Broken Promise (11 page)

Duckworth noticed a photo on the serving table against the wall. He pointed to it. “That’s you and your wife?”

Gaynor looked older than the man in the picture. “That was taken when we were married.”

Duckworth took a longer look at the picture. Rosemary Gaynor’s straight black hair hung to her shoulders. She’d still been wearing it in the same style. Her eyes were dark brown, her skin pale, no rouge or lipstick to give herself some color.

Gaynor asked, “What’s going to happen to my Rosemary?”

“I’m sorry?”

“My wife.” He tipped his head in the direction of the door to the kitchen. “What’s going to happen with her? What are they going to do with her?”

“She’ll be taken to the forensic examiner’s office,” Duckworth said. “An autopsy has to be conducted. Once that’s done, she can be released to you so that you can make arrangements.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why does there have to be an autopsy? For Christ’s sake, all you have to do is look at her to know . . .” He put his face into his hands and cried. “Hasn’t she been through enough?”

“I know,” Duckworth said gently. “But an examination of your wife may yield a lot of helpful information that will help us find out who did this. Unless you already have some idea.”

Without looking up, he shook his head. “No, I have
no
idea. Everyone loved Rose. This is the work of some crazy person. That woman. She’s crazy. She had Matthew, for God’s sake.” He raised his head, looked at Duckworth with red eyes. “It had to be her. She kidnapped Matthew and when Rose tried to stop her, she . . . she did that.”

Duckworth nodded. “That’s something we’re going to be looking into, Mr. Gaynor. But right now, I need to get a sense of when things happened.”

A timeline, the detective was thinking. He needed to get a timeline. “When did you last speak with your wife? When you left for work this morning?”

“No, it was yesterday.”

“Sunday?”

“That’s right. I’ve been out of town. On business.”

“Where were you?”

“I was in Boston. Since Thursday.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I . . . I was at a meeting at our head office. I’m in insurance. Neponset Insurance. I spend a lot of time there. Sometimes Rose comes—would come with me. Before we had Matthew. If I was going to be there for a while.”

“Where did you stay?” Duckworth asked, scribbling in his notebook.

“The Marriott Long Wharf. That’s where they always put me up. Why does this matter?”

“I need to get a full picture, Mr. Gaynor.” Duckworth was thinking that before he walked out of this house, he’d have someone onto the Marriott and Neponset Insurance to check Gaynor’s story. Even though there was nothing so far to suggest Gaynor had murdered his wife, spouses were always high on the suspect list. Boston was only a couple of hours away by car, if you really pushed it. The man could have left Boston yesterday afternoon, returned home, killed Rosemary Gaynor, then hightailed it back to the city, pretending to have been there the whole time.

It seemed unlikely to Duckworth, but if he didn’t check it out, it would always remain a possibility.

He asked, “When did you leave Promise Falls for Boston?”

“Like I said, Thursday. Very early, so I could be there by ten. We finished up this series of meetings last night, but I was too tired to drive home then, so I decided to get up early this morning. I was calling Rose all the way home. The house phone, her cell. She wasn’t answering.”

“But you talked to her yesterday. On Sunday.”

The man nodded. “Around two? There was a lunch. We had a keynote speaker, a funny motivational talk. When that was over, I had a few minutes before the next session I had to attend, so I called Rose on my cell.”

“And you reached her.”

He nodded.

“What did you talk about?”

“Nothing, really. I told her I missed her. I asked how Matthew was. I told her I’d probably drive home in the morning, but if I decided to come back that night I’d call and let her know.”

“So you didn’t call her again?”

“Not till I was on my way this morning.” He bit his lip. “I should have come home last night. Why the hell didn’t I just come back then? I could have been here, could have stopped this from happening.”

“We’ll know more as the investigation proceeds, Mr. Gaynor, but it appears this attack happened yesterday afternoon. Coming home last night . . . it’s unlikely it would have made any difference.”

Bill Gaynor closed his eyes and breathed in slowly.

“I noticed you have a security system,” Duckworth said.

He opened his eyes. “Yes. But Rose only turned it on at night when she went to bed. She didn’t have it on through the day. Every time she’d go out, to go to the store, or take Matthew for a walk in his stroller, she’d have to disengage it before she opened the door. So she only put it on at night.”

“Okay. What about just locking it?”

A fast nod. “That she almost always did. She’d turn the dead bolt every time she came back in the house.”

“What about friends? Did your wife belong to any clubs? Like a university women’s club or a gym? Anything like that?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head.

“And I have to ask, Mr. Gaynor, whether it’s possible there could have been anyone else.”

“Anyone else?”

Duckworth said nothing, just let the question sink in.

“Oh, no, God. I mean, we were devoted to each other, and she just had a baby. She’s hardly— That’s a terrible thing to ask.”

“I’m sorry. Any kind of trouble with the law?”

“Are you serious? Of course not. Okay, she got a speeding ticket a week or so ago, but I’d hardly call that being in trouble with the law.”

“Nor would I,” Duckworth said gently. “Do you have family in town?”

“No. We don’t really have any extended family at all. I was an only child and my parents passed away when I was in my teens. And Rose, she did have an older sister, but she died years ago.”

“How’d that happen?”

“Horseback riding. She fell off a horse and broke her neck.”

Duckworth winced. “Parents?”

“Like me, Rose’s mother and father passed away fairly early. I think she lost her mother when she was nineteen, and her father when she was twenty-two.”

“So there’s no parents, in-laws, who might have keys to the house.”

“No, just Sarita.”

“Who’s Sarita?”

“The nanny. I don’t know where she is. She should be here. I’m pretty sure this is the day she comes in the morning.”

“What’s Sarita’s last name?”

Gaynor’s mouth opened but nothing came out.

“Her name?” Duckworth repeated.

“I don’t . . . I don’t think I’ve ever known Sarita’s last name. Rose, she took care of that end of things.” His face reddened with embarrassment. “I know I should know this.”

“That’s okay,” Duckworth said, keeping his disapproval to himself. “But what can you tell me about her?”

“When we had Matthew, I thought it would be a good idea for Rose to have some help. She’s had . . . health problems over the years. So if we had someone come in a few times a week to help out . . . Sarita isn’t exactly a nanny, although she’s got training and has worked with children. But even if she could be here just to spell Rose. Give her a chance to get out of the house. Do some shopping without having to lug Matthew and the car seat and all that. Plus, Sarita helped out with other things. Cleaning, getting the laundry caught up. Cooking. That kind of thing. All before she headed off, if she had a shift.”

“A shift?” Duckworth asked.

“Yeah. She pulled a few shifts at a nursing home or a hospital or something. I don’t know exactly what it was.”

“How did you find Sarita? To hire her?”

“It wasn’t me who did it. I told Rose I thought it’d be a good idea for her to have help, but she did the actual looking. I think she saw an ad online somewhere; there was a phone number. She called and Sarita came out for an interview and Rose liked her and that was that.”

“And you’re sure you don’t know her last name.”

Gaynor shook his head.

Duckworth was thinking that Rosemary Gaynor would probably have a number for the nanny in the contacts in her phone. Failing that, it would probably be written down somewhere. Then he had another thought.

“How’s Sarita paid? You must have some canceled checks. There’ll be a name on those.”

“It was . . . cash,” he said. “We always pay Sarita in cash. She’s not, strictly speaking . . . I’m not sure whether Sarita is here legally.”

“Okay. Where’s she from?”

“I didn’t even think people from Mexico came this far north, but she might be from there. Or she might be from the Philippines. She doesn’t look really, you know, that foreign, like maybe one of her parents was an American. Like, a white American.”

Duckworth said nothing, made a note.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure about this. Does it matter where she’s from? I mean, you’ve got that insane woman who had Matthew. That’s who you need to be talking to.”

Duckworth said, “Can you excuse me for five seconds?”

He left the dining room, waved over Officer Gilchrist. “Find out where Marla Pickens lives and seal that house off. No one gets in. Right now.”

“Got it,” he said.

Duckworth went back to his living room chair. Gaynor had a cell phone in his hand. He wasn’t making a call or checking mail. He was simply staring at it.

“I feel like I should be calling someone,” he said. “But I can’t think who.”

“Let’s get back to Sarita. You say she should have been here today. Is that right?”

“Yes. I’m certain this is her morning to come. And yesterday. She was supposed to be here yesterday.”

“Okay,” Duckworth said. “If she’s supposed to be here, and she isn’t, that raises a couple of possibilities, Mr. Gaynor. One is that she may have something to do with this, or know something about what happened here. And . . .” Duckworth hesitated a moment. “And it may mean that she’s in some kind of trouble herself.”

Bill Gaynor blinked. “Oh, my God. This Marla woman didn’t just kill Rose. She’s killed Sarita, too, hasn’t she?”

THIRTEEN

David

I’D
put Marla back in my car, up front in the passenger seat. I got behind the wheel, but we weren’t going anywhere. Officer Gilchrist had ordered me to surrender my keys earlier, and then he was back asking to see Marla’s driver’s license, as if he wanted to know where she lived. He got on his radio to pass along some information, then kept watch on us to make sure we didn’t leave the scene. Agnes had gone down the street, to where they’d strung the police tape, to watch for lawyer Natalie Bondurant.

“Remember coming up to the cabin?” Marla asked. The question came out of nowhere.

“Wow, that was a long time ago,” I said. “I only went up half a dozen times, when I was sixteen or seventeen? Eighteen maybe?”

Marla was referring to a place her parents owned on Lake George, barely an hour’s drive north of Promise Falls. And to call it a cabin was to do the place a disservice. It was a beautiful home. The property had been in Gill Pickens’s family for several generations, and long ago there had been a simple cabin and an outhouse on the site. Gill’s parents tore it down and built a house in its place, but it never stopped being called “the cabin.”

Back when Agnes and my mother were getting along better than they were now, my family was invited up there for a few weekends. I swam and waterskied and went searching up and down the lake in Gill’s boat for teenage girls. Marla was a little kid then, probably six or seven.

“I had a crush on you,” she said quietly, looking down into her lap.

“What?”

“I mean, even though you were my cousin, and, like, ten years older, I really liked you. Don’t you remember me following you around all the time?”

“You were my shadow,” I said. “I remember anytime I wanted to go anywhere, you wanted to go with me.”

She smiled weakly. “Remember that time I found you? With what’s-her-name?”

I cocked my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“In the boathouse. I went in there and caught you making out with that girl. I think her name was Zenia or something. You had your hand right under her shirt.”

“Yeah, I remember that. I begged you not to tell anyone.”

Marla nodded. “I made you take me to the marina, in Dad’s boat, and get me something at the snack bar. I was bought off for the price of a milk shake.”

I shot her a smile. “Yeah. I remember that, too.”

“I should have asked for more, considering what I’d end up doing for you later.”

“What?” I asked.

“That same summer?”

“I don’t . . . I don’t think I know what you’re referring to.”

She waved a hand, dismissed it. “All my memories of the cabin used to be good. It was my happy place, you know? But I don’t think I can ever go back there.” She went silent for several seconds, then said, “That’s where I lost her, you know. Where I lost Agatha.”

“Agatha,” I repeated.

“That’s what I would have named her. I had a name all picked out. Agatha Beatrice Pickens. A mouthful, I know.” Her eyes, which hadn’t had much of a break from crying in the last couple of hours, moistened yet again.

“I didn’t know it happened up there,” I said.

“There was this outbreak at the hospital then,
C. diff
or whatever they call it, and Mom was worried about me having the baby there. Although she didn’t want anyone to know she was choosing to keep her own daughter out of the hospital. She knew how that would play, sending me elsewhere at the same time she was telling the press that the hospital was perfectly safe, that all precautions were being taken. But she was trained as a nurse and was a midwife for a while years ago—you knew that, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So she said she could look after me as well as anybody could. Although she didn’t want to take too many chances, so she got Dr. Sturgess to help out. So they got me all set up at the cabin. I mean, it was a good idea, and it was really nice up there. Relaxing, you know?”

“Sure,” I said.