Mistaken Identity (19 page)

Thirty-Five

Chewing over her theory, Lucinda thought she spotted a flaw.
Is it really possible for one sperm donor to have children decades apart?
She logged on to the Internet seeking answers. As she browsed, she jotted down notes.

Fifty to eighty per cent of sperm die in the freezing process.

The sperm that perish do so within the first forty-eight hours of freezing. Very little attrition after that.

Frozen sperm can be stored for as long as fifty years without additional sperm deterioration.

Now that Lucinda knew her theory was possible, she couldn’t find the answer to the big question of “why” without more information. She had to find someone who knew Jason King’s mother.
No
, she corrected herself,
John Kidd’s mother
. She searched the Internet for Viola Kidd but found nothing of any use. She pulled out her phone and sent a text message to research requesting the information. At this late hour, she knew that she probably wouldn’t hear back from them until the next day when she was heading to
Charlottesville
for her Aunt Connie’s funeral.

Victoria Whitehead stood at the bottom of the stairs and shouted up to the second floor, “
Frederick
, dinner is ready.” She returned to the kitchen, making several trips between there and the dining room, placing fresh salads, water goblets and a steaming casserole on the table.

Her grandson, however, had still not come downstairs. She hollered up again: “Frederick, did you hear me?” Getting no response, she climbed up to his bedroom. On his bed, lay a piece of paper. She unfolded it and read: “If I go down, I’m taking you with me.”

Victoria threw her hand in front of her mouth and gasped.
No. No. It can’t be true.
She raced through the four rooms on that floor, shouting her grandson’s name. She hurried down the steps, stumbling once but grabbing the railing in time to prevent a fall. She ran from room to room on the first floor. “Frederick. Frederick. Please answer me, Frederick.”

She searched the basement, looking behind the washer and dryer, under the stairs, between the wall and the furnace. No Frederick. She trembled on the edge of panic. Back on the main floor, she picked up the telephone receiver, moved her finger towards the nine button and froze.
Should I call nine one one or not? What if this is just a test?
She pressed a finger down to disconnect the call. Despite everything, she did not want to lose Jason.

She returned the receiver to the cradle and took two steps toward the dining room. When the phone rang, she staggered and nearly fell again. She picked up the call but said nothing.

“Victoria?” the voice said on the other end.

“Jason! Do you know where Frederick is?”

“Of course I do. He’s with me.”

“Bring him home. Bring him home now,” she said her attempts to sound firm foiled by the quaver in her voice.

“I’m keeping the boy until my demands are met. Go ahead – contact the cops. You’ll need their help to get what I want,” he said, then slammed down the phone.

Victoria’s breath came in short, fast gasps. She was afraid to call the police – terrified of where that might lead. She feared for her grandson’s safety. And, yet, she still wondered if it was a test and if she would fail if she brought in the authorities.

Numb, she walked to the dining room and sat in her place. She toyed with her salad but never took a bite. She wandered away from the laden table to the liquor cabinet where she poured a large glass of sherry and slugged it down as fast as she could swallow and, leaving everything on the table, went up to her bedroom.

Lucinda rose the next morning with dread. She put on a new blouse with the black suit she’d worn the day before to Jeanine’s funeral. She was halfway into her drive when her cell pinged, indicating the arrival of a text message. She picked it up and read the phone number for Constance Green, Viola Kidd’s younger sister.

She stuck the Bluetooth in her ear and called – it was still very early in California, the better to catch her at home. Constance answered on the first ring. “Hello.”

“Hello, Ms. Green. I’m Lieutenant Lucinda Pierce, a homicide detective with the Greensboro Police Department in Virginia.”

“Homicide? You mean murder?”

“Yes, ma’am, we do investigate murders and that is why I am calling you. I need some information about your nephew, John Kidd.”

“Oh, my God! Someone killed him? Thank heavens Viola didn’t live to see this day.”

“No, ma’am. To the best of my knowledge, John Kidd is still alive.”

“Surely, you don’t suspect him of being involved in a murder? I must admit it wouldn’t have surprised me if he killed his father – he was full of rage about that man. But he died years ago – of a heart attack or stroke or something. I can’t imagine John ever hurting another soul.”

“Ms. Green, he’s simply come up in the investigation and we need to eliminate him as a possibility so that we can move on.”

“Well, then, what do you want to know? I’m not sure if I can answer your questions, I haven’t seen John since my sister’s funeral – that must have been five years ago now. What a horrible tragedy.”

“Yes, I understand she committed suicide.”

“Afraid so. I rue the day that my sister ever met that damned William Blessing.”

“But he died before her, Ms. Green. Did she miss him that badly?”

“Heavens, no. Not for one minute. He might have left her but she was well rid of him and she knew it – I told her so. But, after he died, his place of employment sent his personal effects home. They hadn’t lived together since John was born, but they never divorced. Anyway, she didn’t even want to look inside the box. But John did, and he found a journal belonging to his father packed inside. And all that Blessing bastard’s secrets were there.”

“Secrets?”

“Apparently, Blessing had a very active sex life after my sister and his son. Never sent Viola a penny for child support but had plenty of money to fool around. Why she didn’t take him to court, I don’t know. But they scraped by all those years. My husband and I had to help them out from time to time. Viola was faithful to her husband throughout it all, so her heart was broken when John pointed out the many liaisons in his father’s journal. Viola felt distraught, humiliated and betrayed. The last time I spoke to her, I never imagined she was thinking about taking her own life. But there you go. A woman’s heart is an impenetrable jungle.”

“But, Ms. Green, are you certain he had a string of affairs? He ran a sperm bank. Isn’t it possible that William Blessing kept a private record of the artificial inseminations using his sperm?”

“Don’t much matter what I think. Viola imagined romance – with all those women. She talked to me about candlelight dinners and dancing under the moon. I told her not to let her imagination run away from her. I told her he wasn’t worth it. I thought she was listening to me. I didn’t learn I was wrong until it was too late.”

“So, you hold William Blessing responsible for your sister’s death?”

“I most certainly do – indirectly, that is. To hear John talk, though, you would have thought that Blessing reached his hand out of the grave and forced those pills down Viola’s throat.”

Thirty-Six

Victoria Whitehead awoke that morning with a headache and a sick sensation of dread in her stomach. She walked downstairs, fixed a cup of tea and returned to bed. She kept running over her decision not to call nine one one. She stared at the phone, willing it to ring. She wanted to hear Jason say, “You passed the test. Freddy and I will be there for lunch.”

But noon came and went without a call.
Maybe he won’t call. Maybe they’ll just show up at the front door grinning and laughing.
She jumped out of bed and quickly got dressed to be ready for their arrival. By the time she made it downstairs, though, her optimistic thought turned on itself.
You are a fool
–
a silly old fool
beat a tattoo in her head.

She roamed around the house, uncertain and unsettled. She stopped at the dining room table a few times to clean up the mess she’d left the night before. No sooner had she started than she abandoned the project, drifting off into another room. It was three thirty that afternoon before she found the energy to go outside and retrieve the day’s mail.

Opening the door, she spotted a box on the porch and smiled. She slipped two envelopes and a flier out of the mailbox, set them on top of the package and lifted. It was a lot heavier than she thought it would be.

She carried it to the dining room table and, pushing a place mat out of the way, set it down on the surface. She went into the kitchen for a pair of shears and cut away the tape. She’d only lifted one flap when the stench hit her nostrils and drove her back against the wall. She threw a hand over her mouth and nose in a vain attempt to block the smell.

Is that Freddy? Oh, dear God, don’t let it be Freddy in that box. I’ve got to call the police. I’ve got to call now. No, I need to know. I need to look. Maybe it’s just rotted food. Maybe it’s a dead animal.
“Oh, but it could be Freddy!” she wailed out loud.

One foot after another, she forced herself to walk back to the table and open the box. Inside, a plastic bag held a head. She jumped back. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”
Breathe deep, calm down
, she urged. Halfway through one hard inhalation, she gagged, doubled over and vomited on the floor.

Shaking inside and out, she leaned against the wall again.
It’s not Freddy. It’s not Freddy. It’s not Freddy. But I have to be sure. I have to know.
She staggered back to the table and stared into the box.
Not Freddy. Oh, thank God
.

She turned to launch herself into the kitchen. One foot hit the mess she’d left on the floor. Her foot slid backward, bringing her to her knees, and the inertia slammed her down on all fours. A sharp jolt shot through one wrist and up her arm. She whimpered and crawled the rest of the way into the kitchen.

Grabbing the door frame, she pulled herself up to reach the phone. With shaking fingers, she pressed nine one one, slumping to the floor with her back to the wall and the receiver clutched in the one hand that didn’t throb with intense pain.

*

As Lucinda pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home, Ricky burst out of the front door. He was by her side as she stepped out of her car, wrapping her in a tight embrace. “Thanks for coming, Lucinda.”

“Anything for you, little brother,” she said with a smile as they stepped out of their hug and walked up to the front door.

“People are going to start thinking I’m bumping off family members just to see you.”

“Hmm. Hadn’t thought about that. Maybe I should investigate?”

Ricky pulled the door open and they were face to face with their sister Maggie.

“How can you dare show up here?” she snarled.

“No matter our differences, Mags, she was my aunt, too.”

“And, because of you, she’s dead,” Maggie spat.

“Maggie, lower your voice,” Ricky urged. “This is not the place. Lucinda was nowhere near here when Aunt Connie died.”

“Shut up, Ricky,” Maggie said and turned to her sister. “You might as well have pushed her and then smothered her in her hospital bed. She’d be alive if it weren’t for you.”

“You’re out of your mind, Mags. Please let me come inside.”

Maggie stepped back. “Oh, you come on in. But let me tell you this, sister dearest, I will make sure that everyone knows this is your fault. If you hadn’t stressed out Aunt Connie so much, she wouldn’t have lost her temper and taken that fall. You couldn’t be more responsible if you shot her point-blank with your gun.”

Lucinda brushed past Maggie and headed up the hall. She heard Ricky hissing an urgent whisper to their sister but had no hope his words would do any good.

No one in the room with Aunt Connie’s casket gave the slightest indication that they believed she bore any responsibility for her aunt’s death. Those who knew Lucinda greeted her warmly, telling her it was good to see her again although they regretted the circumstances.

On the limousine ride to the cemetery, Lucinda kept her gaze out the window, never once acknowledging her sister’s presence in the car. A couple of times, Maggie made baiting comments. Ricky chastised her but Lucinda didn’t even turn her head.

The mourners gathered at Ricky’s house after the graveside service. For an hour, Lucinda succeeded in never being in the same room with her sister. Then, she was cornered. Maggie was in her face.

“I know why you’re here,” Maggie said in a loud, booming voice. “You want to make sure you get your piece of the pie. You want us to sell the farm so you get your money. You hated Aunt Connie while she was living but now you’re here picking over her bones. Go ahead, tell Ricky – he should know you’re going to force him to sell the farm. Go on, tell him.”

Lucinda turned her back on Maggie and walked across the room to her brother. Speaking in a low voice, she said, “Ricky, as far as I’m concerned, this farm belongs to you. You built a house on this ground. You worked these acres all of your life – tended to the cows, the chickens, the pigs. You have earned this place. Have an attorney draw up the paperwork transferring all my interest in the property to you. I’ll sign it the moment I get it.”

The room was silent. Everyone there had heard every word. Lucinda scanned the room and heads dropped in embarrassment at overhearing the family drama. She turned around and left the room. Behind her back, Maggie shouted, “You are such a liar.”

Ricky hesitated only a moment before racing out of the farmhouse, calling Lucinda’s name.

“Ricky, I can’t stay any longer. I have to go.”

“I know. I know. I just wanted to say goodbye.”

Lucinda stopped and hugged her brother. Over her shoulder, she saw the funeral guests drifting out on to the front porch, observing their interaction.

“I feel a vibration in my chest – is that your cellphone in your pocket or did you just taze me?”

“Funny boy,” Lucinda said, backing out of the embrace and pulling out her phone.

“Pierce.”

Lucinda’s faced turned ashen. “Kidnapped?” She bent her head, listening intently. “The head and one hand? Why not both?” She disconnected. “I’ve got to go now, Ricky. You know the double homicide I’m working on? Well, someone just kidnapped the victims’ thirteen-year-old son.” She drove off faster than she should, raising a huge cloud of red dust up from the packed clay drive.

When Ricky returned to the porch, Maggie said, “What? Did someone else die and they sent out an urgent plea for vultures?”

“Please, Maggie. A young boy’s been kidnapped.”

“Well, good Lord, keep her away from him – she’s apt to shoot him as soon as save him.”