Destroying Angels (Leigh Girard Book 1) Read online

  I could think of only two reasons why she would have written her name and address in the mushroom field guide and not the other field guides. Either she used the book frequently or she’d loaned it to someone. Had she too been a member of the mycology society? Had she, like Rob Martin, been a student of Peck’s?

  Connections were getting more convoluted by the minute. I sighed heavily, trying to sort things out. Maybe Joyce just had an interest in mushrooms. Maybe she didn’t even buy the field book. She might have received it as a gift. I sat on the raised hearth with the guides piled in my lap.

  Maybe Lydia was right, and I was obsessing about the Pecks and now Joyce, because I didn’t want to deal with my own problems. My stomach was grumbling, and my left side ached. I should go home, have a glass of wine, make dinner and forget about all this. I had come to Door County to find some peace.

  So far, batting a thousand on that score.

  I reshelved the field guides, stood up and started for the door. A shaft of low sunlight shot through the clouds and momentarily blinded me. I turned from the door. The light illuminated a dark ladder-back chair revealing the subtle grains of its highly varnished wood. Draped sideways across the chair’s back was a deep purple sweater, one sleeve dangling down toward the carpet as if reaching for something. The other sleeve touched the chair’s seat. Both were ragged with wear. One of the sweater’s gold buttons was missing. My brain nearly went haywire with questions: when was the last time Joyce had worn this sweater? The night of her suicide? Before she went to the hospital? Had she thrown it there before taking the pills? I could see her gaunt face and swollen stomach in that photo Ida had given me, of the two of them in front of the Art Institute. I remembered that Joyce had been wearing this sweater.

  “I was her only friend,” Ida Reeves had claimed. Yet I knew for a fact that Joe Stillwater counted Joyce as a friend, and so did Sarah Peck, at least for a time in her life. For some inexplicable reason, I felt I'd become a friend to Joyce Oleander too, even though our acquaintance was post mortem. I could see there had been a depth to Joyce that was visible in her choice of books and her quiet existence. I sensed she had suffered deep losses. Yet she had built a life in spite of them. Something had come along and shattered it.

  The room dimmed as the clouds closed over the shaft of fading sunlight. I walked through the living room, up the green-carpeted stairs and directly into the smaller bedroom. After Joyce’s elaborately girlish bedroom, I wasn’t prepared for this room’s austerity: one bed, one dresser, one nightstand; white-washed walls, no pictures. It was as severe as a monk’s cell. A darkly stained Parson’s table served as a nightstand. The twin bed had no headboard and was covered with a crisp white spread. The bed was pushed against the far wall and under a small and high window, decked with white curtains and a white shade. I opened the curtains and lifted the shade to take advantage of the setting sun.

  A mirrored dresser sat across from the bed. This ponderous piece of furniture seemed to give the room its only weight. Simple and dark, it stood like a sentinel watching over the room, reflecting the bed and the window. The room had probably been used as a guest room. I shuddered, imagining rising each morning surrounded by the purity of all this white and seeing myself in that overpowering mirror, revealed at my most vulnerable before I could prepare my face and my body for the day.

  I sat on the bed and looked through the items on the nightstand. There were two books and a prescription bottle. The books were from the Egg Harbor library. One was a sci-fi novel and the other a collection of essays. Bookmarkers protruded from each book. I picked up the prescription bottle. The label bore Joyce's name and read “Take one tab by mouth at P.M. bedtime as needed for insomnia.”

  I scrutinized the room again. It suddenly occurred to me to question this being a guest room, and the girlish bedroom down the hall where Joyce slept. If I'd reversed the functions of these rooms, then why such austerity for her room and the peculiar décor of the guest room?

  The light was starting to go. I took a deep breath, questioned my willingness to invade a dead woman's privacy, and without further introspection, quickly went through the dresser drawers. The top drawers were empty. But the other drawers were filled with sweaters, underwear, shirts, some slacks. I quickly became convinced that this was indeed Joyce‘s own bedroom. I opened the closet. A cedar smell filled the room. Inside were wool skirts, jumpers, a few sensible dresses, some hatboxes circa1950.

  Neatly placed on a shoe rack were several pairs of those "industrial strength" shoes. I might as well have been looking at Ida Reeves’ closet. I closed the door and was about to leave when something under the bed caught my eye. I knelt down and lifted the spread’s edge. A metal box, the kind people use to store their important documents, was partly hidden under the bed. Not a very astute hiding place, I thought, since it drew my attention. I pulled the box out and tried the lid. It wouldn’t budge.

  Okay, where do people hide keys to home safes? I stood up and searched through all the dresser drawers again. Nothing. I went back to the closet and felt in all the pockets of the clothes hung there. Still nothing. As I reached up for one of the hatboxes, it tumbled down, hitting me on the head. Out of the box rolled a black cloche hat and a key.

  I snatched the key and tried it in the box lock. It turned easily. Inside, I found the usual documents: Joyce’s birth and baptism certificates, her parents’ birth and death certificates, her high school graduation diploma. There was a separate rather bulky envelope addressed to Joyce from the Adoptees’ Liberty Movement Association. I pulled out one letter and read it:

  Dear Ms. Oleander:

  We have listed you on our registry using the information you provided. As our brochure explains, ALMA is voluntary; the organization can make a match only if both parties are registered.

  We suggest that birth parents searching for their adoptive children use all methods available. Enclosed you will find a list of other resources that will you help you in your search.

  Sincerely,

  Marsha Ann Hodges

  Besides the ALMA letter, brochure and list of resources, the envelope held four other letters. Joyce had followed ALMA’s advice and contacted several of the other resources. I read through the other letters. One was from a national adoption clearing house called Soundex. Apparently, Joyce had registered with them as well. The next two letters were actually billing statements from the Chicago Tribune and the Milwaukee Journal. Last Mother’s Day, Joyce had taken out ads in both papers. Other than the number of words in the ads and the amounts due, there was no indication of the content of the ads.

  I quickly read the last letter. It was from a private detective named Barry Snyder. He did not find any record of adoptions twenty years ago in Door County, or with agencies who had accepted a female infant from Door County. With so little to go on, he concluded, he was unable to narrow his search enough for it to be useful.

  Before putting the letters back in the envelope, I reread them and checked all the dates. The letters spanned the last six months. And the only specifics about the child I could find were in Snyder’s letter.

  The sun had set, so I used my flashlight to make my way down the stairs. On my way out, I took the mushroom field guide and slipped it into my jacket pocket. "Forgive me, Father, for what I do in the name of justice," I muttered. Or in the name of obsession, I could hear Lydia and Jake Stevens hissing.

  A jumble of suppositions ran through my head as I drove toward home. First off, let's suppose Joyce Oleander had a child about twenty years ago—a girl. She gave the child up for adoption and most recently wanted to find her. But all her efforts were unsuccessful. I thought about the bones I’d found, whose age had yet to be determined. But Joyce was looking for her child, so she assumed her child wasn’t dead.

  Up ahead I could see the old gas pump that marked the gravel road leading to my cottage. I put on my signal light and slowed the truck. As I began to make the turn, I jerked the truck back onto Highway 42. I seemed t
o remember that the library stayed opened until six. I had about fifteen minutes.

  * * * * *

  The library’s front door was already locked, but I could see a rectangle of light coming from the back office. I banged on the door as hard as I could. Ida Reeves peered out from her office. I banged on the door again. She came out and walked toward me. Even in the dim light, I could see the pursed annoyance on her face.

  “We’re closed,” she said through the locked door.

  “I know. But I just need to ask you something. It won’t take but a minute. It’s very important.”

  “Come back tomorrow. We open at ten.” She pushed her glasses up on her nose and retracted those large lips.

  “Please, let me talk with you. It’s about Joyce’s baby.”

  There was no hiding the look of shock on her face. Her hand actually went to her throat like the requisite damsel of classic melodrama. She unlocked the door and walked quickly back to her office.

  We were both too agitated to sit. In the full light of the office, I noticed changes in Ida’s appearance. The top button of her blouse was unbuttoned and part of her collar was caught under her sweater. Errant hairs stood out all over her head, as if she’d just come in from outside. And that crisp posture was gone. Her shoulders stooped inward, almost as if expecting a blow.

  I had rehearsed what I was going to say, what ploys I to use to get Ida Reeves to open up. I was sure that she knew more than she had originally told me about Joyce. Her altered appearance almost changed my mind. I reached into my pocket and handed her the letters.

  She looked at them a long time, then looked away. “Where did you get these?”

  “Ms. Reeves, Joyce is dead. There’s no need to protect her anymore.”

  She put her hand up to stop me. “You came to Joyce’s funeral and that shows character. I respect that. But I want it understood that I don’t owe you anything.”

  I shook my head in agreement.

  “I also want a promise from you that what I tell you is off the record. Nothing goes in the Gazette. You may not think so, but the dead do need protection. And Joyce was like a daughter to me.” She struggled to control her voice. “Do I have your word?"

  “Yes, you do.”

  She pulled back a chair, sat down and put her hands together as if in prayer. “I’m not going to sugar-coat this or beat around the bush. Joyce told me that when she was in high school, she had a child out of wedlock. Before you ask, I don’t know who the father was. She didn’t even tell me about this until a few months ago. ‘I was young and stupid and naive’ was the way she explained it."

  Ida took a deep breath. “She wanted to find her child, and she asked for my help. I told her that it wasn’t a good idea to dredge up the past. The child was probably being well taken care of. Locating her might bring grief to everyone." Ida shook her head as if she was trying to clear it. “Joyce said that she was worried. She had read some story about an adoptive mother who had killed her adoptive child. I told her that was nonsense. But nothing could dissuade her. I really think it had more to do with the hysterectomy, and her never being able to have any more children. She was frantic. She even hired a detective.” She glanced at the letters. “Well, you already know that.”

  "Yes. Go on, please." I didn't want Ida to close down on me before she completed her revelations.

  “I told her that her child probably didn’t wanted to be found, or she herself would have registered with that organization, the AL-something. Let me think.” She rubbed her forehead, then glanced at the letters before I could prompt her. “Oh yes, ALMA, I see here, the Adoptee’s Liberty Movement Association. Alma, did you know it means ‘soul’ in Spanish? Anyway, most adopted children don’t want to be found. It’s too disruptive to their lives. Those happy reunions you see on television are rare, and just so much media hype. At least that’s what the literature I've read indicates.”

  She stopped. I had started drumming my fingers on the table in frustration.

  “I’m sorry,” Ida said. “I know I get carried away sometimes. It’s how I deal with things.”

  “Someone must know something, Ms. Reeves. How could a high school girl hide something like this, especially in a small town?”

  “When I asked her that, she said she wore baggy clothes and that her grandmother didn’t pay much attention to her most of the time.”

  “She was living with her grandmother?”

  "Yes, after her parents died. Nice old lady, but too infirm to care for a teenager.”

  “But where did she give birth? What hospital? Who adopted the child?” I ran my fingers through my hair and rubbed the back of my neck.

  “I don’t know. She told me a friend helped her out. That the friend had handled everything.”

  “A friend? She didn't give you a name?“

  “No, she wouldn’t tell me. She said she couldn’t tell me. She had made a promise. Whenever I tried to get a name out of her, she’d shut down. Joyce had a way of withdrawing into herself. When she got like that, there was no reaching her.”

  “Do you think the father could have been Elliott Stillwater? But if that were the case, then why break off the engagement?” I answered my own question.

  Ida sat very still, looking at her hands. “I don’t think it was Elliott’s child.”

  “Are you sure there’s nothing else?”

  “I should have helped her. I could have, but I didn’t.”

  She brought her folded hands up to her mouth. “I turned my back on her. Just before the surgery, she said to me, ‘There’s not a day goes by that I don’t think about my child. All I want is a picture, a letter, something to tell me she’s happy and safe.’ You know what I said? ‘You gave up that right when you gave up that child. It’s better this way.’ I should have thought about what that surgery meant and how much Joyce loved children. Then maybe things would have been different. Maybe she’d still be alive.”

  So that’s why she’d been so cold when we first talked. To feel anything would open the door to feeling everything. “You don’t know that.”

  She put her hands down and looked into my eyes. “Yes, I do.”

  We sat in silence for a moment. I could hear the wall clock ticking in the next room. I realized that any reassurance I could offer Ida Reeves would be useless. Her neatly constructed world had collapsed with her admission of guilt.

  “Take these.” She handed me the letters. “Maybe you can find Joyce’s child.”

  I took the letters and put them in my pocket. “Ms. Reeves, a lot of things could have pushed Joyce over the edge.”

  She walked over toward the office door. “You have what you came for. So if you don’t mind . . .”

  As I walked past her, she switched off the lights in a place where Joyce Oleander had found solace.

  * * * * *

  “In such a night,” I said aloud, slamming my truck door and looking up at the sky. The orange harvest moon ran close to the fields and cast an umber light. “In such a night,” I said again, not remembering the rest of the line from Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice. But I did remember that like me, the characters couldn’t bear being indoors on such a night. However, my reasons had nothing to do with romantic love or love of any kind.

  I opened the back door of the cottage. Salinger jumped up at me, panting and crying.

  “Okay,” I said, patting her thick sheen of fur. “I’m with you.”

  She ran past me and tore through the aster field. I followed her, knowing I’d never catch her. As I crossed the field, for the first time I saw that the whiteness of the blooms was gone, and the field had browned. The small flowers were all closed in upon themselves. Whatever had kept them thriving had departed. I shivered. Winter seemed imminent. I headed toward the bay. I needed the water’s hypnotic spell.

  The wind along the rocky shore bit into my exposed face with a longing I understood. I could see lights on the far shore, steady and small. The moon had slipped behind a bank of clouds, c
asting everything into bas-relief. I sat down on a flat rock and let the cold seep up into me. The water was dark and restless. It would be a quick and cold death.

  I touched my head to free me from such thoughts. But like the water, my head continued to throb. Who had fathered Joyce’s child? It couldn’t have been Elliott Stillwater’s baby; according to his brother, Joyce and Stillwater had never been intimate. And the timeline I'd cobbled together suggested she had broken off the engagement after the child’s birth. If it was his child, wouldn’t she have married him? So if not Stillwater, then who was the father?

  I breathed deeply, taking in the briny scent of decaying fish mixed with the smell of crushed pine needles. And who was the friend who had helped Joyce? Where was her child now? I shivered. Hopefully not attached to the identity of those bones sitting in a drawer in the forensic anthropologist’s office.

  A wave rushed up the shore and wet my shoes. I inched back on the rock and hugged myself for warmth. Joyce had a child twenty years ago, so she would have been sixteen when she conceived. If only I knew the age of those bones. But that child had most likely been murdered. Surely Joyce’s child had been adopted.

  Salinger startled me out of my thoughts. She stood beside me, shaking her wet fur and crying. She smelled like mold. “Where have you been, my one and only guard dog?"

  She cried again. “All right, I guess I’m hungry too.”

  As we neared the cottage door, Salinger began to howl. “Quiet,” I cautioned her, my whole body tensing. I approached the back door slowly. No lights were on inside, and the door was slightly ajar. I hadn’t locked it.

  I realized I had two choices: circle around to the front of the house, jump into my truck and go for help. The problem with that idea was that the keys were in purse, and my purse was on the kitchen floor where I had thrown it in my haste to be outside. That left the other option: confront whoever had sneaked into my house. Maybe I had left the door open myself? I had been so preoccupied that I couldn’t remember. Still, I decided to go around the front and see if there was another vehicle parked in the drive besides mine. I pulled on Salinger’s collar and shushed her vehemently.