Chosen for Death (24 page)

He grinned. "You'll like her." He hesitated, as though about to say more, then turned and walked away.

Mrs. Deignan lived in a perfect grandmother's house, gingerbreaded, with a peaked roof and a wide, inviting porch, surrounded by gardens and shrubs. From her voice, I'd been expecting a feeble old lady, but the woman who answered the door was maybe midsixties, small and vibrant, with rusty red hair and apple-pink cheeks. She wore cinnamon-colored sweats with streaks of mud on the knees and Wellington boots. She held out a callused hand. "Are you Theadora? Nice to meet you. Come on in. I was just out back dividing up some daylilies. They get their little toes intertwined and get in each other's way and stop blooming, so I had to thin them, but now I've got enough extras to plant a couple acres. You wouldn't like some daylilies to take home, would you?"

"I wish I could take some. I love daylilies, but I don't have any gardens. I live in one of those cookie-cutter condos with managed plants—neatly trimmed shrubs and borders of boring annuals, and that's all. Do you do all these gardens yourself?" I was jealous. I enjoy gardening, and while the condo is extremely convenient for a workaholic, it is rather sterile.

Mrs. Deignan smiled. "Yes. I do. I have a high school boy for some of the 'strong back' work, but otherwise it's all mine. Being a doctor's wife, I found out early on that I needed to keep busy or I started feeling sorry for myself with him being away so much. When the children were little, they kept me busy, but children grow up. Flowers are nice, you know. They always need some kind of attention. And in the winter I knit. I've probably knit enough mittens in my life to cover all the hands in Braintree. What do you do to keep busy? Do you work?"

Mrs. Deignan didn't stand still while she talked; she moved. I followed her past a wide staircase with a gleaming banister, down a hall carpeted with an oriental runner, through the dining room and into the kitchen. Somewhere on our journey from the front door to the kitchen, I shed my coat. The kitchen was big and old-fashioned, with tall glass-fronted cupboards and a polished oak floor. A big oak worktable stood in the middle, waiting to be photographed for some home magazine. On it were a clay-colored bowl of apples, a green marble pastry board, and a freshly baked apple pie. "I must be in heaven," I said.

"Not too many people confuse Braintree with heaven," she said. "Does that mean you're hungry?"

"Starved," I said. "I keep forgetting to eat. But I'm sorry, you asked if I work. Yes, I do. I'm a consultant to independent schools. I know consultant is a dirty word to a lot of people. But I'm a consultant who really does work. I work most of the time, so it's a good thing I enjoy what I'm doing. I advise private schools about admissions issues, things like how to change their image and how to attract the type of students they want."

"Sounds interesting," she said. "But why do you work all the time?" She picked a stack of magazines and newspapers off a chair. "Sit down, please."

"It keeps my mind off other things," I said.

"I see," she said, nodding. Her expression was curious, but she wasn't about to pry. "But you aren't here to consult about private schools. I assume you're here to look at some of Pete's old records. Are you another one of our adopted babies?"

"Not me, Mrs. Deignan," I said. "My sister Carrie was adopted. I'm trying to find her birth parents." I pulled the family photo out and showed her. "That's Carrie. I think she came to see you."

"Call me Agnes," she said, taking the picture. She took it over to the window, squinted at it, then pulled a pair of half-glasses out of her pocket, put them on, and looked again. "The little blond girl?" she said. I nodded. "Yes," she said, "your sister came to see me. A lovely girl. We had such a nice visit, and I believe she found some very useful information in Pete's files." She turned on the gas under a large teakettle. "Sit down, Theadora," she said again. "You look tired."

"I'll call you Agnes if you'll call me Thea," I said. "Theadora is just too much name." She nodded as though she knew exactly what I meant. I was too restless to sit down; instead I circled the kitchen, watching Agnes fix lunch. Things seemed to be moving too fast. Only a few days ago I'd known next to nothing about what Carrie meant when she said she wanted to search for her parents. Now I was completely immersed in it. It was like riding on a roller coaster—the rush of anticipation, the stomach-dropping plunge, the slow, anxious climb to the next peak, and then another flying rush down again. It was hard to stay here and be polite, even to someone as nice as Agnes, knowing that in a nearby room another vital clue might be waiting.

"Did your sister ever find her birth parents?"

I saw no reason to lie to Agnes, which was a relief. Lying is exhausting. "I don't know if Carrie found her birth parents. She was murdered a few weeks ago."

Agnes almost dropped the two bowls she was holding. "That sweet girl? I can't imagine anyone wanting to hurt her! These are terrible times we live in. Who would do such a thing?"

"That's why I'm here," I said. "The police don't have a suspect. They're assuming it was a sex crime, either a boyfriend or a stranger. They could be right, but I think her death is connected to her search. She told a friend at work that she'd finally had a breakthrough, and some notes they found in her car suggest she may have gone to meet someone connected with her search, but no one knows who she met. Carrie kept a diary. If we had it we'd know what was happening in her life, but whoever killed her took her keys and searched her apartment. All her personal papers have disappeared."

She was still holding the bowls, listening intently. "Neither the police nor my family understand about Carrie and her search, so they don't believe me when I tell them it could be connected. My family says I'm just having crazy ideas because I'm upset, and I should just let the police handle it. The woman who runs the search group I contacted for help said it was an inappropriate reason to search, and refused to help me. Everyone tells me not to stir things up. I feel like I'm out here all alone..." I realized that I was pouring my heart out to a virtual stranger. "I'm sorry, Agnes," I said. "I'm babbling. I don't usually go around with my heart on my sleeve." Behind her, the bright copper kettle was sending up a cloud of steam. She set the bowls down beside the stove and turned off the gas under the kettle.

"So," she said slowly, "you're duplicating her search so that you can find out what she found out or find the person she found. Aren't you afraid of what you might find? Whoever killed your sister might do the same to you."

For a minute I was speechless. I'd never considered the possibility that I might be putting myself in danger. As Carol Anderson had pointed out, all my focus had been on process. On whom to see and what to ask. On what facts might be important. It had simply never occurred to me that what I was doing could be dangerous. I admitted as much to Agnes. "To be honest, Agnes, I never thought about that. But it's a risk I'm willing to take. I can't let someone kill my sister and get away with it."

It sounded melodramatic, even to me. I tried to explain. "That sounded pompous and theatrical, didn't it? And I'm neither of those. I'm a terrible actress. But I am willing to take some chances, if necessary, to find her killer. You had to know Carrie to understand, I think. She was sort of a lost soul. Someone who inspired a desire to protect her and fix things for her. She was eight years younger—my baby sister. In a way, this is just part of taking care of her, which I didn't do so well these past few years. This is the last thing I can do for her now—make sure that someone doesn't triumph over her in death, that her killer doesn't make her life, her quest, futile or insignificant by killing her." In my mind I saw the picture of Carrie lying sprawled there on the dirt. I wondered if I'd ever be able to get that image out of my mind.

"Someone tossed her life away like she was garbage, when she was a special, beautiful person. If it was one of her parents, then they tossed her away twice. She deserved more than that." Suddenly my legs got weak. I sat down quickly. "I'm sorry," I said. "I don't know what's the matter with me, running on like this." I was mortified at the way I'd been babbling. I don't believe in sharing my troubles with strangers.

Agnes poured hot water into two large mugs, dropped in tea bags, and set one in front of me. "Sometimes people just need to talk. I don't mind at all. Would you like honey with your tea?" She lifted the lid on a pot and stirred the soup, sending up a cloud of fragrant steam. "Almost ready," she said. "Why don't you make a salad while I set the table? All the stuff is in there. From my garden, every bit of it."

Relieved to have something to do, I took a deep breath and stood up carefully, hoping my legs were steady again. I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a collection of veggies, including a huge yellow onion. "You want onion in it?" I asked.

"I'm not planning to kiss anyone, are you?" she asked.

"No," I said, remembering Bill. She handed me a bowl, showed me where the knives were, and left me to it. It was pleasant working in such a nice kitchen, and Agnes was easy to be around. I made a strong mustard vinaigrette, applied the black pepper liberally, and set the bowl on the table. She ladled up the soup, sliced some warm homemade bread, and said, "Let's eat."

The food tasted as good as it smelled. I was voracious, and was relieved to see that Agnes was too. Between us, we ate half the loaf of bread, four bowls of soup, and all the salad. Agnes raised her eyebrows when she first tasted it, but then she dug in happily. "You aren't a subtle person, are you?" she said.

"I can be," I said, "but your vegetables cried out for something strong. Anyway, I hate insipid salads."

"Yes," she said, "I imagine you have little interest in insipid things." She got up and cleared away our plates. She set out clean dessert plates and a wedge of cheddar cheese. "Pete always used to say a foolish rhyme when we had apple pie. Apple pie without cheese is like a hug without the squeeze. I don't even know if I like cheese with my apple pie, but I've served them together for so long the pie would seem incomplete without cheese." She cut two huge slices of apple pie. "You want cheese with yours?"

"Please." She cut a big wedge of cheese and set it beside my pie. "My dad has chocolate ice cream with pie," I said, "usually with blueberry pie, but he also likes it with apple."

Agnes made a face. "Cheese I can handle, but chocolate ice cream sounds awful." We ate our pie in companionable silence. By the time I set down my fork, I was contentedly full and feeling very grateful for a homemade meal that didn't come with strings attached. Agnes hadn't slowed down a bit. She leapt up and finished clearing the table, sliding the plates into a sinkful of soapy water. "There," she said, "we'll just let those soak while we take a look at Pete's records."

I followed her back down the shiny hall, past the stairs, and into a large room near the front door. It still looked like an office. Along one wall were shelves lined with medical texts. Along another stood a bank of filing cabinets. Two upholstered chairs sat facing a wide oak desk. Behind the desk, a big leather chair was turned toward the window, as though someone had gotten out of it just moments before.

Agnes looked sadly at the big chair. "He was sitting there when he died. He'd seen his last patient and was catching up on some reading. I went in to call him for dinner. I'd made a boiled dinner for St. Patrick's Day. I hate them myself, can't stand the smell of cabbage in the house, but it was one of his favorites and he only asked for it that one time every year. His book had fallen on the floor, and he was slumped over in the chair like he'd fallen asleep. I touched his shoulder to wake him, and I knew." There were tears in her eyes. "We were good friends, Pete and I, for thirty-five years. I miss him. The children say I'm foolish to keep the office like this, but it makes me feel closer to him." She shrugged. "It's a big house. I don't need the room."

"I know how you feel," I said. "When my husband died I wouldn't even wash his dirty clothes. It made him seem close, having them around. His smell was all I had left of him." We stood together a moment, remembering our men, and then Agnes shook off the memories and went over to the filing cabinets.

"Do you have the birth mother's name?" she asked.

"It's in my briefcase." I got the case and took out my notes. "Her name was Alden. Elizabeth Alden. The social worker at Serenity House said that it wouldn't be her real name."

"It probably wasn't. The girls usually didn't use their own names. Having a child out of wedlock was a real stigma twenty or thirty years ago. Now it seems to be fashionable. Did your visit to Serenity House include Esther Pappas?" I nodded. "I've often wished I had the courage to shoot her," Agnes said. "She's inflicted misery on so many poor young girls. She once told Pete he treated the girls too well. As though you could ever treat people in that unfortunate situation too well. Ah, here we are." She reached in and pulled out one of the files. "Let's take it over to the desk." She opened the file and gestured toward her husband's chair. "I'll get out of here and let you get down to business."

She walked out and shut the door behind her. I sat down in her husband's chair, opened my notebook, and read the file. It was much like the hospital record, except it covered a longer period. Full of clinical details without much personal information. It began when she was about five months pregnant and ended after her postpartum exam. She'd been about seven months pregnant when she attempted suicide, cutting her wrists with a broken bottle. I felt like a voyeur, peering into the poor girl's unhappy life, and I hadn't found anything useful. I'd almost given up when I found it, a small penciled notation on the inside of the file jacket:
Send bills to Omar Norwood, 121 Water Street, Hallowell, Maine.