Mother's Day (12 page)

Jenny reared back and shook off Karen’s embrace. “No, you’re not,” she said, sobs burbling in her voice. “You’re glad.”

“Jenny!” Karen exclaimed.

“You were mean and horrible to her,” Jenny wailed.

“You hated her. You didn’t even want her in this house.”

“That’s not fair,” Karen cried. “It’s not true, either. I did not hate her.”

“Oh, no. Not much. You’re glad she’s dead.”

Karen’s first impulse was to lash back at the unfairness, the cruelty of it. But she could see that Jenny was in pain, that she was flailing out like a wounded animal. She grabbed her daughter by the shoulders and sought her averted gaze. “She was your mother. She gave birth to you. I wouldn’t have seen this happen for the world.”

Jenny’s anger dissolved again into grief. “If only you could have given her a chance,” she said miserably.

Greg, who had stood silently through this exchange, suddenly said, “That’s enough.”

“Well, it’s true,” said Jenny miserably. “You never tried to like her. You were against her from the first minute.”

“Sit down there right now and be quiet.”

Karen looked at Greg’s stony expression in surprise. “Greg, she’s upset,” she said. “You know she is.”

“I know she’s upset, but this is important and I want her to pay attention to what I’m saying.”

Silenced by his vehemence, Jenny sniffled and wiped her eyes.

“Now, listen to me,” he said. “Before this day is out the police are going to hear about her connection to you and want to know about it. They’re going to be over here asking a lot of questions about Linda Emery. And when they do, I expect you to keep whatever gripes you have with me or your mother to yourself. Do you understand me?”

“Greg!” Karen exclaimed.

“The truth of the matter is that whether this woman was your natural mother or not—we hardly knew her, and we don’t want to be involved in this business.”

“But we are—” Jenny protested.

Greg cut her off. “No, we are not. She barged into our lives two days ago with no warning, and whatever connection there might be, we are not responsible. We don’t know her. We don’t know anything about her. And let’s just leave it at that. Now, it’s terrible that she was killed, but there’s nothing we can do about it. Whatever complaints you have about how your mother and I treated her, you just keep them to yourself. We’ll tell the police we were glad to meet her, and we all got along like gangbusters, and that’s the end of it.”

“That’s a lie,” Jenny cried. “You hated her. You both did.”

“This is not up for discussion,” Greg shouted. “You will do as I say. You will not start causing us trouble with the police because your feelings were hurt. This has nothing to do with us. Is that clear?”

There was no mistaking the finality in Greg’s voice. Jenny began to sob, shocked by his anger at her.

“I think you’d better stay home this morning,” Karen said gently.

“Well, I wasn’t planning to go to school the day my mother is murdered,” she said, weeping. “I’m going upstairs.” Wiping her eyes, she shuffled out of the room. Karen’s heart ached as she watched her go.

Greg sighed and sank back against the counter.

Karen stood up and glared at him. “Why did you do that?” she demanded.

“What?” he asked in a dull voice.

“Can’t you see she’s devastated? Why are you telling her to lie about this? Just because we didn’t like the woman—just because we weren’t happy that she came here isn’t a crime, The police aren’t going to be interested in us.”

Greg looked wearily at his wife. “Somebody killed the woman. The police are going to be looking into everything she did since she came to town. In their eyes, we had a damn good reason to dislike her. We might have wanted her out of the way.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Karen impatiently.

“Is it?” he said. “She was threatening our relationship with our daughter. People have been known to get very angry over things like that.”

Karen looked at him aghast. “Not angry enough to kill someone.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Greg. The police are going to be looking for a psycho.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. All I know is, when they find out that this woman showed up in town and claimed the child of another woman as her own, and then, the next day practically, she was murdered…Well, what would you think if you were a cop? Women have been known to lift cars off their children. Mothers…parents will go to any lengths. And then they hear Jenny spouting off like that about how much we hated her and all.”

Karen gazed at him intently. “You’re talking about me,” she said. “That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? You think they’d suspect me.”

“Look, I’m just saying we should be prepared for this.”

“Well, that’s just not…I mean, it’s stupid. A man must have killed her. It was probably some kind of a sex crime.”

“It didn’t say that on the radio,” he pointed out.

“Well, it had to be. What else could it be?” Karen’s voice trailed off. She shook her head. “Nobody could think that. It’s not possible.” She turned and looked back at her husband. “Could they?”

Greg came over to her and put his arms around her comfortingly. “I don’t know what they might think. And I’m not saying we have to lie. All I’m telling you is what I told Jenny. We don’t have to volunteer our every feeling. There’s no reason to bring up all the problems. It’s not our fault that she showed up here and then got herself killed. It doesn’t concern us. All I want to do is keep out of it. All of us.”

Karen nodded, distracted. “It just sounds so…”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Heartless.” She shuddered.

“It’s just being practical,” he said.

“Maybe you’re right,” Karen agreed, shaken by the possibilities he had conjured. If there was a way to avoid being seen in that light…“Maybe that would be for the best.”

“Mom, the police are here.”
Bill Emery stood in the doorway of his mother’s bedroom. A crucifix hung over the headboard, and the crocheted bedspread was pulled up to Alice’s neck. After a nightmarish trip to the morgue, Alice had insisted that Bill bring her back to her own house. Now she lay on the bed, and Dr. Martin Nolte, who had tended to their family for years, was removing a needle from her upper arm and swabbing it with cotton.

“Bill, you better talk to them. Or tell them to come back. Your mother’s in no condition,” said the doctor.

Bill hesitated and then said, “I’ll take care of it.”

“Good boy,” Dr. Nolte said as if Bill were still a small child. Bill retreated from the room.

“Martin,” said Alice in a weak voice.

“What is it, my dear?”

“Hand me that picture on my bureau.”

The doctor brought the photograph to her bedside, and Alice gazed at it, tears running down the sides of her face, following the grooves made by the earpieces of her glasses. The photo was taken when Linda was about five and Bill was eight. Jack had refused to be in the picture. He always hated to have his picture taken. Alice could never understand it. He was such a nice-looking man. Her mind wandered back to when she had first seen him, the day he came to fix her mother’s porch steps. He was new in Bayland, but a friend of her mother’s had recommended him as hard working and honest. As soon as Alice looked out the kitchen window and saw him there, her heart turned over. She had never been the bashful type, but it took a lot of doing to engage him in conversation those first few times. But when he finally opened up a little, it was worth the effort.

Alice looked at the two children smiling in the photo, arms linked in hers. Her gaze focused on the little girl. “You’re with your daddy, now,” she said, a sob in her voice.

“That sedative I just gave you will help,” said Dr. Nolte gently.

“She just came back to me and now I’ve lost her for good,” said Alice. But already her thoughts were beginning to blur.

“Try and rest,” said the doctor, picking up his bag. “I’ll leave a prescription with Bill. You call me if you need anything.”

“I will,” Alice whispered. Her hands became weaker as the drug spread through her body. Her grip on the photograph loosened, and the framed picture slid down the covers and dropped to the hooked rug on the floor. Alice’s mind began to travel—back, back, tumbling through a bittersweet twilight of memories.

Bill Emery pulled open the door of his mother’s home and looked at the woman with a notebook standing on the steps, pressing the doorbell. She was in her twenties, dressed in a functional skirt and blouse and sensible flats. Her ash-blond hair was short and had no discernible style, as if she could not be bothered with it. She had good, clear skin but wore no makeup. Her tone of voice was all business.

“My name is Phyllis Hodges,” she began. “I’m from the
Bayland Gazette
” She peered around Bill as he examined her press card and saw Walter Ference and Larry Tillman seated in the living room. She waved at Walter, and he nodded at her.

“I’m sorry,” said Bill. “We have nothing to say.”

“Are you related to the victim?” Phyllis said hurriedly, all but putting her foot in the door.

“She was my sister. If you don’t mind…”

“I see the police are here. I wouldn’t mind waiting,” Phyllis persisted.

“Please, leave us alone,” said Bill, closing the door on her protests. He turned back to Walter Ference, who was seated on the edge of Alice’s wing chair. Larry Tillman got up and stood by the window, peeking out through the curtain at the cluster of curious people at the edge of the lawn.

“These reporters have no respect for people’s privacy,” said Bill.

Walter nodded sympathetically. “Now, Mr. Emery, there are a few more things we need to clarify here. About your sister. You say it was her idea to stay at the motel.”

Bill nervously picked up a china figurine of a shepherdess off his mother’s mantelpiece and then replaced it. “Yes, it had something to do with calling this a business trip. You know, tax deductions.”

Walter nodded.

“Glenda,” Bill called out. Bill’s wife poked her head out of the kitchen. “We could use some coffee.”

“Not for me,” said Walter firmly. “And what were you doing last night?”

“What do you mean? I was working late. At the store.”

“Were you alone?”

“No, actually, one of my salesgirls was there.”

“Name?”

Bill looked as if he were about to protest, but then he capitulated. “Christine Bishop.”

Walter made a note. “Okay. Now, the name of these people—the ones who adopted your sister’s baby.”

“Newhall,” Bill snapped. “I told you already.”

Glenda came into the living room. “Honey,” she said, “excuse me. I’m going to run down to the pharmacy and get this prescription filled for Mom.”

“Go ahead,” Bill said irritably. Glenda glanced curiously at the police officers and backed out of the room.

“And this was the first you knew about your sister’s pregnancy, or why she ran away?” Walter continued.

“Yes,” said Bill. “But what has all this got to do with finding the nut that killed my sister and left her in that Dumpster?”

Walter closed his pad and stood up. “I think we’re all set for now. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Emery. We’ll talk to your mother later.”

Bill’s tense shoulders relaxed as he showed them to the door. “Glad I could help you,” he said.

Bill watched from the window as the two officers went down the walk and got into their car. As soon as the car pulled away from the curb, he went to the phone and dialed.

“Shane’s Sporting Goods,” answered the raspy voice of Trudy Kubinski, the cashier.

“Christine Bishop,” said Bill in a soft, low voice.

Trudy hesitated. “Bill?”

“Excuse me?” Bill said in an unnatural, offended tone.

“Sorry,” said Trudy. “Just a minute.”

Bill could feel moons of perspiration spreading under his arms as he waited. Finally Christine picked up the phone.

“Christine Bishop.”

“Listen, Christine,” said Bill without preamble, “don’t let anyone at the store know you are talking to me.

“Okay,” Christine said uncertainly.

“The police may be coming to talk to you. My sister’s been murdered.”

“Oh, Bill, I’m so sorry. How awful.”

“Didn’t I just tell you not to mention my name there?”

“I’m sorry,” she pleaded.

“I told them we were working late at the store last night. Together. Have you got that?”

“Sure. I guess so.”

“And if they mention the Jefferson Motel, you never heard of it.”

“Why?” she asked plaintively.

“Because I said so,” said Bill.

There was a silence at the other end. Then a soft, sad voice said. “Okay. All right. Don’t get mad.”

Bill clenched his fist and silently counted to ten.

Margo Hofsteder’s heart skipped a beat. Two cops were coming in her doorway, one uniformed, one in a tie and jacket. Glancing out her window, she saw that there were two more cops and another squad car in the parking lot.

“Can I help you?” she said.

Walter Ference nodded. “Are you the manager?”

“I own this place. My name is Margo Hofsteder.”

“Miss Hofsteder…”

“Mrs.”

“We understand you had a guest here by the name of Linda Emery.”

Margo consulted her book, running a pudgy finger down the page. “Still do,” she said. “Is she in trouble?”

Walter and Larry exchanged a glance. “I’m afraid Miss Emery is dead. She was murdered last night,” said Walter.

Margo clutched her chest. “Here?” she cried.

“We don’t know where,” said Walter. “We’d like to see her room.”

Margo’s complexion became splotchy with nervous excitement. “Oh, my God,” she said, fumbling under the desk for her keys. “Not here. Not in my place “

“We don’t know that,” said Walter. “We just need to take a look.”

“Of course, of course,” she mumbled, coming out from behind the counter, her keys and her bracelets jangling. She kept up a running commentary to no one in particular as the policemen followed her rolling gait down the sidewalk to room 173. “Oh, I can’t believe it. This is a family place. It’ll be all over the papers. Oh, my. Horrible, horrible.”