From Cradle to Grave (23 page)

‘I know that. And that was not a crime, sweetie,’ said Morgan. ‘That was an accident.’

Claire pointed feebly to the Kleenex box on the rolling tray behind Morgan. Morgan grabbed a handful of tissues and gave them to her. Claire dabbed in a clumsy fashion at her eyes.

‘As for the baby,’ said Morgan. She hesitated. She didn’t want to put words in her friend’s mouth. She needed to hear what Claire remembered.

Claire began to sob harder at the mention of Drew. ‘I took a pill that night to sleep. Something woke me up. I went to the bassinet but he wasn’t there. I was frantic. I ran into the bathroom and found him . . . like that. I don’t know how it happened. What kind of a mother am I, anyway? How could I not have realized . . . Oh, no one will believe me. But I didn’t hurt my baby. I would never hurt my baby,’ she hiccuped through her sobs. ‘I couldn’t . . .’

Morgan got up and leaned over the bedside bars, clutching her friend in an awkward embrace. ‘I know you couldn’t,’ she whispered.

Claire grasped Morgan as if she would never let go. Morgan gradually extricated herself and sat back down in the chair, letting Claire’s sobs subside. After a few minutes Claire looked at her, sniffling. ‘What happened to Drew? Who would have wanted to hurt my baby?’ Claire asked.

Morgan didn’t want to blurt out what she had learned about Guy. She approached it cautiously. ‘Did Guy have any . . . enemies? Anyone you thought might have a . . . grudge against him?’

Claire shook her head on the pillow and dabbed at her eyes. ‘No,’ she said hopelessly. ‘Everyone liked him. Everyone . . . well, most everyone . . .’

Morgan’s heart beat faster. ‘Who are you thinking of?’

‘Morgan no. I don’t want anyone else unfairly accused,’ Claire pleaded.

‘I’m not accusing anyone,’ Morgan protested. ‘I’m just . . . asking.’

Claire sighed. Finally she said, ‘Well, he and his sister didn’t get along. But that’s normal, I guess. I think she was a little . . . jealous of Guy. You know. It’s understandable. And Guy always said that Astrid spoiled Lucy. Because of her condition. Babied her.’

Morgan felt stunned, appalled by her own blindness. Of course, she thought. Lucy had gone off collecting shells rather than be with her family after Guy and Drew died. Eden had stayed with Lucy before the funeral when they might have talked about Guy. Lucy, who wanted a baby and was scornful of Claire’s depression. Suddenly, Morgan remembered Lucy’s face when they met at the beach and Lucy said to her, ‘My brother doesn’t care who he hurts.’

Morgan had thought it was about being teased, being bullied.

‘What are you thinking?’ Claire said weakly.

Lucy, Morgan thought.

The prison guard appeared in the doorway to the room. ‘OK, miss,’ he said. ‘Better be going.’

Morgan stood up and gave Claire’s hand one last squeeze. ‘I have to go. Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back.’

TWENTY-EIGHT

L
ucy’s house was hidden from view by overgrown trees at the corner of a street in a quiet residential neighborhood. It took Morgan several turns around the block before she was sure that she had the right house. The first time Morgan passed by it, she saw a short, dark-skinned man working by himself in a garden, cutting stems of marigolds and placing them in a gardening basket. He looked like one of Dick Bolton’s work crew of Mexicans, possibly sent over to Lucy’s house to tend the yard. Morgan thought of asking him for the house number, but assumed that he probably didn’t speak English. But as she circled the block, she realized that there was no one else around to ask. She made up her mind to pull up and ask the man if knew where number 237 was. She could still remember enough grammar school Spanish to be able to inquire for a house number.

But the next time she rounded the block, the man was nowhere to be seen. Morgan hesitated. She felt pretty certain that the modest house, hidden in the trees, must be Lucy’s. She rolled to a stop in front of it, and almost immediately she heard the frantic barking of dogs. This had to be it, she thought. She parked her car and got out. She could see the roof of a white vehicle in the garage. There was no mailbox, but there was a mail slot in the front door, and Morgan saw, as she approached the house, that there were numbers over the door. They were a dull gold color, and hidden by the shadow of the porch roof. Number 237. This was it. Morgan walked up on to the front porch and knocked. Inside the house, the dogs increased their barking. As she stood waiting, Morgan could not help noticing that the windows were grimy and the front porch light was broken. The house had an uncared-for look, despite the earlier presence of the gardener.

As she had circled the block, she had noticed that a few of the better-kept houses were decorated for Halloween. The ghosts, spiderwebs and witches had the odd effect of making those houses look friendly and inviting. Lucy’s house had no pumpkins or goblins to lure the children in. Most kids, Morgan thought, would scurry quickly by this house, with its barking dogs and unwelcoming façade. Instead, beside the front door was a single battered rocking chair with a filthy sheepskin dog bed beside it, and, at eye level, several hooks which held dogs’ leashes and choke chains.

From inside the house, Morgan could hear Lucy’s voice, chiding the dogs and urging them away from the door. She stood back from the door and waited, as Lucy opened it, and looked out through the storm door at her uninvited guest. Lucy was wearing a stained red apron appliquéd with autumn leaves over her shapeless fleece pants and matching shirt. The dogs leapt up beside her, adding to the accumulation of smears on the inside of the storm door. ‘Morgan,’ Lucy exclaimed in surprise.

Morgan started to open the storm door, but Lucy shook her head. ‘Don’t do that. The dogs’ll get out.’

‘Can’t you hold them? I really need to talk to you,’ said Morgan.

Lucy shook her head. ‘It’s not a good time,’ she said.

Conscious that she was bluffing, Morgan took a hard tone. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I don’t care if this is a good time or not. This is important. I saw Eden. She told me about Guy. I want some answers.’

Lucy blinked owlishly at Morgan from behind her glasses. ‘Told you what about Guy?’ she asked.

‘I think you know,’ she said. ‘Not something one would forget.’

To her surprise and relief, Lucy sighed, and her shoulders slumped. She gazed back into the depths of her house with a look of resignation, and stood there, unmoving, as if she were making up her mind. For one terrible moment, thinking that Lucy may have been the victim of Guy’s crime, Morgan was almost sorry to be forcing Lucy into this position. But Morgan felt as if she had no choice.

‘Come on, Lucy. Let me in. I need to talk to you.’

‘Just a minute,’ Lucy grumbled. Bending over, she grabbed each of the dogs by the collar, and turned them around, dragging the protesting beasts away from the front door. Morgan jiggled the handle of the storm door but it was locked. For a minute, she thought that Lucy was just going to walk away and leave her there. But there was a sudden muffling of the barking, and then Lucy appeared in the doorway, unlocking the storm door and pushing it out. She did not look at Morgan.

Morgan opened the storm door and followed Lucy into the house. The house had a stale, stuffy smell that was partly doggy. But there was also a cloying odor. It took Morgan a minute to recognize the smell of incense burning. The combination of smells was suffocating. Morgan had to gulp back the bile that she felt rising to her throat.

Although Lucy was still a young woman in her early thirties, the house looked like it had been furnished by her grandmother. The fabrics which covered the furniture were dowdy, with anemically pale watercolor flowers. The stuffing was coming out of the sofa arms. The pale blue shag rug was frowzy from the dogs’ claws and table surfaces were scratched. Everywhere in the room were crafts made from shells. A box on the coffee table, a picture frame which held a family photo atop the television, an empty vase on the mantle. There was something oddly touching about Lucy’s display of her creations. Obviously, she was proud of her work. Morgan could hear the sound of rushing water from somewhere in the house. The dogs had been shut behind a closed door, which, given the size of the house, probably led to the dining room, and they were baying with displeasure. Abruptly, the sound of the rushing water stopped. Lucy did not seem to notice. She did not offer Morgan a seat. ‘All right,’ said Lucy. ‘Go ahead and talk.’

Morgan looked at the small, plain woman with blond hair that barely concealed her scalp. Lucy seemed so alone. Was it her brother’s cruelty which had caused her retreat from the world? It was one thing to lose your mother at a young age. Morgan knew all about that from first-hand experience. But it was another thing altogether to be the victim of a sexual predator. A family member. Was that what had happened to Lucy, she wondered?

‘Well?’ Lucy prompted her. ‘When did you see Eden?’

‘I’m house-sitting right now at the Captain’s House,’ Morgan explained. ‘Last night Eden showed up there.’

‘I thought you were going to leave town after the funeral,’ Lucy said.

Morgan ignored the remark. ‘Claire is still in the hospital. Look, Lucy, some new evidence.’ Morgan stopped, and then continued. ‘It’s now apparent that whoever killed Guy and Claire’s baby, it was not Claire . . .’

Lucy immediately bristled. ‘That’s stupid. She confessed.’

‘It turns out that Claire was tricked into making that confession.’

‘Tricked,’ Lucy scoffed. ‘Into admitting to murder? What next?’

Morgan remained calm. ‘Somebody else drowned that baby in the bathtub. I don’t know why. But when Eden told me about what Guy had done, it struck me as a possible reason.’

Lucy looked at her balefully and then looked away.

‘Look, this subject may be horribly painful for you, and if it is, I’m sorry . . .’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Lucy insisted.

‘If he did that to you, Lucy, no one would blame you for hating him. For wanting to hurt him. Or his baby.’

‘I’m not the one he raped, if that’s what you’re asking,’ said Lucy bluntly.

Morgan felt an undeniable relief, both that the subject was out in the open, and that Lucy had not been Guy’s victim. ‘I’m glad to hear that. I was afraid it might have been you.’

‘You thought I killed the baby?’ Lucy exclaimed.

Morgan hesitated. ‘No, I thought you might have been Guy’s victim.’

‘Well, I wasn’t. Now will you leave?’ Lucy asked.

‘But you’re quite sure that your brother did rape someone,’ said Morgan.

Lucy looked back at Morgan, her gaze flickering, as if she was trying to make a decision. Finally she said, ‘Positive.’

‘Did you hear this from his victim?’

‘I was there.”

Morgan felt shocked by the bald statement. ‘My God. Lucy.’

Suddenly, there was a thud from the direction of the closed door, and one of the dogs let out an ungodly shriek.

‘Oh, no,’ said Lucy.

From behind the door an accented male voice called out, ‘Lucia, Lucia, the dogs. Quick. They knocking it over. The altar.’

‘What’s going on?’ Morgan asked.

Lucy did not reply. She turned and hurried toward the dining room door, throwing it open. Morgan followed close behind her. One of the dogs bolted out, yelping frantically, and began to tear around the living room in circles. Lucy called his name and tried to catch up with him. Morgan looked past her into the dining room and her eyes widened at what she saw.

A small, dark-skinned man with the features of a Mayan, his coal black hair wet and combed back, as if he had just stepped out of the shower, was trying to right an elaborate construction which had been upended on to the dining room floor. He was barefoot, dressed in a sleeveless T-shirt and ill-fitting black pants, and he looked bashfully at Morgan who was gaping at the scene. Then, he went back to his task. The floor was littered with bunches of marigolds, thick sputtering candles and fruit which had rolled out everywhere across the floor. The man was resetting an arch made out of cornstalks against the tower of empty wooden boxes he had reassembled.

Lucy finally convinced the most frantic dog to settle down, and she was on her knees on the floor beside him, combing through his fur. ‘Julio, it’s wax,’ she called out. ‘He got hot candle wax on him when the altar collapsed. Poor baby.’

‘He knock it all over,’ Julio grumbled. He set a small, framed photo of a dark-haired, matronly woman on the makeshift altar. Then he began to dust off a picture of baby Drew in a shell-decorated picture frame. He set it next to the other photo.

‘You’re OK, you bad dog,’ scolded Lucy peeling the wax off his fur, but her tone was indulgent.

Morgan looked again at the Mexican man who was carefully replacing the food, flowers, candles and incense on the flimsy construction. ‘What is this?’ Morgan asked him.

‘It’s ah . . . Dios de los muertos,’ he said. ‘This week.’

‘It’s an altar. For the Day of the Dead,’ said Lucy, standing up and letting the dogs loose. ‘Julio, you better put them upstairs. In our room,’ she said. ‘We don’t want them to knock it over again. They didn’t break the sugar skulls, did they?’

‘I no see them,’ the man said, looking around.

‘They were on the table,’ said Lucy.

Julio glanced around and then let out a small, triumphant cry. He lifted a flat, narrow box from the dining room table. Four white skulls nestled in the box against a black velvet background.

‘Mira. Everything’s OK,’ Julio exclaimed.

‘Oh, good. I’d hate to have to start them all over again,’ said Lucy.

Morgan had not missed the words ‘our room’. But she pretended to take no notice. She looked in at the box of skulls on the table. ‘These are made of sugar?’ she asked.

‘Yeah. You make them in a mold.’ Lucy gazed at her defiantly. ‘Julio wanted them. The holiday’s not the same without them. I found the recipe on the internet.’

‘I see,’ said Morgan.

‘I bet you do,’ said Lucy.

Morgan looked at her directly. ‘Look, I’m not trying to meddle in your business, Lucy. I just want to know about Guy.’

Lucy sighed, and, as Julio led the dogs to the staircase, she sat down heavily and pointed to the other chair. ‘You may as well sit,’ she said.

Morgan sat down on the edge of the chair.

Lucy did not meet her gaze. ‘Julio washes dishes at the Lobster Shack. If my father finds out about this,’ said Lucy, shaking her head.

‘He won’t hear it from me,’ said Morgan.

Lucy sighed. ‘He’s got to know sooner or later,’ she said.

‘You’re a grown woman,’ said Morgan. ‘You can see whoever you want.’

Lucy looked at her wearily. ‘It’s a little more than seeing,’ she said. ‘We got married a few weeks ago.’

‘Married?’ said Morgan, trying to conceal how truly surprised she was. ‘Your family doesn’t know?’

She lifted one shoulder helplessly. ‘I told Astrid, of course.’

‘Astrid won’t tell your father?’ Morgan asked.

‘My father would try to have the marriage annulled. Get his visa taken away.’

‘You never know. Maybe your father will be happy for you,’ said Morgan.

‘My father? Hah,’ Lucy laughed without mirth. ‘Astrid thinks Julio and I should head back to Mexico. And live there,’ Lucy mused. ‘I don’t really want to go but I have to do something before my dad finds out. Astrid won’t tell him. She knows how to keep a secret.’