Текст книги "Cold Betrayal"

Автор книги: J. A. Jance

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

2

A matter of moments later, Ali located the number for the Beltrami County sheriff and dialed it. It took jumping through a number of gatekeeping hoops before her call was finally put through to Sheriff Donald Olson. “Who is it?” he asked.

Ali’s husband, B. Simpson, was a huge fan of the Coen brothers, and of all their films, including The Big Lebowski, but Fargo was B.’s all-time favorite. He and Ali had watched the movie together numerous times, and B. could recite many of the lines verbatim. When B. used the expression “He’s a funny-looking little guy,” it was definitely not high praise.

Sheriff Olson’s distinctive manner of speaking, with its emphasis on the word “isss,” made him sound as though he had stepped straight off the set of Fargo.

“My name is Ali Reynolds,” she answered. “I’m calling from Sedona on behalf of Betsy Peterson and her granddaughter, Athena.”

“Oh, that,” Sheriff Olson said dismissively. “The whole ‘somebody’s trying to kill me routine.’ And now it sounds as though she’s calling in reinforcements. Who are you again, and what’s your interest in all this?”

“I’m Athena’s mother-in-law,” Ali replied. “She’s at school right now and can’t call herself, but she spoke to her grandmother earlier. Athena said Mrs. Peterson sounded very upset, and she asked if I would call to get an idea of what’s really going on.”

“What’s really going on, Ms. Reynolds, is that Betsy Peterson is a frail, elderly woman who has no business staying on in that big old house way out in the country all by herself. Jim and Sandra, her son and daughter-in-law, are worried sick about her, but they can’t do a thing about it. My mom pulled the same stunt—wouldn’t leave the family farm no matter how much she needed to. I talked myself blue trying to get her to see reason, so it’s not like the Petersons have a corner on the market when it comes to having issues with aging relatives.”

“It sounds to me as though you’re discounting what happened to her.”

“What she claims happened to her,” Sheriff Olson corrected. “Athena’s always been a bright girl. If she’d care to read Deputy Severson’s report, I’m sure she’d agree that nothing about Betsy’s wild imaginings rings true. My deputy examined the scene and there was nothing to be found—including no evidence at all of a break-in. It snowed here last night. He found no unusual tracks leading to or from Betsy’s house—no sign of any vehicles and no sign of anyone on foot, either, other than some footprints in the snow out in the backyard. Those belonged to Betsy herself, by the way. She evidently went running around out in the backyard, barefoot in twenty-degree temperatures. If that’s not nuts, what is? If she had wandered off into the woods like that—in her bare feet and wearing nothing but a robe and a nightgown—she would have been dead as a doornail by morning, gas or no gas.”

Ali didn’t like the man’s tone. “In other words, on the basis of her fleeing a possible gas explosion without returning to the far end of the house to retrieve her shoes, you’re prepared to disregard her claim that someone entered her home, turned on the gas, and tried to kill her?”

“As I said, ‘claim’ is the operant word here, Ms. Reynolds. By the way, when Deputy Severson arrived at the scene, there was no sign of any gas—none at all. He thinks she made the whole thing up, maybe just to gain a little attention. Or else it could be something else like the first stages of dementia. That’s what those folks do, by the way. They wander around in the middle of the night doing things that make no sense and that they never remember doing. They claim things happened that never happened.”

“Has Ms. Peterson been diagnosed with any form of dementia?”

“Not to my knowledge and not officially, I suppose,” the sheriff conceded. “But I’ve heard from Jim that odd things have started to happen. Betsy lost her hearing aids a while back. Weeks later Sandra found them in the freezer in a bag full of chopped-up Jimmy Dean sausages. Then Sandra stopped by Betsy’s house one day and found medications for her yappy little dog mixed in with Betsy’s. No telling what would have happened if Sandra hadn’t straightened that mess out. Betsy could have died or else the dog could have. Oh, and then there was the thing with her reading glasses. She left them in a gadget drawer in the kitchen.”

“And you know about all this because . . . ?”

“This is a small town, Ms. Reynolds. People know their neighbors. We talk. Maybe you’re not accustomed to that kind of thing where you live. Jim Peterson and I are lifelong friends. Our parents are aging, and a lot of the folks in our generation are dealing with the same kinds of issues. We’re all in the same boat, don’t ya know?”

Ali could see that Sheriff Olson’s being in the same boat with Jimmy Peterson meant that he was far too close to Betsy Peterson’s situation to be an impartial bystander.

“How long was it after the 911 call before your officer arrived at the scene?”

“Forty minutes or so. Why?”

“Was the door open or closed?”

“The front door was closed when Deputy Severson arrived, but the back door was still wide open.”

“Wouldn’t that open door, added to a forty-minute delay, allow for the gas to dissipate?”

“I suppose,” Sheriff Olson allowed grudgingly, “but that presumes the gas was present in the first place. Now look, Ms. Reynolds, I have places to go and things to do. You might mention to Athena that if she really cares about her grandmother, she’ll use her influence to talk Betsy into letting go of that big house and moving into one of those assisted-living places where she’ll be properly looked after.”

Ali felt her temper rising. By the time her parents, Bob and Edie Larson, sold their Sugarloaf Café, they had both spent a lifetime cooking for other people. Done with cooking, they had moved into Sedona Shadows, a retirement community that came complete with a dining room where someone else handled the daily meal service. As far as Ali could see they were having a blast living there.

Although the move had surprised Ali at the time, her parents had made the decision on their own, in their own good time, and far earlier than expected without any prompting from what her mother had laughingly referred to as “the peanut gallery.”

Listening to Donald Olson, Ali suspected Betsy Peterson’s situation differed greatly from that of her parents. In Bemidji, the peanut gallery seemed to be holding all the cards.

“Thank you, Sheriff Olson,” Ali said, struggling to keep a civil tongue in her mouth. “I’ll be in touch.”

The sheriff didn’t have to say “don’t bother” aloud as she ended the call. His tone of voice made his opinion of Ali’s unwelcome interference entirely clear.

She was still glaring at the phone in her hand, as if holding it responsible for her bad mood, when it rang again. This time her husband’s phone number showed in the screen.

“Boy,” she said, “am I glad to hear from you. Are you still in Switzerland?”

“I am at the moment, but I’m leaving for New York City tomorrow afternoon. I have a day and a half of meetings there. I should be home in time for dinner on Friday.”

“Good,” she said. “I’ve missed you, and so has Bella. She moped around here for days after you left. What do you want for your homecoming dinner?”

“My first choice would be some of Leland’s meat loaf.”

“Fair enough,” Ali said. “I’ll make sure meat loaf is on the menu.”

“After that,” he said, “I’d like to spend the rest of the weekend having a little quiet downtime with my wife and my dog.”

“Sounds perfect,” Ali said. “That’s what Bella and I are hoping for, too.”

“What’s happening on your end?” B. asked.

She told him about her call from Athena and her subsequent conversation with Sheriff Olson.

“So Betsy says somebody tried to kill her and everyone else says she’s losing her marbles?”

“That’s about the size of it,” Ali agreed glumly.

“What do you think?”

“Betsy didn’t sound out of it to me—not in the least.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I already did it,” Ali replied. “Athena asked me to call and talk to the sheriff, and that’s what I did.”

“Fair enough,” B. said. “Now let it go at that. This is Athena’s problem, not yours—Athena’s and Betsy’s. We already know there’s plenty of bad blood between Athena and her parents. If you get involved with all this, there could be even more spillover. You’re better off not being sucked into the middle of it.”

“Right,” Ali said. Just because she said she agreed with him, however, didn’t mean she meant it. After all, just like her mother, Ali Reynolds had never been much good when it came to minding her own business.

3

Enid Tower sat in the dusty waiting room, dreading the sound of the nurse calling her name. She hated the process of going into the examining room and having to strip off her clothing. She hated the idea of having Dr. Johnson examine her body—of him touching her breasts and her belly with his bony hands and asking probing questions about how she felt.

If he had been just another doctor, that might have been okay, but on Sundays, when Enid had to sit in front of him and his family in church, he was Brother Johnson rather than Dr. Johnson. Sitting in the pew with him right behind her, knowing that he was staring at the back of her neck, always made Enid burn with shame. It was almost impossible to pay attention to the sermon or whatever else was going on in church when someone who had seen her naked and had touched the part of her body that shouldn’t be touched by anyone but her husband was seated in the very next pew.

This time, though, it wasn’t just the examining room Enid dreaded—it was what would come after the examining room. Bishop Lowell always talked about having the courage of your convictions. When the bishop talked like that, he was usually referring to the way The Family lived—apart from everyone else, following their own beliefs and customs no matter what the outside world said or thought about them. Today was the day Enid would test the courage of her own convictions in a way she knew would not meet with Bishop Lowell’s approval.

The baby in her belly seemed to catch her mother’s disquiet and began turning what felt like somersaults. Enid rested her hand on her stomach, hoping that the pressure would quiet her baby girl’s restless tumbling. That’s what Dr. Johnson said she was going to have—a girl—and that was why Enid was leaving. She knew what her life was and what it would be if she stayed in The Family. She didn’t want that for herself, and she certainly didn’t want it for her little girl.

Enid stole a glance at Aunt Edith. The woman was not really Enid’s aunt, at least not as far as Enid knew. Given the way The Family worked, however, she might as well have been, because everyone who lived in The Encampment seemed to be related to everyone else. In this case, the word “aunt” was a reflection of Edith Tower’s marital situation. “Aunt” was how younger wives were expected to refer to and honor the ones who had come before.

The custom was true for Enid and Abigail Crowden, too. They were two years apart in age, had grown up as best friends—doing chores together, playing tag, jumping rope, wading in the water on those rare occasions when the washes ran. For a time they had been Abby and Enid, a pair of inseparable pals with a not undeserved reputation for being a pair of troublemakers.

Then Abigail had married Gordon on her fifteenth birthday—The Family’s age of consent—although they had been betrothed long before that. In the two years since, Abby had already had one baby and was expecting another. Like Abby’s, Enid’s wedding—complete with a white gown and veil—had occurred on her fifteenth birthday. Now, as Gordon’s youngest wife—his newest wife—Enid was forced to address her once beloved friend Abby as Aunt Abigail. She’d had to grieve over losing Abby’s friendship as well, because now that they were wives together, they were no longer friends.

Aunt Edith drowsed, with her head leaning back against the wall and her mouth hanging open. Enid wondered how old she was. Probably not much more than thirty or so, although she looked far older. Her face was swollen. The corners of her mouth turned down rather than up. Because she was missing several teeth, she hardly ever smiled. An angry, forbidding frown permanently adorned her forehead. Oh, and she was pregnant, too, although not as far along as Enid. Aunt Edith’s body was swollen under her shapeless homemade dress, and so were her ankles. Enid had heard Dr. Johnson’s nurse talking to Aunt Edith, warning her in a low voice that if they didn’t get her blood pressure under control, she might end up having to spend the rest of her pregnancy doing bed rest.

Enid tried to feel sorry for her. That was what Bishop Lowell said you were supposed to do—feel compassion toward others. This would be Aunt Edith’s eighth baby, although Enid had heard she had miscarried a couple of times, too. As First Wife, or at least as the eldest of those who remained, she ruled her part of The Family with an iron fist. Aunt Edith kept a willow switch in a corner of the kitchen and wasn’t afraid to use it on the younger wives and on any of the children, especially if there was so much as a hint of back talk or if assigned chores weren’t done to her satisfaction. Enid knew that if Aunt Edith ended up confined to her bed, she would use that confinement as a weapon to dish out misery to others. As the youngest wife, Enid would be a natural target.

Enid understood why Aunt Edith hated her. Aunt Edith may have been pretty once, but years of constant pregnancies had robbed her of whatever good looks she might have possessed. Enid, on the other hand, was still young and beautiful. Right now, hers was the bed Gordon preferred to any of the others. At night he wanted Enid to stand in front of him naked while she let down her hair. Then, after taking his fill of her—according to him, pregnancy was only a problem if you let it be—Gordon liked to sleep on his belly next to her back and with his outspread hand resting on her swollen stomach, as if claiming both her body and her baby’s as his own.

Enid knew the other wives were jealous of the added attention he lavished on her. One morning, after Gordon had gone out to do chores, Aunt Edith had barged into the bedroom and caught Enid standing in front of the mirror, admiring the undulating waves the undone braids had left in her waist-length hair.

Aunt Edith had stopped in the doorway and stared at her. “I suppose you think your hair is beautiful like that, don’t you,” she sneered. “It’s beautiful all right—just like the waves on a slop pail.”

With that, she had turned on her heel, slammed the door behind her, and stormed off downstairs. That evening, Enid had begged Gordon to give her a key for their bedroom. She claimed it was because some of the little kids had been sneaking inside and going through his things, but it was really so Enid could have a few moments of privacy.

To her surprise, Gordon had seen fit to grant that wish. She knew a big part of his doing so had to do with her being young and supple. She always let him have his way with her, and she never complained. Once she had the key to their room, she treasured it, wearing it on a string tied around her neck. Each morning, she waited until Gordon went downstairs, then she crept out of bed and locked the door behind him before she got dressed for the day. When she went downstairs to breakfast, she locked the door again.

One day Aunt Edith had caught Enid locking the door. “What do you think you’re doing?” she had demanded. “Who said you could lock that door?”

“Gordon,” Enid replied. “Gordon said so.”

It was hardly surprising that Enid spent that day scrubbing floors on her hands and knees, but with the key safely hidden away under her dress, she hardly minded at all.

•   •   •

The door to Dr. Johnson’s examining room opened and a woman and a girl about Enid’s age came out. She was someone Enid recognized. Her name was Mary. She was fourteen and betrothed to Bishop Lowell. The wedding was due to happen the following month. Marrying the bishop was supposed to be a huge honor. From the desolate expression on the girl’s face, Enid knew that she had just been forced to undergo the dreaded virginity test. Only virgins were allowed to marry Elders, and written certification of that from The Family’s approved physician, Dr. Johnson, came only after he had determined the hymen was fully intact.

From the set of Mary’s mother’s jaw, Enid could see the woman was angry. As Mary walked past with eyes downcast and shoulders slumped, Enid understood that, for some reason, Mary hadn’t passed. Enid put her hand to her mouth in a gesture of unspoken sympathy because she knew what came next. Mary would be taken back to The Encampment and locked in the concrete block cell behind the church. The next time the Elders met, there would be a trial of sorts, with Bishop Lowell serving as judge and with only the Twelve Elders allowed on the jury. Everyone knew it was all for show. There wasn’t the slightest chance that Mary would be found innocent.

Cast-Off girls weren’t allowed to stay in The Encampment for fear of passing their wickedness on to someone else. Once convicted, Mary would be stripped naked and forced to stand in the back of Bishop Lowell’s truck in broad daylight while she was driven away from the church and out of The Encampment. Everyone in The Family would be there, lining the road and looking on in absolute silence while the truck went past. No one knew what became of Cast-Off girls after the truck disappeared from view, and anyone stupid enough to ask would soon be on the receiving end of a willow-switch beating.

No one was allowed to ask about what happened to the Not Chosen girls, either. They too disappeared, but without the same kind of shame or spectacle as the Cast-Offs. Not Chosens were the girls who, by age seven or so, were somehow deemed unworthy and, as a consequence, were not yet betrothed. Like unwanted kittens in the barn, one day they were there; the next they were gone.

That’s what had happened to a girl named Judith, whose cot had been next to Enid’s on the girls’ sleeping porch. The two girls had been the same age but, because Judith was Edith’s daughter, they had not been friends. One night they went to bed in the usual way, but the next morning, when Enid awakened, Judith was gone. Her cot had been stripped down to the bare mattress, and the chest with her clothing and belongings in it was gone as well.

Enid had discovered later that Judith wasn’t the only Not Chosen who had disappeared that night. Another five or six had vanished from other households as well—at least that’s what one of the older girls said in a whispered conversation after church the next Sunday. Disappearing Nights happened at odd intervals during the year. Afterward, any discussion about them was strictly forbidden. That didn’t mean that the speculation didn’t happen, but it was conducted in wary secrecy.

After one Disappearing Night, one of the older boys claimed he had seen the girls being carried onto a plane that had flown away into the night. Another said the Not Chosens were transported to an island somewhere to be fed to cannibals. As unlikely as both stories seemed, Enid from age eight on had been grateful each morning to wake up in familiar surroundings. Back then terror of the Outside had been greater than the unrelenting drudgery of living under Aunt Edith’s thumb. Now, though, at age sixteen, that had changed. Being Outside was what Enid Tower longed for more than anything, for herself and for her baby.

•   •   •

“Susannah,” the nurse announced.

Aunt Edith stirred while another pregnant woman—someone Enid knew but not well and who looked as though she might deliver any day—levered herself up from her chair and waddled into the exam room. As soon as the door closed, Aunt Edith closed her eyes again.

Enid looked longingly at the dog-eared magazines scattered on the table in front of her. The ones she really wanted to study were the torn back issues of National Geographic. Even though she couldn’t read most of the words, she had caught a few stolen glimpses of the photos—colorful photographs of strange, faraway places Enid hoped to see someday. There was also a single copy of something called TV Guide. She wondered about that. Members of The Family weren’t allowed to watch television or see movies, so why did Dr. Johnson have that magazine in his office? As for the woman pictured on the cover? The clothing she wore was far too revealing and her teeth were impossibly white. The Family believed in Dr. Johnson, but they didn’t believe in dentists or in toothpaste, either. Baking soda was it.

Even with Aunt Edith fast asleep, Enid didn’t dare pick up the magazine. Anyone caught with what Bishop Lowell called “godless literature” in her hand could count on a willow-switch beating the moment she got home. Besides, all Enid would be able to do was look at the pictures. The children in The Family were all supposedly being homeschooled, but Bishop Lowell didn’t think there was any need for girls to learn to read. He claimed there were too many books and magazines that would do nothing but lead them astray.

Hidden away in a closet on the younger girls’ sleeping porch and using a purloined flashlight, Enid had managed to teach herself some reading skills by working her way through some of the younger boys’ reading books. Even so, she knew she would never be able to read a whole magazine on her own. That was something she was hoping she would be able to give her daughter on the Outside—the ability to read.

Barely ten minutes later, Susannah came out, still buttoning her blouse. The nurse stood in the doorway, glancing at a list. “Enid,” she announced.

Taking a deep breath, Enid stood up. She had no purse to carry. Purses were considered vain. Instead, womenfolk from The Family were expected to carry nothing more ornate than small homemade pouches made of cloth that were large enough to hold only a small Bible and a single hanky. As Enid crossed the room, she gripped the pouch tightly in both hands, hoping that Aunt Edith wouldn’t wake up and spy the telltale bulges in the pouch that concealed Enid’s “ill-gotten goods”—the small scissors, the spool of white thread, and the needle she had smuggled out of the Sewing Room.

She crossed the room hurriedly, more than half expecting Aunt Edith to lumber to her feet and raise an objection. She did not. When Enid had come to see Dr. Johnson for her first prenatal checkup, Aunt Edith had insisted on accompanying her into the examining room. It had been humiliating for Enid to be up on the table, with her legs spread open in the stirrups and with Dr. Johnson peering at her while Aunt Edith watched from the sidelines. That evening, in bed, after Enid had given Gordon everything he wanted and more, she had pleaded her case.

“If I’m old enough to have your baby,” she said, “I should be old enough to see the doctor without having Aunt Edith in the room with me.”

Thankfully, Gordon had capitulated. Aunt Edith was furious about it, but even First Wives had to abide by their husbands’ wishes. Enid was counting on that.

In the second of the two exam rooms, she slipped out of her dowdy, ankle-length gingham dress and the homemade cotton slip. Some of the girls in The Family insisted that women on the Outside wore a garment called a “bra” that helped to keep their breasts from sagging. Seeing her overripe body in the mirror as she slipped on the ugly green gown, Enid wished she owned something like that. Maybe, someday she’d have one.

Once gowned, Enid hitched her unwieldy body up on the end of the examining table and waited quietly while Vera, one of Dr. Johnson’s wives as well as his nurse, took Enid’s temperature, blood pressure, and pulse. Very few members of The Family were allowed to live outside The Encampment. Dr. Johnson was one who did.

“Pulse is a little elevated,” Vera muttered. “Are you upset about something at the moment?”

“No,” Enid lied, willing her heart rate to slow. “I’m fine.”

Dr. Johnson came into the room. He was tall and thin, with a long narrow neck that made Enid think of a giraffe—a giraffe wearing a stethoscope.

“How’s our little mama doing today?” he asked as he stood with his back to her, washing his hands at the sink. He didn’t pretend that he knew Enid’s name. He probably said the same words to every woman who came into the room, whether or not she was little. As far as he was concerned, the women involved—the mothers—were a biological necessity. As individuals they were of little consequence. After all, the babies were what mattered. The Family valued and rejoiced at the live birth of each healthy child and most especially girl babies. As for the unhealthy ones—the ones that weren’t quite right? No one saw them again.

“Fine,” Enid managed. She didn’t want to do anything that might attract unwarranted attention.

“Let’s have a look, then.”

Vera had left the room by then. Dr. Johnson may have said “let’s,” but he was the only one doing any looking. He touched Enid’s bulging breasts, pinching the nipples hard enough that she winced and almost cried out. She wondered if he would have done it had Vera still been in the room.

“These were quite small when you first started coming here,” he observed pleasantly, “but they’re coming along nicely. You won’t have a bit of trouble nursing.”

Along with toothpaste and dentists, baby bottles and formula were something else The Family didn’t believe in. Mothers were required to nurse their babies until they were ready for solid foods. If it turned out that a previous baby wasn’t quite weaned before the next one came along? Too bad. Both kids took turns nursing while the mothers had little time to do anything else.

Dr. Johnson ducked out of sight under the sheet that covered Enid’s raised knees. She held her breath while his searching fingers—cold despite the latex gloves he wore—probed inside her.

“Yes, indeed,” he said. “Other than a little bruising here and there, everything’s fine as frog’s hair. By my calculations you’ve got another six weeks to go. From now on, though, you might tell Gordon to ease up on you some. I’m sure you can find some other way to satisfy his needs besides spreading your legs.”

Enid nodded. She knew exactly what Dr. Johnson meant as a substitute because she had done it before. She also knew that Gordon liked it and she didn’t. “I’ll tell him,” she said.

“Good girl,” he said, patting her tummy in a possessive way that made her want to squirm off the table. “That’s the spirit. You get dressed now while we see what’s going on with Aunt Edith.”

As Dr. Johnson left the room, Enid scrambled off the table and pulled on her clothing. She was in such a hurry that she buttoned the front of her dress wrong and had to undo it and start over. She pulled on the light jacket she had worn when she left home and checked to make sure that the cheese sandwich she had smuggled out of the kitchen was still safely in her pocket. So was that precious piece of paper, the tiny one that promised Enid and her baby had a future that wasn’t a part of The Family. Last of all, she picked up the cloth pouch.

Enid was grateful that Aunt Edith was missing from the waiting room when she emerged from the examining room. Behind the counter another of Dr. Johnson’s wives, this one named Donna, was intent on what appeared to be a game of cards laid out on her computer screen. Gordon kept a computer on the desk in his office. If Enid had ever been allowed to touch it, she wouldn’t have wasted a moment playing cards.

Enid walked to the door, moving calmly and hoping to arouse no suspicion. “I’m going outside for a while,” she announced over her shoulder as she stepped out onto the sidewalk.

“Sure,” Donna said, giving her an unconcerned wave. “Go right ahead.”

Enid stayed outside in the early afternoon overcast for only a minute or so before she opened the door again and stuck her head back inside. “Bishop Lowell just came by,” she said. “Tell Aunt Edith I’m riding home with him.”

“Will do,” Donna said, again without looking up.

Enid closed the door behind her, then turned and walked away from the office, traveling in the same general direction as where she would be expected to go. She walked past the post office and the little storefront library filled with long shelves of books that she had never been able to check out or read. As she walked past the grocery store where Aunt Edith would stock up before driving the twenty miles or so of dirt road back to The Encampment, Enid couldn’t help smiling. Aunt Edith would be furious when she learned that she’d have to push the grocery carts herself and load the bags and boxes into the minivan without Enid along to do the heavy lifting. Aunt Edith would be even more furious when she got home and realized Enid had played her for a fool.

Walking through town, Enid knew exactly where she was going, but it was a desperate gamble. She had no idea if her carefully thought-out plan would really work, and she knew that severe punishments awaited her if she was caught and taken back home. Rather than think about that, she concentrated on moving forward and doing so at a steady pace. Running would attract too much attention—something Enid Tower could ill afford.

Neither could her baby.