From Cradle to Grave (12 page)

Guilty feelings rushed, like a virus, through Morgan’s system. But after a few seconds Morgan lifted her head and shook it. True or not, it was too late for regrets. There was no time for that now. She reminded herself that she could not afford to fall apart, to give way. She had to stay strong now. God knows, she thought, someone has to. Insufficient as she might be, Morgan was the only one Claire had left.

THIRTEEN

T
he female guard behind a Plexiglas shield at the county jail visitors’ desk looked up at Morgan impassively, ‘You’re too late,’ she said.

Morgan glanced at the clock and struggled to maintain a civil tone. ‘I’ve still got ten minutes,’ she said.

‘Your friend already has a visitor. Asked not to be interrupted.’

Who, Morgan wondered? She knew better than to ask. ‘Maybe they’ll leave early. I’ll wait,’ she said.

‘Suit yourself. Sit over there.’ The guard pointed with a pencil.

Morgan sat in one of the molded plastic chairs, leaving a chair empty between her and a mother, a toddler squirming in her arms, who was also waiting. She put her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. She had spent an almost completely sleepless night in the upstairs guest room of Claire’s cottage. She had been startled by every sound, and, despite her exhaustion, had felt as jittery as if she had drunk a quart of coffee. Every time she started to doze, images of the blood-spattered bathroom downstairs rose in her mind, waking her. She finally fell into a coma-like stupor at dawn, and did not even hear the alarm, which she had set on her cellphone, go off.

When she awoke and saw the time, Morgan threw on some clothes and ran out of the house without breakfast. Morgan drove above the speed limit and squealed into the parking lot. She rushed through the security procedures, handing over the paper shopping bag she was carrying which held the black clothes Claire wanted to attend tomorrow’s funeral. The security guard had taken it, refusing to assure Morgan one way or another that the clothes would be delivered to Claire. Morgan felt as if her frantic effort to arrive under the wire may have been in vain.

Now Morgan’s stomach was churning with nothing in it but acid. Although she kept her eyes closed, there was no chance of her dozing off in this prison waiting area. The smell alone was enough to prevent sleep, not to mention the cries and curses which erupted in the bowels of the building and echoed down the hallways.

‘All right,’ said the guard from behind the desk. ‘Visiting hours are over. Everybody out.’

Morgan opened her eyes and sighed. She would not be seeing Claire until the funeral tomorrow, and she doubted whether she would have a chance for a conversation with her then. At least she had delivered the black clothes for Claire to wear. The rest was up to the discretion of the prison authorities.

Morgan got up and followed the straggling queue of visitors down the hallway and through the several sets of doors which led out to the parking lot. Several people were trudging up to the bus stop out by the highway, some holding the hands of children. They looked so weary. As she got into the car, she wondered if she should offer them a ride. The ringing of her cellphone distracted her from the guilty impulse.

‘Ms Adair? This is Berenice Hoffman at Noreen Quick’s office.’

‘Oh yes, sure,’ said Morgan. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine. Ms Quick wants to talk to you. She’s at home, on bed rest. This is her address. I’ll email you the directions.’

‘What’s this about?’ Morgan asked.

‘I don’t know. She said it was important.’

‘When does she want to see me?’ Morgan asked.

‘ASAP,’ said Berenice.

Morgan glanced at the time on her dashboard. ‘I can be there within the hour,’ she said. As she drove through the prison gates she glanced over at the line of prison visitors now slumped on the bench at the bus stop outside the gates. The children circled the bus stop restlessly, but the adults sat with blank faces, resigned to the wait.

Noreen Quick lived far from the shoreline, in a quiet cul-de-sac of 1950s’ era split-level homes built on a former potato field, now surrounded by mature trees and gardens.

Noreen’s yard was casually tended with a plastic jungle gym and a life-size plastic dollhouse flattening the grass and turning it brown beneath them. Morgan walked up to the door and knocked.

A tall, angular woman with a wide, gap-toothed smile and a cap of blond-tipped, wildly curly hair answered, wiping her hands on an apron. Morgan introduced herself. ‘I’m here to see Ms Quick,’ she said.

The woman stepped aside to invite her in. ‘Follow me,’ she said. She started down the hallway of the light-filled, pleasantly cluttered house and glanced into the living room at two young children with red hair who were watching Barney the purple dinosaur on the television. ‘Turn that down,’ she ordered. ‘We’ll all be deaf.’ The older child, a boy of about four, dutifully pointed the remote and lowered the sound.

‘After Barney’s over, come in the kitchen and get your lunch,’ she said.

The younger child, an adorable cherub with freckles, looked up eagerly. ‘Nanabutter?’ she exclaimed hopefully.

‘You got it, babe,’ said the woman with a genial smile. She turned back to Morgan. ‘Down here,’ said the woman, continuing down a hall filled with plants, an overflowing bookcase and framed family photos. She opened a bedroom door at the end and stuck her head into the room. ‘Nonny, your client’s here. Keep it short.’ The tall woman turned to Morgan. ‘She doesn’t do resting very well.’

‘I’ll bet,’ said Morgan.

The tall woman rolled her eyes. ‘You have no idea. Go on in. If it lasts too long I’m coming in there.’

Morgan nodded and slipped into the room. Noreen Quick, her red hair standing up like a cockscomb, was lying in a four-poster bed, surrounded by files and papers on the counterpane, a computer glowing at her bedside and a Bluetooth phone in her ear. She was wearing a thermal Henley shirt which was stretched out over her large stomach. She gestured to Morgan to come and sit down in the rocking chair beside the bed.

Morgan took a seat. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.

Noreen waved a hand dismissively. ‘Fine. This is a pain in the ass, but the same thing happened last time. Bed rest. I hate it, but I deal with it.’

Morgan nodded.

‘I’ll get right to the point,’ said Noreen. ‘Cause if I don’t, and you’re in here any length of time, Gert will come in and kick you out.’

‘That’s what she indicated,’ Morgan murmured.

‘She’ll do it, too,’ said Noreen.

Morgan detected a note of pride in the attorney’s voice, as if it made her feel precious, to be guarded so fiercely. Morgan could understand that. ‘That’s fine with me,’ she said. ‘What’s this all about?’

Noreen sighed, and pressed her lips together. ‘It’s not good news.’

Morgan’s heart sank. ‘What does that mean?’

‘I just got a call from the psychiatrist we hired. His conclusions based on his interview with Claire.’

Morgan frowned. ‘And . . .?’

‘Well, it’s a little disappointing. He claims that Claire does not have PPP. Not now. Or at the time of the . . . incident as far as he’s concerned.’

Morgan’s heartbeat seemed to flutter with anxiety. ‘I don’t understand . . .’

‘Post-partum psychosis?’ Noreen said. ‘Don’t you remember I explained this?’

‘Yes, of course, I remember. But this doctor is saying that Claire wasn’t depressed? That’s just not true,’ Morgan insisted.

‘Depressed, yes,’ said Noreen. ‘But lots of people are depressed. Hell, everybody gets depressed now and then. That’s not a defense. Psychosis is a defense. Delusions, compulsions, hearing orders from God. That’s what we need to establish. That she was suffering from a psychosis.’

Morgan frowned. ‘In a way, this confirms what I’ve been thinking. She was down, definitely, but she just didn’t seem that crazy to me.’

Noreen looked at her coldly. ‘Well, don’t be too pleased with yourself for agreeing with his diagnosis. Unless we can prove psychosis, the prosecution is going to say that this case is not about mental illness. They’re going to say that Claire was very angry at her husband, because of the daughter he never told her about who showed up out of nowhere. They’re going to say that Claire did this deliberately.’

Morgan shook her head helplessly. ‘That’s just not possible. I mean, she was angry about Eden, yes, but . . . Well, what can we do?’

Noreen studied the report she was holding for a moment. ‘Obviously, we need to hire another expert, perhaps one who is more . . . accustomed to being a defense witness. Someone who will recognize the PPP symptoms in a way that this gentleman did not. However, the services of such a witness can be expensive. As the person with power of attorney over Claire’s finances, I wanted to clear it with you before I proceeded.’

Morgan looked at her with narrowed eyes. ‘You mean you’re going to bribe him to say what we want?’

‘Not at all. This will be a credible witness. A licensed psychologist.’

Morgan thought this over. ‘Will the prosecution have a psychologist interview her too?’

Noreen nodded. ‘Yes, they certainly will.’

‘What if their expert comes to the same conclusion as this first doctor?’

Noreen rolled her eyes in exasperation. ‘We have to see to it that our expert proves more convincing.’

Morgan’s grimaced. ‘It seems . . . risky.’

‘Risky? Try to understand this, Morgan. We don’t have all that many options,’ said Noreen impatiently.

Despite the attorney’s impatience, Morgan felt compelled to continue. ‘But what if . . . Look, I learned something yesterday. Eden – that’s the long-lost daughter – had good reason to hate Guy Bolton. Her own grandfather blamed Guy for the death of Eden’s mother . . .’

Noreen raised her eyebrows. ‘Was Guy responsible for her death?’

Morgan shook her head. ‘No. Apparently not.’

‘Where was the old man when Guy was killed?’

Morgan took a deep breath. ‘In West Virginia. But Eden was here and she knew about it. She may have believed it and decided to . . .’

‘Stop,’ Noreen raised her hands. ‘Try and understand something, Morgan. Claire confessed. Whether you like it or not, she confessed to this crime. Now, as I was saying, because our defense rests on Claire’s state of mind, we need an expert who will testify she was unbalanced as a result of post-partum psychosis. It’s that simple. And I will find us such an expert. Unless you’d prefer that your friend spend the balance of her life in prison . . .’

‘No, of course not,’ said Morgan.

The door to the bedroom opened, and Noreen’s partner entered carrying a steaming teacup. ‘Nonny,’ she said in a warning voice. ‘I want you to drink this.’

Noreen looked directly at Morgan. ‘That means “leave”,’ she said.

Morgan got up stiffly from the rocker.

‘Just let me do my job,’ said Noreen, accepting the proffered teacup. The tall woman reached behind Noreen’s back, plumping her pillow. ‘Gert, I’m fine,’ Noreen grumbled, but she was suppressing a smile. She turned back to Morgan. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said more gently. ‘Trust me. I’ve got this under control.’

FOURTEEN

O
Only two cars were parked in the sandy lot, surrounded by beach plum bushes and brittle-looking shrubs. One was a white minivan with a swarthy-looking man asleep in the front seat, a cap pulled down over his eyes. The other was a dented compact car with a sparkling blue bumper sticker which read, ‘Don’t drive faster than your Angels can fly.’ Morgan parked at the far end of the lot and got out of the car. She had been here once last summer and the parking lot had been impossible to negotiate, filled to capacity with late model BMWs and Lexuses. Autumn definitely brought a slowdown. The path to the beach wound through grass-covered dunes, and Morgan could hear the sea pounding in the distance.

She started down the empty path, walking toward the beach. Despite the turmoil in her heart, she was distracted from her worries by the magnificence of the azure sky with thin clouds adrift on the horizon. She stepped out on to the sand, and took off her shoes and socks. The sand was cool and felt slightly damp between her toes. She walked toward the water, toward the divide between the gray wet sand and the eggshell white dry, and stayed on the dry side as the waves rushed up and tried to reach her, before they collapsed with a noisy crash into a spray of foam just inches from her feet.

The last time she had walked here was with Claire, when she was already far along in her pregnancy. Claire, with her canvas pants rolled up so she could walk in the water, holding her stomach, already protective of the child inside. She had talked excitedly about her plans for this child. The addition she and Guy would build on to the cottage, or maybe they would move back to France. She hoped to regain her figure and go back to work as a graphic artist when the baby was a few years old. Cheerful, exciting plans. This, the same woman who had confessed to killing her baby, her husband.

Morgan sighed, but her sigh was drowned out by the restless tide. She thought about the psychiatrist’s report – how could anyone suggest that Claire’s were the actions of a sane woman? Maybe Claire wasn’t as severely depressed as some, but she was surely out of her right mind to have to done such a thing. Wasn’t there more than one way for a person to exhibit mental illness? Wasn’t the murder of a child, and a beloved husband, all the evidence you should ever need?

A lifeguard’s boat with a ragged hole in its wooden hull was overturned on the beach, slowly being buried by the sand. Morgan stopped and sat down on it, sticking her legs straight out in front of her. The very thought of all this made it seem impossible for her to keep walking, as if her very strength was sapped out of her. She sat and stared down the lonely beach. A few hundred yards away, a young woman had set up an easel in the sand, and was seated on a camp chair, daubing paint thoughtfully on a canvas. Another person in a blue anorak was walking in Morgan’s direction, bending over repeatedly, picking up rocks or shells and placing them into a bucket while two dogs gamboled around her, kicking up sand, and chasing one another, yapping. It took Morgan a few minutes of staring absently at the shell collector to realize that she was looking at Guy’s sister, Lucy.

Morgan’s first impulse was to turn away. She didn’t want to encounter Lucy, or have to speak to her. She stood up from the boat, but before she could flee, Lucy straightened up, and peered at her, frowning. Then, recognition, though not pleasure, dawning in her face, she lifted a small hand in an anemic greeting.

Morgan sighed, and waved back. She hesitated a moment and then walked to meet her.

Up close, Lucy looked ghostly. Her cottony blond hair was being whipped around her face by the wind. Her glasses were dusty with sand. Lucy said hello, and gazed down at Morgan’s bare feet. ‘Aren’t you freezing?’ she asked.

‘Honestly, yes. It’s a little too cold for this.’

Lucy frowned at Morgan. ‘Astrid called me. She said Claire is coming to the funeral.’

‘That’s right,’ said Morgan. ‘I brought some black clothes to the prison this morning.

‘Why did my father say it was OK?’

Morgan shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But he did.’

‘That’s a mistake,’ Lucy said bluntly. ‘Her coming.’

‘I agree with you,’ said Morgan.

An awkward silence fell between them. Morgan glanced down into the bucket at Lucy’s shells. Lucy moved the bucket to her other hand, as if to shield the shells from Morgan’s prying gaze.

‘What made you start working with shells?’ Morgan asked, trying to be friendly.

‘It was Astrid’s idea actually. I was always good at jigsaw puzzles. Prader-Willi children are known for that,’ said Lucy matter-of-factly. ‘Astrid thought I might like putting shells together like puzzle pieces. Turned out I did.’

Morgan was about to make a comment about that fortuitous insight, when Lucy said abruptly, ‘I thought you’d be gone by now.’

Morgan tried not to take offense. ‘I’m going to the funeral too.’

Lucy’s gaze was far away. ‘Right. You were Drew’s godmother. Not me.’

‘I’m sorry if that hurt your feelings,’ said Morgan sincerely.

Lucy waved her small, flaccid hand. ‘Doesn’t matter. Guy would never pick me,’ she said.

Morgan felt pained by the casual cruelty that Lucy’s remark suggested. She wanted to change the subject. ‘Have you heard anything from Eden?’ Morgan ventured. ‘Her grandparents showed up looking for her. I didn’t know what to tell them.’

Lucy stared impassively out to sea. ‘She’s been at my house.’

‘She has?’ Morgan exclaimed. ‘She’s been staying with you?’

‘She is my niece,’ said Lucy.

‘Oh, I know. I didn’t mean . . . It was nice of you to invite her,’ said Morgan.

‘Everybody acts like I don’t know how to have someone over,’ said Lucy indignantly.

‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ said Morgan.

‘After it happened,’ said Lucy, ‘nobody cared about Eden’s feelings. I told her to come stay with me.’ Lucy shook her head. ‘The others all forgot about her.’

‘Well, I’m sure everybody was in shock,’ said Morgan sadly.

‘Everybody in the whole town was in shock,’ Lucy exclaimed. ‘Every time I think of what Claire did to that helpless baby . . .’

Morgan noticed that she didn’t mention Guy. ‘Claire was seriously depressed,’ said Morgan.

Lucy looked disgusted. ‘So depressing to have a beautiful new baby.’

Morgan immediately remembered Claire’s story about Lucy in the genetic counselor’s office. She decided to ignore the barb. ‘Fitz said that Guy and Eden were becoming close before he died,’ said Morgan.

Lucy’s gaze was as cold as the sea. ‘Eden wanted him to like her,’ Lucy said. ‘She was trying so hard to make him love her. Even after he was mean to her and hurt her feelings.’

Morgan studied Lucy’s pale, slack face. She sensed some personal animus in that assessment. She couldn’t help wondering about the torment that Lucy had endured in her life for being a little bit different, a lot less pretty and coordinated than the other girls. Some siblings rose to the defense of a feebler sibling. Others just joined in the jeering, wanting to distance themselves from the weak, and be on the side of their normal friends. Was Guy one of those people, she wondered? ‘You didn’t have a very high opinion of your brother,’ said Morgan.

Lucy looked at her coldly for a long minute, and seemed to be struggling to reply. Finally she said, ‘That’s my business. He was still my brother. Claire shouldn’t have killed him. Or that . . .’ Lucy’s voice cracked, and she cleared her throat impatiently. ‘. . . baby.’ Abruptly, Lucy turned away from Morgan, called the dogs and began trudging toward the overgrown entrance to the beach. The dogs swirled around her legs, barking and playing.

Morgan walked behind her until she reached the overturned boat. Then she stopped and sat down on the hull to brush the sand off her feet and put her socks and shoes back on.

Lucy turned and looked back at her. ‘Are you leaving after the funeral?’ she asked.

‘As soon as I can,’ Morgan said.

‘Good,’ Lucy nodded. ‘You should go.’

On the drive back to the cottage, Morgan thought about how much she dreaded the funeral tomorrow, coming face to face with all the people who had cared for Guy and rejoiced in the birth of his son. As she pulled up in front of the cottage, she saw that there was a car parked in the driveway, a dark gray, late model Jeep. As she got out of her car, it took her a minute to recognize Dick Bolton’s vehicle. She walked past it, and peered inside. The normally energetic Dick Bolton was slumped in the passenger seat, staring through the windshield. Morgan hesitated, and then tapped on the side window. Dick jumped slightly, turned his large, handsome head and looked over at her. Before she could say anything to him, he looked away, as if he did not see her.

Her face reddening, Morgan straightened up and went up the path to the house. Dusty was sprawled out in the fading, leaf-strewn flower bed of dahlias and zinnias, watching Morgan through slitted yellow eyes. Morgan let herself into the cottage. Immediately she noticed a garment bag draped over one of the dining room chairs, and she could hear sounds coming from the kitchen. ‘Hello,’ she called out.

‘In the kitchen.’ Morgan recognized Astrid’s lilting accent. She walked into the kitchen and saw Astrid taking items from the counter and placing them in a cardboard box. ‘Hi Astrid,’ said Morgan. ‘I saw Dick in the driveway.’

Astrid wore a black cape over her clothes and her crown of braids looked uncharacteristically off-kilter, wisps loose around her face. Her ivory complexion was deeply etched with lines, and her eyes were more gray than lavender. She looked up at Morgan. ‘I see that you’ve been staying here,’ Astrid said.

‘I probably should have asked you and Dick first,’ said Morgan. ‘If you’d like, I’ll get a motel room.’

‘Oh, I don’t care,’ said Astrid wearily. ‘What does it matter now?’

‘I just saw Lucy at the beach,’ said Morgan.

Astrid’s face softened and she looked at Morgan hopefully. ‘How is my little girl? Is she all right? I’ve been so distracted.’

‘She seems . . . kind of angry.’

Astrid sighed. ‘Well, it’s easier for Lucy to be angry than to admit that she is sad.’

Morgan could remember that from her own childhood. Anger was a kind of shield for her own intense sadness. And, obviously, Astrid knew Lucy better than anyone, but to Morgan it seemed that Lucy was not the least bit sad. Not about Guy, anyway.

‘She does seem sad about the baby,’ said Morgan carefully. ‘I got the impression that she and Guy weren’t that close.’

Astrid sighed. ‘Well, you know it was never easy for Lucy. She had a lot of developmental difficulties, because of this condition she has. Guy, of course, was attractive and smart. Everyone wanted to be his friend.’

‘It seemed as if Guy might not have been exactly her . . . champion, shall we say.’

Astrid was vague. ‘I don’t know about that. There was an age difference. They never spent much time in the same company, you know. They weren’t in the same schools at the same time. That sort of thing.’

‘Still, kids can be so mean.’

Astrid’s temper flared. ‘Are you saying that Guy was mean?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Morgan.

‘Of course he teased her a little. As brothers do. But he was never cruel. I can tell you that. His father and I wouldn’t have allowed it.’

‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I just . . . got an impression from what Lucy said.’

‘Well, it’s the wrong impression. I ought to know. They were my children,’ said Astrid with a catch in her voice.

‘I know. This is difficult. It must be so hard for you to even walk in this house,’ said Morgan. ‘A lot of memories.’

Astrid stared blankly out into the other room. Then, she shook her head, as if waking herself from a dream. ‘Look, Morgan, you may as well know, I’ve got some professional cleaners coming in to take care of the bedroom and the bath,’ said Astrid with a shudder. ‘The police recommended them. I suppose I should do it myself but I can’t face it. Dick said he’d send over a couple of the Mexican workers from the Lobster Shack, but I . . . I don’t want them to see this.’

‘Professionals are probably a good idea. I can’t even bear to look in there myself,’ said Morgan.

Astrid nodded, unsmiling. Then she closed the lid on the box. ‘I guess I’ve got what I need.’

‘What have you got there . . .?’ said Morgan, nodding at the box.

Astrid sighed. ‘I had to pick up some clothes for Guy and the baby to wear . . .’ Her voice choked for a moment. Then she recovered herself. ‘For the funeral tomorrow. And these are a few other things. To put in the coffin.’