From Cradle to Grave (22 page)

TWENTY-SEVEN

M
organ watched as the motorcycle’s lights disappeared. Finally, she went back into the house and locked the door. It was late, but she doubted she could sleep now. Guy Bolton, a rapist? She tried to superimpose that loathsome image in her mind over the impression she had formed of Guy, as a hard-working husband, a handsome partner to Claire. Before Drew was born, Morgan had enjoyed some festive, carefree evenings with Guy and Claire. He seemed to be a man who liked to talk and laugh, and drink a glass of wine as he cooked. And now . . . Was it true? And if it was, who had he raped, she wondered? And had his victim decided to take revenge?

Morgan sat down in a rocking chair in the front parlor and wrapped the white knitted afghan, which was folded on the sofa arm, around her. She was shivering, partly from the cold in the house and partly from the shock of this news. Think, she exhorted herself. Who knows the truth about this? Morgan felt sure that the key to this was Kimba’s friend, Jaslene, the shoe designer. But how to get a hold of her? Morgan didn’t even know her last name. I could call Paula Spaulding, she thought. She was probably in a motel somewhere en route to Sarasota. Morgan had the number for Paula’s cellphone. And Paula had instructed her to call in an emergency.

Morgan knew that no one else would consider this an emergency. Everyone else saw her hopes to exonerate Claire as futile. As if to remind Morgan that the hour was too late for such a call, the grandfather clock in the foyer chimed twelve times. All right, forget about it, she thought. Calling Paula was not an option, at least for tonight.

Morgan forced herself to get up from the chair. She went to the computer behind the front desk. She pulled up Paula Spaulding’s document files and searched for a file which had a directory of names and addresses. Paula had addresses in abundance. Judging by the far-flung addresses, it seemed that Paula had saved the personal information of every customer who had ever patronized the Captain’s House. Many people were listed by their full names, but some were simply listed with their first initial. She spent a frustrating hour trying to match, with no success, the New York City phone numbers to the addresses of people whose first names began with a ‘J’.

Finally she returned the computer to the home page and sat on the stool behind the desk, thinking. She knew that Jaslene’s company was called Jaslene Shoes. Perhaps, she thought, the company phone rang on Jaslene’s personal line as well. It seemed unlikely – it wasn’t as if there were frequent emergencies in the world of shoe design – but it was worth a try. She glanced up at the clock face and hesitated. Then she chided herself. It was one thing not to call Paula Spaulding at this late hour. But surely, she thought, it was not too late to call a fashionista in the city that never sleeps. She dialed information, had her call connected to the phone line for Jaslene Shoes, and waited while it rang, hoping the elusive Jaslene would pick up. Instead, after about ten rings, she reached the automated service, and left a message, emphasizing that this call was about Eden, and that she needed desperately for Jaslene to call her back.

The temperature in the house seemed to be dropping lower by the moment, and Morgan began to long for the warmth of a bed. There was nothing more she could do for now, she thought. After checking the locked doors one last time, she went back into the maid’s room, and crawled under the covers. For a while she shivered, but then, she began to feel drowsy, and sleep was threatening. As she lay there, she thought about Eden. She remembered Fitz saying that Eden wanted to spit on her father’s body at the funeral, and now, Morgan knew why.

Morgan’s eyes drooped and closed, in spite of the feverish way her brain was working. She could feel her thoughts veering off the track as sleep claimed her. All of a sudden, thinking about the chain of events led her to a realization. Morgan was jolted awake for a moment. Eden had already been furious at her father at his funeral. And that was before she had ever met her mother’s friend, Jaslene. Eden must have learned that her father was a rapist some time before the funeral occurred. That meant that Jaslene was probably not the one who told her.

Morgan felt as if she was rolling backwards down a hill she was trying to climb. She would have to start from zero again, trying to determine where Eden had learned this fact about her father. Morgan tried to imagine possible scenarios, but in a minute her mind was foggy again, and she couldn’t think anymore, no matter how she wanted to. She fell abruptly into a deep sleep.

Morgan was awakened by a pounding on the front door. She opened her eyes to a gray autumn day, and felt a sudden loathing for whoever was awakening her, insisting on her attention. In that minute, she understood why Paula Spaulding and her husband left town so early to escape to Sarasota.

Morgan pulled on her robe and got up reluctantly from the warm bed, muttering, ‘Just a minute. Just a minute.’ She shuffled to the front door, turned all the locks and opened it. Sandy Raymond was standing on the front porch, wearing jeans and a bleach-stained sweatshirt from some branch of the University of California.

Morgan looked at him in confusion. ‘Sandy.’

‘Good. You’re up,’ he said.

‘Not really,’ said Morgan. ‘You woke me up.’

Sandy barged past her into the foyer. ‘You’d better get dressed,’ he said.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Morgan, pushing her uncombed russet hair out of her face, her sleepy eyes. ‘How’d you find me? I didn’t tell you I was staying here.’

‘That’s true,’ he said.

‘I didn’t tell anybody,’ said Morgan.

‘Yes, you did,’ said Sandy, a raffish gleam in his eye.

Morgan stood her ground, pulling her robe more tightly around her. The front door was still open. She wasn’t quite sure she wanted Sandy making himself at home. ‘No, I know I didn’t.’

Sandy could not keep from smiling. ‘You told Claire,’ he said.

Morgan shook her head and peered at him. ‘Claire?’

Sandy could barely contain his excitement. ‘She’s awake.’

Morgan let out a cry. ‘She is. Oh, thank God. When?’

‘When I got there this morning, she was awake. She asked about you. She said you were at the Captain’s House.’

Morgan’s mouth fell open as she looked at him. ‘That’s impossible.’

‘You must have told her,’ said Sandy. ‘How else would she know?’

‘I . . . I guess I did mention the Captain’s House to her,’ Morgan admitted. ‘But I was just babbling. She was unconscious.’

Sandy tapped on her forehead with his index finger. ‘The human mind,’ he said. ‘It’s a mystery.’

‘She’s really awake?’

‘Yeah. Hurry up. I’ll take you over there if you want.’

‘That’s OK,’ said Morgan. ‘Thanks anyway. I’ve got to get dressed.’ She started for her room, but then she looked back to Sandy who was not moving from the foyer. ‘Really. Don’t wait for me. I can drive myself.’

‘OK,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Whatever. I’ll see you there.’ He started to turn to leave.

Morgan peered at him. ‘You know, I don’t get it, Sandy,’ she said.

Sandy looked at her with raised eyebrows. ‘Don’t get what?’

‘You. You’re always at the hospital. Doesn’t Farah mind?’

Sandy’s eyes revealed nothing. ‘Farah left me,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Morgan.

Sandy shook his head. ‘I had to bribe her to leave. I gave her my Mercedes.’

‘Really?’ said Morgan.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Sandy. ‘You think it’s strange. Me being there all the time for a woman who dumped me for another man.’

‘It’s true,’ said Morgan. ‘It does seem strange.’

Sandy’s gaze was steady and impassive. ‘Well, he’s gone now, isn’t he?’ said Sandy. ‘Now, she needs me.’

Morgan dressed, drove in a hurry and practically ran down the hospital corridor to Claire’s room. When she got there she found Sandy, already seated beside the prison guard on a chair in the hall, his leg crossed so that one sneakered foot rested on his knee, as he read the paper. He lowered his paper and looked up as Morgan arrived and gave her a thumbs up. Morgan identified herself to the prison guard, a stocky, mustachioed Hispanic man. She jiggled impatiently as he checked his list. The guard nodded.

‘Hey bro,’ Sandy said to the guard, as he stood up and tossed his paper on to the seat of his chair. ‘Watch this for me, willya? I want to take a peek in.’

The guard nodded. ‘Make it quick,’ he said. Sandy followed Morgan into Claire’s room.

Morgan looked across at her friend in the hospital bed. Claire was lying still, just as she had been for days, her eyes closed.

Morgan’s heart plummeted, and she turned on Sandy, who was behind her. ‘Is this a bad joke?’ she demanded.

Sandy walked around the foot of the bed and gazed at Claire. ‘Don’t panic. She’s just resting. Claire,’ he said, in a slightly louder voice. ‘Wake up, you.’

Claire’s eyelids fluttered and she looked up at Sandy. The first smile Morgan had seen on Claire’s face for a long time lit up her dark eyes, her jaundiced complexion. ‘Hey,’ she said.

‘Hey yourself,’ said Sandy, beaming. ‘I brought someone.’

Claire turned her head and saw Morgan approaching the side of her bed. She lifted a limp hand. Morgan reached out and grabbed it. Claire met Morgan’s anxious gaze with a small smile, and then she closed her eyes again and sighed.

Sandy, in an uncharacteristically chivalrous gesture, pulled the visitor’s chair around to where Morgan stood. ‘Here. You two have a visit. I’ll be outside.’

Morgan sat down in the visitor’s chair. When she tried to release Claire’s hand, so she could arrange her coat under her, Claire squeezed her hand and wouldn’t let go.

‘All right. OK,’ said Morgan. ‘Don’t worry. I’m here.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Claire. ‘About the funeral.’

‘It’s all right. It doesn’t matter,’ said Morgan. ‘As long as you’re all right.’

Tears trickled down the sides of Claire’s face. ‘I just felt like there was no hope. When I saw the two of them lying there. They were my heart . . .’

‘I know,’ said Morgan soothingly, rubbing her hand. ‘I know.’

For a few moments, the only sound in the room was Claire’s shuddering sobs. Then, with a great effort, she took a deep breath. ‘The doctor says I’ll be OK,’ she said.

‘That’s great,’ said Morgan.

‘Well enough to go back to jail,’ said Claire.

Morgan leaned forward, still gripping Claire’s hand. ‘Claire, listen to me. I have a lot to talk to you about and not a lot of time.’

Claire nodded. ‘OK,’ she said dully.

‘Claire . . . Father Lawrence told me that you refused to confess. He told me that you said that you no longer believed you were guilty.’

Claire sighed. ‘That’s true. But what difference does it make now? I confessed to the police.’

‘But you meant it, that you are innocent. Right?’

Claire grimaced. ‘It’s complicated . . .’

‘No, no. Don’t start that. Claire, I’ve been over the tape of your confession with an expert. He studied it with me,’ Morgan said urgently. ‘He thinks that you were coerced into making a false confession.’

Claire shook her head on the pillow. ‘I was so confused about everything.’

‘Did the police tell you that Guy had accused you before he died?’ Morgan asked.

A spot of color appeared in each of Claire’s cheeks. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘Well, that’s not true,’ said Morgan.

Claire shook her head, as if she did not understand what Morgan was saying.

‘Guy was dead before the police got there. He never said anything.’

‘But why would they say that if it wasn’t true?’

Morgan glanced back at the door, afraid the guard might be there, might be listening. ‘They tricked you,’ Morgan said.

‘But Morgan, I did . . . kill Guy,’ Claire said. ‘I didn’t mean to . . .’

‘Tell me what you remember.’

‘He came in the bathroom. Drew was in the tub. I was trying to get him out. And Guy . . . He was yelling at me, trying to push me away from my baby . . .’ Claire let out a great sob.

‘You struggled,’ said Morgan. ‘He fell and hit his head.’

Claire began to weep, nodding. Her chest, the bandages visible at the top of her hospital gown, began to heave with her sobs. ‘The floor was wet. He slipped. There was blood everywhere. Morgan, I loved him. You know that.’