Secrets of Eden (14 page)

When I went by Jim’s office to brief him on the Hayward case, the mayor had just left and I could tell that Jim was basking in the reality that the mayor had come here rather than expecting Jim to come to him. I considered reminding him that Mayor Peter Grafton liked meeting the people at the Blue Benn Diner while chowing down on the corned beef hash, and our office was between the Blue Benn and his. Peter had probably met with Jim on his way into town and still had egg on his breath.

That morning Jim was wearing the sort of microfiber blazer that looks very good on razor-thin male models but was stretched a bit like Saran Wrap on a guy as stocky as Jim. He isn’t overweight—he’s actually pretty handsome, with clear green eyes that I’ve seen him use to great effect on female jurors and a mane of dark brown hair that has only recently started to thin—but if I were to guess, I’d say he carried around close to 220 pounds on a frame of roughly six feet.

“You know,” he said, sitting down behind an Empire desk the size of a mini golf green and motioning me toward the chair beside it rather than opposite it, “already I’m hearing from politicians who see an opportunity in this nightmare. City councilors. State legislators. I hate politicians.”

“No you don’t. You love them, Jim. You are one.”

“Let me rephrase that: I hate it when politicians try to exploit something tragic for their own gain. I hate it when they try to grandstand.”

“Me, too.”

“Already there are people planning to campaign on this. Use violence against women as part of their platform—but with absolutely no specifics, no program, no plan.”

“At least they’ll be against it.”

“How can you joke like that? You’re a woman!”

“That’s precisely how I can. Because I am a woman.”

“It’s like when that patient hanged himself at the state psychiatric hospital. Suddenly every politician wanted a new director. A new hospital. New ways of caring for the mentally ill. There was chaos and noise, and in the end absolutely nothing changed.”

“I remember.”

“Now they’ll make it sound like it’s the state’s attorney’s job to prevent domestic abuse.”

“Jim—”

“They’ll want to set up task forces. They’ll want hearings. Legislation. At least this one is easy for us. Cut and dried—and I promise you, I would not have used that expression just now if George Hayward had used a knife.”

“Jim?”

“Go ahead.”

“David doesn’t think George Hayward killed himself.”
He rocked forward in the great palm of his leather chair. “What?”

And so I told him about the head wound and the ME’s conjecture. I shared with him the possibility that if George Hayward had not shot himself, then it was—at least for the moment—conceivable that he had not strangled Alice, either.

“There’s someone else?” he asked, a slight catch of dryness in his throat. That was it.

“Apparently. But at this point all I’m telling you is that George Hayward may not have been a suicide.”

He sighed, and I imagined he was contemplating all of the ways I had just complicated his life, and how so much of his small office’s resources were about to be committed to what had seemed, just a few minutes ago, a relatively simple domestic cataclysm.

MY HUSBAND TEACHES
earth science and chemistry at the high school in Bennington, and he is worshipped by his students. Every third graduating class seems to dedicate the yearbook to him, and he is constantly lampooned in their variety shows—but in ways that make it clear he is more beloved than spring break. Once when I was helping him chaperone a dance, half the senior girls viewed me as some haglike interloper. One literally asked me who I was and what I was doing there. She asked me how I knew Mr. Ribner.
Well, he’s my husband
, I answered politely.
How do you know Paul?
The boys revere him, too, especially the soccer players. He played soccer through college, and the high-school soccer team now has something of a reputation as a powerhouse in the state. They’ve been state champs four times in the six years that he’s coached the team.

Sometimes after our own boys are in bed (which is always a major production, because one is three and one is six, and they are both relentlessly energetic), we will be comparing notes on our day. He will
be talking about some refugee kid—a student with nothing—who’s raised some incredible sum of money in the walkathon for the local homeless shelter and also happens to be a spectacular forward, and I will be telling him about (for example) some minister in Haverill who was fucking some battered woman he was supposed to be counseling and then took justice into his own hands and shot her husband.

I’m no biblical scholar, but even I know who has the final say when it comes to justice and revenge, and it isn’t the local pastor. Weeks later one of the Vermont newspapers would christen Drew the “Vigilante Reverend,” but I always thought that implied there was more fire in the guy’s soul than was actually there. It also, it seemed to me, gave the guy a veneer of likability he didn’t deserve.

Of course, I seem to be an exception among women. Obviously Alice Hayward saw something in him. So did Heather Laurent. And I’m confident there were other women in Haverill, too, and someday they’ll come forward. Even now there are rumors and suspicions and no small amount of whispering. But he’s certainly not my type: He’s almost too pretty. His hair is too perfect. And the camera just loves him. Those first pictures of him in the newspaper that Tuesday morning? We’re talking the dad in a J. Crew catalog.

Still, I honestly didn’t see Drew as a suspect at first, even when David suggested that George Hayward might have been murdered. It was only when one of the original investigators, Emmet Walker, went back to nose around Haverill the week after the funeral and learned that Drew had left town that I began to wonder. Emmet, along with a younger trooper named Andy Sullivan, stopped by the church. The secretary there introduced them to some old fellow named Gavin who said he was filling in as pastor until Drew either returned or decided that he would never be able to. Both Gavin—whose full name was Gavin Muir Maxwell, as solid a name as you can find, in my opinion, for a retired Baptist minister who works now as a sort of substitute
teacher for shepherdless flocks—and the church secretary were talkative. They reported that Drew had left Thursday evening, the night of Alice Hayward’s funeral, and that he had said he wasn’t sure where he was going. But the secretary, a lovely woman named Betsy Storrs, who I practically want to make my new godmother (my actual godmother is long dead), told Emmet that she saw the reverend’s passport on his desk before he went into the sanctuary to conduct Alice Hayward’s service, and the day before that she had heard him on the phone trying to find out the limits on his Visa and MasterCard.

“Did you see him remove any papers from his office?” Emmet had asked.

“We have a lot of state secrets here,” Betsy had replied solemnly. “Next to Los Alamos, there are more important documents here than anywhere in the country.”

“So he didn’t take anything?”

“Of course he took things,” she said, shaking her head, and she showed him how the pastor’s personal drawer in the gray metal filing cabinet was now only half full. “The fact he took his passport and so many of his personal papers is why I don’t expect him back anytime soon. I am telling you, he was very, very shaken by this. This hit him in a way that caught all of us completely off guard. I thought I knew Stephen well—at least as well as anyone in this town—but I’m telling you, I never saw this one coming.”

Emmet didn’t think she was angry. But he was confident that she thought the minister held his cards very, very close to his chest.

W
hen I was a kid, I used to pull down a trapdoor in the ceiling hallway along the second floor of my grandparents’ house and climb up into the attic. I did it all the time when I was seven and eight years old, because my grandparents lived only about fifteen miles away, and so my family was visiting them all the time. I wasn’t supposed to be up there, but when my parents were having coffee with them after dinner or brunch or sitting in their backyard on these ancient wooden lawn chairs that must have weighed as much as a small car, it’s where I would go. My brother and sister never joined me. When they were there, too, they’d park themselves in front of the TV. What was up there that interested me so much? Old magazines. My grandfather—my mom’s father—had been an editor for
Vermont Life
, and he had boxes of dusty copies of that magazine, as well as plenty of
Time
and
Life
and
True Detective
. Sometimes I would try to entice my brother to join me by making a very big deal about some vaguely provocative photos of Marilyn Monroe I’d found in an old
Life
and some even more suggestive photos of female hippies at Woodstock in
an issue of
Time
. But he never took the bait, and so I was always up there alone.

By dragging a small upholstered easy chair from my grandparents’ bedroom to a spot just below the trapdoor, I was able to stretch just enough to reach the cord that opened it. Attached to the door were a series of clunky wooden steps, and they always reminded me of the basement stairs at my own family’s house. The attic had windows along three of its walls, and so even though there was no electricity up there, there was enough light to thumb through the old magazines and look at the pictures. I would usually sit on an old rocking horse with pretend stirrups because I was afraid there were mice up there and I didn’t want my feet touching the floor, and I would read what I could understand and simply study the pictures beside those articles that either bored me or were way over my head. Obviously, most of what I came across was way over my head.

But the articles that I believe I spent the most time with—and the ones that have stayed with me ever since—were the ones about violent crime in New York and San Francisco and Miami, Florida. Stories about husbands who murdered their wives, drug dealers who machine-gunned federal agents, serial killers who had children buried in their basements and backyards. Scared the crap out of me—but I was totally fascinated. My grandfather’s
Vermont Life
s with their pictures of bright red barns and rustic sugarhouses? Those stories about apple orchards and fiddlers and ice fishing? They were of less interest to me at that age. So there I was some Sunday afternoons in a velvet dress and crimson tights, my hair no doubt in a ponytail, studying black-and-white photos that would have made Weegee proud. Who can say what drew me to that sort of thing so early on, but I couldn’t keep away. When I’d had enough—when I was almost
too
scared—I’d run like a racehorse out of there. I couldn’t wait to rejoin my siblings by the TV or my parents outside in the sun.
Later, when Paul and I were dating and the relationship was growing serious, I brought him to that house to meet my grandmother. (My grandfather had passed away years earlier.) While we were there, I brought him upstairs to the attic and showed him the magazines—ostensibly so he could see the issues of
Vermont Life
that my grandfather had worked on. My grandmother was going to be selling the house soon, and she surprised me by asking me if I wanted the magazines. Not the
Vermont Life
s, which she said were going to the state historical society. The issues of
Time
and
Life
and
True Detective
. I passed. But to this day I have no idea how she knew that I was attracted to them.

AT BREAKFAST MY
boys can be holy freaking terrors. Not every day, but often enough that Paul once put a shower curtain on the kitchen floor beneath their chairs to try to make a point. Another time I made them eat their cereal without milk—no fluids at all in the bowls—for a week. Yup, I’m the mom who punished her kids by denying them milk. Very nice, I know. I can just see the headlines when the Department for Children and Families comes to take them away. The problem is that Lionel, my three-year-old, drives Marcus, my first-grader, crazy because he doesn’t understand why the other males in the house get to go to school and he doesn’t.