Vultures at Twilight (23 page)

She looked across her desk at the bulletin board she'd assembled. On index cards she had placed the names of the victims and beneath each of these were rows of yellow post-it notes with potential motives and leads.

Wendy's poem added a twist, one that might have nothing to do with the murders. Still, the timing of its discovery with Philip's murder made it too hot. And the torn edge needed explanation. Where was the missing piece? Who took it? Philip? Tolliver?

Tolliver was hiding things; she could feel it. Ada had said that he had wanted her and Lil to take the journals and read them. But what if he had already looked through them and taken out a bit here and there?

Nothing added up and she kept coming back to the poem. She stared at a picture of the dead girl, perched on a rock and smiling at the camera. Next to that was the news clipping from the local paper.

Local Woman Found Dead at Silver Glen Hospital

The body of Wendy Conroy (28) was discovered early yesterday morning on the grounds of Silver Glen Hospital. The young woman had apparently drowned in an ornamental pond. Miss Conroy had been a resident at Silver Glen, a private psychiatric facility, for five years.

Doctor Gerard Helmut, the medical director for Silver Glen, stated, ‘This is a great tragedy. Miss Conroy has been a vital member of our community and she will be greatly missed.' Doctor Helmut offered his condolences to the family and stated that a memorial service would be held at Silver Glen for staff and residents.

Miss Conroy is survived by her parents, Ellen and James Conroy, and her brother, Philip Conroy. The funeral is to be private, and donations will be accepted in her name by the Grenville Arts Council.

Mattie reread the clipping. What was she missing? Or was this just a time-swallowing blind alley?

She listened to the steady hum and click of Kevin at the copy machine.

She thought about Lil and Ada, how they had been more helpful than either Kevin or Hank. Lil in particular had a good sense of the players in town and how they worked. What must she be going through? She thought back to the diner; Lil stood to lose so much. To find out that after more than thirty years of marriage, your husband wasn't who you thought he was. Or worse, that he'd committed the most heinous of acts. It didn't fit. Lil was too savvy for that. Although, it wasn't rare for a woman to discover that the kind and attentive man she thought she'd married was a fiction. How many of them had she sat with? ‘
He's never done it before,
' they'd say, while cradling their broken ribs. She'd encourage them to fill out a report and to have photos taken of their bruises. Few of them followed through. For the first-timers it was: ‘
He promised not to do it again.
' And for those who'd been through repeated bouts, where the violence came harder and faster: ‘
It'll just make it worse. What good would a restraining order do?
' They would leave her office after being given referrals to the proper agencies and a pep talk to ‘stop the cycle of abuse'. Armed with numbers for the local women's shelter and the hot line, they would walk bruised and battered back into the arms of their men.

This was different, though. The pieces didn't fit, unless Lil was being less than frank. Most pedophiles had difficulty with adult relationships. If what Lil had said about their marriage was accurate, Bradley didn't fit the profile.

Kevin popped his head into her office. ‘What you up to?'

‘Thinking,' she said, wishing he'd finish his copying and leave her in peace.

He followed her gaze to the corkboard where she'd pinned her notes. ‘She connects with at least two of them,' he offered.

‘Who?'

‘Wendy. She connects with at least two of the murder victims.'

‘You knew her?'

‘Sure, we went to school together.'

‘Same class?'

‘Some of them. She was in my homeroom in junior high. Then I think she got pulled out of school either in her sophomore or junior year.'

‘What was she like?'

‘Pretty, real quiet. Kind of the artsy type. She was editor of the school paper. These poems and stuff don't surprise me. Kind of weird though, especially that one about Dr Campbell.'

‘You knew him too.'

‘Everyone did. I don't think there was another doc for twenty miles, unless of course you went to Danbury.'

‘Ever heard any rumors about him?'

‘The Doc? Nah. He was a cool. Even made house calls.'

‘So there was never any talk or scandal?'

‘Not that I knew.'

‘Tell me more about Wendy. Who did she hang out with?'

‘That's a tough one. I was more into sports. She was someone who was there, but you didn't really notice her a lot.'

‘So there was nothing at all unusual?' Mattie asked, feeling like she was pulling teeth. Here Kevin might actually have some useful information, and he was holding back.

‘Well –' scratching the back of his head – ‘now that you mention it, there was some strange stuff in high school. People thought she was weird and then before too long she just went away.'

‘Weird how?'

‘To me, everyone acts flaky in high school. So I didn't think much about it. But she started getting into all this punk rock stuff, wearing a lot of silver jewelry and black clothes.'

‘You said she was connected with two of the victims. Philip was her brother; who else?'

‘Mildred Potts was her aunt or something. I remember seeing her around the shop. She'd, like, change the windows and stuff.'

‘What about Rudy Caputo and Carl McElroy? Did she have anything to do with either of them?'

‘I don't think so, but it's a small place. People know each other and know each other's business.'

‘Right. I'm going to head over to Silver Glen. You feel like tagging along?'

‘Yeah. What do you want to do there?'

‘I'm not sure, see if anything pops up. How far is it?' she asked.

‘Bout half an hour.'

‘Good, let me call ahead and see what sort of roadblocks they'll put up. If we want to look at her records we'll probably need a subpoena.'

‘Maybe not.' He picked up the phone.

‘What are you doing?'

‘Watch.' He dialed the operator and scribbled down the number. Without stopping he punched in the digits. ‘This is Kevin Simpson for Wayland Green. Sure, I'll hold.' Kevin's head bobbed amiably with the music that spilled out of the receiver. ‘REM,' he said to Mattie, by way of explanation. ‘Hey, Wayland, how's it hanging . . . Not bad. Saw your new car; sharp. Is it a two thousand and twelve? . . . Sweet. Six cylinders? No kidding . . . Kids are good? Great . . . So when's the baby coming? You stopping at three? You're an animal.'

Mattie listened in bemusement, wondering when he'd get to the point. And grudgingly, she had to admit that his banter might be useful.

‘So, Wayland, you remember Wendy Conroy? Right, exactly . . . Yeah, I know she was up there; that's why I'm calling. I'm working on the murders and something came up. We're going to need to take a look at her records . . . Maybe fifteen years ago . . . How hard will that be? So if we left in like half an hour, you think you could get them? You're a stand-up guy . . . Hey, I wouldn't know about that, but it is your third kid . . . Thanks, man.' He hung up, and like a child wanting his mother's approval, he looked at Mattie.

‘So?' she asked.

‘He said her records were either in the warehouse or on microfilm, but he'd track them down.'

‘Strong work,' she acknowledged. ‘So who's Wayland?'

‘Wayland Green, he's a Grenvillian.'

‘Helpful.'

‘Nice guy,' he said, missing Mattie's point entirely. ‘We went to school together. He's the director up there. I figured it would just be easier to call him than have to bother the judge for a subpoena.'

‘Let me think about this,' she said. ‘You have to be careful with anything that might become admissible.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘You need to be careful in how you acquire and handle evidence. I can't tell you how many good cases fall apart because of short cuts with the evidence.'

‘You think we should get a subpoena, anyway?' he asked.

‘I do,' she said. ‘And it really puts a crimp in doing this today.'

‘Not necessarily.' He grinned and picked up the phone. ‘Yeah, Marge, you want to get me Judge Blasely . . . Try his cell; he's probably playing golf . . . Thanks.' He made a quick note under the number for Silver Glen, and then dialed. ‘Hey, Ken, it's Kevin Simpson . . . Look, I'm working on the murders and I need a favor . . .'

TWENTY-NINE

‘
M
other, stop it.' Barbara scolded. ‘The doctor said you should stay for at least another twenty-four hours.'

‘It's not his life, is it?' I shot back as I hunted for my belongings.

‘You're behaving like a child,' she scolded. ‘What would Daddy say?'

‘Don't bring your father into this. All they want to do is keep me for observation, and frankly, I'm feeling better and I want to get home.' The last thing I needed was for Barbara to get on her high horse.
Why couldn't her plane have been delayed?

‘Fine, but if you drop dead . . .'

I looked at the concern on my daughter's face as she hovered. I stopped and sat on the bed. ‘I'm going to be fine, dear. The doctor said the damage was minimal. And besides, your father always said the hospital was the worst place to stay once you were feeling better, that you could pick up all sorts of bacteria that would make you sicker than anything you came in with.'

‘Maybe you shouldn't have taken that job at the Antique Center,' she offered. ‘Maybe it was too stressful.'

‘Maybe I should take up knitting and plant myself in a rocking chair?'

‘That's not what I meant.'

‘Dear, we seem to have gotten off to a bad start. Why don't we get out of here and go for a sit-down somewhere.'

‘I wish you'd stay.'

‘I know.' Satisfied that I had my few possessions, I went into the fluorescent-lit bathroom to check my appearance. I daubed on a quick swipe of coral-pink lipstick that Ada had brought and tried to pinch some color into my cheeks. I could see why Barbara was concerned. The hospital was no beauty cure. I looked a sight, my hair hopelessly flattened by the hours in bed, and my face –
God, I look old
– like I'd aged ten years in the past twenty-four hours. When I walked, a deep throbbing pain reminded me of where the catheter had gone up my inner thigh.

I tried not to think about the hang-up caller. Even though that that was part of why I had to get out of here. Someone was trying to frighten me, and they were doing a damn good job. I tried to tell myself it was just a prank caller, someone trying to rile me up . . . a lady who'd just had a heart attack; maybe they wanted to frighten her into another . . . into her grave.

In the mirror, I watched Barbara pace in front of the bed. She had Bradley's chin, my pale blue eyes and a tall, thin frame that she maintained with daily jogs and Pilates. Her short, beautifully styled chestnut hair was not entirely natural, and I wondered if she'd started to go gray. I subtracted backwards and realized she was thirty-six; Christina was two years younger.
My children are middle aged
, I thought. Despite all these magazine articles insisting that thirty was the new twenty and sixty the new forty. At that moment I felt far from forty and looked about a hundred. Maybe being in the hospital made that more explicit, that we were all getting older. I remembered a not-funny joke Bradley used to make: ‘
In every day and in every way we're just that much closer to death.
'

As I came out of the bathroom, a stocky nurse entered armed with her clipboard. She quickly assessed the situation. ‘What's going on?'

‘Finally,' Barbara said, ‘someone to talk some sense into her.'

The nurse looked at me expectantly.

‘I was telling my daughter that I felt fine and was ready to leave. Doctor Green even said I was just here for observation.'

‘You're not scheduled to be discharged until tomorrow.' As she spoke my roommate's intravenous pump began to ding. The nurse went to adjust the clogged tubing. ‘Let me give the doctor a call and see what we can do,' she said over her shoulder as she reset the machine.

‘I can recuperate much quicker at home. Please, tell him that.' And then added, ‘And both of my daughters have come into town to take care of their ailing mother.'

Barbara shot me a look.

‘Well,' I said, perching on the bed, my purse in my lap, ‘apparently we have to wait for the good doctor.' I patted the mattress next to me. ‘Sit.'

Grudgingly, Barbara obliged.

‘Don't be that way,' I chided. ‘If I was having any symptoms I'd stay.'

‘I suppose you know what you're doing.'

‘Thank you. I'm not completely senile.'

She looked at me. ‘You're smudged,' she said, pulling a tissue out of the bedside box. I let her minister to my uneven lip line, enjoying the moment of calm.

‘So when does Chris get in?' I asked.

‘Soon. She was going to your condo first.'

‘Good.'
Please God let those journals be out of there!
‘Then we'll meet her there.'

‘You know you scared us to death,' she said, rubbing rouge into my cheeks.

‘Not my intent.'

‘Were you having pains before?'

‘No, this came out of nowhere. They'll probably never let me back into The Brown Bear Diner. I'm sure having patrons drop on their floor can't be good for business.'

‘So glad you can joke about it.'

‘I don't want to make it bigger than it was.'