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Authors: Jean Hanff Korelitz

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BOOK: The Sabbathday River
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“Moved already.” She grinned. “No turning back now. Hey”—she put her hand out, three chunky silver rings glinting in the supermarket light—“I'm Judith Friedman.”
Of course you are,
Naomi wanted to say, but it wouldn't come out. She reached her own hand forward across the carts between them: the outstretched fingers of the Bering Strait, the clutch and unclench of the relay race. “Oh, thank you for coming,” said a voice; as it happened, her own.
Our Bodies, Ourselves
“A MOMENT OF YOUR TIME, MRS. ROTH.”
Naomi looked up and, despite herself, groaned. She'd been sitting in her office at the mill, entering addresses at her IBM and being progressively deafened by the grader Ashley was running in the parking lot. She hadn't heard them, naturally.
He came in, followed closely by Nelson, who ducked his head. Charter, she realized, had loomed larger in her memory than perhaps he deserved: a tall and gaunt inquisitor in a black cape, beak-nosed, with lines etched deep across his forehead. She allowed herself a small, private smile. He must have really freaked her out to leave such a distortion of himself behind, Naomi thought, since—before her now—he was by comparison so ordinary. Just a man in his fifties or so, with that faintly comical comb-over and iron set jaw. It was no feature, after all, but the cumulative pinch of his expression and the tractor beam of his gaze, the acrid odor of his ambient distrust.
“I'm not interrupting,” he observed, rejecting the courtesy of phrasing it as a question.
“Not now, you're not.” Naomi watched them find seats in the small
room. Beyond, in the main work area, the women hadn't noticed the police were here; they continued to speak together, loudly, over the grader. “Mary,” she said to Mary Sully, who had stopped filing and was staring at the D.A., “would you give us a few minutes?”
“Uhkay,” Mary said. She looked happy to leave them. She wedged her way out from between the desk and the cabinet, and moved heavily into the workroom.
Charter watched her go, pursing his lips. He turned to Naomi and offered his facsimile of a smile. “It must be nice not to have to dress for work.”
She crossed her legs to show off the hole in the knee of her jeans. “I hope I don't look undressed, Mr. Charter.”
“I only meant that most women are required to dress formally when they work.”
“Most of the women I know work all the time,” Naomi observed. “Women's work has never been limited to men's business hours, unfortunately.”
The D.A. sat forward in his chair. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Roth. I'm not here to malign your lifestyle or your livelihood, and I certainly apologize if I gave that impression. I only have a few questions.”
Automatically, she began to protest, but Nelson cut her off. “Place looks good, Naomi.” He hadn't been out since the winter, when they'd had a break-in—broken glass all over the workroom floor and a pair of grubby underpants in the attic. “You get that window fixed?”
“Ashley did it.” She nodded toward the workroom. “Did a nice job.”
“Any more problems?”
Not unless you count fishing dead babies out of the Sabbathday, she thought. “Nope. Nothing here to steal but ratty old rugs.”
“I understand you sell your ratty old rugs all over the country,” Charter said. She wasn't sure, but she thought he meant it as a compliment.
“That's true. Outside of Goddard they're known as unique living examples of an original American folk art.”
“My grandmother hooked rugs,” he said. “I still have a few myself.”
Naomi looked at him, then at Nelson for help. His silvery hair fell forward over his eyes. She found, suddenly, that she could not remember the color of his eyes and almost asked him what they were. Thankfully, the moment passed. “How goes your investigation?” she said instead.
“It is continuing,” Charter said, his voice even. “It is narrowing.”
“Well, I hope you haven't come to accuse
me
.” She was arch.
“I have not,” he concurred.
“You had a word with my doctor, then.”
“I did.”
“Patient-doctor confidentiality be damned!”
Charter smiled. “Within the context of a murder investigation, yes, I think that's appropriate.”
“Of course, women shouldn't patronize male doctors at all,” Naomi said, a little wantonly. “That's my view. Women's health in the hands of women, don't you think? Our bodies, ourselves, that's the ticket.” She really detested him. “I suppose I should be grateful that you talked to my doctor, under the circumstances. It's inconvenient being considered a suspect. One's neighbors tend to react badly.”
He sighed. “I apologize for the inconvenience, but I had my reasons. I should tell you that over the years I have consistently lost faith in the power of chance. Sometimes, when I finish with a case, I lay it out on paper. Easier than keeping it all up here.” He tapped his temple with a long finger. “Like a family tree: the victim, the perpetrator, the person who called the police, the witness. Not necessarily an actual family, but all connected nonetheless. Just like a family tree, Mrs. Roth. Everyone who touches the crime advances it in some way, or advances its solution. Believe me, there is very little in the way of random influence. Everyone has a role. Just now, I believe I understand a part of your role in this crime. Perhaps, when it's all behind us, I'll understand the rest.”
She was staring at him. She shook her head slowly. “I don't have any idea what you're talking about. I hope you know that.”
To her surprise, Charter smiled. “I do know that.” He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a small spiral notebook, its coil of metal clogged with strips of paper left behind when the sheets were torn away. “And now, I wonder if you might help us with a small problem.”
Dimly, she noted that the grader had stopped. They were speaking more softly now. In the next room, the women, too, had stopped speaking.
“You may have heard about some of the directions our investigation has taken,” Charter said.
“Sure,” Naomi said. “Through-hikers, impoverished women, women who're living in sin with men they're not married to. I naturally assume you've hauled in every prostitute in the state of New Hampshire.” She leaned forward and whispered, “Do you think there
are
any?”
“I know there are many,” he said grimly. “But no, I don't think a prostitute is responsible for this baby. I think the person responsible is an ordinary woman, in extraordinary circumstances.”
Naomi shook her head. “Can you just explain to me why you're not even considering 49 percent of the population—the 49 percent that's responsible for almost 100 percent of the crime? It could have been a man, you know.”
“It wasn't a man.” His gaze drifted to the window. “But a man might have known, or might have helped. Mrs. Roth,” he sighed. “I am not here to justify my deductions to you. I am very good at what I do. I will be making an arrest very shortly.”
She stared at him, then at Nelson. His face gave nothing away. It took her a moment to catch her breath.
“Perhaps you would like to close the door, Mrs. Roth,” Charter said, nodding at it. Naomi found her feet.
“I didn't want to disturb you in your office,” he said when she returned to her seat, “but frankly time is short now. People talk in this town.” He smiled. “That's been made abundantly clear to me this past week. And I don't want our suspect disappearing. I'm sure you understand.”
Dumbly, she nodded.
“Well then”—he held his pen poised—“why don't you tell me what you know—or perhaps I should say what you
think
you know—about Heather Pratt?”
The gasp knocked what remained of her smugness away. Naomi opened her mouth in shock. First breath she got, she took the opportunity to laugh at them. “You have to be kidding.”
They were both silent. Charter watched her carefully.
“Oh, absolutely not. Heather
Pratt.”
She shook her head. “No way.” He was still waiting.
“You couldn't be more wrong. It's just totally out of the question.”
And she found herself remembering how, when Heather had first joined the collective, she had brought her work to the mill like the other women, and poured herself coffee, and taken a seat, but how quickly the poison had seemed to spread out from her, like Cecil B. DeMille's version of blood in the Nile, that bitter silence and those bent heads, intent on ignoring the girl. Naomi had not known much about Heather then, except what Stephen Trask had told her—she was leaving her job at the sports center, her grandmother was ill and needed her at
home—and one other rather critical thing: that Heather possessed that trace element of desire which seemed to operate on the sensually alert like catnip on felines. Even her plumpness, which Naomi had not, at first sight, recognized for the pregnancy it was, was somehow not unappealing. But she also remembered the unnatural quiet of those first days, the brittle collective mood in the workroom, and how, at last, comments were made within her hearing—
for
her hearing—and some of the regulars began to say that they would prefer to work at home now, it was so much less pleasant here, and how she was determined not to understand them, not to take their outrageous part, no matter what they thought the girl had done.
Now, somewhat belatedly, she thought, Heather would never murder a child.
“Heather would never murder a child,” she told them. “She's completely devoted to her daughter, which I'm sure nobody's bothered to tell you. Polly is a lovely, enchanting little girl, who is absolutely adored by her mother. Heather would never be capable of doing any harm to an infant.” She shook her head vehemently. “You just couldn't be further from the truth. Hey, I'm the one who even
told
Heather about the baby I found. She hadn't even heard about it till I went by her house on Tuesday.”
Charter made a note. The sight of his moving hand inflamed Naomi.
“She was just stunned when I told her. She thought it was horrible.”
“Of course she did,” Charter said, writing. “How else would she react?”
“No, you don't understand. She's a
great
mother. And somebody would have to be sick to do that to a baby.”
“Perhaps she was sick.” Charter's voice was even.
“Oh yes, the crazy new mother.” Naomi shook her head. “Christ, you guys just love this stuff, don't you? Anything that smacks of respectable science telling you what you've always known: women are
nuts
.”
He didn't react. He was merely watching her.
“And may I ask how you came to be such an expert on the insanity of new mothers?”
He said placidly, “I am not an expert on the insanity of new mothers.”
Beyond the door to the workroom, the hum of intense communal silence.
“Let us not get sidetracked,” the D.A. said finally. “I am here with
specific questions about Heather Pratt. Your evidently very strong feelings aside, I hope that you will give my questions the benefit of your serious attention.”
Struck by his gravity, Naomi felt herself nod. “I will, of course.”
“Thank you,” Charter said affably. “Now, you first met Miss Pratt when?”
Naomi thought. “A year and a half ago. Stephen Trask brought me some of her embroidery. She'd been working for him over at the sports center.”
“You'd never seen her before.”
“Never seen her, never heard of her. Of course, she was in high school before, so I really wouldn't have heard of her. Then she went to work for Stephen. As a receptionist, I'm pretty sure.”
“And she was living with her grandmother up on Sabbath Creek Road at that time?”
“Yes. Her grandmother passed away last winter. But you probably know that.” Naomi paused. “I remember Stephen Trask told me she did pretty well in school. She could have gone to college, I think he said.” She looked squarely at Charter and said, deliberately, “Perhaps she still can.”
He sighed and met her gaze. “I would consider that increasingly unlikely, Mrs. Roth.” He waited for her to take this in. “Can you tell me anything else about her life?”
BOOK: The Sabbathday River
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