The Whispering Room

Twenty-Five

The sky grew darker as Evangeline headed north later that morning, and a light rain began to fall by the time she arrived at Pinehurst Manor. She pulled into the visitors’ parking area and sat for a moment, admiring the impressive facade.

Surrounded by twenty acres of dense scrub oak and pine, the hospital more closely resembled an old plantation home than a modern psychiatric facility—except, of course, for the fifteen-foot perimeter wall topped with razor wire and the guard kiosks that were stationed at regular intervals around the property.

As Evangeline studied the manicured grounds through the windshield, she saw a uniformed guard appear at the corner of the building. He waited at the edge of the parking area for her to climb out of the car.

“Detective Theroux?”

She produced her ID and he nodded. “They just called up from the gate to let us know you’d arrived. I’ll walk with you from here,” he said. “You’ll have to surrender your weapon and sign in.”

The formalities completed a few moments later, another guard led her down a long corridor and opened a door. “Betsy,” he said to the plump redhead seated behind a large desk. “Is he in?” He nodded toward a door behind the redhead’s desk. “This is Detective Theroux with the New Orleans Police Department.” He pronounced police with the emphasis on the first syllable.

“He’s expecting you, Detective. Right this way.” She stood and smoothed a hand over her brown skirt as she motioned for Evangeline to follow.

She was ushered into a large, pleasant office with long windows that looked out on a pretty garden of azaleas and flaming hibiscus. “Dr. Carlisle, this is Detective Theroux.”

He got up from the desk and offered his hand, then waved her to the chair across from him. He didn’t look the way Evangeline had pictured him after their brief phone conversation. For one thing, he was younger than she expected. Around thirty-five, she would guess, with longish hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He was dressed casually in jeans and an open-collar shirt, which also took her by surprise.

“So you’re here about Mary Alice Lemay.”

“That’s right. As I told you on the phone, we have reason to believe there’s a possible connection between Mary Alice and a recent homicide in New Orleans.”

“You know that she’s been incarcerated for over thirty years,” he said.

“We don’t think she was personally involved. But as I said, there could be a connection. Have you been able to verify whether or not her daughter Rebecca was also a patient here?”

“I checked the records. I won’t go into the details of her diagnosis or the treatment, but I can tell you that she was here for several months in 2005. She was admitted in June and released the following December.”

“And Mary Alice was transferred here during the evacuation.”

“That’s right.”

“Do you know if she and her daughter had contact during that time?”

“That I don’t know. I only came on board last year. But I can let you talk to some of the staff who were here at that time.”

“Thanks. That could be helpful.” She paused. “Do you know if Rebecca ever comes to see her mother?”

“Oh, yes. She comes at least once a month.”

“What about her other daughter?”

“I wasn’t aware that she had another daughter.”

Evangeline reached in her bag and hauled out one of Lena Saunders’s books. She turned it over so that the author’s photograph was face up.

“You’ve never seen this woman before?”

He studied the photograph for a moment, then glanced up with a bewildered frown. “I don’t understand. Isn’t this Rebecca Lemay?”

“No, this is a picture of her sister, Ruth. They do look alike. Probably could even pass for twins. But that’s not Rebecca Lemay.”

His gaze dropped again to the book. “I’m rarely mistaken about these things. Are you sure?”

“You think this is the woman who has been coming to see Mary Alice?”

“If they look as much alike as you say, I suppose I could be wrong. But the resemblance to her sister is uncanny. Even the way she holds her head…” He studied the picture for a moment longer, then handed the book to Evangeline.

“Is it possible for me to see Mary Alice?”

“Yes, of course. But that’s about all you’ll be able to do, I’m afraid. She hasn’t spoken a word to anyone in over thirty years.”

A few minutes later, they were standing outside the door to Mary Alice’s room.

“Is she allowed out?” Evangeline asked.

“The doors in this wing are only locked at night. The patients are free to come and go in the secured areas.”

He swung open the door and stepped aside for Evangeline to enter. A woman was seated in a rocking chair in front of a barred window. She gave no indication that she was aware of their presence until Dr. Carlisle spoke to her.

“How are you today, Mary Alice?”

She turned then and the first thing that struck Evangeline was how young the woman looked. She had to be well into her fifties or early sixties, but the skin on her face was still smooth and supple, and her blue eyes—the color of hyacinths—were clear and lucid.

Her blond hair was chopped off just below her ears with a fringe of uneven bangs across her forehead. It was an odd cut, and Evangeline wondered if she’d somehow gotten hold of a pair of scissors and whacked it off herself.

“I’ve brought you a visitor,” Dr. Carlisle said. “This is Detective Theroux. She’s come all the way from New Orleans to see you.”

The woman’s unblinking stare unnerved Evangeline.

“Hello,” she said as she knelt before the woman.

Evangeline’s first instinct was to recoil when Mary Alice put out a hand, as if to touch her face. This was a woman who had brutally murdered her own children. But Evangeline forced herself to remain still, and the hand that brushed against her cheek was surprisingly gentle.

Mary Alice reached out with her other hand, and for a moment, Evangeline thought she meant to cup her face. Then she realized the woman was holding something out to her.

In her palm was an origami crane.