Consider the Crows (15 page)

Susan settled in a chair and took note of the expensive binoculars on the table, a book titled
Birds of Northeast Kansas
and a light gray muffler aflutter with blue jays. He backed into the other chair and sat leaning slightly forward, with the friendly look of a dog who hopes for a pat. Parkhurst stood with his back to the door.

Wishing there were some way to cushion or delay the blow, Susan spoke matter-of-factly. “As I mentioned, Mr. Ingram, we're conducting an investigation. Do you have a daughter named Lynnelle Hames?”

Ingram nodded and a wariness came into his eyes. He wasn't stupid; despite the flatness of her voice, he'd picked up on the sharper focus and was worried that something ugly was slithering around under the surface, something he probably didn't want to see.

“Would you happen to have a picture?”

Ingram looked at her, then reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wallet. He isolated a photo and handed it to her. It was two or three years old; Lynnelle, hair longer, stared defiantly at the camera with her mouth set tight, an anxious look in her eyes.

Ingram took it back and studied it closely, as though something about it puzzled him, then he tucked it carefully away. Finally, he said, “What is this all about?”

“Mr. Ingram,” she said softly. “I'm afraid I have some very bad news.” In flat slow words, she told him his daughter had been a victim of homicide.

“That's not possible.” His pale hands, seemingly of their own volition, reached for the binoculars and cradled them in his lap. His head hunched down into his shoulders, his eyes slid from her to Parkhurst and then back to her, and finally down at his white pudgy fingers clutching the binoculars as though they were the only thing he had to hang onto.

“We'll need you to make a positive identification.”

“You're telling me she's dead?” He stumbled on the last word, leaned his head against the chair back and closed his eyes. His breathing was so fast, she was concerned he might faint.

“Mr. Ingram, are you all right? Would you like a glass of water?”

He looked at her, eyes glistening. “Where is she?”

“At the pathologist's. Brookvale Hospital.”

“You'll take me to her?”

“Do you feel up to it? Would you like us to call someone, a relative, friend?”

He stood up, moved to the bed, slowly put on his suitcoat, got a brown overcoat from the closet and just as slowly put that on. He simply stood there while she phoned Brookvale to alert the path department of their coming.

He was too pale. She shot a worried look at Parkhurst, who guided Ingram from the hotel and into the Bronco. He didn't ask any questions while they drove to the hospital and she let the silence hang in the air. Give him this brief respite; he'd need strength for the ordeal ahead.

A young lab tech held open the swinging doors for them. Ingram hesitated. She understood. When he went through the doors, she followed, Parkhurst behind her and the tech allowed the doors to swing shut.

A gurney with a sheet-draped form stood by the stainless steel table in the empty room. The tech scooted around them, reached for the sheet at the head of the gurney, looked at Ingram, then at Susan. She nodded. He folded the sheet away from Lynnelle's still gray face.

Ingram choked on a breath, clenched his white hands and seemed to sway. Quickly, Parkhurst was beside him, took his elbow and led him into a small waiting room off the hallway.

Ingram slumped on the black vinyl couch, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. Parkhurst went off to get him a cup of coffee, she sat in a chair at his right. For several minutes, she waited for Ingram to gain control. At last, he took a handkerchief from his pocket, rubbed at his face and blew his nose.

Parkhurst returned with the coffee and placed it on the table near the couch, then stood just inside the doorway.

“Mr. Ingram,” she said quietly. “Is there anything we can do? Are you sure there isn't someone we can call?”

“It's the shock. To see her like that—”

“Do you feel up to answering a few questions?” She waited while he straightened his suitcoat and took a sip of coffee. “Lynnelle was using the name Hames. Is it a married name?”

A second or two passed before he responded. “Stepdaughter. Lynnelle was my stepdaughter. I married her mother. Rose. Lynnelle was thirteen and then she became Ingram. But after high school when she left home— She wanted to be on her own. Young girls do,” he said earnestly. “And then she—she wanted to go back to Hames.”

“Why?”

He took a breath and exhaled slowly. “When I married her mother, Lynnelle wasn't— She resented me taking her father's place. Only natural. And then we made her use Ingram. I thought at the time it was a mistake, we shouldn't force her. But Rose wanted it, wanted us to be a family. What does it matter now? Why are you asking me all these questions? Why aren't you finding out who killed her?”

“It's helpful to know the background.”

“How old was Lynnelle when Mrs. Hames adopted her?” Parkhurst asked.

Ingram looked at Parkhurst as though surprised he was still there. “She was just a baby. Rose never told her she was adopted. Lynnelle only found out after Rose died, when she was going through her mother's things. On top of her grief, she suddenly learned Rose wasn't her real mother. She was hysterical, crying that she didn't know who she was and everybody lied to her. I tried to comfort her but she—”

His voice caught and he bent his head. “I tried to help her. She's my daughter. I love her.”

“What can you tell us about the adoption?”

“Such a pretty little girl,” he said so softly she had to lean forward to hear him. “Quiet and sweet.”

“The adoption, Mr. Ingram.”

“Nothing. I don't believe even Rose knew. She was so delighted to have a baby, she didn't want to know. I think back in her mind, she was afraid Lynnelle wouldn't love her as much. I told her, Lynnelle, I told her I'd help. We could find her mother. But she—she wouldn't. She didn't want my help.”

Gently, but relentlessly, Susan worked at getting information. Who were Lynnelle's friends, what did she like to do, did she have a boyfriend, did she mention any problems, any trouble with anyone, talk about her job, was she worried or anxious. Ingram, in a bewildered and confused manner, tried to answer, but it was clear he didn't really know much about his stepdaughter.

“When did you last see her, Mr. Ingram?”

He waited a moment as though it took some time for the question to reach him. “On Saturday. I saw her on Saturday.”

The day Lynnelle was killed. “What time was that?”

“Around seven-thirty, I believe,” he said slowly. “I went to her house, but she was going out somewhere, to see someone.”

“Who?”

He just shook his head.

Dr. Egersund, Susan thought. “Since you were here on Saturday, Mr. Ingram, why are you back today?”

“I wanted her to come home where she belongs.”

“She didn't want to go home?” Parkhurst asked.

Ingram rubbed his forehead, then pressed a thumb and fingers against his eyelids. Susan got the impression the question made him cautious. “She was upset, confused.”

“You know a Dr. Kalazar?” Parkhurst's voice sounded harsh after Susan's quiet questions.

“I can't say that I do.”

“No? You have an appointment with her.”

Ingram nodded. “But I have yet to meet her. I've only spoken with her on the phone.”

“Why did you want to see her?”

“I fail to see why the police are interested in my appointment with Dr. Kalazar.”

Parkhurst put on his polite face of patient waiting.

Ingram blinked twice, paused, then blinked again, as though getting his thoughts together. “I wanted to explain about Lynnelle. She wasn't well. I felt Dr. Kalazar should know.”

Parkhurst's expression changed from polite to suspicious. “Why?”

“In case Lynnelle said something that might be misunderstood.”

“Like what?”

“I felt if I explained, Dr. Kalazar would agree Lynnelle shouldn't be working there.”

“You wanted Lynnelle fired?”

“I only wanted what was best for her.” Ingram pushed himself up from the couch. “I don't believe I can answer any more questions.”

“Of course,” Susan said.

When they got back to the hotel, Susan asked him, “Will you be staying for a while, Mr. Ingram?”

He looked at her and said vaguely, “I want to take her home. I'll bury her next to her mother.”

After seeing Ingram safely inside, Parkhurst headed the Bronco back to the travel agency, where she'd left the pickup, and she glanced through her notes. Confirmation Lynnelle was adopted. Egersund had some more questions to answer.

“Well,” she said to Parkhurst.

For a second he seemed startled, dark eyes suddenly wary. A little buzz of confusion broke up her thoughts. She looked away and fumbled for a cigarette. What did he think I was going to say? She sneaked a glance at him. If he didn't loosen his hands on the steering wheel, he was going to permanently lose all circulation.

What was the matter with him anyway? They'd finally arrived at a working relationship and now this. Goddamn it. She counted on him for clarifying her thoughts. Whatever he was stewing over, she wished he'd get it resolved. Put your personal life in order or leave it at home. “What did you think of Ingram?”

He grunted. “Lynnelle didn't want anything to do with him, told him to leave her alone. All this because she discovered she was adopted? Or was there something more in there?”

“He loved her.”

“All kinds of things are done in the name of love.”

“You suggesting he might have killed her?”

Parkhurst shrugged. “He tracked her down, said come live with me and be my child. She said get lost stepdaddy, I never liked you anyway. He could have gotten mad, hit her and drowned her in the creek.”

“Why come back?”

“Find out if we were on his trail, realized people knew he'd been here and he'd better work up a good story. The appointment with Kalazar. Hell, come to take darling stepdaughter home in a box since she wouldn't go any other way.”

He angled the Bronco in beside the pickup. It was three-thirty and she'd not yet gotten around to lunch. She started to suggest they stop somewhere for a sandwich, then changed her mind. She didn't want to put any more strain on the delicate balance between them. She stopped at a fast-food restaurant, ordered a cheeseburger and Coke and took them back to the pickup.

*   *   *

After two already, Sophie thought. Day's getting on. And those hard-boiled eggs she'd snacked on didn't take her very far. Parking the white Chevy at the edge of the park, she poked through the red and gold tapestry bag on the seat beside her. Cold enough, should keep people away. They scared the cat and she couldn't catch him even with dried liver treats.

Bag over her arm and black coat buttoned, she stumped toward the park, muttering to herself. Two women about to enter stepped out of her way, stared at her and decided to go someplace else. She darted across dead grass, skirted the pond and crept toward the shrubbery behind the band shell. The gray cat sometimes sheltered there. She'd been trying to capture him for weeks. Scared, he was, poor thing, ribs all sticking out. Must have been on his own a long time. At least, he was eating the food she left.

Squatting, she parted branches and peered into the thicket. There he was, huddled deep inside. She shook dried liver into a palm, held it out and crooned, “Hello, lovey. Yes, now. Food. Try a little. Just a little. So good.”

As she murmured reassuringly, she crept closer. The cat inched backwards, watching her unwaveringly. He was so hungry, she thought sure he'd overcome his fear and try for the bait. Then she'd grab him.

Almost there. He was wary, but he stopped edging away. Just another two feet. Suddenly, he flattened and then was gone in a flash.

“Bah,” she breathed and laboriously turned herself around to see what had frightened him. A boy stood in the shadow of the band shell, hands in the pockets of a blue letter jacket, gaze sweeping the park.

She squinted at him through the branches. Student. Bah. Ordinarily, she didn't pay much attention to students—they came and went, seemed faster all the time, and always stayed the same age—and they had a nasty habit of getting cats and then abandoning them when they left. She knew this one though. That Nick Julie Kalazar was so taken with. Why didn't he move on? The cat would never come back while he was there.

Cramps began to seize her legs and she shifted. Now, this is just ridiculous. She was starting to work her way out of the shrubbery when another boy in a gray sweatshirt jogged up to him. Why weren't they in classes? None of this wandering around when she was in school. Sat at a desk and paid attention.

They spoke to each other, but she was too far away to hear what they said. Nick took a small package from his pocket and the other boy took something from the pouch of his sweatshirt. They exchanged and set off in opposite directions.

At least they didn't hang around. Maybe the cat will come back. She waited. “Getting stiff as an old pump handle.”

She thrashed her way out, then stood and rubbed one knee. Being old was exhausting. She clomped off around the band shell. One other spot the cat liked, beyond the pond. She couldn't find him there either. “Now, that's just too bad.” She tucked away the dried liver and went back to her car.

Clouds like a thin layer of grimy cotton covered the sky as she drove out of town and into the country, all set for home. A gray cat popped out of the ditch on her left and streaked across the road in front of her. Stomping on the brakes, she watched with a sigh of relief as the cat skimmed down the opposite ditch, leaped up the other side and picked its way daintily through the empty field toward a grove of trees.