Ellen scribbled away. These would be the effects of murder that would flesh out the story, from a tragic perspective.
“And all the eyecaps I have are too big for children. For Lateef and the others, we have to resize the eyecaps. Cut them down with scissors.”
Ellen wrote that down, too. “I hope the day never comes when they make eyecaps for kids.”
“I hear that.” Ralston nodded. “In addition, with Lateef, we didn’t use a wire in his mouth. We sutured the muscle and used adhesive, and it worked very well. He had so much bruising, but luckily, the displacement during the injection cleared a lot of that. That’s what we’d hoped for.”
“You use the word ‘we’ a lot. Did you have help with Lateef?”
“My son John. We worked together.” Ralston’s tone softened. “We started at eight o’clock and we finished at dawn. My grandson, he’s Lateef’s age, and well, it wasn’t easy for either John or me.” He coughed slightly, and Ellen was about to ask a question, but held her tongue when she saw his head bow slightly and a stillness sweep over his slight frame. “Lateef, he’s the one I’ll never forget. I knew that boy. When he came in, looking the way he did, at first I didn’t know what to do.” Ralston shook his head, still downcast. “I didn’t know what to do. I had to go outside. I stood in the back, by receiving. I asked the Lord to help me, to give me strength.”
Ellen nodded. She didn’t take a note. It would be off the record. It was too personal. Suddenly her cell phone rang, destroying the quiet and jarring them both. Embarrassed, she reached for her purse. “I’m so sorry,” she said, digging. “I should have turned it off.”
“Feel free to take the call.” Ralston checked his watch, the moment having passed. “I should get back to work.”
Ellen found the phone and switched it off, but not before she saw the area code. 302. Delaware.
Cheryl Martin.
Chapter Thirty
Ellen tore south toward Wilmington, racing the rush hour. The sky had turned black, and snow flurries had begun to fall, flecks of white lace frozen in her headlights. The radio news was predicting a storm, and she felt as if she were outrunning that, too. She was in an uneasy state, hyperexcited, even after the long, sad afternoon. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, but it didn’t matter. She found herself accelerating, going to seventy miles an hour, then eighty. She wondered if she was speeding toward something. Or away.
Ellen found the house, parked at the curb, and looked out her car window. Cheryl’s home was a lovely Tudor with a white stucco façade and dark brown trim, set among plenty of open space. A white sedan sat in a circular driveway, and the evergreens and hedges landscaping the property were dusted by new flurries, so that the scene looked like a suburban snow globe. She grabbed her bag and her file and got out of the car.
They were sitting in a beautiful living room, on an L-shaped sectional couch in an oatmeal fabric that coordinated perfectly with a nubby sisal rug. The lighting was recessed and the walls were eggshell white, adorned with horsy landscapes that would undoubtedly echo the view from the picture window.
Cheryl was saying, “I have to admit, part of the reason I wanted to meet you is because I read your articles.”
“Thank you.” Ellen remembered the photos of Cheryl Villiers, née Martin, from her mother Gerry’s house. Cheryl had been the pretty sister with large blue eyes and the sprinkling of freckles on a perfect nose, and in person, she resembled Will, despite the crow’s-feet and the laugh lines bracketing her wide mouth.
“I even remembered the articles you wrote about adopting your baby, or Amy’s baby. I reread them online after my mom called. I thought they were really good.”
“Thanks.”
“They had a photo of the baby in the paper. It’s so strange to think that that little baby is Amy’s. My new nephew. I just can’t deal.” Cheryl smiled uncomfortably, showing lightened teeth. “My mother said you showed her some court documents. Could I see them?”
“Yes, of course.” Ellen dug in her purse and produced the adoption papers. “I really need to find Amy. I guess your mom told you, it’s just to get some medical history. If you remember from the article, Will had a serious heart problem when I adopted him.”
Cheryl read the papers, her head inclined at an inquisitive angle, so that her dark blond hair fell into her face. She had on a tan V-neck knit sweater, tight-fitting beige pants, and black leather flats.
“Do you think that’s Amy’s signature?”
“Yes, I do. It’s absolutely her signature.”
“How about on the consent form. Is that your signature?”
“No, I never signed this.” Cheryl looked up, her eyes frank in light makeup. “She forged it.”
“So what do you think’s going on here?”
“Amy didn’t want us to know about the baby, obviously.”
Bingo. “What about this twisted ovary business?”
“Look, my mom thinks that Amy couldn’t have had a baby, but I don’t agree. All the doctor said was that she probably couldn’t have a baby, and Amy made a big deal of that. Even my husband said she could conceive.” Cheryl’s tone resonated with resentment. “She’s a major drama queen. She just used the twisted ovary to get attention.”
“So do you think she had a baby?”
“Of course, it’s certainly possible. We all stopped seeing her about the same time. If she had a baby three years ago, I have no way of knowing it for sure. I was married by then, and we don’t see as much of my family.” Something flickered behind Cheryl’s eyes, but she guarded that emotion. “They all smoke, for one thing. We don’t tolerate smoking around the house.”
“Your husband’s a doctor, you say?”
“Yes, a physician. He just left to take the kids to pizza for dinner. We have twin girls. We thought it wouldn’t be a good idea if they were around while you were here.”
“Right.” Ellen considered it. Twins. They’d be Will’s cousins. But back to business. “So do you have any idea where Amy could be? Your mom thinks she stays in touch with you.”
“Amy does email, but hardly ever. When she needs money.”
“Do you send her any?” Ellen wanted the address.
“No. My husband didn’t think I should, so I stopped, and she stopped asking.”
“May I have her email address? It really is important that I get in touch with her.”
Cheryl frowned. “I should email Amy first and make sure that she wants to hear from you. After all, if she gave up her baby for adoption, she had a choice about whether she wanted to hear from you, didn’t she?”
Damn. “Yes, but as your mom probably told you, the lawyer who brokered the adoption has passed away, and I have no other way to get this information.”
Cheryl handed her back the papers. “My husband said that they can disclose medical information in an adoption, even if they keep the identity of the parent secret.”
“That’s true, but I find that I need to ask one or two more questions.” Ellen tried another tack. “Tell you what. Would you give Amy my email address and have her contact me?”
“Okay.”
“Thanks.” Ellen hadn’t come this far to be turned away. “What if she doesn’t email me back? Will you give me her email?”
“Cross your fingers.”
Ellen thought of her earlier request, which she’d made by phone. “I was wondering, too, if you were able to find any photos of her.”
“Sure, I found two I had in the computer, one young and one more recent. I suppose it’s okay if you have them.” Cheryl turned to the end table, picked up two papers, and handed one to Ellen, pointing with a manicured index finger. “That’s Amy, when she was little.”
Ellen looked down at a photo of a cute girl holding an American flag and wearing an Uncle Sam hat. “How old is she in this picture, do you know?”
“She’d just turned five. Before she turned into a freak.” Cheryl chuckled softly. “Does your son look like her?
”
“Not that much.” Ellen had to admit it. Amy’s nose was wider than Will’s and her lips fuller. “Frankly, he looks more like you.”
“It must run in our family. I look nothing like my kids, either. Can you imagine that, carrying twins for nine months and they don’t look like you?”
“It doesn’t seem fair.” Ellen was too preoccupied to smile. “Will must look more like his father, but I don’t know what his father looks like. Does the name Charles Cartmell mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“According to the adoption papers, he’s the father.”
“Never heard of him. Amy dated tons of guys. She was never in a committed relationship.”
“If she got pregnant, would she tell the father? I mean, would she feel as if she should?”
Cheryl scoffed. “Are you kidding? If I know my little sister, she probably didn’t know who the father was. She could have made up the name on the form, couldn’t she?”
Ellen leaned forward. “But why would she make up his name and not her own, or yours?”
“I don’t know.” Cheryl shrugged, but Ellen considered it for a minute.
“Wait, I bet I do. She couldn’t make up her name because she had to produce ID at the hospital when Will got sick. But if she never married Charles, or Will’s father, he never appeared. She could make up his name.” Ellen’s thoughts clicked ahead. “Tell me, did she have a boyfriend back then, three years ago, that you remember?”
“Oh, she had plenty. Is that the same thing?” Cheryl laughed, but Ellen didn’t.
“No name you can recall?”
“No. Maybe this photo will help. It has a guy in it, and they look pretty chummy.” Cheryl handed over the second photo. “This is the most recent picture I have of Amy. She emailed it to me, and you can see the date. June 5, 2004.”
“That would be shortly before she had Will,” Ellen said, cheering inwardly. It was a picture of Amy, grinning on the beach, in a black bikini, with a brown beer bottle in her hand. Her arm was looped around a shirtless man who raised his bottle to the camera. If Will was born on January 30, 2005, she would have been about two months pregnant when the photo was taken, assuming it was taken when it was sent. But she had no baby bump, though maybe she wasn’t showing yet, and there was that beer bottle.
“What are you thinking?” Cheryl asked.
“That if Amy was seeing this man around then, he could be Will’s father.”
“He’s so her type. Amy went for bad boys.”
Ellen eyed the man, who wasn’t bad-looking for a bad boy, with narrow eyes and long brown ponytail. Something about him looked almost familiar, but maybe it was that he looked a little like Will. He had the smile, a little tilted down, but it looked like a smirk on him. The photo was too blurry to see more detail and it had been taken from a distance. “In the email, did Amy say who he was, or where they were?”
“No.”
Ellen mulled it over. “It could be anywhere it’s warm, which could be anywhere, in June. What did she say in the email, if I can ask?”
“Nothing. She just sent the photo. Nice, huh?” Cheryl scoffed again, but Ellen’s gaze remained on the photo. She could be looking at Will’s birth parents. Charles Cartmell, if it was him, had a sleeve of multicolored tattoos she couldn’t read and he looked a little drunk, even in the fuzzy resolution.
“The focus is so bad on this.”
“It could be my printer. Keep that copy and I’ll email you another, if you want.”
“Please, do.” Ellen told Cheryl her email address. “Did Amy have any girlfriends?”
“She never got along with other girls. She hung with the guys.”
Ellen made a mental note. “You said Amy emails you. Did she ever mention any men in her emails?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Would you mind looking back at the emails, so we can check?”
“I can’t, I deleted them.” Cheryl checked her watch. “Well, it’s getting kind of late.”
“Sure, I should go.” Ellen rose with her papers, hiding her frustration. “Thanks so much for meeting with me. Think she’ll email me?”
“God knows.”
Ellen said her good-byes and left, wondering if it was really Charles Cartmell in the photo. She hit the cold air outside and looked up at the sky, dark and starless.
Maybe it wasn’t too late to take a drive.
Chapter Thirty-one
Ellen sat in her car with the engine off, watching the snow fall in the dark, holding the court papers. She was parked outside of an elementary school, a three-story redbrick edifice that had been there since 1979, according to its keystone. The school was at Charles Cartmell’s address, but obviously, he didn’t live here. He had never lived here. Amy must have pulled the address out of thin air and made up the name, too. She might as well have picked Count Chocula.
Ellen wasn’t completely surprised. She had known that Grant Avenue was one of the busiest streets in the Northeast, in a commercial area, but she had been hoping that there would be an apartment house or maybe a converted row house.
Cars rushed past her, their windshield wipers pumping and their red brake lights burning holes into the night. She looked again at the photo of Amy and the man on the beach. The streetlight cast an oblong of purplish light across his face, but his eyes remained in shadow.
“Who is my son?” she asked the silence.
Chapter Thirty-two
“Thanks so much for staying, Con.” Ellen closed the front door behind her, feeling a wave of guilt. It was after eleven o’clock, and on TV, a bow-tied weatherman was sticking a yardstick into three inches of snow. “I really do appreciate it.”
“S’okay.” Connie rose tiredly from the couch, her Sudoku book in hand. “Everything go okay at your meeting?”
“Yes, thanks.” Ellen got Connie’s coat from the closet and handed it to her. “How’s my baby boy?”
“Fine.” Connie slipped into her coat. “But it was Crazy Shirt Day at school, and you forgot his shirt. I reminded you, last week. I thought it was in his backpack and just went.”
“Oh no.” Ellen felt another wave of guilt, which made two in two minutes, a record even for her. “Was he upset?”
“He’s three, El.”
“I should have remembered.”
“No, I should’ve checked. I will, next time.”
“Poor kid.” Ellen kicked herself. Will hated to be the one who was different. The one who was adopted. The one with no dad. Neither she nor Will was like the other. “You even reminded me.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. It’s easy to lose track. Crazy Hat Day, Snack Mom, Pajama Day, whatever. I didn’t have to deal with that when Mark was little.” Connie slid her puzzle book into her tote bag, picked up her things, then straightened up. “They’re working you too hard.”
“And I’m working you too hard.” Ellen squeezed her shoulder. “Please tell Chuck I’m sorry for keeping you.”
“He can get his own meal for a change. It won’t kill him.” Connie opened the door, letting in a blast of cold, wet air. “Snow’s already stopping, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but drive safe. Thanks again.” Ellen held the door, then closed and locked it behind her. She took off her coat and hung it up, dwelling. She was screwing up left and right lately. Forgetting the crazy shirt. Missing the projects meeting. It had all started with the white card in the mail. She hoped Amy emailed her soon and she could put it all behind her.
Ellen went into the kitchen and brewed herself a fresh mug of coffee, pushing Amy to the back of her mind. She had a story to write and she was starved. She scarfed a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats over the sink, leaving her leftover milk to Oreo Figaro, who leapt onto the counter, purring deeply as he lapped it up. When he was finished, he looked up from the bowl, blinking his yellow-green eyes in a silent request for more. The tiniest droplet of milk clung to his chin.
“We have to get to work,” Ellen said, taking
back the bowl.
Up in her home office, she began as she did with any story. There were no shortcuts, at least none that worked. She built her stories from the bottom up, and her first step was always transcribing her notes. If she needed to quote directly, she’d go to the tapes. Then, usually, if she’d had enough caffeine, her brain would lurch into action and an angle for the story would suggest itself. She took a sip of hot coffee, glanced at the notes beside her, and started with the interview of Lateef’s mother, typing:
Pies “too ugly” to serve. She wants it in the paper, so kids are not a number “like it’s Powerball.”
Ellen kept going, trying to remember the mood of the interview and how she felt sitting in Laticia’s kitchen, but her thoughts strayed back to Cheryl’s house and the picture of Amy and the man on the beach.
“Ain’t nothin’ gonna change here, and this is America.”
Ellen flipped the page of her notebook and kept transcribing, but it was only mechanical. She’d learned a lot about Will in one day. She’d met his mother, grandmother, and aunt. She might have seen what his father looked like. She tried to keep typing but her fingers slowed and thoughts of the Martin family intruded. She found herself wondering if Cheryl had emailed her a copy of the photo of Amy and the man on the beach.
She minimized her Word file and opened up Outlook Express. Incoming emails piled onto the screen, and she ignored the one from Sarah with the attachment and subject line: FYI, I EMAILED MARCELO MY PIECE. Suddenly an email came on the screen from
[email protected] Ellen clicked it open. It was Cheryl’s. The message read, Nice meeting you, and there was an attachment. She opened the attachment, and the photo of Amy and the man on the beach popped onto the screen. Though she’d seen it before, she couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that Amy was Will’s mother and the man on the beach his father, glowing on her computer screen. She looked over her shoulder in case Will had gotten out of bed, but there was nothing behind her except Oreo Figaro, his front legs stretched on the rug like Superman in flight.
She squinted at the picture. It was brighter online, but still blurry and the images too distant. She knew how to rectify that. She saved the photo to My Pictures and opened Photoshop, then uploaded the photo, drew a box around Amy’s face, and clicked Zoom. The image exploded into pixels, so she telescoped it down a little, then examined Amy’s features with care. The shape of her eyes didn’t look much like Will’s, though they were blue, but her nose was longer than Will’s and too wide.