Authors: Margaret Fenton
Ashley’s apartment was still a wreck. I
folded the blanket on the couch, then draped it over the back. Emptied the
ashtray and cleared the coffee table of wrappers and empty fast-food bags. Took
out the trash. Washed a stack of dishes in the sink and left them to dry in the
rack. Why the heck I was cleaning up after Zander, I had no idea. I just knew
Ashley had been through enough without someone trashing her space. Even though
she wouldn’t see it again for nearly a year. If she found a way to hang on to
it.
When I was finished, I laid the
dishtowel on the counter. Ashley’s room was neat, the bed smooth under a double
wedding-ring quilt. Her clothes hung in the closet, as if she were due home any
minute. I opened the door across the hall from her bedroom.
Michael’s sky blue sheets were unmade,
just as he must have left them the morning he died. The pillow on the
toddler-sized mattress was still indented from his little head. Toys were
scattered all over the floor. Matchbox cars, trains, a plastic dump truck. I
sat on the bed, put my hand in the small hollow in the pillow and talked to him.
After a while I turned off the lights
and locked the door behind me.
Rush hour was winding down, the sun
sinking over west Birmingham. At home, my message light was blinking.
The first call was from some solicitor.
The next was a surprise.
“Miss Conover, this is Alexander
Madison. I understand you met my wife at a function this afternoon. I’d like to
talk to you in person. Tonight, if possible. Please call me back.”
He left a number. An 879 prefix.
Mountain Brook or Homewood. His voice revealed no emotion.
So the first question was how the hell
did he get my number? As a person who took children away for a living, I tended
to piss people off occasionally. Once, I’d even been threatened at gunpoint. I
was overly careful about my privacy for the sake of my own safety. Then it hit
me. Kelsey. Karen had probably called Kelsey at Our Mothers Have Wings and
asked for my number. Kelsey was friendly, but not so bright. And the Madisons
gave a lot of money to her organization. She surely wouldn’t let a little request
like a phone number stand in the way of a generous donation.
I listened to the message again, then
called the number. A teenage-sounding girl answered, and I asked for Alexander
Madison. He came on the line, all business.
“Mr. Madison, this is Claire Conover. I
got your message.”
“Yes, Miss Conover. Thank you for
returning my call. I was hoping we could get together this evening. For
drinks?”
I could have been any of his chaps he
was asking around for a Scotch, instead of the woman who knew his greatest
secret.
“Certainly. Where?”
“How about here? I’d rather not discuss
this in public, as you might imagine.”
Yeah, I could imagine. Still, going to
his house wasn’t my safest option. He continued, “Say, in forty-five minutes?
Would that be convenient?”
I couldn’t think of a decent excuse not
to go. “Fine.”
He gave me directions. Off of Cherokee
Road, near the Country Club in Mountain Brook.
Interesting. Figuring that my current
outfit wouldn’t impress anyone, I changed to business attire, the same pink
suit I’d worn that morning. A little wrinkled, but it would do. Then I picked
up the phone again.
Toby answered after the third ring. We
chatted for a minute until Royanne came on the line.
“Hey, what are you doing?” I asked.
“The kids are making Play-Doh spaghetti,
I’m making the real thing. What are you up to?”
“I’ve just been summoned to Chez
Madison.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding. I saw Karen at a luncheon
today. She knew about Michael.”
“Whoa.”
“Yeah.”
I summarized the earlier events for her,
and the phone call.
“What do you suppose he wants?”
“I don’t know. I wanted you to know
where I was, just in case. Because you know what’s going on.”
“You’re making me nervous.”
“I think I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll call me the second you’re done?”
“Yep.”
“What time are you supposed to meet
him?”
I checked my watch. Six thirty-eight.
“Seven fifteen.”
“If you don’t call me by nine o’clock
I’m gonna ring your cell phone off the hook.”
“Sounds good.”
She warned me to be careful and I left for
the Madison’s. I took Shades Crest Road through Vestavia Hills, passing my
father’s house on the way. His car was gone. I crossed Highway 280 and entered
the city of Mountain Brook.
Mountain Brook was an old town with old
money. A city of Ivy League educations, country club memberships, and last
names with numbers. Women who lived here spent their days playing bridge and
tennis and were commonly known as Brookies. The course of my career had brought
me into these homes, too. Child abusers weren’t limited to one social class.
I found the Madison’s street without
difficulty and turned onto a long, uphill drive. Woods enclosed the property,
and at this time of year all of the neighbors were hidden by the trees. At the
summit of the drive were a large mock-Tudor house and a detached three-car
garage. A crisply edged lawn was being watered by an automatic sprinkler
system. I parked in the circular drive and walked to the walnut-stained front
door, next to which sat a picture-perfect planter of geraniums. I rang the
bell.
I wouldn’t have been surprised if a
butler opened the door. Some stooped old servant with an appropriate butler
name like Jeeves or James. Instead Karen opened the door, in the same white
suit she’d worn earlier, but her eyes were a little more swollen and red.
“Come in,” she said. No other greeting.
I followed her into the house. Lamps
were on here and there since the sun was almost down. Karen led me to a living
room at the rear of the house. Had I seen it in a decorating magazine, I would
have poured over the picture, coveting the antique sideboard and marble-topped
end tables. The sofa, armchairs, and drapes were done in a blend of prints of
apricot and gold, the fabrics lush. I thought about Zander, flopping around and
guffawing on Ashley’s sofa. I doubted anyone had ever done that on this
furniture.
A pocket door sealed the room off from
the rest of the house. Karen closed it behind us. Alexander Madison was
standing at a sideboard when we entered, mixing himself a martini. The crystal
decanters held various liquors that gleamed in the lamplight. He turned when we
entered and held out his free hand.
“Miss Conover. Thank you for coming.”
We shook hands. “You’re welcome.”
“Would you care for a drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“Nothing? A Coke, perhaps?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
The contrived hospitality was driving me
nuts. “What did you want to talk with me about, Mr. Madison?”
“Please, have a seat.”
I sank into one of the armchairs. He and
his wife sat next to each other on the sofa across from me. A united front.
Alexander continued. “I understand you
are aware of our son’s problem.”
“The child he fathered, you mean?”
“That, and his addiction to drugs.”
I nodded.
“As you might imagine, the situation is
quite awkward. I run a substantial corporation, and should the news of his
problem get out, it could do damage. To me, to my employees, and to my family.
Do you understand?”
Cut the supercilious bullshit and get to
the point, I wanted to say. Instead I said, “I understand. What is it you want,
Mr. Madison?”
“I was going to ask you the same question.”
“I want to find out who killed Michael.”
“His mother.”
“She was clean.”
“She had drugs in her home.”
“Maybe they were Zander’s.”
“He says not. And if you repeat that
accusation in public, I’ll sue you for slander.”
The threat rolled off his tongue too
easily. This was the message I was supposed to hear.
“Mr. Madison, I told your wife this afternoon
that I have no intention of telling anyone about Zander’s involvement in this
case. I’m not going to put it in the DHS record, nor am I going to leak it to
the public.”
“And in return?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you want?”
What the hell? Did he think I was trying
to extort money from him? That he’d have to pay for my silence? Through my
incredulity, I sputtered, “Nothing.”
“Nothing at all?”
“No, of course not. Your private lives
are no one’s business. Believe me, I know what it’s like to have your name
dragged through the media. I’m going through it now. I may lose my job. I
wouldn’t wish all this on my worst enemy.”
For the first time since walking in, I
saw Alexander relax. The brow underneath his neatly combed gray hair smoothed,
a tightness around his jaw slacked. Karen had been sitting with her legs
crossed, her fingers laced around her knee. Slowly, the whiteness faded from
her knuckles.
Over their shoulders, I saw the door to
the room move. Just a fraction, enough to catch my eye. I thought I saw a thin,
tan shoulder through the crack. Kaylin, listening in.
“Thank you.” Alexander said. “We’re
trying to get Zander some help. He’s gone to rehab in Arizona. A highly
reputable place. Perhaps they’ll be able to help him.”
I studied Alexander Senior’s tie for a
moment. If I ratted out Zander and he found out about it, he’d never speak to
me again. I weighed the options, wondering who would be the better ally. I
moved my gaze from his perfect half-English knot to his face and said, “Mr.
Madison, Zander’s not in Arizona.”
His brow wrinkled again. “He’s not?”
“Not as of Tuesday. He was at Ashley’s
apartment.”
“He was?”
I’d thrown him a curve ball and he was reeling.
“I’m sorry, he was. That’s how I found out he was Michael’s father. I went to
Ashley’s apartment to see if I could find some clue as to what happened to
Michael. Zander was there. He was high.”
“And he told you he was the child’s
father?”
“No, he didn’t. I guessed. They looked
alike, he and Michael. As a matter of fact, they both resemble — resembled —
Karen.”
Karen’s shoulders began shaking as she
put her hands over her face. Alexander made no move toward her, made no attempt
to comfort her. God, what had having a son like Zander done to these poor
people, to their marriage? Or maybe it was the other way around.
I opened my purse and found a small
notepad and a pen. On a sheet of paper I wrote a name and phone number, then
folded it in half and offered it to Alexander. “This is the name of a local
psychologist. He’s very good. He’s treated a lot of families that are dealing
with addiction. I think he’d be able to help you understand what Zander’s going
through, to help you understand your role in it. Help you set the right
boundaries. He might even have some fresh ideas about how to get Zander to try
to save his own life.”
Alexander took the paper, opened it, and
read it. For the first time since my arrival, I caught the hint of smile. “Dr.
Christopher Conover. No relation, I presume?”
“He’s my father. And he really is very
good.”
“I’ll bet.”
Both of them walked me to the door and
shook my hand before I left, trust instead of suspicion shining in their eyes.
Once on the road, I called Royanne on my cell.
“Was it ugly?”
“At first.”
“What did he want?”
“To warn me not to tell anyone about
Zander.”
“Well, duh.”
“And to see if I was going to hold it
over their heads.”
“Really?”
“Really. But I think it ended well.”
“All right, then.” I heard her yawn.
“I’m glad you’re okay.”
“I’ll call you later.”
My stomach let out a loud grumble. I
dropped into Baker’s and picked up a pepperoni pizza on the way home. My diet,
especially lately, consisted mostly of fat and cholesterol. I admonished myself
and promised to do better. Tomorrow.
Four slices later, I dialed Dad. We
exchanged some news before I said, “A guy named Alexander Madison may call you
soon. I referred him and his wife to you today.”
“Okay.”
He didn’t say any more about it. No
surprise about the well-known name, or questions. I knew even if Alexander and
Karen called him, he’d never tell me. He was sworn, just as I was, to keep our
clients’ information confidential. And we Conovers kept our word.
Chapter Nineteen
My cell phone woke me up the next morning,
its shrill song summoning me from the depths of deep sleep. I rolled over and
grabbed it, hit the talk button, and mumbled something that sounded nothing
like hello.