An Accidental Woman (37 page)

“Eleven years,” Micah managed to say, though he was startled. He hadn't heard this story. His father hadn't been a talker.

“And we're still listening to him, you and me?” Billy asked. “Well, hell, you're not. You bring me wood. You bring me clothes. You bring me food. And you say I can't help here?”

Micah did all those things. He had a soft spot in his heart for his uncle. Part of it had to do with Billy's daughters, who saw their father as an old man who was backwoods simple and, as such, an embarrassment. Both
women lived in the city and rarely returned. But Micah's soft spot came from personal experience, as well. Billy had taught him much of what he knew—had taught him quietly and gently, behind the back of the big boss, the tough boss, Billy's older brother. Micah could remember laughing with Billy. He had never laughed with his father. Dale Smith had been a stern, impatient man with a need for domination.

Micah had been grateful that the man hadn't talked much, because what he said was dark. He hadn't only been jealous of Billy. He'd been jealous of Micah as well.

And Micah's mother? If Billy had helped make her life more pleasant, then that was something Micah and Billy shared. Perhaps Micah had known of this bond on some unconscious level. Perhaps that explained the pleasure he took in providing for Billy.

Now Billy wanted to do some sugaring. “I didn't say you couldn't help here,” Micah explained.
“He
did. He said it over and over again.”

“Ay-uh. On his deathbed. I did hear that. But he's dead, Micah. This all's yours now, and you'd've done fine if your woman had been here, but she isn't. You've told everyone in town that you don't need help, just like Dale did. Only I know different. You're never gonna get it done in time for first run if you don't let someone help. Well, I'm not just someone. In case you've forgotten, nephew, I've done this before.”

“Not with tubing.”

“So show me. I can learn. You won't find anyone in town more eager for that than me.”

Micah knew he was right. But it was like his father was still
there,
like Micah would be breaking a law, somehow desecrating his father's memory.

“Cripes, boy,” Billy finally said, “if you can't do it because you need help, do it for me. Sugaring was my life for more years than I can count, and the maple moon brings it all back. I get this . . . thing in my blood, like it's heating right up before the sap does. I've been here before, y'know. I come up every season and look around. Old Dale, he used to put four taps in a tree, and you're right doing just two. You're also right thinning things out. He resisted doing that, but I'd warrant your output is up. So, okay, you don't want anyone in town knowing I'm here, I won't tell.
Wouldn't want to spoil your image as a gruff guy like your dad. But let me help. I don't have many years left. I want to do it again before I die.”

* * *

Mr. Fitzgerald wasn't in yet, she was told, and when she called back thirty minutes later, he was on another line. She didn't want to leave a message, because she knew how some lawyers worked. Leave a name, leave the reason for a call, and at the end of the day they picked and chose which calls to return. For all Cassie knew, the DiCenzas had already gotten to Jonathan Fitzgerald.

So, saying simply that she had a legal problem and doing it in the same secretive way that her own clients did all the time, she held the line.

Ten minutes later, all business, he picked up the phone. “Yes. This is Jonathan Fitzgerald. Who is this?”

“Mr. Fitzgerald, my name is Cassandra Byrnes. I'm a lawyer, and I'm calling on behalf of a client who needs your help.”

Either he was a truly decent man or professional collegiality kicked in, because he asked in a pleasant tone, “What's the problem?”

“She had a baby a while back. You helped arrange a private adoption.”

“I haven't done that kind of work in a long time. I can recommend someone else, if she's looking to place another child.”

“No. There isn't another child. She wants to locate the first. We're wondering if you've kept records and would have that information.”

“It's a moot point. I can't give out adoption information. There are strict laws governing confidentiality. You would have to file a petition stating a pressing reason for wanting the information—such as a medical condition.”

“My client has been accused of murder. It could be that DNA tests on the child will show a relationship between my client and the deceased that may be denied by the prosecution. Establishing the relationship could be key to my client's defense.” Cassie didn't know if this was true at
all, but in the absence of anything else, it sounded reasonable. “And I did know before I called that you couldn't give me the information. I'm just wondering whether you do still have it. We're short on time on this end. I would hate to file a petition and wait however long, only to find out that you haven't kept files that far back.”

“How far are we talking?”

“Fourteen and a half years.”

“The client's name?”

“Heather Malone,” Cassie said, because she didn't see any way around
it.

There was a pause on the other end, then a surprised, “The same Heather Malone?”

Cassie breathed a sigh of relief. His surprise was genuine. “The same.”

“I was wondering, when I heard it on the news.”

“I was afraid the DiCenza family reached you before I did.”

“I doubt they know about me.”

“Then you must have a very good memory.”

“Not always. I used to handle a lot of these cases, and most of them were easy. Heather had more trouble than some of the others.”

“Trouble?”

“Giving up the child.”

“Did she tell you anything about her life, anything about the child's conception?”

“No. She wouldn't. And I did ask, because I felt bad for her. Most of the girls who come to me have someone with them—friend, parent, probation officer—but she was alone.”

“Would you have thought she was capable of murder?”

“No, nor extortion.” Before Cassie could ask, he explained, “I read about that in the paper. No, the Heather Malone who came to me had trouble taking money at all. Living expenses, hospital costs—she would have paid for everything herself, if I hadn't told her that this was how private adoptions worked. I gave her money to rent a room. When the child was born a week early, Heather returned the rent money she didn't use. Doesn't sound like a gold digger to me.”

“Would you testify to that?”

“I would.”

“But you won't help me locate the child?”

“I do have those records, Ms. Byrnes, and I'm sorely tempted. But I can't. The law forbids it. On the other hand, if you can come up with evidence—
anything
—to show the need for it, I'll go to the judge myself.”

* * *

Griffin parked. The snow was deeper here than in New Hampshire, and the air had no hint of maple sugar warmth. Grateful that he was wearing his Lake Henry layers, he went up the front steps and knocked on the door. It was opened by a woman close to his age. Totally unadorned, she had dirty blond hair, a young child on her hip, and another in her belly, to judge from the bulge under the oversized shirt she wore. She seemed friendly, trusting, not wary at all.

“I'm looking for Aidan Greene,” he said with his most amiable smile. “My name is Griffin Hughes. We have a mutual friend.”

She smiled. “You do?” She turned her head.
“Aidan?”
She faced Griffin again. “Are you from California?”

“No, but my friend is.” He glanced at her belly. “Is this your second?”

“Third.” She gave an affectionate jiggle to the child on her hip. “This one's the second. The first one just got on the school bus. He's Thomas, and he's five. This one's Jessica, and she's two. The one inside here is Brooke.”

“Is that a boy or a girl?”

“We'll know soon,” she sang good-naturedly as her husband came up from behind. She tipped her head back. “Honey, this is Griffin Hughes. He knows friends of yours in California.”

Aidan Greene was Griffin's height, though a bit heavier. Beneath short, straight blond hair that would probably be white in another dozen years, he had fair skin and a furrowed brow. One look at Griffin, and the furrows deepened. Aidan was as wary as his wife was open.

“The bath's ready for Jessie,” he told her. “Want to take her in while Griffin and I talk?”

His wife smiled at Griffin and left. Aidan's amiability left with her.

“Who's our mutual friend?” he asked coldly.

“Lisa.”

He started to close the door.

Putting a foot in the way, Griffin kept his voice low and urgent. “Please hear me out. My friend is actually Heather—no, my friend is actually Heather's best friend, but only one of many she has in New Hampshire. She's made a good life for herself there. Something doesn't add up.”

“Is Haskins your man?”

“Yes.”

“I told him I had nothing to say. The same goes for you.” He pushed at the door. When Griffin's foot held it, he said, “You're trespassing. Get your goddamned foot out of the way, or I'll call the cops.”

“If you do that, I'll have to tell why I'm here. I'll have to tell the papers why I'm here, and if the
Sacramento Bee
gets wind of it, they may come running up here themselves. It took us a while to find you. Someone went to the effort of erasing tracks in the snow, so to speak.”

Aidan wasn't amused. “Why are you here? How'd you get my name? What do you want from me?”

“Heather gave me your name, which is why I'm here, and as for what I want from you, I have no idea. She wouldn't say. She won't say much of anything, which means that she'll be returned to Sacramento and put on trial for murder. Think she can get a fair trial there, with all the publicity surrounding this case?”

“That's not my worry.”

“Is that why you moved out here and dropped out of the DiCenza
scene, so you wouldn't have to worry? I can understand that. Heather's case is definitely cause for worry. Right now, there are a whole lot of people in New Hampshire who are worried.” He pulled photos from his pocket and showed Aidan the first. “Here's Heather. This was taken last summer. That's Micah with her. Big smiles here? None lately. She's worried that Micah won't love her if he knows the truth, and he's worried, because he needs her in his life and now she's gone.”