The Unbidden Truth (32 page)

“With her?” Louise asked. She was pale and anxious. “Is she all right? Not in danger?”

“Not where she is, but we have to keep her out of sight until this is all over.”

“Of course. I don't have anything with me,” she said hesitantly.

“I'm sure your hostess will be able to provide whatever you need.” She looked past Louise to Bailey, who nodded.

“We'll wait five minutes, then take off,” he said. Morgan began to bark, and Bailey nodded. “Right now, bet Herbert's saying that if anyone gets out of a car on the property that dog will take off a leg or head.” He nodded again when they heard Herbert's truck start in the driveway and leave. Bailey looked at his watch.

 

Minutes later they were in Bailey's SUV heading first toward downtown, then he turned onto Fourth Avenue, a street barely wide enough for two cars. At the Lincoln Street stop sign he said, “Two of them. Thought there might be more. Here we go.” He made a left turn, and Herbert's truck pulled
up to the narrow entrance to Fourth and came to a stop, blocking it. Bailey drove to Sixth, turned, then made several more turns, and finally got on the Jefferson Street bridge. The rain was heavy and steady, traffic was slow, but he seemed unconcerned as he headed toward Springfield, then made another turn and was on the interstate. “Home free,” he said.

Half an hour later he stopped at the gate to Sylvia's estate south of Mt. Pisgah, told the man on duty his name, waited for the gate to swing open and drove through. It was an awesome estate, thousands of acres of forested hills, then a manicured lawn, a swimming pool covered for the season, many gardens, all meticulously maintained, and finally a big house with several levels, and a portico out front.

Outside, the grounds were all professionally maintained and could have been exhibited on the cover of
Horticulture,
but inside the house was all Sylvia's doing. Picasso and Miró cheek by jowl with calendar art, a few stark portraits of grim-faced bearded men, and God alone knew who they were, side by side with photographs by Ansel Adams or Weston, priceless Ming vases and depression glass bowls. Every wall was covered, and every flat surface held surprising objects, some very fine art, or kistch that might have been won at a state fair midway.

Sylvia met them at the door and seized Barbara in an embrace. “I can't tell you thanks enough,” she said. “You are an angel. My very own angel. Where is Frank? Don't tell me he didn't come. Bailey, I did well, didn't I? I did good work. You'll have to call me more often, you foolish man. I work cheap and I do a good job for you.”

Barbara extracted herself and introduced Louise Braniff, who was looking awestruck at the clutter all around, or pos
sibly at the sight of Sylvia. Her hair was canary-yellow that day and she wore black silk pajamas with a scarlet sash.

A young woman in black pants and a white sweatshirt was standing patiently behind Sylvia. “Tanya will take your coats and put them somewhere to drip,” Sylvia said. Smiling, Tanya stepped forward to take the coats. Over the years that Barbara had known Sylvia and visited in her house, she had come to realize that without exception all of her servants adored her.

“Now, do you want refreshment first, or to go directly to Carrie and Shelley?” Sylvia said then.

“Carrie,” Barbara said. “I'd like to talk to you a minute after I see her, of course.”

“Well, of course,” Sylvia said. “And you'll want some lunch. All of you.” She looked at Tanya. “Dear, will you tell Dorothy we'd all like a little snack soon.” She started to walk down the wide hallway, motioning for Barbara and Louise to follow. “I thought she might be comfortable in the music room,” she said. “But the poor child, I don't think she'd be comfortable anywhere right now. Come along.”

They passed other rooms, all showing the same kind of clutter. Then Sylvia stopped at a door and tapped lightly before opening it. Inside, on a green velvet-covered sofa Carrie was sitting with her hands in her lap. She didn't look up. Shelley stood up when they entered, and she looked very relieved to see them.

“Carrie,” Barbara said softly. “You have company.”

Carrie turned toward them, and for a moment she didn't move. Then she jumped up and held out a hand. “Gramma!” Her face underwent a change into that of a child afraid that Santa would take back the new toy, then changed again to disbelief. Louise dropped her purse and ran across the room and
took Carrie in her arms. Carrie leaned into her and started to weep as Louise stroked her hair.

Barbara backed up a step, another, turned and almost pushed Sylvia ahead of her out the door. Shelley came after them and closed the door behind her.

B
arbara said she would give them an hour and while she waited she picked at the sumptuous spread that Sylvia's cook had provided, and assured Sylvia that her performance in court was first-rate, Academy Award stuff. Sylvia beamed.

“But where on earth did you get that outfit?” Barbara asked.

“Oh, I keep a few things on hand so that when Bailey lets me work I'm ready to go. Tell him to let me work more often, Barbara. There must be a lot of things I could do.”

“I'm sure there are,” Barbara said. Sylvia's husband had joined them, and he beamed even broader than Sylvia. Frank often said that Joseph Fenton was the happiest man in the state, as well as being one of the richest. “Do you mind if she does detective work?” Barbara asked him.

He shook his head. “It makes her happy,” he said, as if no more needed saying.

Barbara glanced at her watch again. Ten more minutes. “Sylvia, over the next day or two would you mind getting some pictures of Carrie, something suitable for a passport. They need to be a certain size, I forget just what.”

“Done,” Sylvia said.

 

When the time was up, Barbara and Shelley returned to the music room. Sylvia wanted to tag along, and Barbara shook her head. “Lawyer business.”

Carrie and Louise were sitting side by side on the green sofa, Louise holding Carrie's hand. Their faces were both tear-streaked.

“We have to talk a few minutes,” Barbara said.

Louise started to stand up and Carrie held her hand tighter. “You can stay,” she said.

Barbara nodded, and she and Shelley sat down in chairs near them. “Can you talk about it? What happened to make you remember?” Barbara asked.

“It was seeing Greg Wenzel on the stand. I kept thinking I'd seen him before,” Carrie said. “Then I saw his picture in the newspaper and it looked like a picture from a long time ago.” She told about it haltingly, seeing the picture, seeing the man at her father's car.

She ducked her head. “It hit me that that's who I am, their child, their daughter, and I didn't tell him someone tampered with his car. It's as if that's what the whole trial is really about. I didn't tell him. It, whatever happened, was my fault because I didn't tell him. I've been running away from it all my life and I had to stop running.”

Louise put her arm around Carrie's shoulders and drew her close. “You were only a baby,” she said.

“Everything people told me was a lie,” Carrie mumbled. “I don't know why they did that. Why didn't they let me go back to Aunt Louise and my grandmother? Why did they lie to me and act as if I was crazy all those years?”

Barbara leaned in closer. “They thought you overheard something or saw something that put you in danger. They did it to protect you. The people in the hospital, Adrienne and Stuart Colbert, they all were lied to as well. They thought you were Carol Frederick.” She drew in a breath. “Did you see something or hear something that might have been incriminating to anyone?”

“A picture,” Carrie said after a moment. “From my father's briefcase. Men around a truck with a circle around the head of one of them. I thought he was the king. I heard my father say he had the king, and I thought that's who he meant.”

“Did you recognize that man, then or later?”

“I don't know,” Carrie said. “When I saw Greg Wenzel's picture in the newspaper, I thought he was the king, and I thought I really was crazy because he's too young.”

“Okay,” Barbara said. “We don't know what the judge is going to do on Monday. We hope he'll let the trial go on with you continuing as Carrie Frederick. If he does, can you go through with it knowing what you know now?”

Carrie looked at her in dismay. “You mean I have to pretend my past doesn't exist, doesn't matter?”

“I mean that no one will mention anything to do with the time before you were on an airplane heading for Terre Haute. Just as we would have done if you hadn't remembered. We can't mix up that past with the present trial or we could end up with a mistrial and you'd have to go through it all again.”

A long shudder rippled through Carrie. She hesitated, then nodded. “I'll do whatever you tell me to. I just want it over.”

“Good girl,” Barbara said. She turned to Louise. “There are Robert Frye's relatives in Los Angeles. They'll hear the news or read about it. Can you get in touch with them and let them know what's happening? They'll be besieged by reporters just as everyone here will be.”

Louise nodded. “Of course. I'll call.”

 

Driving home again, Barbara said they might as well take Shelley home first, while they had the reporters at bay. “Have you had a chance to find out where Luther Wenzel was on Friday before Joe got himself killed?” she asked Bailey.

He gave her a mean look. “I think Sylvia had a point,” he said. “She wants to be my partner, help with all my cases. She could disguise herself as a secretary, learn a little shorthand, work her way into the corporation, make a play for Luther, and get him to tell all. It's an idea.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, scowling at the rain. “When this is over, I'm going to take my gear out to the coast and walk for a hundred miles, rain or no rain.”

“I could stop and let you get started now,” Bailey said.

“Don't tempt me,” she muttered. “This is going to be a weekend out of hell.”

That night she found the newspaper picture with Greg Wenzel's head circled and showed it to Frank. “That reminded her of a picture her father was going to take to Atherton,” she said. “She thought she recognized the man with the crown, but it's Greg, who looks remarkably like his father at that age.”

“Not enough,” Frank said. “The word of someone who had
amnesia many years, and was only seven when she saw it. They'd crucify her.”

“I know,” Barbara said. “We still know too much and don't have enough.”

 

The weekend was as hellish as she had predicted. They turned the ringer off the telephone, but reporters came and Morgan barked and, according to Herbert, bit two reporters and one photographer. “Good old dog,” he said. “I warned them.”

The story of Robert and Judith Frye's deaths was spread out in the newspaper on Saturday, along with photographs of Carrie and Barbara's team, and more pictures of the Wenzels, with a fuller account of the trial than had appeared before. They had found old pictures of Judith and Robert, and Carrie as a child. There was no mistaking it, Carrie Frederick was really Carolyn Frye. There was the long black hair even then, and the bold horizontal eyebrows. She had been a beautiful child. The attempted arson at Barbara's office and the bomb stories were replayed, and there was much speculation about what it all meant.

One article even suggested that terrorists might be involved. The sordid little trial in a backwater town had become the media circus that Judge Laughton had foreseen.

It was worse on Sunday with headlines asking who had kidnapped the seven-year-old Carolyn Frye. A tabloid had picked up the story and had stringers in the area. Bread-and-butter item for them, they reveled in stories about little girls missing, abused, or killed. They had already interviewed Adrienne and Stuart Colbert. That headline: “Foster mother always suspected a conspiracy.”

Barbara talked to Louise, who had been in touch with
Robert Frye's relatives, and who said the story was in the Los Angeles papers. Robert's brother planned to arrive in Eugene later that day. Darren called on her cell phone and asked if there was anything he could do, and Barbara said, “Stay away or they'll invade your house and rampage through the clinic with questions.”

 

On Monday Bailey collected Shelley and Carrie and they all headed for the courthouse. Barbara had pleaded with Louise not to attend or risk being mobbed, and Carrie had urged the same thing. Reluctantly she had agreed.

Barbara's group was instantly surrounded when they got out of Bailey's SUV. Flashbulbs, questions, a dozen microphones, hordes of media people, curious bystanders made it almost impossible to work their way through to the upper-level courtroom, which was filled to capacity already. Shelley and Carrie took their places at the defense table, and Barbara and Frank went to the judge's outer office. Mahoney was already there waiting. He was wearing what looked like a new suit, and his previously unruly ginger hair was neatly cut and styled.

Judge Laughton was brusque that morning. He nodded to Frank. “Your cites proved very useful. Thank you. The trial will proceed as it started. I will explain to the jury that people often take pseudonyms for legitimate reasons, particularly performers, and that your client—” he nodded to Barbara “—misunderstood the question and believed she was required to give her birth name when sworn in. For the duration of the trial she will be addressed as Carol Frederick, and no mention is to be made of her previous existence before she was placed in foster care.” He went on to say that he wanted the
trial to proceed with all due speed, no grandstanding, no histrionics, no stunts. He kept his sharp gaze on Barbara as he said that. Also, he said, he would strike the photograph of Larry Wenzel and it could not be referred to again. That was a case of misleading a witness, and as such was inadmissible.

“Do either of you have anything to say?” he demanded then.

Neither of them did. “Then we will get on with it and, again, I'm telling you both, I want this trial concluded with all speed. Ms. Holloway, I am providing an escort for your client as she enters and leaves the courthouse. I don't want a bloodied or maimed defendant in my court. Do you require police protection for her overnight until this is finished?”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Barbara said. “I appreciate help in getting her in and out of the courthouse, but I believe we can manage afterward.”

 

Barbara had a brief talk with Carrie, and then the jury returned, Judge Laughton took the bench and Carrie was called to testify. When asked her name she said in a clear voice, “Carol Frederick.”

She had lost that zombielike appearance, and was composed and attentive. She answered Barbara's questions without hesitation, and gradually her life with foster parents, and then of roaming from city to city, state to state was revealed. She described some of the jobs she held along the way: waitressing, housecleaning, flipping hamburgers…She had no credit cards, had no debts, had never been arrested or stopped by the police, never had a traffic ticket…She owned a fourteen-and-a-half-year-old car, a few books and clothes, nothing else.

She told how she had lost her job in Las Vegas, about talking with Delia Rosen and deciding to drive to Eugene with her.

“When you were in Las Vegas, where did you work?” Barbara asked.

“Circus Circus, in the family restaurant.”

“Is that the kind of restaurant where dinners are under ten dollars, where children are allowed?”

“Yes. Most dinners were about seven or eight dollars, some were less.”

“What were your hours there?”

“From three until eleven, six days a week.”

“Did you ever see Joe Wenzel in Las Vegas?”

“No.”

Gradually Barbara led her up to the time she had complained about Joe Wenzel. “Did you make an effort to complain more than once?”

“I tried,” Carrie said. “I was told two times that the manager was unavailable and couldn't see me.”

Barbara had her describe her tips and what she was doing with the money she made, and finally asked her to tell what happened the night Joe was killed. It was straightforward, exactly what she had told Barbara months earlier.

“You say he was talking crazy when he accosted you as you were going to your car. What did he say?”

Carrie looked at her hands on the stand before her and said in a low voice, “He called me a bitch and a slut. He said I would learn that it didn't pay to play games with him, to fuck around with him.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I hurried on to my car and got inside and locked the door. He was holding the handle when I started the car, then he let go, and I drove to my apartment and got ready for bed and went to bed.”

Barbara asked her several more questions: Had she ever talked to Joe Wenzel, encouraged him? Had she ever called him on the telephone? Had she ever carried her own glass away from the piano? Did she always tie up her hair after playing? Did she always put on hand lotion when she was through for the night?

“Why didn't you use the lotion when you took a break?” she asked.

“It would have left lotion, or traces of lotion, on the piano keys, then dust or dirt would have collected on them. I wouldn't have done that.”

Two and a half hours after calling her, Barbara said, “Thank you, Ms. Frederick. No further questions.”

 

The judge called for the luncheon recess after Barbara sat down. Two uniformed police officers escorted the group through the mob of media people out to Bailey's SUV, and they went home, followed by several cars. None of the photographers or reporters ventured out of their own cars at the house. Morgan was on duty.