Cast a Blue Shadow (6 page)

“It’s Saturday,” Sally complained.

Robertson didn’t answer her. Pouting, she got up and headed for the stairs to the second floor.

“No, you don’t, young lady,” Robertson said.

“I need to change,” Sally said wearily.

“You sit here and drink coffee,” Robertson said. “I’ve got a lot of house to go through, and I’ll let you know when you can get back up to your bedroom.”

“Just what do you expect me to do for clothes, Sheriff?”

“Your room is being used to question Jenny Radcliffe.”

“Jenny had nothing to do with this,” Sally said.

“Then you won’t mind if I talk with her next,” Robertson countered.

BEFORE the interview with Jenny Radcliffe, Professor Branden stepped into the pantry adjoining the kitchen and used his cell phone to call Evelyn Carson’s office. He inquired first about Martha Lehman, learned there had been little change, and then said, “Call Cal Troyer, Caroline. She’s been attending his church lately.”

“Let me try to ask her about that,” Caroline said, and muted the phone. Back on, she said, “I still get no reaction, Michael.”

Branden frowned and scratched nervously at the back of his head. “I still don’t know what we’ve got out here at the Favors’ place. Isn’t she talking at all?”

“She’s come around some. Recognizes where she is, I think, but she is definitely not talking.”

“Does she nod her head? Anything like that?”

“She just stares at Evelyn. Tracks her with her eyes, wherever she goes.”

11

Saturday, November 2 8:35 A.M.

BRANDEN followed Robertson up the rear staircase to the second-floor vestibule at the back of the house. At the west end, Robertson turned left and opened a door to Sally Favor’s bedroom. Inside, Branden and Robertson found Jenny Radcliffe seated on the edge of a four-poster bed, wearing blue silk pajamas, and wrapped at the waist in an ornate Amish comforter. Daniel Bliss stood beside her, offering coffee on a silver tray with a delicate porcelain creamer and sugar jar. Bliss looked sideways at the sheriff, and stayed bent at the waist, while Jenny lifted a cup and saucer with trembling fingers. When he straightened up, Bliss said, “Don’t worry. I’m going back downstairs now, Sheriff.”

A deputy had been standing inside the door, and to him Robertson said, “Deputy, escort Mr. Bliss to the kitchen, and see that he stays there.”

Daniel left with an unflustered slowness, the deputy following.

Robertson took to pacing a small circle on the carpet in front of Jenny’s bed and signaled with a sweep of his eyes that Branden should have a look around the room. Without touching anything, Branden studied a low vanity strewn with champagne bottles and cigarette butts in several ashtrays. He pointed out two small, blackened pipes to Robertson and then opened a door opposite to the one they had entered. This let out into a hallway, and directly across was an opened door to the master bedroom. Branden nodded across the hall to Coroner Melissa Taggert, who was bent over at the head of the bed, examining the back of Juliet Favor’s skull.

Robertson pulled up a small metal makeup chair from the vanity, turned it backward in front of Jenny, and straddled it. He watched her blow on her coffee and asked, “What can you tell me about last night?”

Radcliffe said nothing. She brushed curly brown hair out of her eyes and sipped coffee, gazing morosely down.

“There must have been a lot of blood, Jenny,” Robertson said. “We’re gonna find out how you two cleaned it all up.”

Nothing from Radcliffe.

“You did a poor job of it, anyways,” Robertson continued. “There were obvious signs of blood when we tested the foyer floor. You’ve surely gotten some of it on you, too. We can type-test and get a DNA profile from even the slightest trace. They call that the Polymerase Chain Reaction, or the PCR. Now I couldn’t tell you for a minute what that means, but if you left even the minutest trace, we’ve got you. Both of you.”

Jenny looked contemptuously at Robertson and then stared at the cup and saucer resting in her lap.

“How did you get her upstairs?” Robertson pressed, a little more sternly. “There’s a blood trail up the steps and into the master bedroom.”

A vacant stare from Radcliffe.

Slowly, Robertson got up from the chair. Reaching around to his hip pocket, he took out a wad of little plastic evidence bags, and at the vanity, he scooped the two pipes into one of them. Back in front of Jenny Radcliffe, he held up the pipes and said, “Get dressed. You’re going into town.”

When Branden joined him out in the back hall, the sheriff whispered, “Sonny Favor has already told us that Sally and her mom had a fight on the parlor carpet last night because Sally is a lesbian. The way Favor’s head is cracked open, looks like they had another fight later, on or near the grand staircase. That leaves hauling her back up to bed and cleaning up the foyer floor.”

“You’re checking for blood in the sinks, and bloody rags? That sort of thing?” Branden asked.

“Yep. Clothes and such in the house, and all over the grounds outside.”

“You haven’t gotten anything from either Jenny or Sally yet?”

“Just like what you heard, Mike. But it’s Sonny who’s been talking. A regular little gabber, that one, so far. I can pretty much tell you everything that happened here last night, and the butler’s right. A good twenty people have motive. But the girls are lesbians, and Juliet Favor spat acid over that last night, from what Sonny has said.”

“At best, Bruce, Sonny Favor is a confused and frightened kid,” Branden said. “I ought to know, since I’m his academic adviser. Whatever you’re getting from him will be shaky.”

“He’s just a freshman. How you gonna know a kid that well, this soon?”

“He’s in my seminar class.”

“Great! Liberal indoctrination! You guys don’t trust kids to do college work until they’ve had your propaganda course.”

“You know very well that the purpose of the Freshman Readings is to help get them adjusted to college-level expectations, while letting at least one professor get to know them well as their adviser.”

“Whatever you say, Mike, but I’ve read your list of Freshman Readings topics, and you guys gotta be somewhere left of Mao or something.”

“Not everyone, Bruce,” Branden said.

“OK, what’s your topic?”

“The Real Causes of the American Civil War.”

Robertson rolled his eyes.

“Look, Bruce. I just try to get the students thinking from each of the various perspectives. So they’ll realize that historical events are subject to many interpretations.”

“Why? It was slavery that caused the Civil War.”

“It helps them become better thinkers.”

“Whatever.”

“Look, Bruce. It’s really Sonny we’re talking about, and I can tell you that whatever he’s saying this morning, he doesn’t yet really understand what has happened.”

“You’ll have to let me be the judge of that.”

“Let me talk with him, Bruce.”

Robertson studied the professor’s face intently. Frowning, he motioned for Branden to stay put. At the east end of the hall, he poked his head into Sonny Favor’s bedroom and spoke a few sentences to someone inside. Soon, a deputy came out with Captain Dan Wilsher, and the three men whispered at the end of the hall for several minutes. Occasionally, one of them glanced back down the hall at Branden. Wilsher and the deputy then went down the rear staircase, and Robertson motioned Branden into Sonny Favor’s room.

12

Saturday, November 2 8:50 A.M.

BRANDEN entered Sonny Favor’s room ahead of the sheriff and found the boy seated at a computer desk, playing with a flight simulator. Robertson stepped in behind Branden, closed the door, and leaned back against it.

“I think we should talk, Sonny,” Branden said.

Sonny looked back at Branden and returned to his game. Branden watched with growing annoyance as the plane on the screen rocketed up. Sonny rolled the plane over, nosed it down, and let go of the joystick, ignoring the warnings about an imminent crash. The plane hit the ground and exploded, and Sonny sat for a long time with his back to Branden, watching the fireball on the screen. When he stood up, he went straight to a wooden box at the foot of his bed, took out a baseball and glove, and repeatedly snapped the ball into the pocket of the glove, saying, “They shouldn’t leave her bloody like that. When are they going to clean her up?”

Branden shrugged and watched the ball.

Sonny faced the wall next to the door, where Robertson had leaned casually back, and bounced the baseball onto the hardwood floor, against the wall, and back into his glove. He repeated this half a dozen times and then drew back and hurled the ball at Robertson’s head.

Robertson ducked the missile, and it bounced back and crashed into a plastic model airplane on a shelf on the other side of the bed.

“Not a good idea, Sonny!” Branden shot.

“I want out of this house!” Sonny shouted.

“Is he under arrest?” Branden asked Robertson.

“No.”

“Is there any reason he can’t leave?”

“I still need to talk to him,” Robertson said, eyes fixed on Sonny.

“I don’t want to talk anymore,” Sonny barked. “I’ve done nothing but talk all morning.”

“I have one or two questions yet,” Robertson said with forced restraint.

Sonny flopped back onto his bed and waved his arms in the air. “What is it?”

Robertson came forward into the bedroom and took off his suit coat. He folded it carefully and laid it over the back of a reading chair. He walked around the foot of the bed, found the baseball in a corner and dropped it into the glove on Sonny’s left hand. Around on the other side of the bed, the sheriff took a position standing next to the professor, and asked, “When you phoned 911 this morning, Sonny, who else was in the house?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was Bliss here?”

“I used the intercom to try to reach him. No. He didn’t answer.”

“Your sister?”

“I suppose so.”

“You didn’t check?”

“No.”

“Any particular reason?”

“What do you care?”

“You found your mother dead and didn’t check around for your sister?”

“I don’t like her Jenny.”

“You shared that sentiment with your mother, I understand.”

“I told all that to the officer.”

“He’s a captain.”

“If you say so.”

“Did you hear anything last night?”

“I take a pill.”

“But did you hear anything in the night?”

“I take sleeping pills and don’t wake up until five or six.”

“You didn’t call until 6:30.”

“I get headaches.”

“You get headaches, or you wake up with headaches?”

“Wake up with them. Usually by five.”

“How did you find your mother?”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“You’re in the habit of wandering into her bedroom at five in the morning?”

Sonny didn’t reply.

“Where did you find her?” Robertson pressed.

“I don’t know.”

“Sure you do.”

“In bed, I guess. She was dead.”

“How did you know she was dead?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Did you touch her?”

“No.”

“Then how did you know?”

“I watched her, I guess.”

“You stood and watched her? How long?”

“A while. I don’t know. I kind of blacked out.”

“Did you go anywhere else before you called?”

“No.”

“You used the phone in the master bedroom?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’d be a good half-hour that you ‘watched her,’ based on when you called. Could easily have been longer. Were you up by five, or was it six?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sure you do.”

“I just found her, all right!”

“And you just stood there and watched her for half an hour, maybe more.”

“Sure. Maybe. I don’t know for sure.”

“Did you touch anything besides the phone?”

“No.”

“OK. That’s enough for now,” Robertson concluded after a long silence. “I’ll want you to come down to my office later this morning. We’ll all go in together.”

Robertson thought further and asked, “Did you kids have another party here? Last night, after your mother went to bed?”

“No. I told you. I took a pill and went to bed.”

“OK,” Robertson said. “Be ready later this morning.”

Sonny closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I’m going to leave you with Professor Branden,” Robertson added.

“OK, sure,” Sonny said, rubbing his eyes.

Robertson retrieved his suit coat and pulled Branden out into the hall. Quietly he said, “He doesn’t seem too traumatized.”

“He’s tired, Bruce. Probably also in shock.”

“Does he seem normal to you? Kind of passive and frustrated too?”

“Sonny’s not very assertive under the best of circumstances. And he’s easily frustrated. He’s been under enormous pressure from his mother for grades that are, frankly, beyond his capabilities,” Branden said. “I see a lot of kids like that, lately. Let me talk with him a bit.”

Robertson pulled the curtains open on a hallway window, and bright light reflected in off the snow. He shaded his eyes and gazed down at the parking lot behind the house. “I’ve probably got a dozen people to talk to,” he said.

Branden looked down and counted seven vehicles parked at various angles against the snow Daniel had banked with his plow.

“Do you need me to come down to the dining room?” Branden asked. “Your deputies are going to have their hands full.”

Robertson stared down at the cars. “Yeah,” he said. “But give Sonny, there, some attention first.”

13

Saturday, November 2 8:55 A.M.

CAROLINE Branden let herself into Martha Lehman’s third-floor dormitory room using a key from Martha’s purse. The door opened to the central area of a two-bedroom suite smelling strongly of smoke and stale beer. Caroline negotiated a tangle of cans, pizza boxes, overturned chairs, and a battered coffee table to cross the room and pull up the dusty Venetian blinds on a north-facing window. Behind her, someone coughed, and she turned to see a boy with a patchy brown beard and a sleepy girl wriggle out from under a blanket on a sofa against the wall. With their eyes shaded, they muttered and groaned, and the boy said, “Hey, man,” weakly.

The girl stood up and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, leaving the boy on the couch. He sat up grumbling and stood with his back turned to put on a pair of stretched-out jeans.

“Hey, man. What’s with the dawn patrol?” he asked and blinked in the strong light at Caroline.

The girl stepped over the mess on the floor and went into one of two bedrooms.

Caroline took off her coat, looked for a place to lay it down, and folded it over her arm. She said to the boy, “I take it this isn’t your room.”

“Who made you the moral police?” he said.

“I’m Caroline Branden,” she said. “I’ve come to get some of Martha’s things.”

The boy stood in place for a while as his mind cleared. His eyes focused on Caroline slowly, and he said, “You Doc Branden’s wife?”

She nodded.

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry. I didn’t know.”

He disappeared into the bedroom, and Caroline heard first loud and then hushed voices. When the two emerged, they were dressed.

The fellow said, “I hope this isn’t going to be any trouble, Mrs. Branden. I just fell asleep, is all.”

The girl, less intimidated, said, “Dr. Branden is Will’s professor,” and forced a smile.

Will looked sternly at the girl and said, “I was at your home once, Mrs. Branden. I’m Will Bradenton. This is Martha’s roommate, Wendy. I don’t usually stay if Martha is going to be home at night. Crap. This looks bad, I know. But Martha isn’t here.”

“Where do you suppose she is, then?” Caroline asked.

“She usually goes out to the mansion with Sonny Favor,” Wendy explained.

Will began picking up the mess in the room. Wendy lay casually back on the sofa to light a smoke.

Caroline decided not to mention the murder of Juliet Favor. “I’ve only come for some of Martha’s things.”

“That’s her room,” Wendy said, jabbing her cigarette toward the second bedroom door.

“Thanks,” Caroline said.

“Don’t mention it,” Wendy said, obviously annoyed. “Sit down, Will!” she complained. “Mrs. Branden isn’t here to run an inspection.”

“No, indeed,” Caroline said. She picked her way across the room and turned the knob on the door to Martha’s bedroom. Before she opened the door, she turned back to face Will Bradenton. Wendy had moved to the window, where she dropped the blinds with a clatter.

“I’ve heard mention of your name several times at my house, Mr. Bradenton. Regent’s Scholarship, right?”

Will nodded from his position kneeling beside the coffee table. He stood up slowly with several beer cans.

“You’re writing your senior thesis, and my husband is, I think, your Second Reader.”

“Right,” Bradenton said cautiously.

Caroline nodded, paused as if giving that careful thought, and went into Martha’s room.

When she turned on the lights, Caroline found a room as ordered and tidy as the front room was a shambles. The aroma of tobacco and stale booze was replaced by a cool and fresh, pungent citrus smell. The bed was made, and the dresser top was polished. The closet doors were closed, and the floor had been vacuumed to trace a star pattern in the carpet. In addition to the bed and dresser, there was a computer on a small brown desk, a tattered recliner, a floor lamp, and a wastebasket. Surrounding these sparse accommodations, there were, on all the walls, covering every available space from floor to ceiling, both black-and-white and color photographs of Amish scenes.

Caroline turned slowly in the middle of the room and studied the pictures. Many of the shots were of buggies traveling away from the lens. A good twenty photos featured horses, mostly Belgian draft horses, and in several of these, small children were at the reins. On the wall over Martha’s bed, the photos worked on Caroline’s memory to create a curious unease, until she realized they were of places and people she had once known, though not happily. The house and the barns were clearly the ones she remembered from Martha’s adolescence, but they had aged rather badly, falling into shameful disrepair, as if time had been a cruel partner with justice. Of the photographs in this group of people, most had been taken surreptitiously, and faces were uncharacteristically prominent, as if Martha had purposefully violated the subjects’ privacy. Caroline moved about the room and studied other photos of people, and in all these other cases, the lens had been employed to avoid faces and personalities, more in keeping with Amish prohibitions. But the photographs beside her bed would have been considered profane because the individualities had been so uncompromisingly captured there. Here, Caroline thought, given her history with these people, it made sense that Martha would invade and demean, though it was alarming that Martha would have gone back to that part of Holmes County at all.

A cascade of unpleasent memories spilled over Caroline as she stood alone in the room. There could be no sensible reason for Martha to have gone back. And since she had gone back, the motivation to do so, or the perverse allure, must have been strong. After all it had taken to wrestle her free from that repressive society, and after the dramatic conversion to the Mennonite faith her father and mother had made, it seemed senseless for Martha to have risked the encounter that going back would surely produce. And the struggle there had been a long one, Martha’s muteness starting in the first grade. Evelyn Carson had taken years to bring Martha out of the wordlessness, about when Martha’s son had been born.

With growing unease, Caroline’s eyes ran over the faces Martha had captured on film. The older people had changed little in the intervening years. The children she could only guess. But one fellow, though changed, seemed recognizable to her. A man in his twenties, beardless, and apparently happy to have sat for the photo. With a renewed sense of purpose born of disquiet, she turned her attention to the closet.

Into an empty travel bag, she put several dresses, two pairs of jeans, a sweater, and an extra pair of string-tie shoes. At the dresser, she got out black hose, underpants and bras, and two long-sleeved blouses. She put the bag on the bed and stepped back to the closet. Reaching up to the shelves overhead, she took down a heavy camera bag, and carried that to the bed, too. From the photos beside Martha’s bed, Caroline took down the picture of the handsome Amish man in his twenties, smiling clean-shaven from the seat of a hack.

In the bathroom, she found a plastic bucket of toiletries, and this she also carried out to the bed. On going through the contents, she found the box for an Early Pregnancy Test kit. Back in the bathroom, she found a used pregnancy tester in the wastebasket, and her stomach hollowed out like a sinkhole.