Stony River (41 page)

“I didn't see it. What's up?”

Rose crossed to a square coffee table in front of a leather couch and picked up the
Elizabeth Daily Journal
. “Terrible thing,” she said. “Such a pretty girl.”

Betty scanned the article and sagged like an empty sack. The body of a girl the same age as Linda had been discovered in a pine grove by a couple walking their dog.

“From Avenel,” Rose said. “Practically next door. What gets me is the parents reported her missing over a month ago and the police did doodly-squat. They assumed she ran away.”

Betty sat at her desk for a few minutes after Rose left, thinking about Linda at home right now by herself. Roger would still be at work. Betty punched the outside line and insisted Madge put him through right away. She told him about the girl from Avenel and was surprised he'd seen the story but hadn't mentioned it when he called her that morning.

“I didn't think we knew the family,” he said. “Do we?”

“No, but I don't like the idea of Linda alone while a maniac's on the loose.” The girl had died of knife wounds and, judging from the state of her body, the police figured she was already dead by the time her parents reported her missing. “Can you go to the house right now and stay with her until I get home?” Roger ordinarily didn't stop by until after dinner.

“I can, but why the panic? The girl was killed a month ago.”

“I know, but the story came out today. They were probably talking about it at school. Linda could be scared silly right now with neither of us to talk to.”

“Ah, okay. I'll wrap things up here.”

“The paper says her parents had no idea how she'd ended up in those woods. Linda could have been missing all the time we were in Boston and we wouldn't have known.”

“We called her every day,” he said. “And a number of folks were keeping an eye on her. We would have known pretty quickly.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Betty had wanted her to come with them. Linda wanted to stay with Arlene but Roger had said nothing doing. He'd suggested his place with Mrs. Ernst. Linda cried, said they never trusted her and begged to stay home alone. In the end, guilt about what they'd put Linda through in the past year and her accusation that they were overprotecting her led them to give in.

“Try to calm down. You know how anxiety affects you.”

No, she didn't. Unable to find a reason for Betty's pain, the so-called experts in Boston had tried to buffalo her with mumbo jumbo. Considering that both the uterus and appendix cut from her had turned out healthy, they said they couldn't rule out “hysterical neurosis.” More judgment than diagnosis if you asked Betty, but of course nobody did.

“I'm calm,” she said. “I just think we should make sure one of us is with her at all times when she's not in school.” If Linda ever did go missing, the police might assume she'd run away like that ragamuffin Tereza had.

“How are we going to do that?”

“I'll have her come to Lou's office right from school the days I work. You can pick her up here, take her home and stay with her until I get off work.”

“You could stop working.”

It was hard to put a foot in a closed mouth. Betty counted to five before saying, “Two days a week is all I ask for. They matter to me.” They'd talked about it in Boston over dinner one night. Betty had been touched by the way Roger truly listened. “You said you understood.”

He sighed. “Yes, I did, and I do.” She could hear him shuffling papers. “I'll leave now and drive to the house. And of course I'll pick her up at Lou's on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“That would be swell. Could you talk to her, too? Make sure she knows what to do if she comes across a thug. The police
taught you judo or something, didn't they?” The only advice Betty's father ever had for her was “Never corner something meaner than you.”

Roger sniffed out a laugh. “I learned a few self-defense moves. Good thing I never had to use them. Probably would have made matters worse. But sure, I'll talk to her.”

“Let me know how you think she is when you do. She's been secretive for weeks. I think she's hiding cookies in her room. I'll bet she's put on a good ten pounds since we got back.”

“I thought you were worried about her safety, not her weight.”

“I am, but she doesn't eat right when something's bothering her.”

Betty heard Roger's briefcase snap.

“She
has
looked tearful lately,” he said. “I'll see what I can find out. Do you want me to pick you up tonight? Linda can come with me.”

“No, I like taking the bus.” She often pretended it was headed for Kansas.

“Hey, listen, why don't I move back home? It would be easier to work out a schedule.”

Betty felt herself teetering on the edge of a tall building. If she didn't look down she'd be okay. She counted to five and said, “I suppose we could talk about it.”

YOU COULDN'T
turn on the TV or walk past a newsstand without seeing a picture of that dead girl. The women who came into Herman's were spooked. They chittered like birds warning each other about a cat stealing up on a nest. Tereza thought the girl was pretty stupid to have gotten herself killed, but Buddy said she and Dearie should be on the lookout for weirdos at bus stops.

“If anybody grabs you from behind,” he said, “raise your leg and he'll fall over.”

Tereza snorted and said, “I'll tell him I have cooties.” Buddy didn't think that was funny.

NOVEMBER 16, 1958
. Enzo calls Doris periodically to say there's no progress on Bill's case but never asks to speak with Miranda. Now doesn't he suddenly appear at the front door for the first time in nearly a year against a backdrop of falling leaves aswirl in a Mary Poppins wind. He looks monochromatically officious in gray overcoat and black fedora, carrying a black briefcase.

“Doris is at work,” Miranda says.

“I know. I came to see you.” He claps a hand on his hat to hold it down.

“I have chores to finish before Mickey and I collect Cian from nursery school.”

“Cian's in nursery school?” From his expression, you would have thought she'd told him the lad had been on the cow's back when it jumped over the moon.

“Why wouldn't he be? He's old enough. Four years and nine months, to be precise.” To admit him to the school, Miranda had to swear out a birth affidavit and get it notarized. Provide a father's name. She accepts at last that it's James and wonders how she'll explain it to Cian when the time comes. So far he hasn't asked, perhaps because he lives with two mothers.

“I thought with his, you know, problem, you might hold him back a year or two.”

“And not be ready for kindergarten? Be the oldest child in class as I was?” Miranda's words spill out with an intensity that surprises her. “I'll have you know he met the criteria to get in. He can count
to eight, bounce a ball and pull up his zipper. He doesn't have as many words as some his age but he's exceptional at one requirement: listening to stories without interrupting.”

“That I don't doubt. All those story hours. It's wonderful, Miranda, I truly mean that.”

Enzo sounds genuine. She softens to him. She tells him that Doris worked with Cian evenings, teaching him to count, recognize certain words and manage the toilet on his own—“Good shot, Cian!” Miranda used Doris's button box to help him learn to sort by color, size and shape, and she's saturated his brain with cod liver oil, spinach, canned sardines, turnips and walnuts.

Enzo leans forward as if Miranda's words are the most important ever uttered. A habit of his she misread once. She knows now he is simply conscientious at his job. Pride keeps her from telling him that some children in the neighborhood call Cian “pinhead.” Carolyn shakes her little fists at them and says, “Get lost!” Cian has always looked adoringly at Carolyn; now he loves her even more. Miranda doesn't think she's jealous, but lately she's been finding Carolyn annoying: the constant nattering, the perfectly straight hair like Bill's, the teeth so big for her face she looks always about to break into laughter.

“How are you?” Enzo asks. “You look good. That color suits you.” She's wearing dungarees and a pearl-necked sweater in a shade called persimmon.

“I'm well.”

“I mean, how's your life? Are you happy?”

Why does he care? She looks at him for a moment, pondering the question. One might be able to say she's lived happily ever after St. Bernadette's, after James. But she doesn't know what chapter her life is in right now and where this restless yearning she's experiencing will lead. She needs more practice with herbal remedies, but Doris will have none of her special brews. She's read about drugs made
from plant extracts and borrows books about botany and pharmacology from the public library. She'll try to learn more once all three children are in school full-time. She hasn't lost all interest in studying library science. But, with James's blood swimming in her, it's unlikely she'll ever be anything as normal as a librarian.

“My days are busy,” she tells Enzo. And they are, making the children breakfast, walking Cian and Carolyn to their different schools, playing school with Mickey because he feels left out, fixing his mid-morning snack, doing a load of laundry, collecting Cian from nursery school, making him and Mickey lunch, reading to them, extracting something from the freezer for dinner, greeting Carolyn when she gets home from school, making her a snack, sweeping up and picking up. But for the lack of a husband, hers is a housewife's reality and it doesn't satisfy her.

“You're letting the heat out,” Enzo says. “May I step in for a minute?”

She admits him but remains standing in the hallway. He removes his hat. His close-cropped hair is grayer than she remembers but vitality infuses the light surrounding him.

She shuts the door behind him. “Why are you here?”

“I need your help with a case that has the Woodbridge police stumped. An Avenel girl was stabbed to death late in the summer. Barbara Pickens. You might've heard about it; it was in the papers for weeks after they found her body.”

“Yes, of course.” Doris had been concerned, insisting that Miranda lock the doors at all times and urging her to not speak to strangers.

“I don't want to remind you of too many details,” Enzo continues. “I don't want to influence what you might see.”

Such presumption. “I haven't tried to see things in a while.” If “reading” objects is no longer needed to safeguard a child who isn't divine, why willingly take in another's pain? It seems to make no difference. Murderers and their victims eventually all end up the
same: extinguished like candles. There are no saints in Heaven powerful enough to intercede.

“Did you ever consider you might have been chosen for crime work?”

She laughs at his artifice. “By whom?” “Please. Without you, we wouldn't have thought to look for bloodstains from a second person or a connection to an artist or draftsman.” Holding the bullet that killed Nolan, Miranda had seen a slim back bent over a slanted table making bold strokes with a pencil.

“And what good has that done?”

“It'll pay off eventually, I'm sure of it.”

“Why do you care about this case if it isn't yours?”

“Cops help each other. You never know, another detective might come across something that solves Bill's case someday.” He gives an embarrassed laugh. “Also, to be honest, Stony River gets mostly bicycle thefts and bad checks. It's a chance to put what I studied into practice.”

A soldier with no war, a healer with no sick.

Enzo sets his briefcase on the floor gently, almost reverently. He removes his coat and folds it over his arm. “This girl, this Barbara,” he says. “She was only fifteen, a good girl, from all accounts. She sang in the choir, did modern dance in school. Talented, you know? Now she's gone and whoever killed her could be getting ready to kill again.”