The Whispering Room (23 page)

T
he sky grew darker as Evangeline headed north later that morning, and a light rain began to fall by the time she arrived at Pinehurst Manor. She pulled into the visitors' parking area and sat for a moment, admiring the impressive facade.

Surrounded by twenty acres of dense scrub oak and pine, the hospital more closely resembled an old plantation home than a modern psychiatric facility—except, of course, for the fifteen-foot perimeter wall topped with razor wire and the guard kiosks that were stationed at regular intervals around the property.

As Evangeline studied the manicured grounds through the windshield, she saw a uniformed guard appear at the corner of the building. He waited at the edge of the parking area for her to climb out of the car.

“Detective Theroux?”

She produced her ID and he nodded. “They just called up from the gate to let us know you'd arrived. I'll walk with you from here,” he said. “You'll have to surrender your weapon and sign in.”

The formalities completed a few moments later, another guard led her down a long corridor and opened a door. “Betsy,” he said to the plump redhead seated behind a large desk. “Is he in?” He nodded toward a door behind the redhead's desk. “This is Detective Theroux with the New Orleans Police Department.” He pronounced
police
with the emphasis on the first syllable.

“He's expecting you, Detective. Right this way.” She stood and smoothed a hand over her brown skirt as she motioned for Evangeline to follow.

She was ushered into a large, pleasant office with long windows that looked out on a pretty garden of azaleas and flaming hibiscus. “Dr. Carlisle, this is Detective Theroux.”

He got up from the desk and offered his hand, then waved her to the chair across from him. He didn't look the way Evangeline had pictured him after their brief phone conversation. For one thing, he was younger than she expected. Around thirty-five, she would guess, with longish hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He was dressed casually in jeans and an open-collar shirt, which also took her by surprise.

“So you're here about Mary Alice Lemay.”

“That's right. As I told you on the phone, we have reason to believe there's a possible connection between Mary Alice and a recent homicide in New Orleans.”

“You know that she's been incarcerated for over thirty years,” he said.

“We don't think she was personally involved. But as I said, there could be a connection. Have you been able to verify whether or not her daughter Rebecca was also a patient here?”

“I checked the records. I won't go into the details of her diagnosis or the treatment, but I can tell you that she was here for several months in 2005. She was admitted in June and released the following December.”

“And Mary Alice was transferred here during the evacuation.”

“That's right.”

“Do you know if she and her daughter had contact during that time?”

“That I don't know. I only came on board last year. But I can let you talk to some of the staff who were here at that time.”

“Thanks. That could be helpful.” She paused. “Do you know if Rebecca ever comes to see her mother?”

“Oh, yes. She comes at least once a month.”

“What about her other daughter?”

“I wasn't aware that she had another daughter.”

Evangeline reached in her bag and hauled out one
of Lena Saunders's books. She turned it over so that the author's photograph was face up.

“You've never seen this woman before?”

He studied the photograph for a moment, then glanced up with a bewildered frown. “I don't understand. Isn't this Rebecca Lemay?”

“No, this is a picture of her sister, Ruth. They do look alike. Probably could even pass for twins. But that's not Rebecca Lemay.”

His gaze dropped again to the book. “I'm rarely mistaken about these things. Are you sure?”

“You think this is the woman who has been coming to see Mary Alice?”

“If they look as much alike as you say, I suppose I could be wrong. But the resemblance to her sister is uncanny. Even the way she holds her head…” He studied the picture for a moment longer, then handed the book to Evangeline.

“Is it possible for me to see Mary Alice?”

“Yes, of course. But that's about all you'll be able to do, I'm afraid. She hasn't spoken a word to anyone in over thirty years.”

A few minutes later, they were standing outside the door to Mary Alice's room.

“Is she allowed out?” Evangeline asked.

“The doors in this wing are only locked at night. The patients are free to come and go in the secured areas.”

He swung open the door and stepped aside for
Evangeline to enter. A woman was seated in a rocking chair in front of a barred window. She gave no indication that she was aware of their presence until Dr. Carlisle spoke to her.

“How are you today, Mary Alice?”

She turned then and the first thing that struck Evangeline was how young the woman looked. She had to be well into her fifties or early sixties, but the skin on her face was still smooth and supple, and her blue eyes—the color of hyacinths—were clear and lucid.

Her blond hair was chopped off just below her ears with a fringe of uneven bangs across her forehead. It was an odd cut, and Evangeline wondered if she'd somehow gotten hold of a pair of scissors and whacked it off herself.

“I've brought you a visitor,” Dr. Carlisle said. “This is Detective Theroux. She's come all the way from New Orleans to see you.”

The woman's unblinking stare unnerved Evangeline.

“Hello,” she said as she knelt before the woman.

Evangeline's first instinct was to recoil when Mary Alice put out a hand, as if to touch her face. This was a woman who had brutally murdered her own children. But Evangeline forced herself to remain still, and the hand that brushed against her cheek was surprisingly gentle.

Mary Alice reached out with her other hand, and
for a moment, Evangeline thought she meant to cup her face. Then she realized the woman was holding something out to her.

In her palm was an origami crane.

A
fter Evangeline left Pinehurst Manor, she headed south through Baton Rouge, deep into Bayou country.

Leaving Highway One, she continued her southward trek on a two-lane blacktop that wound through a long corridor of oak, cypress and willow trees. White clouds drifted across a soft blue sky, and as the light shimmered down golden through the leaves, a lush drowsiness settled over the canebrakes and along the flooded ditches, thick with lily pads, cattails and drooping stalks of water iris.

Just on the outside of Torrence, Nash called.

“You're breaking up,” Evangeline said as she pressed the phone to her ear. “I can't hear you.”

There was a long pause before he came back on. “Is that better?”

“Some.” She could hear the roar of an engine in the background. “Where are you?”

“In a plane on my way back to New Orleans. I was wondering if we could meet this afternoon. I have something I want to talk to you about.”

“I'm not in the city. I asked for a personal day so that I could take care of some things.”

“Are you okay? Is the baby okay?”

“J.D.'s fine. He's with my mother. I'm in the Bayou Country just outside Torrence.”

“What are you doing down there?”

“It's where the Lemay family used to live. I'm trying to get a lead on Rebecca Lemay's whereabouts. Lena Saunders said that her sister may have been spotted recently at the family's old house. I want to see if the local law enforcement knows anything about it.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Maybe. I've asked someone at NOPD to look into both Ruth and Rebecca Lemay's backgrounds, but you've a lot more resources than we do.”

“I'll see what I can find out.”

“One more thing. Lena Saunders told me that she thinks Rebecca may be working with an accomplice now. She also told me that she and her sister were raised in a charismatic church, so that could be why snakes were used to kill Paul and David Courtland.”

“You think that's how she and her accomplice hooked up?”

“I have no idea, but I thought I'd throw it out
there in case you run across anything in either of their backgrounds.”

“Anything else?”

“No, that's it. I'm just entering the city limits so I need to go.”

“Evangeline?”

“Yeah?”

“You run into any trouble down there, you call me.”

“I don't anticipate any trouble, but thanks.”

The concern in his voice made her uncomfortable. After last night, she knew Nash was interested in her, but no matter what Johnny had done, she still wasn't ready to move on yet. Especially with a man who had been so instrumental in shattering her illusions.

 

In Torrence, she located the sheriff's office near the courthouse and parked beneath the tangled limbs of a water oak. The sun was boiling overhead, but the breeze in the shade was so cool on her damp back, she found herself shivering as she pushed open the glass door and stepped into the air-conditioned police station.

After giving her name to the receptionist, she was shown into Sheriff Arnie Thibodaux's office, a small, square room encased in glass on two sides to provide a view of the street, as well as the outer office.

Thibodaux was about fifty, with a thick black mustache and tiny eyes that seemed to disappear into folds of skin the color and texture of sun-baked mud. He was dressed in a pressed blue uniform that looked so fresh, Evangeline had to wonder if he'd set foot outside his office all day.

Boots propped on his desk, he sat reared back in his chair reading a fishing magazine, but as soon as he saw Evangeline, he tossed the periodical aside, dropped his feet to the floor and waved her in.

“So tell me something. What's a New Orleans homicide detective doing all the way down here?” he asked when she'd settled into a hard plastic chair across from his desk.

“I'm hoping you can give me some information on an old case.”

“Well, that all depends on how old we're talking about.” His voice was flat and reserved and he didn't seem overly anxious to be of service.

“Over thirty years ago.”

He whistled as he adjusted the belt around his ample waistline. “That could be a problem. Most of the files that go that far back were destroyed in a fire. Floods got the rest.”

“Well, that's not what I wanted to hear,” Evangeline told him. “Maybe you can help me anyway. I'm looking for information on Mary Alice Lemay. She killed—”

“I know what she did.” The good-ol'-boy facade
slipped for a moment as something unpleasant flitted across his weathered features.

“You were around back then?”

“I was a deputy,” he said grimly. “Still wet behind the ears when we got the call that day, but what we found out there at that old house seasoned me real fast.”

“I can imagine.”

“I never saw anything like it, and hope I never do again. I couldn't sleep for a month. What that woman did to those li'l' ol' kids…” He trailed off, shaking his head, still, after all these years, unable to fathom how a mother could take the lives of her own children. His dark eyes fastened on her, and she could see his natural curiosity warring with the small-town cop's wariness of his big-city counterpart. “What's your interest in that case, anyway?”

Evangeline decided to be up-front with him. The last thing she wanted was to alienate local law enforcement. “We think there may be a connection to a recent homicide in New Orleans.”

He cocked a dark brow in surprise. “I don't see how that's possible. Mary Alice has been locked up in the loony bin ever since it happened.”

“I realize that. But I'm interested in her daughters.”

“You think one of them is involved? How?”

“It's a long story.”

He folded his hands behind his head. “I'm not going anywhere. Besides, cooperation is a two-way street in my book. Let's hear what you got.”

Evangeline paused, glancing out the window as she wondered where to start. Across the street, a woman pushed a baby carriage along the hot, steamy sidewalk.

“Rebecca Lemay may have been involved in the murder of a prominent New Orleans attorney named Paul Courtland. Have you ever heard of him?”

“Can't say I have, no.”

“Mary Alice's husband, Charles, had a sister named Leona. Paul Courtland was her son.”

Thibodaux stroked his soft chin. “Well, let's see, then. That would make Rebecca Lemay this Courtland fellow's first cousin, wouldn't it? And you think she killed her own kin?”

“Right now, she's a person of interest. Which is why I need to talk to her. Do you know if she's been seen around these parts lately? I heard someone was spotted at the old Lemay place not long ago.”

He dropped his hands to the arms of his chair, drumming his fingers against the scarred wood. “I wouldn't put too much stock in that story if I were you. Stevie Ray Wilson claims he saw Mary Alice looking out one of the upstairs windows, but we know that can't be true. Knowing Stevie Ray, he probably just saw his own reflection or something. That boy's never been the sharpest knife in the
drawer, plus, he likes to hit the sauce pretty good. So he's not exactly what I'd call a reliable witness.”

Evangeline nodded absently. “Could I ask you some questions about that case?”

“Thirty years is a long time, and my memory's not what it used to be. Don't know how much help I'll be. I'll answer what I can, though.”

“Can you tell me if all the bodies were recovered?”

“Yep. We found all three of the little boys. And that's all I want to say about that.”

“What about the baby?”

He stared at her for the longest moment. “How did you know about that? It's not common knowledge, even around these parts.”

“I've talked to Ruth Lemay. She goes by the name of Lena Saunders now. She's a writer. She said she spoke to you on the phone recently about the sighting at the old house.”

He shook his head. “I don't know who she talked to, but it wasn't me.”

“You're sure?”

“My short-term memory is just fine, so, yeah, I'm sure.”

He looked a little peeved by her question, so Evangeline decided not to press him on it. “So what about the baby?”

He turned his head and stared out the window for a moment. “All we found was a bunch of bloody
sheets and the severed umbilical cord wrapped in an old towel. After we took Mary Alice into custody, she was examined by a doctor, and he confirmed that she'd recently given birth. My guess is she threw that baby into the swamp. A body that size wouldn't last long out there.”

“Who called the sheriff's office that day?”

“Mary Alice's cousin. A woman named Nella Prather.”

“Does she still live around here?”

“Nah, she's been gone for years. She married an old boy name Mike Blanchard, and last I heard, they'd moved up to New Orleans. Shouldn't be too hard for you to locate her.”

Evangeline took a moment to jot the woman's name in her notebook. “When Mary Alice was brought in, did she say why she'd done it?”

“She said something about wanting to save them. That doesn't make any more sense to me now than it did back then. How did killing those little boys in cold blood save them?”

Evangeline knew it was a rhetorical question. “What about the girls? Did they have much to say about what happened?”

“I remember the oldest girl was all torn up about it. Just kept crying for her mama and her brothers. They finally had to ask the doctor to give her something to settle her down. But the youngest…” His eyes were dark and troubled as he gazed at Evange
line across the desk. “That girl had ice water in her veins. Never showed a lick of emotion. And the way she'd look at you…” He broke off on a shudder. “I don't mind saying, that one gave me the creeps.”

Evangeline thought about the woman in her house the night before, the way she'd cradled and hummed to J.D. The way she'd kissed his head and hugged him to her breast.

Evangeline felt panicked and sick just thinking about it.

“I'd like to go out to the house and take a look around myself, if that's okay,” she said.

“Well, technically, you'd be trespassing, but nobody's lived out there in years. I don't reckon it'd do any harm. If you can wait a spell, I'll ride out there with you. Otherwise, all I can do is point you in the right direction.”

“That might be best,” Evangeline said. “I'll be heading back to New Orleans soon.”

“I better write it down for you, then.” He scribbled the directions on a piece of paper and slid it across the desk. “Keep to the main road as much as you can. You don't want to get lost out there in the swamp. Might take us days to find you and I don't want to have to postpone my fishing trip.”

Evangeline couldn't tell if he was joking or not. “I'll remember that.”

“One other thing.” He rose and walked her to the door. “Folks around here are still a mite skittish
about that old place. There's always been a lot of talk about ghosts and such. It's all just superstitious hogwash, but I don't know that I'd mention going out there to anyone if I were you. No sense stirring up talk and bad memories if we can help it.”

She held up the paper. “Thanks for the directions.”

“You bet. Y'all take care. If you're packing a piece, keep it on you.” He pointed to the ankle holster on his desk. “Even off duty, I don't ever go into the swamp unarmed.”

 

Evangeline missed the turnoff and had to double back twice before spotting the narrow gravel road that cut through a heavy forest of oak trees and scrub brush. The canopy of tangled limbs across the road was so dense that half a mile in, the light disappeared and the wind blowing in through the open car window felt cool and moist.

As Evangeline cleared the dripping trees, she caught her first glimpse of the house. The two-story clapboard rested on stilts, and on first glance, it seemed to have held up remarkably well over the years. But as she got out of the car, she noticed the sagging porch and peeling paint, the screen door that drooped on one hinge.

Slowly she climbed the steps, testing the planks on the porch before moving to the door. Turning, she surveyed her surroundings before going inside. She
was miles from anywhere and the silence was so deep and pervasive, she could feel an uneasy chill beginning a slow crawl up her backbone.

She was starting to wish she'd waited for Thibodaux to come with her, but then she told herself to buck up. She had a .38 in one hand and her flashlight in the other. The sun was shining in the clearing, but without electricity, the interior was bound to be dim and shadowy.

Stuffing the flashlight in the back pocket of her jeans, Evangeline pulled open the screen door and stepped inside.