Daughter of Ashes

TWENTY

‘Often, while contemplating works of art… I have felt entering into me a kind of vision of the childhood of their creators. Some little sorrow, some small pleasure of the child, inordinately inflated by an exquisite sensibility, become later on in the adult man, even without his knowing it, the basis of a work of art… Genius is nothing but childhood clearly formulated, newly endowed with virile and powerful means of self-expression.’

Charles Baudelaire, Artificial Paradises, ‘An Opium-eater, VI. The Genius as a Child,’ 1860

By the time I got back to Our Song from the library, it was after three – too late to pay a visit to the Nightingales, as much as I wanted to. I considered telephoning and had actually picked up my cell phone to do so when it began to vibrate in my hand. I checked the caller I.D.: Fran.

‘Steve and I were wondering if you and Paul would like to come back to the house for a drink after the concert tonight,’ she said.

Concert? What concert?

‘We should wrap up at St Timothy’s around eight or eight-thirty,’ she continued.

‘Right,’ I said as the light slowly dawned. Dang! Did I have to purchase tickets in advance?

‘I’ve arranged for comp tickets. They’re holding them at the door,’ she barreled on before I’d had a chance to embarrass myself by admitting that the event had completely slipped my mind.

‘Thanks, Fran,’ I told her, ‘but I’ll need only one. Should have told you that Paul wasn’t able to come this weekend. Teaching sailing to the plebes.’

‘No problem,’ she said. ‘See you later.’

‘Can I bring anything?’

‘Oh, no,’ Fran said. ‘It’s all taken care of.’

I’ll bet, I thought as I hung up the phone. My brownies probably wouldn’t have passed her rigid ten-point inspection anyway – color, texture, moisture level, quality of nuts and who knows what else.

I took a quick shower and changed into something more appropriate – a sundress with a lightweight jacket – although I wasn’t completely sure what the citizens of Elizabethtown would consider appropriate for a seven o’clock Saturday evening concert.

At six-forty, I parked in my usual spot behind the county courthouse and walked the two blocks to the church, a classic brick colonial with an impressive white wooden steeple. St Timothy’s sat well back on a generous lot with mature trees and well-trained boxwood hedges that only two centuries of loving attention can achieve.

The pews were three-quarters full when I entered the sanctuary and the usher told me they were already out of printed programs. Would I mind sharing? I wandered down the aisle looking for a seat next to someone I knew, close enough to hear the music but not so close that I’d be blasted out of my seat by the trumpet section. Frantic waving up front near the baptismal font caught my eye – Caitlyn Dymond, dressed in black jeans, a white shirt and a festively embroidered Mexican vest was trying to attract my attention. She pointed to an empty spot in the pew next to her and mouthed, For you.

Rather than crawl over the ten concertgoers already comfortably seated in the pew, I headed up the side aisle to join her. ‘Thanks,’ I said as I slid into place next to her. ‘I was hoping there’d be someone here that I knew. They ran out of programs.’

‘Golly,’ she said, ‘I think the whole town is here.’

Caitlyn was right. Once I got settled in I realized there were many familiar faces in the crowd. Councilman Jack Ames, for example, arm stretched lazily over the back of the pew behind his beautiful wife, Susan. ‘Sit any closer,’ I said, indicating the pair, ‘and he’d be past her.’

Caitlyn snorted, then handed me the program.

As Fran had promised when she first told me about it, the concert opened with Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 4 in D major, a piece in three movements being performed that evening by a soloist named Thomas Glass, an eighteen-year-old freshman at the local community college. The piece was only twenty-five minutes long, so there was no intermission before the Mendelssohn, only the longish pause for extended applause while young Thomas took four well-deserved curtain calls.

‘The program says that Mozart wrote that concerto when he was only nineteen,’ I commented in the break between pieces. ‘And the Italian Symphony was begun when Mendelssohn was only twenty. Factor in our eighteen-year-old violinist, and do I detect a theme?’

‘Prodigies,’ Caitlyn whispered. ‘It’s scary. When I was nineteen all I worried about was clothes and makeup and whether the captain of the football team was going to ask me to Homecoming.’ She squeezed my arm. ‘He was gorgeous!’

While the conductor waited in the wings for the orchestra to retune, I noticed that Jack Ames and his wife were taking the opportunity to glad-hand up and down the pews. ‘Tacky,’ I whispered. ‘And where are their children, I wonder? And the dog?’

‘I don’t know about the dog, Hannah, but there’s a nursery in the church basement,’ Caitlyn said. ‘My kids are down there now, probably running their teenage sitters ragged.’

Dwight sat in a front pew with Grace, of course, as the concert was a benefit for the humane society shelter. I was glad to see them; they certainly deserved a break, and Rusty would not be lacking for caregivers at the hospital. Kim Marquis and the young man who must be her steady boyfriend, Will, gave me a wave, as did Penny, the cashier at the High Spot.

I craned my neck to take in the rest of the sanctuary. At the back, leaning against a rack of pamphlets, arms folded across his uniformed chest, stood Sheriff Hubbard.

‘I wonder if they’re any closer to finding out who strangled Kendall?’ I whispered to Caitlyn.

‘Half the people in this room had a motive.’ She grinned. ‘You. Me.’ She jerked her head in the direction of the Ames. ‘Jack, too.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh, they look all lovey-dovey now, him and Sue, but last year at the real estate office there was a huge blowup.’

‘Oooh, tell me about it.’

‘Well, Kendall’s got this tract of land north of town. It’s zoned agricultural, but if she could get the city council to zone it commercial, she’d make a killing. She’s been contributing heavily to Jack’s campaign. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours, you know. She told me a couple of weeks ago that the zoning was in the bag.’

‘The blowup?’ I reminded her.

‘Oh, yeah. Well, Jack had been spending a lot of time with Kendall at the office. One night I was working late putting up new listings in the front office window when Sue barged in breathing fire.’ Caitlyn leaned in and lowered her voice even further. ‘Jack was with Kendall in her office with the door shut.’

‘Were they having an affair?’ I asked.

She shrugged. ‘Who knows? But I hardly think they’d be screwing in there with me in the next office with my ear pressed to the wall. So to speak.’ She paused. ‘I think they used to have a thing going, but that was way back in high school, before Jack even met Susan. I honestly don’t know how she did it.’

‘Did what?’

Caitlyn smiled wickedly. ‘Kendall had the knack for staying on friendly terms with all her ex-boyfriends. Me? I loathe my two exes, not that I ever married either of them. Boyd is my one and only.’

‘Is he here? Boyd, I mean?’

‘My husband? Sadly, no. He’s in the National Guard training recruits up in Elkton this weekend. And there’s another of Kendall’s conquests,’ she said, indicating with a sideways jerk of her head the Chicken à la King who had just entered the church and had stopped to chat with Sheriff Hubbard.

‘Whoa, Nellie! Are you saying that Kendall and Clifton Ames were once an item?’

‘It’s common knowledge, Hannah. Happened not long after Dwight started dating Grace. But if Kendall hoped to make Dwight jealous, she failed miserably. Grace was, is a treasure and Dwight knew it.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘He married Grace just like that. And just look at them,’ she continued. ‘See the way he looks at her when she’s talking, like what she’s saying is the most important thing in all the world, like The Sermon on the Mount or something.’

But I was looking in the other direction, toward the rear of the sanctuary where Clifton Ames seemed to be pointing out something in the program to the sheriff. How come he got a copy and I didn’t? I thought sourly. ‘Is Sheriff Hubbard a music-lover?’ I asked Caitlyn.

‘Andy? Nah. Not sure why he’s here.’ She nudged me with her elbow. ‘Expecting trouble from the brass section, maybe?’

‘Maybe he’s keeping his eye on a suspect,’ I suggested.

‘Well, I think he’s interviewed pretty much everybody in town. Half of them are in this room tonight, you’ll notice.’

‘He interviewed you, too?’

‘Oh, yeah. They even asked for a DNA swab – for purposes of elimination.’

‘You gave them one?’ I asked.

‘Sure. Why not? I didn’t kill the stupid bitch.’

Nobody had asked Paul or me for a DNA sample, but I didn’t tell Caitlyn that. Fortunately, I was saved from having to think of a way to gracefully change the subject by the conductor’s return to the podium. Within seconds, the orchestra was off and running with the Mendelssohn.

When the concert was over, Caitlyn and I followed the crowd out to the meditation garden on the east side of the church where a table had been set up to serve lemonade and assorted cookies and cakes donated by the Women’s Fellowship. My hand was hovering over the platter of chocolate-chip cookies with the hope of landing on the one having the most chocolate chips when Sheriff Hubbard approached us.

‘Caitlyn Dymond, may I speak with you for a moment, please?’

Caitlyn laughed. ‘My, how formal we’re being this evening, Andy. Have some lemonade,’ she added, gesturing at the table with her acrylic glass. ‘You’ve been working too hard.’

Hubbard didn’t smile and made no move toward the lemonade.

‘What?’ Caitlyn said, her face suddenly ashen. ‘It’s Boyd, isn’t it? Something’s happened to Boyd!’

With her free hand, Caitlyn grabbed my arm and squeezed. ‘Oh, Hannah, if something’s happened to Boyd, I’ll just die!’

‘It’s not Boyd, Mrs Dymond. Is there someplace we can go where we can talk?’

Caitlyn stiffened. Lemonade sloshed over the rim of her glass and dribbled over her hand, but I don’t think she noticed. ‘Andy Hubbard, you tell me now or I’m not moving from this spot!’

Hubbard flushed; sweat beaded his brow. ‘Caitlyn Dymond, I am arresting you for the murder of Kendall Barfield.’ As if on cue, Hubbard’s deputy materialized out of the boxwood, a pair of handcuffs dangling from his hand.

‘Noooo!’ she moaned as Hubbard read Caitlyn her rights.

‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.’

I grabbed Caitlyn by the arm and pulled her close. ‘Do not say anything, Caitlyn, you hear me? Tell him you want to call your attorney. Tell him now.’

‘I don’t have an attorney, Hannah,’ she croaked. The acrylic glass she held cracked and fell to the lawn in pieces as the deputy gently turned her around and, looking up at me apologetically, handcuffed Caitlyn’s hands behind her back.

‘Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?’ Hubbard said.

Caitlyn nodded.

‘Yes or no? I’m sorry, Caitlyn, but you have to say it.’

Her voice wavered, but she managed a quiet, ‘Yes.’

The chit-chat in the garden had died down. The burry chirp of an evening grosbeak filled the sudden silence; a car somewhere in the distance tooted its horn. ‘I can’t say anything to you without a lawyer present.’ Caitlyn’s eyes locked on mine. ‘My children! What about my children!’ she shouted into the crowd of concertgoers as they parted to let the officers dragging Caitlyn weeping and stumbling through.

‘Someone from Social Services…’ Hubbard began.

‘You’ll do no such thing!’ I shouted. I lurched after Caitlyn. ‘I’ll pick up the kids, don’t worry. When you get to the station, call Boyd. You hear me? Tell him that I have the children. He’ll know what to do.’

‘I didn’t do it, Hannah,’ she wailed. ‘Honestly, this is all a huge mistake!’

‘Couldn’t this have waited until Monday morning?’ I snapped at the sheriff’s heels as his deputy folded Caitlyn into the back seat of the police vehicle and closed the door. ‘I can’t think of anyone who is less of a flight risk than Caitlyn. You know that as well as I do.’

‘The warrant came through at the end of the day and I didn’t want to wait until morning to serve it,’ the sheriff explained.

I knew the tactic. Arrest the suspect late on Friday and let them languish in a cell over the weekend, breaking down their resistance while waiting to be arraigned when the court convened again on Monday morning. It seemed a dirty trick to play on the mother of three young children whose husband was a Weekend Warrior sacrificing family time to serve his country.

Caitlyn had slumped in the back seat of the patrol car, her head bowed as if trying to make herself as small as possible. I rapped on the window to attract her attention, pressed my fingers against the glass. ‘I’ll make some calls. Stay quiet. Stay cool.’

On the other side of the glass, Caitlyn, with tears streaming down her face, pressed her fingertips to mine.

The sun had not yet risen the following morning before there was a knock at my front door. I crawled out of bed, staggered to the bedroom window and pulled the curtain aside. In the gray light of dawn I saw a Honda Pilot parked in the drive. I opened the window and called out, ‘I’ll be right down,’ to whomever might be standing on the porch below.

I crawled into a pair of jeans, threw a T-shirt over my head and padded barefoot down to the front door. I opened it a crack and peered out.

‘I’m Boyd Dymond, Mrs Ives,’ my visitor said, although I hardly needed the introduction. Caitlyn’s husband was dressed in rumpled camouflage fatigues and combat boots caked with dried mud. ‘I’m here to pick up the kids.’

‘Come in, come in,’ I said, holding the door wide. ‘They’re still asleep upstairs. By the time I got them tucked into the sleeping bags we use for the grandkids, it was kind of a late night. Let’s not wake them up just yet.’ I studied his swollen eyelids, the ravaged, unshaven face. ‘Looks like you could use a cup of coffee.’

‘Frankly,’ Boyd said, stepping into the entrance hall, his camouflage cap crushed in one beefy hand, ‘I’m all coffeed out, but I could sure use a glass of ice water.’

I got Boyd settled in the kitchen with a tall glass of ice water, then made myself a cup of coffee and joined him at the table. ‘How’s Caitlyn?’

‘She’s still at the county jail,’ he told me. ‘She’ll be arraigned on Monday.’

‘On what possible evidence?’ I asked.

Boyd pressed a thumb and forefinger to either side of his nose and massaged his tired eyes. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid!’

‘What?’

‘Caitlyn was pissed, really pissed about that salesperson of the year thing. The guy who won the trip?’

I nodded, encouraging him to continue.

‘Caitlyn had trained him, for Christ’s sake.’

‘I saw how upset she was at the picnic,’ I told Boyd. ‘But going from upset to murder is quite a leap.’

‘Oh, Caitlyn didn’t kill Kendall, Mrs Ives. She wouldn’t kill anybody. We’ve got three kids! She couldn’t… wouldn’t do that to them.’

‘On what evidence are they holding her, then?’

‘Apparently they have witnesses. One of the musicians was on a break, having a smoke by the pool. He claims to have seen Caitlyn on the patio by the swimming pool, yelling at Kendall in front of one of the cabanas. Some kids hanging around the pool claim to have seen it, too.’

‘Are the witnesses sure it was Caitlyn?’ I asked.

‘There was no mistaking my wife, not in that red poppy sundress she was wearing.’

‘Right. I see.’

‘Anyway, Caitlyn admits to a lot of shouting and arm waving, says she told Kendall she could take her job and shove it where the sun don’t shine, but that’s all.’

By this time I’d stopped breathing altogether. ‘And?’ I prodded.

‘According to this drummer’s story, in the middle of all the shouting, Caitlyn grabbed Kendall’s scarf. Caitlyn denies this, of course.’

‘Ouch!’ I said. ‘But did this drummer actually see Caitlyn strangle Kendall?’

Boyd bowed his head and spoke into his hands. ‘No. His break was over. He got called back to the bandstand so he doesn’t know what happened after that.’

‘I’m no expert, Boyd, but I honestly don’t see how they can charge Caitlyn with murder based on such circumstantial evidence.’

‘That’s what I told the cops, but unfortunately there’s more.’

‘More?’

‘They found one of Caitlyn’s fingernails caught up in Kendall’s scarf. They matched it to Caitlyn’s DNA.’

I flashed back to the picnic, to Caitlyn’s ruined patriotic manicure. ‘Damn.’

‘What am I going to do, Mrs Ives?’

‘Well, first, you can start calling me Hannah.’ After a moment, I asked, ‘Do you have a good lawyer?’

Boyd nodded. ‘Caitlyn’s father has connections. The guy left a dinner party in Baltimore to drive over here and meet with her. He’s there with her now.’

‘Excellent. I’m sure he’ll be able to get Caitlyn out on bail.’ I stood, walked behind his chair and rested a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ll bet she’ll be home by dinnertime on Monday.’

Boyd studied me with sad eyes. ‘I hope you’re right.’

‘Of course I’m right. Now, you’re going upstairs to wake up those children and tell them they’re going out for breakfast.’

‘Breakfast? Where?’

‘Where else? McDonalds.’