From Cradle to Grave (5 page)

‘What did he say?’ Morgan asked.

Claire rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. Then she took a deep breath. ‘She. It was a woman. Noreen was her name. Noreen . . . something. She left a card. There, on the table.’

Morgan looked down and immediately saw the cream-colored business card. ‘Noreen Quick, attorney-at-law,’ it read over the address.

‘Noreen, then,’ said Morgan. ‘What did she say?’

‘She’s pregnant,’ Claire said, and her eyes filled with tears. ‘Any minute she’s going to have her baby.’

‘Claire!’ Morgan spoke sharply. ‘What did she say? About your case.’

Claire shook her head and sighed. ‘She said it was a difficult case because I confessed to the police. Honestly, Morgan, I can’t remember much of what she said. I’m so exhausted. I just kept wishing I had a tranquilizer or something to knock me out so I could sleep. They won’t give me anything in here.’

Morgan felt an unreasoning flash of anger. Tranquilizers? That was all she could think of after all that had happened? How could you admit to killing your husband and your child and then forget how your lawyer had advised you? How could you admit to killing at all, and just want to sleep. ‘Never mind,’ said Morgan coolly. She slipped the card into her own jacket pocket. ‘I’ll talk to her.’

Claire looked up at her gratefully. ‘Would you, Morgan?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Morgan stiffly. ‘I came here to help.’

‘Thank God for you,’ said Claire. ‘I feel like I have no one else in the whole world. Guy’s family won’t help me.’

‘You can’t blame them,’ said Morgan sharply.

Claire blushed beneath her sallow skin and looked down at her lap. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Of course not.’

Looking at that familiar bent head, Morgan felt a sudden, unexpected rush of tenderness. This couldn’t be true. There had to be some mistake. This wasn’t some crazed killer. This was Claire, with whom she had shared dorm rooms and apartments and hotel rooms on the road. Claire, with whom she had streaked her hair, taken long walks discussing the meaning of life, laughed till she cried remembering how they had stalked the science teacher they both had a crush on in junior high. Claire, who was closer to her than a sister.

‘Oh Claire,’ Morgan pleaded. ‘Tell me this is some big misunderstanding. I mean, you couldn’t kill anyone. Let alone your baby . . .’

Claire remained silent. A tear trickled down her cheek.

‘How did it happen? Just tell me what happened . . .’

Claire gripped the sides of her head as if it were pounding. ‘Don’t make me say it all again.’

‘Why?’ Morgan cried. ‘Why would you ever do such a thing?’

Claire looked up at her with torment in her eyes. ‘I don’t know why. I keep going over it in my mind. I mean, the baby had been so . . . fussy. And Guy . . . I threw him out. I was so angry at him for lying to me about his daughter.’

‘Wait,’ said Morgan. ‘If you threw him out, how come he was at the house?’

Claire shrugged. ‘I let him come back home that night. To the guest room. I was trying to get over it but every time I looked at him . . .’

‘So that’s why you killed them?’ Morgan said incredulously. Even as she said it, it seemed preposterous. Impossible. ‘Because of Eden?’

Claire shook her head. ‘Maybe. I’m not sure.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Morgan wailed. ‘How . . .’ How could you, Morgan wanted to say.

Claire misunderstood. ‘It was very early this morning. It was still dark. I was in the bathroom. With Drew. He was in the tub.’

‘What were you doing with the baby in the bathroom at that hour?’

‘I . . . don’t know. I guess . . . I was giving him a bath.’

‘In that big, clawfoot tub? He was so little. He was barely big enough for the sink.’

Claire seemed to be staring past Morgan at the scene in her mind. ‘There was water in the tub. Drew was in the water. Guy came into the bathroom and I . . . we had an argument. And, I don’t know. I guess, maybe, we struggled. And Guy slipped. He hit his head on the edge of the cast iron tub. There was a lot of blood. Everywhere.’

‘So, you’re saying it was an accident,’ said Morgan skeptically.

Claire looked at her hopefully. ‘It must have been.’

‘And Drew?’

‘Oh, Morgan . . .’ Claire’s voice broke. ‘He drowned in the tub. My baby . . .’

Morgan felt physically sick. She gasped for air, trying to force herself not to vomit. ‘Claire. You let him drown in the tub? Jesus Christ.’

‘Don’t sound like that, Morgan,’ Claire pleaded. ‘I didn’t mean to. I know I didn’t mean to. Don’t you be mad at me too.’

‘You didn’t mean to? You sound like a child,’ Morgan upbraided her. ‘This isnt like swiping some bubblegum from the Seven-Eleven.’

‘I know that,’ said Claire, suddenly angry.

Morgan jumped up from the chair and began to pace the small cell like a tiger in a cage. She raked her hand through her hair, trying to process this information. Trying to imagine Claire . . .

Officer Hardiman’s walkie-talkie emitted static, and the officer responded, speaking in a low voice.

Morgan forced herself to calm down. She had to calm down for Claire’s sake. Claire had no one else to support her. No matter what she had done, their years of friendship required some kind of allegiance. Yes it was appalling, but accidents did happen. Perhaps it had been a series of horrible accidents. Accident or not, Claire needed Morgan to be on her side. Everyone deserved someone to be on their side. Morgan turned and looked at Claire, who sat slump-shouldered on the bed, her gaze far away.

‘I’ll do what I can to help you, Claire,’ Morgan said.

Claire looked up at her, anguish and gratitude in her eyes.

‘County van is here,’ announced Officer Hardiman. ‘Two officers are on their way down here to escort the prisoner.’ She inserted the key in the door and slid it open far enough for Morgan to emerge. ‘Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

Claire reached out and grasped Morgan’s hand.

Morgan had to pull her hand free from her friend’s grip. She could hear the heavy tread of boots approaching. ‘I have to go.’

Claire nodded and wiped her eyes. ‘I know. But Morgan, one more thing. Will you be sure to feed Dusty?’

It took Morgan a moment to realize what Claire was asking. ‘Your cat?’ said Morgan in disbelief. ‘You’re worried about your cat?

‘Please,’ said Claire.

‘All right. All right,’ said Morgan. ‘I will.’

‘OUT. NOW,’ roared Officer Hardiman. Morgan jumped, and hurried to obey.

FIVE

P
hotographers’ flashes popped like fireworks in the dark as Claire was escorted, handcuffed, a burly state trooper on either side, out of the West Briar police station toward the waiting van. Across the street, Morgan watched as her best friend, so tall and comely that people sometimes mistook her for a fashion model, now stumbled down the walk in a filthy sweatshirt and jeans. Her sallow face, ashen eyes and sunken cheeks made her look like a malnourished street urchin. Reporters shouted her name, but Claire did not respond. She let herself be boosted up into the van, as one cop scrambled up into the seat beside her and another slammed the back doors behind them. Then he turned and faced the crowd. ‘OK folks,’ he cried. ‘Show’s over.’

The newspeople began to disperse, ready to move on to the next story, as the van which transported prisoners to the county jail pulled away from the curb. Morgan knew that she needed to return to her car. She needed to decide what to do next. Where she was going to stay. All of that. But, instead, she remained where she stood, as if rooted, still trying to absorb, like a series of blows, all that she had seen and heard.

A silver, ostentatiously large, late-model SUV with black-tinted windows pulled up to the curb in front of her and idled there, blocking her view across the street. The passenger-side window descended, and the driver leaned across the seat. Morgan frowned. Some rubbernecker wanting details on what had happened, no doubt. She was prepared to snap back at any such request.

‘Morgan?’

Morgan frowned, surprised to hear her own name, and peered into the car. It took her only a moment to recognize him. Sandy Raymond was successful and wealthy, but no one would call him a handsome man. He was a stout man, not fat, but not muscular either. His brown hair was longish, and always looked a little greasy. His face was scarred from teenage acne, his nose crooked from having been broken, and his blue eyes were small and keen.

Although Claire and Sandy had dated for a year before they got engaged, Morgan had never spent much time with the couple. Although they did go out, and attended the odd charity event, Claire often told her that Sandy had a reclusive nature. Sandy divided his time among several impressive homes, but he liked to live informally, and didn’t care much for entertaining. Morgan was frankly surprised that Sandy even knew her name. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Same thing you are,’ said Sandy abruptly. ‘I’m . . . concerned about Claire.’

‘Really?’ said Morgan. The skepticism in her voice spoke louder than words. Why would he want to support the woman who had left him the day after their engagement party? The New York tabloids had had a field day with the public humiliation of a most eligible, wealthy man dumped for a chef with a catering business. It would have been understandable if Sandy took a little satisfaction from the terrible turn of events in Claire’s life.

‘Yes, really,’ said Sandy irritably.

‘I’m just surprised,’ said Morgan.

‘Why? I almost married the woman. Naturally I’m concerned about her.’

Sandy didn’t know that Morgan had also seen him in the choir loft of the church during Drew’s baptism, where he was clearly not welcome. Morgan pressed her lips together and looked away from him. Sandy Raymond’s actions were very hard to understand. But she was not about to admit it. ‘Right,’ she said.

‘Are you going to stick around town?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ she said, thinking of Claire’s concern that her cat be fed. It still struck her as bizarre, in light of Claire’s murderous rampage against her family. ‘I guess I’ll stay at Claire’s house.’

Sandy frowned and shook his head. ‘That’s not going to happen,’ he said.

Morgan bristled. ‘Excuse me?’

Sandy did not seem to notice her chilly tone. ‘Well, it’s just that the house is a crime scene. The police probably have it closed down until they’re finished in there. They won’t let anyone stay there tonight.’

‘Oh,’ said Morgan, immediately realizing the truth of what he said. ‘I suppose that’s true.’

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I have that great big house. You’ve seen it. I’ve got six bedrooms and it’s just me and my girlfriend there. Why don’t you stay at my place?’

Morgan noted the mention of his girlfriend. Clearly he had moved on. Morgan thought about Sandy’s huge house, a house she had only visited once – on the night of the ill-fated engagement party. It was a sprawling old mansion, tastelessly renovated with anachronisms like a sports bar, and a screening room. Still, the offer was tempting, if only for the luxury of it all. But it just didn’t seem right. ‘Well, that’s very nice of you, but I can get a room somewhere,’ said Morgan. She thought fleetingly of the comfortable, cozy Captain’s House, now closed. ‘I can find something . . .’

‘Look Morgan,’ he interrupted her abruptly. ‘You’ve got to be as blown away as I am. It might help us both to air it out. Talk about it. You’d be doing me a favor if you stayed at my house,’ he said. ‘Really.’

Morgan hesitated, but there seemed to be honest chagrin in his tone. She recognized it, because she felt it herself. ‘I don’t know . . .’ she said. ‘I don’t want to bother you.’

‘No bother. Do you know the way?’ he asked, as if she had already agreed to his proposal. ‘Do you want to follow me in your car?’

‘No,’ said Morgan. She had vivid memories of that stately old house, built on the oceanfront, its gardens leading down to the dunes. ‘I can find my way. Thanks.’ Morgan was weary from the day, from the upheaval in her plans and, most of all, from the shock of Claire’s arrest. Her confession. She felt overwhelmed in the face of it all. But she had come here to help. And Claire was worried about her cat. If Claire wanted her to feed the cat, then Morgan would do that. ‘There’s something I have to do first,’ she said.

‘OK. Well, we’ll be home all evening,’ he said. ‘You do what you need to do and I’ll see you when you get there.’

Morgan nodded, and straightened up. ‘Thanks. See you later,’ she said.

Before the words were out, the passenger window of the SUV rose, blocking the driver from sight.

Morgan had no idea if there was cat food in the house, or if she would even be allowed to enter the house, so she stopped at a mini-mart and bought a few cans of cat food. Then she continued on to Claire and Guy’s cottage. As Sandy had predicted, the house was dark and had been sealed off by the police. The balloons from Drew’s christening were still tied by limp ribbons to the mailbox, but they had lost most of their air, and no longer danced. Instead, criss-crossed crime scene tape flapped in the night breeze. The house looked forlorn. It was only last Saturday, as she arrived on the day of the baptism, that Morgan had seen Dusty on the front step, and the whole picture was one of an ideal home, an ideal life. Morgan sighed, and parked the car.

She got her flashlight out of the glove compartment, picked up the sack of cat food cans, and walked down the driveway. ‘Dusty,’ she called softly. She scanned the yard with her flashlight, but there was no sign of the cat. Dusty was a Tom, a feral cat whom Claire had found, investigating a dumpster behind the local Shop-Rite. Though he had been easily house-trained, he was wary of people, and Claire was the only one he would allow to pet him. He came and went from the house at will, using a cat door which Guy had installed for him. He avoided human social gatherings, and kept strictly to his own schedule. Morgan wondered where his wanderings had taken Dusty tonight. He could be somewhere out in the neighborhood. Surely all the commotion with the police today would have scared him away. But, Morgan thought, as she cautiously circled around to the back of the house, calling to him, he might have gone back inside.

Morgan went up to the back door which led to the kitchen. The yellow crime scene tape was loose in the back, whipping back and forth in the breeze. Morgan climbed up the back steps and peered in the kitchen window, looking for the glow of a cat’s eyes. All she saw was darkness. It made Morgan shudder to look into the house, to think about the horror that had occurred there. Guy, dead on the bathroom floor, and baby Drew, face down . . . She forced the thought from her mind. She would be glad to be away from this place and she was grateful now for Sandy Raymond’s offer of hospitality. I’ll just put out the cat food and leave, she thought. She could leave the food outside for Dusty. Surely he would find it there. But then she realized that she had nothing to put the food into. She needed a plate, a bowl – something on which to dump the contents of the can.

Morgan hesitated, wishing she had stopped somewhere and bought a dish. She looked around the backyard for some sort of plate. There were a couple of flowerpots on a table in the backyard. The flowerpot saucer might do, she thought. As she pondered this, she absently turned the doorknob on the back door. The door swung open.

‘Oh, God,’ Morgan exclaimed, startled by the yielding of the door.

She had to let her heart calm down a little bit as she held the door ajar. It wasn’t locked. No big deal, she told herself. Don’t get carried away. She shone her flashlight around the kitchen. The cat dish was on the floor, near the sink. That was simple. She would just empty the can into it and leave. Even if Dusty was outside, the cat was sure to come in through the cat door searching for food.

OK, time to go in. Just do it. She pushed the door in a little way, and edged through it. For a moment she stood there in the darkness, listening. The house was silent as a tomb. It felt as if every vestige of happiness that had ever existed in this house had leaked away, like air though a pinprick in a balloon. She imagined that the house was waiting for something, the silence within these walls was of voices stilled. Morgan’s stomach started to churn. She reminded herself that she hadn’t eaten in hours. It isn’t the house, she told herself. You’re just tired and hungry. Part of her wanted to go further into the house, to go to the bathroom where it had happened. She had a morbid desire to see it with her own eyes. But when she got right down to doing it, the idea was simply too frightening.

Feed the cat and get out, she thought. Don’t linger. Setting her flashlight on the counter, she bent down and picked up the two bowls. One had a picture of a dripping spigot on it. The other, comical, brightly painted cats. She emptied out the cat’s drinking water and changed it. Then she cleaned out the other bowl and refilled it with cat food.

‘Dusty,’ she said in a loud whisper. There was no sign of the cat. Carefully, she crouched down with the two full bowls and placed them back on the floor. Suddenly, she felt as if she were being watched. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. For a moment, she was frozen, afraid to look. Then, defiance kicked in and, with a rapidly beating heart, she whirled and looked into the darkness beyond the kitchen, out in the dining room.

Something was moving in the dark. Morgan stifled a scream and scrambled to her feet, groping on the counter for the flashlight. ‘Who’s there?’ she demanded. She switched on the beam with trembling hands and jerked it toward the movement she had seen. Suddenly there was a horrible screeching cry, and she felt something hit her from behind in the legs, buckling her knees.

Morgan let out a cry as she felt her legs being clawed through her pants. She jumped and pointed the torch down. Dusty was standing on his hind legs, gripping her calf with his claws and growling like a demon.

Morgan yelped and shook him off. Dusty jumped back, raising his back and hissing, his eyes flashing yellow in the dark.

‘Dusty, goddamit,’ Morgan swore. Although at the sight of the cat she felt almost relieved. She was not afraid of an angry house cat. She glanced back at the dining room, but whatever movement she had seen was no longer visible. She told herself that it must have been Dusty skulking through the house. She began to edge toward the kitchen door, shining the flashlight in the cat’s eyes. ‘Go on and eat. And leave me alone.’

Morgan fumbled for the doorknob behind her, and started to turn it.

Suddenly, the door was jerked open from outside and Morgan cried out and fell back into the kitchen, as a dark figure filled the doorway.