Mortal Remains (16 page)

“When I phoned to invite myself for a chat today, Nell, you said you could tell me secrets about that home for unwed mothers.”

“Supposing I did. Maybe I just said that to lure you here because I like your visits. Have some more tea.” Before he could decline, she’d refilled his cup to the brim with tea she’d made from leaves, not a bag. “And a scone,” she added, waving a platter of them fresh out of the oven under his nose. “Remember what I said about being good in the kitchen?”

He grinned, and took one. “Umm… that’s scrumptious.” He was swallowing as he spoke. “You must have been something in the bedroom, Nell,” he added, figuring he could indulge her raunchy sense of humor for once.

She smiled, and for a second there flashed as youthful a sparkle as he’d ever seen in her eyes. “My husband and I were very much in love, Mark,” she said in all earnestness. “Like your mom and dad. They had that special thing, too.” She sat erect, proud, like a queen on a throne, secure where she’d reigned supreme as a mother and wife.

Any doubts Mark had about letting her stay here until the end of her days vanished in that instant, at least until the next big snowstorm.

An easy silence fell between them. He took it as permission to get on with his questions. “So tell me, Nell, did you ever hear anybody who worked in the home hint at shady stuff going on?”

“You mean illegal? No, not that I can think of.”

“Then what secrets did you mean?”

“The local love nests, who did it with whom, and which ones ended up with a love child. But I’m not telling you any names. Oh, I know some of the other dried-up old biddies around town might like talking about that stuff, having nothing better to do for sex. Not me. There’s no pleasure to be had in raking over that kind of heartache.”

“You knew local women who had babies there?”

She paused before answering. “I knew of a few.”

“Did you ever talk to any of them about it? How they were treated? What it was like?”

She grimaced. “Yeah, I talked to one. Talked to her a lot. She… she was a friend of mine.”

“And what did your friend say?”

“What do you think she said? It broke her heart. She felt sad and cried all the time. Was miserable.”

“Can you tell me any specifics? What she told you they put her through?”

Nell fixed her gaze on the fire and took a sip of tea.

Mark had learned long ago that unlike most small-town gossips who gave as good as they got when it came to passing on juicy tidbits, she preferred to hoard her information and force others to coax it out of her, thereby increasing the value of her revelations. But the look of distaste on her face told him her reluctance to talk now was sincere. For a moment he feared she might not tell him anything at all. “Look, I don’t need to know her name. Just what she said about how the place operated.”

Nell hadn’t appeared to hear him. Just when he’d resigned himself to not learning anything helpful, she said, “The worst moment was when they whipped the baby away without letting her see it. She didn’t even know if it was a boy or girl.”

Mark said nothing, hoping she’d continue.

“Afterward she spent most of her time in her room. They gave a woman a couple of weeks to recuperate back then. She could have gone outside to walk, but could hear the babies crying through the open windows in the nursery. They kept them on a separate floor, away from the mothers, of course, but they didn’t ship them off to the orphanage or hand them over to adoptive parents right away. ‘To let them stabilize,’ one of the nurses told her when she asked why. Knowing she might be listening to her own child proved too much. The crying noises began to sound like screams. Even in her own room the sound came through, but there she could at least bury her head in a pillow to keep from hearing it…”

Nell’s words reinvoked the slimy cold sensation he’d felt while standing in the desolate remains of that delivery room. It was all legal, though, charitable even, according to the times, and Nell probably wasn’t going to tell him anything that would explain his father’s interest in the home. Nevertheless, he settled back, sipped his tea, and continued to listen, just in case.

“… even little things she found to be a humiliation, such as how her file was red, and all the other women’s were green, to tag her as a local. Someone told her, ‘It’s for your own protection, so we can keep your records in a special lockup, away from the prying eyes of any staff who live nearby and might know you.’ I suppose the idea made sense, but it just added to her feeling she had something to be ashamed about.”

Mark shook his head at the sorrow of it all, then changed the topic to what he hoped would be more fertile ground, asking her questions about the week of Kelly’s disappearance, specifically if Nell had seen or heard anything of Chaz Braden being around when he normally should have been in New York. “Remember, it was the Monday we didn’t have Richard Nixon to kick around anymore,” he reminded her, knowing she was a staunch Democrat.

Nothing.

He inquired about Samantha McShane and if anyone had seen her in the vicinity around that time.

Nell gave an indignant snort. “The woman hardly ever came into Hampton Junction. Like she was too good for us. The few occasions she did, when Kelly was little, I mostly saw her in Tim Madden’s drugstore buying medicine while going on about how sick her child was. One day word got around that she tried that act with your father, and he set her straight. Kelly seemed to be more visible after that set-to, riding her bike into town and playing with local kids as she got older. But once Kelly grew up, left home, and married Chaz Braden, her parents weren’t down here much, and eventually they sold the place. Probably because the Bradens virtually blackballed them from the social circuit. I used to play cards with a number of housekeepers who worked for that set, and they told me anyone who wanted a Braden at their party didn’t dare invite Samantha or Walter McShane. From what I heard she became pretty much a recluse in her New York place as well. But why are you asking about her? You think she had something to do with the murder?”

“Now don’t you start that story, Nell.”

And so it went. Nothing she told him even hinted at a lead.

As it grew darker outside, snow flew horizontally against a double row of little squared panes that overlooked the Hudson Valley. He got up and peered outside. In the growing darkness snow clouds seemed to be building up over the mountains to the east, yet he could still see the river below, gray as a snake as it coiled through the hills. Despite the smallness and age of the cabin, it looked as solid as a well-made ship, and the wind driving the flakes couldn’t disturb the quiet coziness within. He returned to his chair, accepted another cup of tea, and their talk moved on to the coming of winter.

“There were some funny things, though, come to think of it,” she said after a pause in the conversation.

“Funny things?”

“About that home. You’d think with all the charitable spirit behind it, they’d have done more to make the place a little bit nicer.”

“How could they, with a forbidding building like that to start with?”

“They had enough land to make it like a park in there, or at least put in a garden. I remember Ginny Strang, God bless her dear departed soul, telling me she suggested as much when she worked in the place. The women would have liked tending it for something to do, she figured. As it was, they only had a half-finished lawn to walk on and pretty much nothing to occupy them. Well, the idea was turned down flat.”

All part of their punishment,
he thought, more ghosts from the cryptlike rooms rising to stir his anger. “Obviously, you should have been running the place, Nell.”

“I would have been glad to. But that’s another thing. The way they hired people. Very few locals. And they never took anyone full-time.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t know why. Lots were willing to work from here, nurses trained in the war, but they only gave people two or three shifts a week, and mostly picked outsiders over us from Hampton Junction.” She sniffed as if freshly offended. “I guess once again we weren’t good enough.”

“Now, Nell, it could be just as they did with your friend – their wanting to ensure the privacy of the mothers,” he said, trying to mollify her. “With different staff all the time, and none of them likely to have any social contacts beyond the place of work, the patients would probably feel more anonymous.”

She puckered her face at what he said and continued to look miffed.

“Come on, don’t get upset over nothing,” he pressed. Maybe he couldn’t “cure” her knee, but he at least should be able to get her out of a snit. “I know it backfired for her, but given the censorious climate of those days, it makes a sick kind of sense. It’s certainly the opposite of how we hire today, bending over backward to keep the same people around so the patients get to know who’s taking care of them.”

“Then how come it was identical to what happened at that fancy-schmancy maternity center the Bradens ran in Saratoga? No need for women to feel ashamed there.”

“How do you mean?”

“They hired a few former nurses from Hampton Junction to work there as well, but none of them could get a full-time job at that place either.” She finished with her scrawny head as erect as an eagle’s and a
so-there
glare.

Snow made the dusk luminous. Even with four-wheel drive, whenever he topped thirty miles an hour the Jeep started to fishtail toward the ditch, and he had to wrestle the wheel against the pull of the slush. The road out to Nell’s place was so infrequently traveled it was the last priority for the plows.

He rummaged through his CD holder and soon he crawled along to the breathy voice of Diana Krall singing “The Look of Love.” The car heater quickly warmed the interior of the Jeep to the point he could open his jacket, and the wipers beat a steady rhythm against the storm. With his headlights switched low to reduce their glare against the flakes, he easily distinguished the swell of the road from the steep drop of its shoulders on either side. Better straddle the middle, he decided, having the highway all to himself and not wanting to skid anywhere near the edge.

He continued to feel disappointed that, pleasant as his visit with Nell had been, she’d told him nothing new about Kelly’s murder or why his father might have been interested in either the maternity center or the home. Somehow, after his initial good luck with Kelly’s old file and spotting Earl Garnet’s role in her life, he’d assumed he was on a roll, that he’d continue to round up leads at the same speed.

Now he felt at a dead end, the next step as obscure and dark as the woods on either side of him.

He hoped Earl had fared better today. He patted his cellular phone in the breast pocket of his shirt, wishing he knew Earl’s number, which lay safely buried in the wallet he was sitting on and would be hell to get out. No matter. He’d be home soon. The traction felt more secure now that he hogged the center of the highway, and he gently eased his speed up to forty miles an hour.

Settling back, he watched the sweep of flakes across his windshield as Krall drifted into another song. She seemed to be whispering it into his ear.

“… I get along without you very well…”

A loud
thwack
sounded on his right, something stung the side of his face, and the glass immediately in front of him shattered into a silvery web of cracks around a small black hole.

“Jesus!” He jumped in fright against the restraints of his seat belt and inadvertently floored the accelerator. The Jeep lurched ahead, immediately swiveling to the left. He instinctively jammed on the brakes, and felt the staccato pump of the antilock system, but too late. In the snow-spotted blaze of his headlights, he glimpsed the edge of the road as it flew under him and the hood of his car nose-dived down a ten-foot embankment toward a ravine of open water lined with rocks. Amidst a deafening
bam
of impact and crunch of crumpling metal, he flew forward against the chest strap of his seat belt only to be pounded backward by the airbag exploding out of the steering wheel.

He felt he’d been hit by a giant boxing glove and struggled to breathe. After a few seconds that felt like minutes, he managed to suck in a breath.

He sat in total silence except for the howling of the wind and the occasional ping from the remains of his motor as it cooled down. Though the engine had cut out, the dash lights remained on. He brought his hand up to his stinging cheek and felt it covered with tiny sharp fragments. He looked over to the passenger door, and instantly a searing pain shot through the corner of his eye. “Shit!” he screamed, covering it with his palm, but not before he saw a pattern of splintered glass around a central hole identical to the one in front.

He’d been shot at! One of those fucking drunk hunters had taken a shot at him.

The burning in his eye grew worse, but fury overruled pain. He snapped open his safety belt, and after a couple heaves with his shoulder against the door, managed to push it open and crawl out. “You fucking asshole!” he hollered at the woods on the other side of the road where the shot had come from. “I could have been killed!”

A steady rush of wind through the trees, and the soft hiss of flakes striking the ground amplified the silence.

“You son of a bitch, come and help me. I’ve got glass in my eye.”

No answer.

Christ, would the shooter just run away? “Help me, dammit!”

Nothing.

Son of a bitch.

Still cupping his injured eye, he squinted with the left at the damaged Jeep.

The right high beam, still shining bright, faced straight down into a shallow stream of water that he only then realized he was standing in. The ambient light showed him the front wheel on his side of the vehicle had become part of the doorframe. And he could smell gasoline, a lot of it. Pushing off from where he’d been leaning on the hood, he turned and started to climb back up toward the highway. But his boot slipped on a rock, and he pitched forward into the water, landing on his hands and knees. “Goddamn it,” he yelled, the pain in his eye trebling to the point he hardly noticed the burning cold up to his wrists and thighs. He quickly got to his feet and jammed his fingers under his arms, where they continued to burn. Some water ran down his legs into his boots, soaking the lower half of his trousers, but the all-important feet and toes stayed mostly dry.