When the Bough Breaks (37 page)

I got up and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Please don’t do that. It’s not right. I tried to have Otto kill you.” She lifted her face, dry and unlined. “Do you understand that? I wanted him to
kill
you. Now you are being kind and understanding. It makes me feel worse.”

I removed the hand and sat back down.

“Why the need for Otto, why the fear?”

“I thought you were sent by the ones who killed Stuart.”

“The official verdict was that he killed himself.”

She shook her head.

“No. He didn’t commit suicide. They said he was depressed. It was a lie. Of course when he was first arrested, he was very low. Humiliated and guilty. But he bounced out of it. That was Stuart’s way. He could block out reality as easily as exposing a roll of film. Poof, and the
image is gone. The day before he was arraigned we spoke on the phone. He was in high spirits. To hear him talk, the arrest was the best thing that ever happened to him—to us. He’d been ill, now he would get help. We’d start all over again, as soon as he got out of the hospital. I could even get another school, in another city. He suggested Seattle and talked of our reclaiming the family mansion—that was how I got the idea to come here.

“I knew it would never happen. By then I’d decided to leave him. But I went along with the fantasies, saying, yes, dear, certainly, Stuart. Later we had other conversations and it was the same thing. Life was going to be better than ever. He was not talking like a man about to blow his brains out.”

“It’s not that simple. People often kill themselves right after an upswing in mood. The suicide season is spring, you know.”

“Perhaps. But I know Stuart and I know he didn’t kill himself. He was too shallow to let something like the arrest bother him for a long time. He could deny anything. He denied me for all those years, denied our marriage—that’s why he could do those things without my knowing about them. We were strangers.”

“But you know him well enough to be sure he didn’t commit suicide.”

“Yes,” she insisted. “That story about the false phone call to you, the picked locks. That kind of scheming isn’t—wasn’t Stuart. For all his sickness he was naïve, almost simple. He wasn’t a planner.”

“It took planning to get those children down in the cellar.”

“You don’t have to believe me. I don’t care. He’s done his damage. Now he’s dead. And I’m in a cellar of my own.”

Her smile was pitiful.

The lamp sputtered. She got up to adjust the wick and add more kerosene. When she sat back down I asked her: “Who killed him and why?”

“The others. His so-called friends. So he wouldn’t expose them. And he would have. During our last visits he’d hint around. Say things like, ‘I’m not the only sick one, Kimmy’ or ‘Things aren’t what they seem with the Gentlemen.’ I knew he wanted me to ask him, to help him spill it out. But I didn’t. I was still in shock over losing the school, wrapped in my own shame. I didn’t want to hear about more perversions. I cut him off, changed the subject. But after he died it came back to me and I put it all together.”

“Did he mention anyone by name as being sick?”

“No. But what else could he have meant? They’d come to pick him up, parking their big soft cars in the driveway, dressed in those sport jackets with the Casa insignia. When he’d leave with them he’d be excited. His hands trembling. He’d come back in the early hours of
the morning, exhausted. Or the next day. Isn’t it obvious what they were doing?”

“You haven’t told anyone of your suspicions?”

“Who would believe me? Those men are powerful—doctors, lawyers, executives, that horrid little Judge Hayden. I wouldn’t stand a chance, the wife of a molester. To the public I’m as guilty as Stuart. And there’s no evidence—look what they did to him to shut him up. I had to run.”

“Did Stuart ever mention knowing McCaffrey from Washington?”

“No. Did he?”

“Yes. What about a child named Cary Nemeth. Did his name come up?”

“No.”

“Elena Gutierrez? Morton Handler—Doctor Morton Handler?”

“No.”

“Maurice Bruno?”

She shook her head. “No. Who are these people?”

“Victims.”

“Violated like the others?”

“The ultimate violation. Dead. Murdered.”

“Oh my God.” She put her hands to her face.

Telling her story had made her sweat. Strands of black hair stuck to her forehead. “So it continues,” she said mournfully.

“That’s why I’m here. To put an end to it. What else can you tell me that would help?”

“Nothing. I’ve told you everything. They killed him. They’re evil men, hiding their ugly secret under a cloak of respectability. I ran to escape them.”

I looked around the dingy room.

“How long can you continue this way?”

“Forever, if no one gives me away. The island is secluded, this property is hidden. When I have to go to the mainland to shop I dress like a cleaning maid. No one notices me. I stockpile as much as possible to avoid making too many trips. The last one was over a month ago. I live simply. The flowers are my one extravagance. I planted them from seed packets and bulbs. They occupy my time, with watering, feeding, pruning, re-potting. The days go by quickly.”

“How safe can you be—Towle and Hayden have roots here.”

“I know. But their families haven’t lived here for a generation. I checked. I even went by their old homes. There are new faces, new names. There’s no reason for them to look for me here. Not unless you give them one.”

“I won’t.”

“On my next trip I’ll buy a gun. I’ll be prepared for them if they
come. I’ll escape and go somewhere else. I’m used to it. The memory of Seoul returns in my dreams. It keeps me watchful. I’m sorry to hear about the other murders, but I don’t want to know about them. There’s nothing that I can do.”

I got up and she helped me on with my jacket.

“The funny thing is,” she said, “this estate probably belongs to me. As does the Brentwood property and the rest of the Hickle fortune. I’m Stuart’s sole heir—we wrote our wills several years ago. He never discussed finances with me so I don’t know how much he left, but it has to be considerable. There were bearer bonds, other pieces of real estate all up and down the coast. In theory I’m a rich woman. Do I look it?”

“There’s no way to get in touch with the executors of his will?”

“The executor is a partner in Edwin Hayden’s law firm. For all I know he’s one of
them
. I can do without wealth when all it means is a fancy funeral.”

She used her chair to climb out of the window. I followed her. We walked in the direction of the big, black house.

“You worked with the children from my school. How are they doing?”

“Very well. The prognosis is good. They’re amazingly resilient.”

“That’s good.”

A few steps later:

“And the parents—did they hate me?”

“Some. Others were surprisingly loyal and defended you. It created a schism in the group. They worked it out.”

“I’m glad. I think about them often.”

She accompanied me to the edge of the swamp that fronted the mansion.

“I’ll let you go the rest of the way by yourself. How does the arm feel?”

“Stiff, but nothing serious. I’ll survive.”

I held out my hand and she took it.

“Good luck,” she said.

“Same to you.”

I walked through weeds and mud, chilled and tired. When I turned around to look she was gone.

I stayed in the ferry’s dining room drinking coffee for much of the return trip to the mainland, going over what I’d learned. When I got back to the hotel I called Milo at the station, was told he wasn’t there and tried his home number. Rick Silverman answered.

“Hi, Alex. There’s static. Is this long distance?”

“It is. Seattle. Is Milo back yet?”

“No. I expect him tomorrow. He went to Mexico on a supposed vacation but it sounds like work to me.”

“It is. He’s looking into the background of a guy named McCaffrey.”

“I know. The minister with the children’s home. He said you turned him on to it.”

“I may have sparked his interest but when I spoke to him about it he brushed me off. Did he mention what led him to make the trip?”

“Let me see—I recall his saying he phoned the police down there—it’s some small town, I forget the name—and they jerked him around. They implied they had something juicy for him but that he’d have to come up with some bucks to get it. It surprised me—I thought cops cooperated with each other—but he said that’s the way they always are.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. He invited me to come along but it didn’t work out well with my schedule—I had a twenty-four-hour shift coming up and it would have required too much trading with the other guys.”

“Have you heard from him since he left?”

“Just a postcard from the airport at Guadalajara. An old peasant pulling a burro next to a Saguaro cactus that looked plastic. Very classy stuff. He wrote ‘Wish you were here’ on it.”

I laughed.

“If he does call, tell him to give me a ring. I’ve got some more information for him.”

“Will do. Anything specific?”

“No. Just have him call.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks. Look forward to meeting you some day, Rick.”

“Likewise. Maybe when he gets back and wraps things up.”

“Sounds good.”

I got out of my clothes and examined the arm. There was some oozing, but nothing bad. Kim Hickle had done a good patchup job. I did a half-hour of limbering exercises and a bit of karate, then soaked in a hot bath for forty-five minutes while reading the throwaway guide to Seattle the hotel had furnished.

I called Robin, got no answer, dressed and went for dinner. I remembered a place from my previous visit, a cedar-paneled room overlooking Lake Union, where they barbecued salmon over alder wood. I found it, using my memory and a map, arrived early enough to get a table with a view, and proceeded to put away a large salad with Roquefort, a beautiful coral-colored chinook filet, potatoes, beans, a basket of hot cornbread and two Coors. I topped it off with homemade blackberry ice cream and coffee and, with a full belly, watched the sun go down over the lake.

I browsed a couple of bookstores in the University District, found nothing exciting or uplifting, and drove back to the hotel. There was an Oriental imports shop in the lobby, still open. I went in, bought a green cloisonné necklace for Robin and rode the elevator back up to my room. At nine I called her again. This time she answered.

“Alex! I was hoping it was you.”

“How are you, doll? I called you a couple of hours ago.”

“I went out for dinner. By my lonesome. Ate an omelette in a corner of the Cafe Pelican all by myself. Isn’t that a pathetic image?”

“I supped alone, too, my lady.”

“How sad. Come home soon, Alex. I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

“Was the trip productive?”

“Very.” I filled her in on the details, careful to exclude my encounter with Otto.

“You’re really on to something. Don’t you feel strange, uncovering all those secrets?”

“Not really, but I’m not looking at it from the outside.”

“I am, and believe me, it’s freaky, Alex. I’ll just be glad when Milo gets back and he can take over.”

“Yes. How are things going with you?”

“Nothing nearly as exciting. One thing new. This morning I got a call from the head of a new feminist group—it’s a kind of a women’s chamber of commerce. I fixed this woman’s banjo, she came down to pick it up and we got to talking. This was a couple of months ago. Anyway, she called and invited me to give a lecture to their group next week. The topic’s something like The Female Artisan in Contemporary Society subtitle Creativity Meets the Business World.”

“That’s fantastic. I’ll be sure to be there listening if they let me in.”

“Don’t you dare! I’m scared enough as it is. Alex, I’ve never given a speech before—I’m absolutely petrified.”

“Don’t worry. You know what you’re talking about, you’re bright and articulate, they’ll love you.”

“So you say.”

“So I say. Listen, if you’re really nervous I’ll do a little hypnosis with you. To help you relax. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

“You think hypnosis will help?”

“Sure. With your imagination and creativity you’ll be a terrific subject.”

“I’ve heard you talk about it, how you used to do it with patients, but I never thought of asking you to do it with me.”

“Usually, darling, we find other ways to occupy our time together.”

“Hypnosis,” she said. “Now I’ve got something else to worry about.”

“Don’t worry. It’s harmless.”

“Totally?”

“Yes. Totally, in your case. The only time you run into a problem is when the subject has major emotional conflicts or deep-seated problems. In those cases hypnosis can dredge up primal memories. You get a stress reaction, some terror. But even that can be helpful. The trained psychotherapist uses the anxiety constructively, to help the patient work it through.”

“And that couldn’t happen to me?”

“Certainly not. I guarantee it. You’re the most normal person I’ve ever met.”

“Ha. You’ve been retired too long!”

“I challenge you to come up with one single symptom of psychopathology.”

“How about extreme horniness, hearing your voice and wanting to be able to touch you and grab you and put you in me?”

“Hmmm. Sounds serious.”

“Then come on back and do something about it, Doctor.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow. Treatment will commence immediately.”

“What time?”

“The plane lands at ten—a half-hour after that.”

“Damn, I forgot—I have to go to Santa Barbara tomorrow morning. My aunt’s sick, in the ICU at Cottage Hospital. It’s a family thing, I have to be there. If you came in earlier we could have breakfast before I leave.”

“I’m taking the earliest flight, hon.”

“I suppose I could postpone it, show up later.”

“Visit your aunt. We’ll have dinner.”

“It might be a late dinner.”

“Drive straight to my place and we’ll take it from there.”

“All right. I’ll try to make it by eight.”