Mother's Day (13 page)

She reached room 173 and said in a hushed voice, “This is it.”

“Open it, please,” said Walter.

Margo inserted the key with trembling fingers, pushed the door open, and jumped back, as if expecting the murderer, still inside, to leap out at her.

Larry Tillman led the way in, snapping on the lights. Walter came in behind him and looked around.

From outside the door Margo wailed, “Is there blood?”

Larry, who walked back into the bathroom, came out and shook his head. The room was untidy, but it was clearly not the scene of the crime.

“No, everything’s normal in here,” Walter said.

“Oh, thank God,” cried Margo, feeling a twinge of disappointment. She poked her head around the door.

“When does this room get cleaned?” Walter asked.

“Usually around one o’clock. She’s slow,” said Margo apologetically.

“Just as well,” said Walter. “A couple of men will be looking through her belongings. No one should touch this room until we’re finished.”

“I understand,” said Margo knowledgeably. “There could still be evidence here you wouldn’t want disturbed.”

“Did Miss Emery have any visitors?” Walter asked. “Do you remember seeing anyone come here?”

Margo shook her head regretfully. “I try to respect the privacy of my guests.”

“Would you remember if anyone came asking for her?”

“Well, I might remember that, but no. There wasn’t anybody. You can talk to the night man, though. He might remember something.”

“Where can we find him?”

“Probably still asleep upstairs,” said Margo.

Eddie heard the knock at the door and rolled over in the tangled sheets, cursing the intrusion. “Go away,” he mumbled. The heavy drapes made the room exceedingly dark, and he had no idea what time it was. He didn’t even really register that it was knocking until he heard Margo calling out, “Eddie, open up. The police are here.”

If there was a worse way to wake up, Eddie couldn’t think what it might be. He stumbled out of bed, grabbed a pair of pants off a nearby chair, and turned on the bathroom light. His face had a lavender hue.

He splashed some water on his face and neck, and it splattered on the T-shirt he’d been sleeping in. Barefoot, he went to the door and opened it.

The two cops at the door peered into the darkness. Eddie’s gaunt face was like a smudge on a chalkboard.

Margo frowned disapprovingly at her handyman. “Eddie,” she said, “you have to talk to these men. There’s been a murder.”

Eddie rubbed his eyes and shook his head. “Wait a minute. What is this? I didn’t do nothing.”

Walter stepped into the room. “Turn a light on in here. Or open those drapes.”

Obediently Eddie pulled the drapes open.

“You can go now, Mrs. Hofsteder,” said Walter firmly.

“Margo,” Eddie pleaded, shielding his eyes from the brightness of the daylight, “what’s going on?”

“Just answer the questions, honey. Somebody killed that girl from Chicago that was staying in 173.”

His eyes adjusted, Eddie looked at the two policemen, then looked sharply away, staggering back and sinking down onto the edge of the bed. He let out a little whimpering sound.

“Did you know Miss Emery?” Walter asked.

Eddie shook his head.

“Well, you seem awfully upset,” said Walter.

Eddie folded his arms across his chest, avoiding the detective’s eyes. “No,” he mumbled. “Just surprised.”

Walter indicated to Larry with a glance that he should look around, and Larry began a leisurely circuit of the messy room.

“We want to know if you saw anyone coming here to visit Miss Emery. Anyone suspicious, hanging around.”

Eddie gave Walter a challenging look, “I don’t pay any attention.”

“So, you didn’t see anyone.”

“No one,” said Eddie. His eyes had a strange, glittering cast, half-calculating, half fearful.

“Do you live here, Mr. McHugh?” asked Walter.

“Yeah.”

“Ever been in trouble with the law?”

Eddie hesitated. “No,” he said. “Just kid stuff. I didn’t do anything to that woman.”

Walter gazed at Eddie until Eddie averted his eyes. “Thanks for your cooperation.”

“Glad to help you out,” he said.

The cops left the room and Eddie closed the door behind them. For a few moments he leaned against it, staring, unseeing, at the chaos of his room. Then, slowly, a feral grin spread across his face. “Well, well, well,” he said aloud. “What do you know about that.”

“This’ll take a few minutes, Glenda,”
said the pharmacist, a gray-haired man in a white doctor’s smock.

“No problem,” said Glenda. She walked over to a display of cosmetics and began idly brushing various shades of blusher on the back of her hand.

“Excuse me,” said a young woman, approaching her. “Mrs. Emery?”

Glenda looked at the young woman curiously, thinking the girl could really use a little pink blusher herself. “Yes?”

“My name is Phyllis Hodges. I’m a reporter from the Bayland Gazette, I was wondering if 1 could ask you a few questions about the murder victim. She was your sister-in-law, wasn’t she?”

Glenda looked anxiously at the pharmacist’s counter.

The druggist was busy in the back. She could hear the tapping of a typewriter. “I didn’t know her all that well,” she said apologetically. “How did you know it was me?”

“I saw you leaving the house,” Phyllis admitted, “and I sort of followed you.”

“You followed me?” Glenda asked, surprised and a little flattered by this admission.

“I’ve been assigned to write a story about this case, and I was hoping to be able to really give a sympathetic picture of the victim, but I need some background on her. Apparently your sister-in-law has been away from Bayland for some time.”

Glenda shrugged. There was no secret in that. “Yes, she has,” she said. “She disappeared when she was seventeen. Of course, at the time there was all kinds of speculation. You know, about what happened to her. But it turns out she ran away.”

“What a tragedy,” said Phyllis. “She’d just come back, and now this.”

“It’s been awful hard on my mother-in-law,” said Glenda, nodding. She honestly felt very sad for Alice. As mother-in-laws went, Alice was a bargain. And Bill had made this whole thing so much worse by forcing her not to see Linda. If it had been Tiffany gone missing all those years…

“And your husband,” said Phyllis.

“Hmmm?”

“Your husband must be very upset, too.”

“Oh, yes,” said Glenda. She was warming to Phyllis. She seemed like a nice girl. A little naive, maybe. But being a reporter was a good job. Glenda hoped that Tiffany would get a good job someday and not be dependent on some man to support her.

Phyllis’s face was a study in innocent curiosity. “Do you know why she left Bayland?”

Glenda hesitated. What difference did it make to tell? She really couldn’t see why Bill was being so close-mouthed about it. He was putting on a good show about being upset, but, really, he was more ticked off at Linda than anything else. It was all going to come out in the wash anyway. And in this day and age, it was no disgrace to have a baby outside of marriage and give it up for adoption. Heck, with all the people having abortions, it was practically a noble thing to do. Oh, Bill would be mad at her when he found out she had told. But she could probably tell it a lot more kindly than he would. Besides, Glenda thought defiantly, I believe in freedom of the press.

“Well, as a matter of fact,” she said, “I do know why she left. And it’s kind of an interesting story.”

Phyllis leaned forward, a wolfish gleam in her eye.

Greg Newhall opened the door with an attempt at a smile on his face. “We’ve been expecting you,” he said.

“May we come in?” Walter asked politely.

Greg ushered them into the house and pointed to the living room. “My wife and daughter are in there,” he said.

Karen sat in the corner on the sofa. Jenny was slumped in the rocker, staring at the empty grate in the fireplace.

“Sit down,” said Karen anxiously.

Walter sat in an armchair. Larry stood in the doorway. “We’re here to ask you a few questions about Linda Emery.”

Greg walked over and stood behind Karen. “We thought you might be wondering. I guess you know by now that she was the…that she was our daughter’s biological mother,” he said.

Walter smiled thinly. “How long have you known about this?” he asked.

Karen glanced up at Greg. “About two days now, I guess,” he said. “Three, if you count today.”

“And you had not known the identity of the child’s mother before that time?”

“No,” Greg said with a shade of disapproval in his voice. “I know these ‘one, big, happy family’ arrangements where everybody gets together and bonds are in vogue these days, but no…that was thirteen years ago. The mother’s identity, and ours—so we thought—remained anonymous.”

“So, did you seek her out, or did she find you?”

“She found us,” said Greg shortly.

“Did she say how she found you?”

“She mentioned a private investigator,” said Karen.

“I see,” Walter murmured, making notes on his pad. “So, essentially she just called you out of the blue and said she was Jenny’s real mother.”

“She showed up here, actually,” said Karen. “On Sunday, Mother’s Day.”

“Were you angry about that?” Walter asked smoothly.

Karen was finding it difficult to smile or keep a tremor out of her voice. She could feel Greg’s hands pressing down on her shoulders, as if to steady her. It was a good thing he had warned her to anticipate these questions. Greg was right—she felt guilty and apologetic under police scrutiny, even though she had nothing to hide.

“Well,” she said carefully, “a little notice would have been good, I suppose. But, you have to realize, this was someone Jenny had wondered about her whole life. It was a great thing for her to finally meet her biological mother.”

Jenny wiped tears away from her eyes but avoided looking at her parents or the policeman.

“Is that right, Jenny?” Walter asked. “Were you happy to meet her?”

“Yes,” said Jenny in a small voice. She was pushing the rocker back and forth with one foot.

“And your parents didn’t mind,” he said.

Jenny’s eyes flashed angrily and she pursed her lips. “I guess not,” she said.

“Detective, do you have children?” Karen asked. From his spot in the doorway, Larry let a little exclamation of dismay escape his lips. Like everyone on the force, he knew about Walter’s tragedy. Karen looked up at the young officer, puzzled by his reaction.

Walter hesitated and then said, “No, ma’am.”

“Well,” Karen stumbled on, flustered by the offended expression on Officer Tillman’s face, “when you have a child, you want whatever makes them happy. That becomes your number one priority.”

“Even if it’s someone else claiming to be their mother,” said Walter.

Karen took a deep breath. “She was Jenny’s mother.”

“But surely this must have been very upsetting to you,” Walter persisted.

“Stop baiting my wife,” Greg exclaimed, “She told you how we felt. We were happy for Jenny’s sake.”

Walter glanced up at Greg, his eyes wide. Then he proceeded calmly. “Did she tell you who the father was?”

“She didn’t say,” said Karen. “We didn’t ask.”

Walter nodded. “And when was the last time you saw Linda Emery?”

Karen looked at Jenny, who refused to meet her eyes. “I guess when she brought Jenny home yesterday afternoon. They had lunch together at Miller’s restaurant.”

“Did you see or talk to Miss Emery after that?” Walter asked Jenny. “Did any of you?”

“No,” said Jenny. Greg and Karen shook their heads.

Walter stood up. “I think that will be all for now. We may be back later, however.”

Greg stiffly led the two men to the front door. Karen looked at Jenny, who was rocking furiously in the chair, her face dark as a thunderhead.

The voices receded, and then they heard the front door slam. Jenny stood up from the chair and met Karen’s eyes for the first time. “You hypocrite,” she said. “I hate you.”

Greg came into the room. “I think that went pretty well,” he said.

“Excuse me,” said Jenny bitterly. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Mary Duncan stretched in her bed and yawned. Sometimes she thought the best thing about owning a restaurant was that you got to sleep late in the mornings. Miller’s only served breakfast on weekends, so weekday mornings were the most leisurely time she had. Sam generally got up first and went out for the paper and doughnuts for them, while Mary made the coffee. Of course, everything would change if they had a baby. No sleeping in for them. No more late nights at the restaurant, either. At least not for Mary.

Mary rolled over and buried her face in the pillow. Who am I kidding? she thought. We’re never going to have a baby. With Sam it was always some excuse. The timing was wrong, finances were tight, something. Sometimes she could not believe that they had been together all these years and still no children. And these days there wasn’t much chance of her conceiving anyway, since they hardly ever found the time to make love. Seeing Linda with that child had thrown her into a blue funk. It reminded her of how the years were passing. And what did she have to show for it. Her father’s restaurant and a husband who was obsessed with the business. She had been sure that Sam really loved her when they got married. They were young, of course, and Mary was inexperienced, but still. He was no Romeo. He just announced his love for her, and that was it. But, over the years, sometimes…If Miller’s restaurant hadn’t been part of the bargain…

Mary heard the front door of the condo open, and she forced herself to get up and out of bed. She pulled on her bathrobe and tied it, calling out, “I’m sorry about the coffee. I’ll put it on now.” She shoved her feet into her slippers and padded out into the kitchen. The bag of doughnuts and a newspaper were on the table. Sam was standing by the sink, looking out the window onto their view of the harbor.

“I’m sorry,” said Mary again. “I just couldn’t seem to get myself out of bed.”

Sam turned and looked at her, and his round face was very pale.