Corpus de Crossword (22 page)

“Dude!”
whispered Stu. “Let's get out of here.”

But Rosco put out his hand and shook Belle's. “Nice to meet you, Miss Graham. I guess it must be difficult being so famous that everyone knows you wherever you go. If you're thinking of purchasing property, like Father Matt here says, I'd be happy to do an inspection on it. On my own time—if you get my drift.”

“Dude
…” Stu muttered again while Belle considered giving her husband a swift kick in the shins.

“Thank you, Mr.
Parker
. I don't think that will be necessary.”

“Well, you know what they say: It's a nasty job, but someone's got to do it.”

Rosco tipped his Red Sox hat and followed Stu out the door.

“Oh, Katie Vanovski …” Father Matt dragged out … the name as he and Belle strolled up the road toward Trinity Church. As he spoke, his boyish face turned immeasurably sad. “That was way before my time …”

Belle waited for the priest to continue, but instead he retreated to pensive silence.

“Well, it seems to be quite a story, Father,” Belle said, “a Hollywood actress and the family she left behind. I went to the library hoping to learn a little of the town's history, and instead—”

“Matt.”

“What?”

“Matt. Please call me Matt. I haven't really gotten used to the ‘Father' part yet—especially coming from people old enough to be my parents.”

Belle arched an eyebrow, but didn't otherwise respond.

“I don't mean you, of course, Miss Graham. I assume we're more or less the same … well, the same
generation
—”

“Belle.”

“Belle … Sure … okay …” Belle could tell from his hesitation that he was trying—but not succeeding—to put her into the category of peer. “Well, I'm glad to show you Trinity's archival materials, if that would be of help in learning more about the town's past. We have a scrapbook, too. A number of them, actually.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Belle watched Rosco drive past, heading to the former Quigley place. He waved cheerily as he popped a large pork rind into his mouth. She didn't return the greeting.

“I guess you're subjected to a lot of inappropriate male behavior,” Matt observed.

“Some days, it's more difficult to cope with than others.”

As promised, the priest produced a plethora of documents for Belle's perusal. She munched her sandwich, making certain to keep one hand mayo-and-egg-salad free as she sifted through Trinity's archives. There were lists of marriage banns, wedding and funeral announcements, old service leaflets, newsletters, decades' worth of minutes from vestry meetings—as well as the promised scrapbooks detailing innumerable church suppers, Sunday school classes, and special liturgical gatherings. Belle noted that most of the family names were repeated through multiple generations: some existing from the church's founding, some, like Quigley, appearing and then vanishing, others, such as Hoffmeyer and Stark, remaining in the forefront. Nowhere was there mention of Bazinne or Vanovski.

“Why is that, Father?” Belle asked as she sifted through the piles of paper.

“Matt.”

“Matt.” Belle smiled as she looked up. Her question had been merely curious, but as she looked at the priest's unhappy face, she wondered what unpleasant truth she might have stumbled upon.

“I guess none of them have ever been churchgoers …” His words were quiet and halting.

“Not even for a wedding? Or a funeral?”

The priest frowned. “I try to reach out to Jeanne and her brothers, but they're not comfortable around strangers.” His frown deepened.

Belle nodded. “It must be tough knowing a relative has so much when you have so little.”

No response greeted this remark.

“I guess I find it curious that Katie—or Paula Flynn, as Sylvia said she was later known—never made any real contact with her relatives. Even if just to show off her success.”

The priest sighed. “I'm not sure …” he began. “I'm not sure she could have done that.”

“But wouldn't the town have been thrilled to see her?” Belle prompted. “Look at Tree Hoffmeyer. The library's devoted an entire—”

“The Bazinnes aren't the Hoffmeyers.” Again, a distressed intake of breath. “Miss … Belle … I know the Bazinne family doesn't attend church—never did, in fact—but that doesn't stop me from worrying about them pastorally … And, well … I guess you could learn what I'm going to share with you from anyone else in Taneysville …” He paused, staring at the table, staring at his hands. Not once did he glance at Belle.

“… It's common knowledge that the older Mr. Bazinne—Jeanne's father—was a rough man, even a cruel one. When he married, his wife's younger sister, Katie, came to live with the newlyweds. This was in the late 1940s … No one seems clear on what necessitated that situation—only that the sisters arrived in Taneysville together. The older of the two was Rachel; I believe they'd been raised in upstate Vermont. Katie wasn't even in her teens when they came here.

“At any rate, these are second-hand reports—although they're pretty consistent. The common theme is that Bazinne made life hell for young Katie. Sexual abuse has been hinted at; definitely there was emotional abuse, threats, beatings that were never admitted to … It's more than the human heart can conceive, and sometimes even imagine …”

Belle opened her mouth to speak, but didn't. In her mind's eye she kept seeing Jeanne Bazinne accoutered in her sexless garb, a perpetual frown creased into the lines on her weathered face.

“… At any rate,” Father Matt continued, “as soon as Katie turned sixteen, she left her sister—and Bazinne—and rented a room over Hoffmeyer's store, then went to Boston, where she won some kind of beauty contest. The prize was a trip to Hollywood and a walk-on in a movie … and that was the beginning of Paula Flynn.”

Belle didn't respond for a long moment. She wasn't sure what information pertaining to the skeletal remains she'd been hoping to retrieve, but this wasn't it. “And so Katie just left? Left her sister, Rachel, with this monster?”

Matt released a long and heavy breath. “My understanding of these situations is that they don't generally foster collaboration between the abused; that, in fact, the opposite can hold true. Katie may have blamed Rachel for permitting the problem to exist, while Rachel blamed Katie for being … well, a temptation, a lightning rod, if you will … or just plain younger and prettier. Maybe Rachel was glad for Katie's sake that she'd escaped. Or maybe she was simply trying to save her own hide.

“Codependency is a weird thing. Victims protect their persecutors; families are divided by twisted allegiances. Who knows? Rachel's thought process could have been so subverted that she viewed her sister as ‘wrong' or ‘bad,' and her husband as ‘right' and thereby justified in his actions.”

Belle stared at the tabletop and the scrapbooks with their depictions of healthy family life: the beaming babies on their christening days, the engaged couples holding hands, the marriage portraits, the Christmas parties and Easter egg hunts—even the funerals seemed times of love and celebration. “What happened to Rachel after Katie moved to Hollywood?”

“Jeanne was born the year after Katie left. Then came Luke … then Frank seven years after Luke. Rachel died soon after he was born.”

“So Jeanne grew up without another woman around.” Belle's words were more reflection than question.

“It definitely wasn't a healthy situation,” was all the priest replied. “But Jeanne won't talk about it. Not to anyone. She never has. As I said, all this is pieced together from stories I've heard around the parish.”

“Is the father still living?”

“No. He passed away a good while back. Well before I got here.”

Belle shook her head. “No wonder Sylvia Meigs was so unwilling to discuss the Bazinnes.”

At that Matt's head jerked up, his lips pinched into a tight line. “Is that what she told you? That she was unwilling?”

“She didn't ‘tell' me anything, but I knew she was hiding something.”

Father Matt let out a painful sigh, then bent his head so low it nearly touched the table. “It's not Jeanne she's unwilling to talk about. It's Frank.”

CHAPTER 29

Rosco was sitting on the left front fender of his Jeep alongside the burnt-out shell of the former Quigley house a little after one o'clock. A stainless steel box-clipboard rested on his lap. He'd already made an extensive tour of the entire area. The ground was still damp from the thousands of gallons of water that had been pumped onto the blaze by Taneysville's volunteer fire department. Smoke no longer rose from the blackened rubble but the sickening smell of the home's charred remains hung in the air like a malevolent cloud. He found himself wondering how many memories of holidays and anniversaries, happy times—and sad times—had gone up in smoke on Saturday night.
How many secrets did this old house hold?
he wondered.
How many births? How many deaths? What's been lost forever?
However he was soon jarred out of his private thoughts by the sound of Sean Reilly's pickup truck roaring up the now muddy entry lane.

Sean parked about twenty yards from Rosco's Jeep and turned off the engine. Sitting in the cab were two other men. All three stepped out, and with Sean in the lead, they approached the Jeep. Rosco was surprised to see how relaxed the contractor appeared. When Rosco had phoned him earlier in the morning, Sean had seemed none too pleased to drop what he was doing, pick up Nikos and Taki, and make the hour-and-a-half trip down to Taneysville from Boston.

“Good to see you again, Parker,” Sean said as he approached. He shook Rosco's hand and cocked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the other two men. “This is Nikos and Taki. They're my backhoe boys.”

The two men gave Sean a look that clearly said “backhoe boys” was not one of their favorite expressions. Rosco greeted them in Greek and offered his hand. They smiled broadly and introduced themselves in Greek.

“Whoa, hold on there, boys,” Sean interrupted. “Let's everybody speak in English here, okay. It's America, right? I gotta know what's goin' on.”

Nikos shrugged and said, “Sure, boss.”

“Well, Sean,” Rosco started, “like I told you on the phone, I want to get a definite fix on this property. I want to know exactly what Gordon has in mind, so that when the police and fire marshal are done here I can cut your permits without any further delays. To be honest with you I'm getting tired of driving all the way out here in my own vehicle. There's something wrong with the heater and I'm freezing my rump off.”

“Ya need to get yourself one of these king cabs, my friend—rides like a Caddy on the inside.”

“I need the city to give me a raise first; that's what I need.”

“You're just in the wrong business. Hey, you want some work on this job? I can use a guy like you who speaks Greek. I'm makin' out like a fat cat here.” Sean smiled broadly. “I spoke with Mr. Gordon a little while ago, and believe it or not, he didn't seem all that upset about this fire. Apparently it was his wife who liked the old section of the house. Gordon's kinda pleased he's gettin' a brand
new
home out of the deal …'Course that's with a little help from State Farm Ins—” Sean stopped short and took a breath. “Huh. Maybe I wasn't supposed to say that … Well, hell, it doesn't take a genius to figure out he's due some insurance money, right?”

Rosco laughed. Then joked, “Yeah, what the heck, as long as he has an alibi for Saturday night, he's in the pink.”

Sean laughed as well, but it faded quickly.

“Anyway,” Rosco continued, “that's why I wanted your heavy equipment operators to come with you; just so we can be real specific as to where and how you'll need to dig once you get the green light from me.”

“Hey, I'm with you, Parker,” Sean said as he gave Rosco a semicongenial pat on the back that seemed totally devoid of sincerity. “I liked the old residence—from a historical point of view, that is. But Mr. G's ready to throw some big bucks at this now. He's already talking about doubling the size of the swimming pool and going with a six-car garage instead of four.”

“So you're talking about new foundation designs, I take it? Deviating from the original plans?”

“Possibly.”

“Okay … Let's have a look at the main house first,” Rosco said.

The four men walked over to the site. The few remaining blackened and shattered timbers had collapsed through the main flooring and now rested in the basement, looking like a giant, and very dead, black widow spider.

“Are you planning to keep this original foundation?” Rosco asked. “I'll need to do a structural examination if you are.”

“Nah, everything goes. All new construction, according to Mr. G. No damp basements for the missus.”

Rosco turned toward the area where the new addition was to be placed: the spot where Nikos and Taki had found the skeleton. “And the six-car garage? That's going to connect to the new construction?”

“You got it.”

“So this revised foundation's going to be a lot bigger.”

“Not necessarily. The garage still will sit on a concrete slab—just like before, only larger than what was shown on the original plans.”

“You're going to need to do some additional digging. Have you roughed out those plans?”

“Yeah, I got them in the truck.”

“I'd like to see them.”

“Now?”

“Uh-huh.”

Sean groaned slightly and moved off toward his truck. When he was out of earshot, Rosco addressed Nikos and Taki, in Greek:

“Don't get upset, but I'm not the building inspector. I'm a police officer from the Newcastle homicide division. I won't pull my badge out because my real identity isn't information Sean needs to know. Not yet.”