Moody leaned forward with the swiftness of a hound catching its first scent of the prey. “You’re talking about turning it around.”
“Yes. Allan Grant was particularly solicitous of Laurie. When she fainted in church at the funeral mass, he rushed to be with her. He offered to take her home and stay with her. Looking back, I wonder if that wasn’t pretty unusual concern.” She sighed. “At least it’s a starting point. We don’t have much else.”
“It’s a good starting point,” Moody said decisively. “I’ve got a few things to clear up, then I’ll get down to Clinton and start digging.”
The phone rang again. “Sophie will get it,” Sarah said. “Bless her. She’s moved in with us. Says we can’t be alone. Now let’s settle the terms . . .”
“Oh, we’ll talk about that later.”
“No, we won’t,” she said firmly. “I know you, Brendon Moody.”
Sophie tapped on the door, then opened it. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Sarah, but that real estate agent is on the phone again and she says it’s very important.”
Sarah picked up the receiver, greeted Betsy Lyons, then listened. Finally she said slowly, “I suppose I owe this to you, Mrs. Lyons. But I have to be clear. That woman cannot keep looking at the house. We’ll be out on Monday morning and you can bring her in between ten o’clock and one o’clock, but that is it.”
When Sarah hung up she explained to Brendon Moody. “There’s a prospective buyer who’s been hemming and hawing about this place. Apparently she’s pretty much decided on it at full price. She wants one more walk through and then indicates she’ll be willing to wait to occupy it until it’s available. She’ll be here on Monday.”
54
THE FUNERAL SERVICE for Professor Allan Grant was held on Saturday morning at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church near the Clinton campus. Faculty members and students crowded together to pay their final respects to the popular teacher. The rector’s homily spoke of Allan’s intellect, warmth and generosity. “He was an outstanding educator . . . That smile would brighten the darkest day . . . He made people feel good about themselves . . . He could sense when someone was having a tough time. Somehow he found a way to help.”
Brendon Moody was at the service in the capacity of observer, not mourner. He was especially interested in studying Allan Grant’s widow, who was wearing a deceptively simple black suit with a string of pearls. Somewhat to his surprise, Brendon had developed over the years a reasonably accurate sense of fashion. On a faculty salary, even with her travel agent job thrown in, Karen Grant would find it pretty tough to buy designer clothes. Did either she or Grant have family money? It was raw and windy out and she had not elected to wear a coat into church. That meant she must have left one in the car. The cemetery would be a damn cold place on a day like this.
She was weeping as she followed the casket from the church. Good-looking woman, Brendon thought. He was surprised to see the president of the college and his wife accompany Karen Grant into the first limousine. No family member? No close friend? Brendon decided to continue to pay his respects. He’d go to the burial service.
His question about Karen’s coat was answered there. She emerged from the limousine wearing a full-length Blackglama mink.
55
THE CHURCH of the Airways had a twelve-member council that met on the first Saturday of the month. Not all of the members approved of the rapid changes the Reverend Bobby Hawkins was instituting on the religious hour. The Well of Miracles particularly was anathema to the senior member of the council.
Viewers were invited to write in explaining their need for a miracle. The letters were placed in the well, and just before the final hymn, Reverend Hawkins extended his hands over it and emotionally prayed that the requests be granted. Sometimes he invited a member of the studio congregation who was in need of a miracle to come up for a special blessing.
“Rutland Garrison must be spinning in his grave,” the senior member told Bic at the monthly council meeting.
Bic eyed him coldly. “Have the donations increased substantially?”
“Yes, but—”
“But what? More money for the hospital and the retirement home, more for the South American orphanages that have always been my personal charity, more of the faithful voicing their needs to the Lord.”
He looked around the table from one member to the other. “When I accepted this ministry I said that I must steer it into wider waters. I’ve studied the records. In the past several years donations have been steadily decreasing. Isn’t that true?”
There was no answer.
“Isn’t that true?” he thundered.
Heads nodded.
“Very well. Then I suggest that he who is not with me is against me and ought to resign from this august body. The meeting is adjourned.”
He strode from the conference room and down the corridor into his private office where Opal was going through the Well of Miracles mail. Her system was to glance at the requests and separate any unusual ones for Bic to possibly read aloud on the program. The letters were then dropped in one pile to be placed in the Well of Miracles. The donations were in another pile for Bic to tabulate.
Opal dreaded having to show him one letter she had put aside.
“They’re seeing the light, Carla,” he informed her. “They’re coming to understand that my way is the Lord’s way.”
“Bic,” she said timidly.
He frowned. “In this office you must never—”
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just . . . Read this.” She thrust Thomasina Perkins’ rambling letter into his outstretched hand.
56
AFTER THE FUNERAL, Karen and the faculty members went to the home of the president of the college where a buffet luncheon was waiting. Dean Walter Larkin told Karen that he could not forgive himself for not realizing how sick Laurie Kenyon was. “Dr. Iovino, the Director of the Counseling Center, feels the same way.”
“What has happened is a tragedy, and there’s no use trying to place blame on ourselves or others,” Karen said quietly. “I ought to have persuaded Allan to show those letters to the administration even before he was sure Laurie was writing them. Allan himself ought not to have left that bedroom window wide open. I should hate that girl, but all I can remember is how sorry Allan felt for her.”
Walter Larkin had always thought that Karen was something of a cold fish but now he wondered if he’d been unfair. The tears in her eyes and her quivering lip certainly weren’t faked.
At breakfast the next morning, he commented on that to his wife, Louise. “Oh, don’t be such a romantic, Walter,” she told him crisply. “Karen was bored stiff with campus life and faculty teas. She’d have been gone long ago if Allan hadn’t been so generous with her. Look at the clothes she wears! You know what I think? Allan was finally waking up to the truth about the woman he was married to. I bet he wouldn’t have put up with it much longer. That poor Kenyon girl gave Karen a one-way, first-class ticket to New York.”
57
OPAL APPEARED at the real estate office promptly at ten o’clock on Monday morning. Betsy Lyons was waiting for her. “Mrs. Hawkins,” she said, “I’m afraid that this will be the only time I can bring you to the Kenyon house, so please, try to make a note of anything you want to see or ask about.”
It was the opening Opal needed. Bic had told her to try to pump the real estate agent for any information about the case. “That family has so much tragedy.” She sighed. “How is that poor girl?”
Betsy Lyons was relieved to see that Carla Hawkins did not seem to be linking the house to the shocking headlines of Laurie Kenyon’s arrest on the murder charge. She rewarded her by being less closemouthed than usual. “As you can imagine, the whole town is buzzing. Everyone feels so sorry for them. My husband is a lawyer, and he says they’ll have to go with a diminished capacity defense but it will be hard to prove. Laurie Kenyon never acted odd or crazy in all the years I’ve known her. Now we’d better be on our way.”
br /> Opal was quiet on the drive to the house. Suppose leaving this picture of Lee backfired and gave her a flash of memory? But even if it did, it would remind her of Bic’s threat.
Bic had been pretty scary that day. He’d encouraged Lee to really love that silly chicken. Lee’s eyes, usually downcast and sad, would brighten when she went in the backyard. She’d rush over to the chicken, put her arms around it and hug it. Bic had taken the butcher knife from the kitchen drawer and winked at Opal. “Watch this performance,” he’d said.
He’d run outside, slashing the knife back and forth in front of Lee. She’d been terrified and hugged the chicken tighter. Then he’d reached down and grabbed it by the neck. It began to squawk, and Lee in an unusual show of courage tried to pull it from Bic. He’d slapped her so hard she fell backwards, then as she scrambled to her feet, he’d lifted his arm and swung it in an arc, cutting that chicken’s head off in one blow.
Opal had felt her own blood go cold as he threw the body of the chicken at Lee’s feet where it flapped around spattering her with blood. Then Bic had held up the head of the dead creature and pointed the knife at Lee’s throat, chopping the air with it, his eyes fearsome and glittering. In a terrible voice, he’d sworn that that’s what would happen to her if she ever talked about them. Bic was right. A reminder of that day would shut Lee up or drive her completely crazy.
Betsy Lyons was not displeased by her passenger’s silence. It was her experience that when people were about to commit themselves to a purchase, they tended to become serious and introspective. It was a worry that Carla Hawkins had not brought her husband to see the house at least once though. As she steered the car into the Kenyon driveway, Betsy asked about that.
“My husband is leaving the decision entirely up to me,” Opal said calmly. “He trusts my judgment. I know exactly what will make him happy.”
“That’s a compliment to you,” Betsy assured her with fervent haste.
Lyons was about to insert the key in the lock when the door opened. Opal was dismayed to see the stocky figure in the dark skirt and cardigan who was introduced as the housekeeper, Sophie Perosky. If the woman trailed around the house with them, Opal might not be able to plant the picture.
But Sophie stayed in the kitchen, and planting the photo was easier than Opal expected. In every room, she stood by the windows to observe the view. “My husband asked me to be sure that we’re not too near any other houses,” she explained. In Lee’s room, she spotted a spiral notebook on the desk. The cover was partially raised and the tip of a pen could be seen protruding from under it. “What are the exact dimensions of this room?” she asked as she leaned over the desk to look out the window.
As she had expected, Betsy Lyons fished in her briefcase for the house plan. Opal glanced down swiftly and flipped open the notebook. Just the first three or four pages had writing on them. The words “Dr. Donnelly wants me . . .” jumped out at her. Lee must be keeping a journal. With all her being, Opal wished she could read the entry.
It took only an instant to take the picture from her pocket and slip it about twenty pages back in the book. It was the photo Bic had taken of Lee that first day, just after they reached the farm. Lee had been standing in front of the big tree, shivering in her pink bathing suit, crying, hugging herself tightly.
Bic had cut Lee’s head from the picture and stapled the fragment to the bottom. Now the picture showed Lee’s face, eyes puffy with tears, hair tangled, staring up at her own decapitated body.
“You really do have a great deal of privacy from the other houses,” Opal commented as Betsy Lyons announced that the room was twelve by eighteen feet, really a wonderful size for a bedroom.
58
JUSTIN DONNELLY had arranged his schedule so that he could see Laurie every morning, Monday to Friday, at ten o’clock. He’d also set up appointments for her with the art and journal therapists. On Friday he had given her a half-dozen books on multiple personality disorder.
“Laurie,” he’d said, “I want you to read these and understand that most of the patients with your problem are women who were abused as children. They blocked out what happened to them just as you’re blocking it out. I think that the personalities who helped you to cope those two years you were missing were just about dormant until you lost your parents. Now they’ve come back in full force. When you read these books, you’re going to see that alter personalities are often trying to help you, not hurt you. That’s why I hope you’ll do your best to consciously let me talk to them.”
On Monday morning he had his video camera set up in his office. He knew that if Sarah decided to use any of the tapes at the trial, he had to be extremely careful not to look as though he was putting words in Laurie’s mouth.
When Sarah and Laurie came in, he showed them the camera, explained that he was going to record the sessions and told Laurie, “After a while I’ll play them back for you.” Then he hypnotized her for the first time. Clinging to Sarah’s hand, Laurie obediently riveted her attention on him, listened as he urged her to relax, closed her eyes, visibly settled back, let her hand slip from her sister’s.
“How do you feel, Laurie?”
“Sad.”
“Why are you sad, Laurie?”
“I’m always sad.” Her voice was higher, hesitant, with a trace of a lisp.
Sarah watched as Laurie’s hair fell forward, as her features seemed to become fluid and change until a childlike expression came over them. She listened as Justin Donnelly said, “I think I’m talking to Debbie. Am I right?”
He was rewarded by a shy nod.
“Why are you sad, Debbie?”
“Sometimes I do bad things.”
“Like what, Debbie?”
“Leave that kid alone! She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
Sarah bit her lip. The angry voice she’d heard on Friday. Justin Donnelly did not seem perturbed. “Kate, is that you?”
“You know it’s me.”
“Kate, I don’t want to hurt Laurie or Debbie. They’ve been hurt enough. If you want to help them, why don’t you trust me?”
An angry, bitter laugh preceded the statement that chilled Sarah. “We can’t trust any man. Look at Allan Grant. He acted so nice to Laurie, and look at the fix he put her in. Good riddance to him, I say.”
“You don’t mean that you’re glad he’s dead?”
“I wish he’d never been born.”
“Do you want to talk about that, Kate?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Would you write about it in your journal?”
“I was going to write this morning but that stupid kid had the book. She can’t spell worth a damn.”
“Do you remember what you were going to write about?”
A derisive laugh. “It’s what I’m not going to write that would interest you.”
* * *
On the way home in the car, Laurie was again visibly exhausted. Sophie had lunch waiting, and after Laurie picked at it she decided to lie down.
Sarah settled at the desk and went through her messages. The grand jury would consider the complaint against Laurie on Monday the seventeenth. That was only two weeks away. If the prosecutor was convening the jury that fast, he must be convinced he had a very strong case already. As indeed he did.
A stack of mail had piled up on her desk. She scanned the envelopes, not bothering to open any until she came to the one with the carefully printed return address in the corner. Thomasina Perkins! She was the cashier who long ago had spotted Laurie in the restaurant. Sarah could remember how her father’s heartfelt gratitude to the woman had eroded when her frequent letters arrived, filled with increasingly lurid memories of the trauma Laurie exhibited in the restaurant. But there was no doubt Thomasina Perkins meant well. She had written a very kind note in September. This was probably another expression of sympathy. Sarah slit the envelope and read the single sheet of paper. In it, Perkins had given her phone number. Sarah dialed rapidly.
&n
bsp; Thomasina picked up on the first ring. She was thrilled to realize it was Sarah calling. “Oh, wait till I tell you my news,” she bubbled. “Reverend Bobby Hawkins phoned me himself. He doesn’t believe in hypnosis. He invited me to be a guest on next Sunday’s program. He’s going to pray over me so that God will whisper in my ear the name of that terrible man who kidnapped Laurie.”
59
REVEREND BOBBY HAWKINS skillfully turned the Thomasina Perkins problem into a potential advantage. A trusted staff member was instantly sent to Harrisburg to check on her. It was a reasonable thing to do. The Reverend Hawkins and the council needed to be sure there was no investigative reporter putting her up to writing the letter. Bic also wanted details of Thomasina’s health, particularly her hearing and vision.
The results of the probe were gratifying. Thomasina wore trifocals and had been operated on for cataracts. Her description of the two people she’d seen with Laurie had been vague from the beginning.
“She clearly doesn’t recognize us on the TV screen and won’t in person,” Bic told Opal as he read the report. “She’ll be an inspiration to our congregation.”
The following Sunday morning, a delighted Thomasina, her hands clasped together in the attitude of prayer, gazed worshipfully up into Bic’s face. He laid his hands on her shoulders. “Years ago, this good woman brought about a miracle when the Lord gifted her with the ability to see that a child was in need. But the Lord did not grant Thomasina the ability to remember the name of the villainous man who was accompanying Laurie Kenyon. Now Lee is in need again. Thomasina, I command you to listen and remember the name that has been drifting in your unconscious all these years.”