Hanging Hannah (21 page)

“Hannah?” Jane said. “That was her name?”

“That's right.”

“And her last name?” Jane asked.

Greenberg shot her a look that said, “Be quiet.”

But Brant took no notice. “No one knows Hannah's last name. At least, no one here does. Come to think of it, no one knew much about Hannah.”

“Well, what
can
you tell us about her?” Greenberg asked.

“She was moderately retarded,” Brant said. “She had the mental capacity of a fourteen-year-old.”

“Where did she come from?” Greenberg asked.

“That's just the thing,” Brant said, smiling gently. “We don't know. For as long as anyone can remember, Hannah has lived here. The person who's worked here the longest, one of our nurses, has been here sixteen years, and she recalls that when she started working here, Hannah was already here, a girl of about two.”

“But
how
did she get here?” Jane asked.

“Again, we don't know. There is no record of who brought Hannah to the Institute. Our theory is that she was brought here by her unwed mother who didn't want her. Over the years, we've tried several times to find out where Hannah came from, but”—he threw his hands out—“we've come up empty.” Brant shook his head. “Whoever brought her here, we'll never know for certain.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Thirteen years ago, before I came here, there was a fire at the Institute—a bad fire—and a number of patients' files were destroyed. Hannah's file may have been among them. Or perhaps the file was misplaced, or even taken—though I can't imagine why anyone would have taken it.” He shrugged. “The oddest thing is that there
is
a file with Hannah's name on it, but it's empty.”

“Empty?” Greenberg said.

“Yes.” Brant narrowed his eyes. “I
can
tell you one thing, though. What very few people here at the Institute know is that aside from the regular patient files, which are kept in a room behind that office you passed coming in, there is a special place where we keep files of an especially ‘sensitive' nature.”

Jane shook her head. “I don't understand.”

“Often—more often than most people realize—our patients come from wealthy, influential families, or are relatives of celebrities who don't want it known that they have people here. After it was discovered that the woman you found was our Hannah, it occurred to me to check this special file, just in case there was something there on her. We'd never thought of doing this before—I don't think anyone ever imagined that Hannah would fit into the ‘sensitive' category—but I thought it was worth checking. To my surprise, there
was
a file marked simply ‘Hannah,' and there was something in it.”

He opened the lap drawer of his desk and drew out a yellowed newspaper clipping. “This. Careful,” he said, handing it to Greenberg. “As you can see by the date, it's nineteen years old.”

Greenberg held the clipping between him and Jane so they could both read it. The clipping, which contained no newspaper's name, bore a story whose headline read: SENTENCED SOCIALITE COMMITS SUICIDE.

Jane began to read. The story told of a scandal, a murder, right here in Sharon, involving one of the town's most prominent couples, Anthony and Rosamond Oppenheim. Anthony, the article said, had made his fortune in hotels. Rosamond, before marrying Anthony, had been a respected stage actress.

According to the article, one day a servant in the Oppenheim mansion found Anthony Oppenheim dying. He had been poisoned, and his death was slow and agonizing. Rosamond Oppenheim, the beautiful socialite, was found guilty of murdering her husband. There had been rumors in the Oppenheims' circle that Anthony had been having an affair and had demanded a divorce from Rosamond; that Rosamond had poisoned Anthony in a possessive rage—for it was widely known that she loved Anthony fiercely. A friend of Rosamond was anonymously quoted as saying that if Rosamond couldn't have Anthony, no one would.

Rosamond Oppenheim was sentenced to life in prison. However, before she could begin to serve her sentence, she shot herself, presumably out of grief and guilt and at the unbearable prospect of spending the rest of her life behind bars.

The story finished by saying that the Oppenheims had two daughters: Agnes, thirteen; and Elaine, five. Their fate was unknown, since the Oppenheims had no family to take the girls in.

Jane looked up at Brant as Greenberg handed back the clipping. “Was one of the Oppenheim girls Hannah ?” she asked.

“No,” Greenberg broke in, “that wouldn't make any sense. Hannah was about eighteen. The Oppenheims' daughters would be thirty-one and twenty-three now.”

“Then what could this story have to do with Hannah?” Jane asked. “Why do you think it was in her file?”

Brant shook his head. “More that we don't know. But there must have been some connection, or else why would the clipping have been in Hannah's file?”

“It could have gotten in there by mistake,” Jane suggested.

“Possible,” Brant said, “but highly unlikely. Few people besides myself even have access to those files. They go for years without even being opened.”

Greenberg asked, “Do you have any idea what she was doing in Shady Hills? She told someone she met there that she planned to meet someone in town.”

Brant shook his head. “I have no idea who she could have been referring to.”

“But how did she get there?” Jane asked.

“That I think I can tell you.” Brant looked pleased to be able to tell them
something
. “When the weather is nice, our patients have outdoor time. Hannah's was every morning at ten. On the day she disappeared, she simply waited for her outdoor time, walked into the woods, found a space in the chain-link fence that encircles the Institute's property, and left! As for how she got to your town, I can only imagine she got rides from people—hitchhiked.

“As to why—to that question we have no answers. I wish I knew. I was very fond of Hannah. She was a sweet, trusting girl, easy to get along with. The Institute has been experimenting with smaller group homes here in Sharon, and we had planned to try Hannah in one of them.” Brant's eyes grew moist and he shook his head. “I can't imagine what kind of evil person would have wanted to hurt such an innocent soul.”

They sat silently for a moment.

Then Jane had an idea. “Where did the Oppenheims live?”

“Right here in Sharon,” Brant replied, looking puzzled. “It says so right here in the article.”

“Yes, I know, but
where
in Sharon?”

Greenberg was looking at her strangely, as if wondering why she was asking that.

“The Oppenheim estate is at the other end of town,” Brant said. “It's right at the edge of the golf course.” He looked at Greenberg. “But you won't find any clues there. The place has been abandoned since the scandal—that's almost twenty years ago.”

They thanked Brant for his time and went out into the sunshine, painfully bright after the Institute's shadowy gloom.

 

They rode in silence along the streets that would take them back to the highway.

Abruptly Jane sat up straight, looking out the window. “This must be the golf course he mentioned.”

“Must be,” Greenberg said cheerfully.

“Stop the car.”

“What? Why?”

“I want to find the Oppenheim estate.”

“There's no point. It's deserted, abandoned. Besides, it has nothing to do with Hannah.”

“I know all that, but I want to see it anyway.”

Greenberg rolled his eyes, but he didn't say no. They had to ask for directions twice, despite being so near the golf course, but eventually they did find the estate, which was accessible by means of an overgrown drive through woods. They came out onto a lawn grown high with weeds, beyond which stood a massive Georgian-style mansion, four imposing floors of brick, with several clusters of tall chimneys reaching to the sky. Unquestionably the house had been magnificent once, but now it looked as if it might crumble at any moment, or be strangled by the ivy that had crept up its walls and taken over.

Greenberg pulled the car to a stop.

“I want to walk around,” Jane said, and got out.

Greenberg got out, too. “We're wasting our time,” he said plaintively.

She ignored him, wandering deeper into the estate.

It was hard to tell what had been what, with all the weeds and shrubbery that now grew everywhere. The air had grown hot and dry. As Jane tramped slowly through the brush, the loud keening and chittering of cicadas in the woods around the estate gave the whole place a sad, lonely feeling.

Behind the house she found what had been the swimming pool—not very large but deep, dust-dry, weeds and small trees pushing up through wide fissures in the concrete of the sides and bottom.

She glanced up at the house. Not a single window remained intact; most were gaping holes, others retained jagged shards of filthy glass.

She released a deep sigh. Why had she wanted to come here, to see this place? She herself did not even know.

“I'm ready to leave now,” she told Greenberg, who started back toward the car. Jane tromped after him.

“Can't say I see the point of that,” he said, getting behind the wheel and switching the air-conditioning on full blast. It had grown quite warm.

“Does there have to be a point to everything?” Jane asked pleasantly. “I was curious, that's all.”

He shrugged, doing a K-turn and heading back toward the drive through the woods. Jane gazed out at the house, the overgrown lawn, the dark surrounding wall of trees.

Something whitish among the trees caught her eye.

“Stop.”

He braked. “Now what?”

“Look,” she said, pointing, “just beyond that row of pines. There's a little house or something.”

“Probably a garage or guesthouse.” He took his foot off the brake.

“No, wait. I want to get out for a minute.”

He opened his mouth as if to protest, then seemed to think better of it and smiled. “Fine. But this time I'll wait in here where it's nice and cool, if you don't mind.”

“No, not at all,” she said, ignoring his sarcastic tone because she wanted to see what that little white building was. She got out and walked around the pines, the structure coming into view. It was a cottage, not a garage; perhaps a small caretaker's cottage. Oddly, it didn't look as forlorn as the big house. The lawn, though scruffy, appeared to have been cut in the recent past, and there were curtains in the windows at either side of the front door. Jane walked up a crude flagstone path and knocked on the front door. It opened immediately. Jane jumped.

“What is it?” It was a middle-aged woman, skinny, with limp brown hair and a yellowish, unhealthy-looking face. She wore a beige-cotton housedress and grimy terry scuffs. “I saw you come up. Saw you snooping around, for that matter. What is it?” she asked again, her tone resentful.

“I—I'm sorry to bother you,” Jane said in her most charming manner. “I wonder if I might ask you a question.”

“Don't know till you ask it.”

“Did you know the Oppenheims, the people who once lived in the big house?”

The woman looked Jane up and down appraisingly. “What do you want to know for? Who are you?”

“My name is Jane Stuart. I'm not from around here. I'm from New Jersey, actually. But I'm trying to track down someone who knew the Oppenheims, and I wondered if perhaps you knew them.”

“Well,
I
didn't,” the woman said, “but my father did, for all the good it did him.” Her expression was one of disgust; she looked as if she would have spit in different company.

“Your father, he was the Oppenheims' . . .”

“He was their caretaker.”

“And he's passed away?” Jane asked gently.

“No, he ain't passed away, but he might as well have. He's in a nursing home at the other end o' town. The
poor
part of town. What'do you wanna know for?” she asked again.

“As I said, I'm trying to find someone who knew the Oppenheims.” Jane tried to hide her excitement. “It's regarding a young woman who disappeared recently from Whiteson Institute.”

The woman looked at Jane as if she were crazy. “What the hell's my dad got to do with Whiteson? I think you came to the wrong place, lady.” She started to close the door.

“No, please, wait!”

The door stopped. The woman tapped one scuff.

“Do you think I could speak to your father? I promise I won't bother or upset him.”

The woman considered this for a moment. “You can do as you please,” she said uncaringly. “I don't see what one thing's got to do with the other, but if you want to talk to my dad, you're welcome to try.” A sly little smile curled her lips, as if there was something she hadn't told Jane.

“Try?” Jane echoed.

The woman nodded. “For one thing, he's eighty-three. For another, he's got Alzheimer's—bad. It's a wonder he's still alive. He goes ‘in and out,' you might say. It's the Sunnymead Rest Home. Like I said, other end o' town. Have fun.”

“And his name?” Jane asked quickly before the door could shut all the way.

“Mangano,” the woman said. “Victor Mangano. I'd tell you to give him my love, but most days he doesn't even know who I am.” And the door shut completely.

Jane walked thoughtfully back to the car. When she got in, Greenberg still had the air-conditioning on full blast, which felt good against her face, and he was listening to country music on the radio.