And having him wear the wrong clothes would be a—pardon me—dead giveaway.”

He had a point. “Maybe she took the time to change him. It might not have taken long. It was September, and he was under a blanket, so she might only have had to change his pants. Baby undershirts are pretty much all the same, I think. If anyone asked, she could just say she was changing his diaper.”

“Maybe.” He didn’t sound totally convinced, but after a few moments he added, “Then what?”

“Then Sonya took Arthur and Henrietta and left. And Ruth found who she thought was her brother dead, and hid him in the attic, and told everyone he’d been stolen.”

“And Sonya managed to look her sister in the eye for the rest of her life?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Ruth said that Sonya didn’t like to let Henrietta play with them even before that, and afterwards, I’m pretty sure she kept them apart. She couldn’t risk anyone realizing that she’d stolen her sister’s baby because her own died. And Lila might have recognized her own child, even if the girls didn’t.”

“Lila might have chosen to stay away, too,” Derek said, getting into the swing of things. “She’d just lost her baby, but as far as she knew, her sister still had her own. It wouldn’t be surprising if she’d want to avoid Sonya and Baby Henry for a while.”

Maybe so. I hadn’t thought about that, but now that he mentioned it, it made sense. “So you think it could have happened that way?”

“It hangs together,” Derek said. “How do you plan to prove it, though, Tink? Or don’t you want to?”

“You don’t know me very well if you think I don’t.”

“On the contrary,” Derek said, “I know you very well. Where do we start?”

“We could exhume Henrietta,” I said. “I don’t think the ground’s frozen again after the funeral. It should be easy to get down there. And I know the medical examiner has the DNA for the baby already on file.”

“No digging up graves,” Derek answered.

Fine. “I could sneak into the Silvas’ house—now, before they start boxing up all of Henrietta’s things—and grab a hairbrush or something, with her DNA on it.”

“No breaking and entering.”

“You’re no fun.”

“No,” Derek said. “You’re not thinking, Avery.”

“I’m not?” It made perfect sense to me. If we already had the dead baby’s DNA, matching it to Henrietta’s to see if they had the same parents, would prove conclusively that the baby was Henry, not Arthur.

Derek shook his head. “We don’t have to prove that the baby was Henry. All we have to do is prove that the current Henry Silva is Ruth’s brother. They’re both still alive, and they both have DNA we can get without breaking the law.”

Oh.

“I didn’t think about that,” I said.

“I know,” my beloved answered. “You’re always looking to take the exciting way out. But this time we don’t have to. We can just call Wayne and tell him what you think, and he’ll get a sample of Henry’s DNA to match to Ruth’s, and then we’ll know.”

“It’s more fun to dig something up.”

“No,” Derek said. “Not really.”

He was probably right about that. I wouldn’t mind sneaking into the Silvas’ house to lift a hairbrush, though. It was a long time since I’d done any kind of sneaking.

But his way was simpler. So I stood by while he called Wayne and went through the conversation we’d just had. Like Derek, Wayne started out a little skeptical, but he was quickly won over. “That DNA match bothered me, too,” he admitted. Derek had put him on speakerphone so we could both listen and talk.

“I thought maybe Lila Green had had an affair,” I confessed, “and that her husband had found out and killed the baby.”

That idea had occurred to Wayne, too, of course. “There just wasn’t anything I could do about it. No way to prove that the baby didn’t die a natural death, and I certainly didn’t want to accuse a dead man of a murder that may or may not have been committed.”

Of course not.

“It’s good to have it explained. Assuming you’re right and the DNA will show that Ruth Green and Henry Silva are brother and sister.”

“How soon will you know?” Derek asked.

“We already have Ruth’s DNA on file. We got that from the nursing home last week, when we were trying to match the baby’s DNA. We have Mamie’s, too. What we don’t have is Henry’s, but I don’t imagine he’ll refuse to give it to me if I ask. He’s a law-abiding citizen.”

“So you’re just going to ask him for it?”

“Sure,” Wayne said. “Why not?”

“You don’t think he might refuse to give it to you? If it’s true that he’s not Henry Silva, he’s also not the heir to the Silva money.” Or the Silva lumber business.

There was a pause while Wayne thought it through. “Who’s the heir to the Silva money?”

“I suppose John Nickerson,” I said. “His mother was Henry Senior’s sister. He and Henry are cousins. If Henry isn’t actually a descendant of Old Henry, I think John would be the closest living relative that can trace his lineage back to the Silvas.”

Derek stared at me, wide-eyed. “You’re kidding, right?”

I shook my head. “I spoke to him yesterday. At the funeral. He told me that the old man, his grandfather, cut his mother off when she married beneath her. Apparently Mr. Nickerson wasn’t up to snuff as far as the Silvas were concerned. His grandfather would have come around eventually, John thinks, but it was Henry Senior who wouldn’t have anything to do with his sister after she married John’s father, so it wasn’t until Henry Senior died that John and Henry started talking again.”

“Wow.”

I nodded. “I know. Some families are weird like that.”

“I don’t think he’ll say no,” Wayne said, yanking the conversation back on track. “Most people don’t say no to the police.”

“We’ll leave you to it,” Derek said. “Let us know how it goes.”

He cut the call before Wayne had the chance to say anything else and, more important, before I could offer to help or be present or do anything else to insert myself into the situation. And then he grinned when he saw my pout. “Sorry, Tink. But I need you here.”

“To do what?”

“You have sconces to make,” Derek said. “Mason jars, remember? Plus, you’ve been going off so much lately I’m developing a complex. It’s like, as soon as we got married, you couldn’t wait to get away from me.”

“I’m not trying to get away from you. I just get caught up in things.”

“Well,” Derek said, snagging me around the waist and pulling me closer, “today you can get caught up in me.”

I supposed I could probably manage that.

When he let me go, after a suitable interval, he went back to his grouting and I went back to my Mason jars.

It isn’t difficult to turn them into pendants. All you have to do is cut off the bottoms with a glass cutter, and then smooth the edges so you don’t slice your finger open. I’d already done that in Dab’s studio, and I wasn’t eager to do it again.

So I cut the bottoms off and used a file from Derek’s toolbox along with the oil I’d bought at the hardware store to make the jars safe to touch. The process was a lot less streamlined than how Dab had taught me, but it got the job done, if with a bit more elbow grease.

Attaching the jars to the solar lights was also a snap, since I could practically cut through the aluminum tops with a pair of embroidery scissors, at least after I’d pried the glass seals out. But before I did that, it was time to gussy up the Mason jars to make them look more Craftsman-like. In addition to the frosted yellowish paint I’d bought, I’d also picked up a tiny jar of thick black oil paint, and now I proceeded to slather it on the jars in precise stripes, to mimic lead strips. The result, once the paint was dry and the lights hung, was a sort of poor man’s leaded glass: antique yellow pendants with dark edges and fake joins, rather a lot like some old carriage lamps I’d seen.

“Nice,” Derek said, coming up to admire my handiwork and to slip his arms around me from behind.

I leaned back against him. “They turned out good.”

“I didn’t doubt it for a minute,” Derek said. “Your crafts always turn out great.”

He was so sweet. Even when his stomach growled practically in my ear.

I tilted my head back to look up at him. “Hungry?”

“Always,” Derek said.

“For food?”

I could hear the smile in his voice. “That, too.”

“Want to knock off early and go get something to eat? I’m done with the pendants.”

“I’m done with the grouting,” Derek said. “Although there are plenty of other things I could start on.”

Sure, but—“What’s the point of being your own boss if you can’t leave work early once in a while?”

“None, I suppose.” He dropped his arms from around my waist. “Grab your coat before I change my mind. Let’s go.”

I grabbed my coat from the window seat and went, just in case he was serious and did change his mind.

We ended up at Guido’s, since we hadn’t gotten there on Sunday night. And because it was still early, the place wasn’t as crazy as it sometimes is. It was full, but nobody was hanging from the chandeliers, and we found a table right away. The same pierced and tattooed Goth girl as last time waited on us, and raised herself in my estimation when she remembered us and even remembered what drinks we’d ordered.

“Wonder how Wayne made out with Henry,” I said while we were waiting for the pizza to arrive. Seafood, in case you wondered. Shrimp and mussels and mushrooms. Yes, I know mushrooms aren’t shellfish, but they taste good with the mussels. And the shrimp tastes strangely good with tomato sauce and cheese, too.

“I’m sure he made out just fine,” Derek said, taking a pull on his beer. “He’s right. Most people don’t refuse to cooperate with the police.”

“But he had no real good reason to ask for Henry’s DNA. It’s not like he’s investigating a crime.”

“If you’re right, he is,” Derek said. “Kidnapping is a crime. Stealing someone’s baby and keeping it for your own.”

“Yes, but . . . do you think he told him that? That Henry’s mother—the one he grew up with, whether she was his biological mother or not—was a criminal who stole her twin sister’s son when her own died? I don’t think I’d have wanted to tell anyone unless I was sure.”

“Maybe not,” Derek admitted. “I don’t know, Avery.”

“Should we call and ask?”

“He said he’d keep us updated.” But he pulled his phone out and dialed anyway. “You know, it used to take weeks to get DNA results back. Six hours may be pushing it.”

“I’m sure he’s calling in favors,” I said, sipping my Diet Coke.

“No doubt. But it’s not like this is a priority. There are murders out there that need solving and unidentified remains that need to be identified. Figuring out whether two cousins are actually sister and brother is way down the list. Wayne?”

The phone quacked, and Derek winced. “Yes, I know who you are. I’m sure you’re busy. We’re just curious.”

The phone uttered again and Derek listened. “I’ll let her know,” he said after a minute and put the phone down before turning to me. “He asked me if we know who he is.”

“He’s Kate’s husband. And also the Waterfield chief of police.”

Derek nodded. “I think it’s the latter that’s important right now. He said he’ll let us know when there’s something we need to know, and to leave him alone until then.”

“That’s a bit rude, isn’t it?”

Derek shrugged. “He said he has other things to deal with. There’s a car accident on the Ocean Road, and some kid at Barnham College went out last night and didn’t come back.”

Obviously those were more important than figuring out whether Henry Silva was actually Henry Silva, or whether he was Arthur Green.

The pizza came and we got busy eating. After a couple of minutes Derek added, “I spoke to Dad on the phone this morning while you were out.”

“About what?”

“Henrietta Parker,” Derek said.

“What about her?”

“He’d asked Dr. Lawrence, the ME, for an update, since he was Henrietta’s GP.”

“OK.”

“Turns out she didn’t die from a heart attack. Or rather, she did. Her heart stopped. But it was from an overdose of heart medication.”

I stared at him. “You’re joking.”

“I wouldn’t joke about something like that.”

No, of course not. “Bad choice of words,” I said. “So . . . did she take them on purpose? Or was it an accident?”

“No one knows,” Derek said. “She could have gotten confused and taken too many. Or she could have done it on purpose. It goes along with your theory about the babies, though. If she knew what her mother did, but didn’t know what had happened to the dead baby, the discovery of the skeleton must have given her a real scare. And when the DNA test showed that it didn’t match Mamie and Ruth, she might have thought it was only a matter of time before someone figured out the truth. And since she was an accessory to the kidnapping, she might have been worried about going to jail.”

“Wayne wouldn’t have put her in jail. She was—what—nine back then? And doing what her mother told her to.”

“Still,” Derek said. “She did help her mother commit a crime. A meaner, less understanding chief of police might throw the book at her.”

I suppose. “That’s sad. I kind of hope she just got confused and didn’t do it on purpose. Not that it makes a difference—she’s dead either way—but at least she wouldn’t have known it was coming.”

Derek nodded. We ate in silence for a few minutes. The news didn’t seem to have affected his appetite—then again, he’d known about it since this morning—but I found I wasn’t hungry anymore. This whole situation was sad, and getting more so all the time. Now there were not only a dead baby and two dead old ladies on my conscience, but the possibility that Henry would have to give up his house and his wealth and his business to John Nickerson, too. And while I liked John and wished him well, I felt rather bad for Henry. What must it be like, after sixty-five years, to have to give up not only who he thought he was, but all the power and prestige—and money—that came with the Silva name?