Daughter of Ashes

SIXTEEN

‘O it’s broken the lock and splintered the door, O it’s the gate where they’re turning, turning; Their boots are heavy on the floor And their eyes are burning.’

W.H. Auden, ‘O What is That Sound,’ 1936

I was surprised on Monday morning when Dwight showed up for work.

‘How’s Rusty?’ was the first thing out of my mouth.

‘Stable,’ his father told me. He looked like he’d lost sleep. A small patch of stubble under his left nostril made me wonder if he’d crawled out of bed early and shaved in the dark.

‘You didn’t have to come to work today,’ I said.

‘Nothing I can do at the hospital, and if I don’t work the bills don’t get paid.’ Dwight set his toolbox down on the porch. ‘Besides, Grace is with him.’

‘That’s good,’ I said. Then added quickly, ‘I’m so sorry about Kendall.’

He shrugged. ‘I feel bad when anyone dies, but Kendall was dead to me a long time ago, Mrs Ives. I can count the times we’ve talked over the past two years on the fingers of one hand.’

‘I don’t suppose you were at the picnic yesterday?’

Dwight looked blank, then said, ‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘Does Rusty stay in touch with his mother?’ I asked, quickly changing the subject.

Dwight snorted. ‘Hardly. Grace is the only mother he’s ever known. She was a stay-at-home mom, you know. Didn’t start doing volunteer work until Rusty started school.’

‘I don’t suppose Rusty is allowed visitors?’

‘No,’ he said simply, the one word encompassing a world of sadness.

‘You’ll keep us informed?’ I asked.

Instead of replying, Dwight patted the pocket of his work pants and pulled out a small packet of business cards held together by a rubber band. He slid one out from under the band and handed it to me. ‘Grace is on this website, Caring Bridge, posting updates.’ He tapped a corner of the card. ‘The URL is on there.’

I fingered the card and turned it over, filled with admiration for the woman who loved her stepchild so much that she’d designed these cards – featuring a clipart figure of a running quarterback glancing over his shoulder, arms extended, preparing to receive a pass – and printed them out on her home computer.

‘I’m familiar with Caring Bridge,’ I said truthfully. As a cancer survivor, I had many friends who’d faced the same challenging road to recovery as I had, who’d found comfort and support from social media websites such as Caring Bridge. ‘I’ll be sure to visit and post a few notes of encouragement.’

‘Thanks. Grace will appreciate that.’

I wondered as I fingered the card if I should tell Dwight about the black Mustang I’d seen at Kendall’s party, but decided it would be cruel to get his hopes up before the police had had time to track down its owner and investigate.

Dwight trudged off and was working alone, installing copper flashing around the newly repointed chimney, when Sheriff Hubbard and one of his deputies paid us a visit. He left his hat on the entrance hall table I’d recently imported from our home in Annapolis, and followed me into the kitchen where we sat around the table drinking iced tea.

Paul’s conversation with Kendall had been observed, but not, as I had worried, by the security cameras. ‘I’m amazed Kendall didn’t have cameras trained on Liquid Asset,’ I said. ‘It’s got to have thousands of dollars’ worth of electronic equipment on board.’

‘There is a camera aimed at her usual berth,’ Hubbard explained, ‘but in order to accommodate all the visiting boats they moved Liquid Asset out to the end of the dock. We got miles of footage of a couple making out on a jet ski,’ he told us with a rueful grin, ‘but nothing on the Liquid Asset herself.

‘When you were talking to Mrs Barfield,’ he continued, addressing my husband, ‘how did she seem?’

‘I really didn’t notice anything unusual, Sheriff Hubbard, but then, I’d only just met the woman so what was usual for her…’ He shrugged. ‘She seemed cheerful, not at all preoccupied, not even with the party preparations. Her staff and the caterers had everything well in hand and she seemed relaxed, genuinely having a good time.’

Hubbard’s eyes ping-ponged from Paul to me and back again. ‘Do you know anyone who had a grudge against her?’

I answered for the both of us. ‘We did, actually. I have to be upfront about that. Before we bought this house, we made an offer on another of her listings. The offer was accepted, and then for reasons I still don’t clearly understand, we had the rug pulled out from under us.’

‘That was one of the things that Kendall and I were discussing on the dock that day, actually,’ Paul added. ‘Seems it was simply a failure of her staff to communicate. She told me it’s all ironed out now.’

‘Besides,’ I cut in, ‘we bought this place and, renovations aside, we couldn’t be happier with it.’

‘Anyone else?’ Hubbard wasn’t going to let us off the hook so easily.

‘As my husband pointed out,’ I replied, ‘we’d only just met the woman, but from what folks say around here, Kendall wasn’t everyone’s friend.’

Sheriff Hubbard blinked, grunted, but made no further comment. Was he staring me down? Daring me to lie to him? While I debated whether to mention Caitlyn’s serious grudge against her boss over the loss of the best salesperson award, Sheriff Hubbard pocketed his notebook, signaled to his deputy that it was time to go, and stood. ‘I appreciate your cooperation, Professor and Mrs Ives. You’ve been very helpful.’

Following their lead, we stood, too. ‘Any time,’ Paul said.

‘Have you been able to trace the owner of the Mustang?’ I asked as I walked the officers to the door.

Sheriff Hubbard paused to retrieve his hat from the hall table. As he settled it again on his head, he said, ‘We have, but you must know that I can’t share that information with you.’

‘Can’t blame a gal for trying.’ I managed a smile. ‘Do you know who was driving the car, then?’

‘We do. But again…’

I held up a hand. ‘Sorry, but it seems highly suspicious that the car that ran Rusty off the road is also parked at Rusty’s mother’s estate on the day she gets murdered. I’m thinking that Rusty and his mother must have shared more than a simple X-chromosome.’

‘Well, if that something occurs to you, Mrs Ives, I hope you’ll let us know.’

Hubbard was halfway down the walk when he turned back. ‘I have some information for you about Baby Ella,’ he said, as if tossing a pacifying tidbit my way. ‘I spoke with the medical examiner’s office this morning, and there seems to be no sign of foul play. The child was a girl, as you suspected, from six to eight months old.’

‘Did they say how she died?’

‘From the condition of her lungs, he suspects she died of a serious respiratory infection. It’s hard to say precisely, but the baby may have had polio.’

Polio! That news stopped me in my tracks. One never thought much about polio these days, the disease having been eradicated in the United States by the late seventies or early eighties, as I recalled, thanks to Jonas Salk’s vaccine.

‘There was a polio epidemic sweeping the country in the summer of 1951,’ Hubbard continued.

‘And Baby Ella was wrapped in newspapers from around that time,’ Paul observed.

‘Exactly so,’ Hubbard agreed. ‘So, I don’t think we have a crime here.’

‘Isn’t there some law in Maryland about failure to report a death, or unlawful disposal of a body?’ I was grasping at straws, I knew, desperate to hold someone responsible for all the years little Ella spent walled up in our chimney.

Hubbard frowned. ‘Well, ma’am, maybe there is and maybe there isn’t, but in this case, I have absolutely zero inclination to go looking for someone to prosecute for it.’