Authors: Mica Stone
F
ORTY
-F
OUR
Friday, 11:30 p.m.
In bed that night, Miriam couldn’t stop thinking about Gina and Jeff Gardner. Their marriage. Their children. Gina’s background, which Jeff said he knew nothing about.
She punched up her three pillows against the headboard, then held the sheet beneath her chin and watched the blades of her ceiling fan twirl.
The secret to solving this case had to be there somewhere. Miriam was sure of it. Gina had been the oldest. The first to get away from Dorothy Lacey. The first to be murdered. She’d stayed in touch with Autumn and Franklin.
Odds were, she’d stayed in touch with the other two as well.
Had Gina been the one to nurture the relationships? Had she initiated contact years after leaving the Lacey home? Or had the five stayed close all along? Exchanging phone numbers and mailing addresses as soon as they’d settled into their new lives away from the hell they’d known as kids?
Because one thing Miriam didn’t doubt for a minute: Gina, Franklin, Autumn, Darius, and Carolyn had not grown up in circumstances she would wish on anyone.
No. She hadn’t known the three victims before their deaths. But she had met Dorothy Lacey. She’d looked into the woman’s clear-as-a-bell eyes and listened to her rant about the children she’d fostered being worthless. And as much as she didn’t trust him, she’d talked to Edward Lacey, too.
Gordon Hollis hadn’t revealed much of anything new, but adding what the two men had told her to her intuition about their mother, and the victims’ holding close the details of their past: Gina not sharing with Jeff. Franklin not sharing with Alex. Autumn having no one to share with . . .
Miriam knew she was right. Those five had suffered horribly in their foster home.
Shuddering, she reached for her Kindle on her bedside table but picked up the folder holding her copy of Gina’s diary instead. Wondering if she would finish reading it before the case was solved, she turned to the page near the beginning, where she’d left her business card as a bookmark, and began to read.
Could I be any more exhausted? If not for running Bongo every morning, I wouldn’t have any energy at all. Next time around, I will not be having children in my forties. Nice job, birth control. Crapping out right before menopause. And Jeff and I had so many travel plans for his retirement.
Getting away. Getting out of here. I don’t know why I didn’t leave Texas when I had the chance. Before Jeff. Before the three little loves of my life. And I do love them. Jeff, too, of course. This just wasn’t the life I wanted.
Me? A suburban soccer mom driving a minivan? Autumn laughed her ass off the first time she saw me in it. I couldn’t blame her. I plan to return the favor when her little one arrives, though I’m honestly so excited for her.
Two entries. Both mentioning Autumn, the one on the diary’s last page naming all four of the fosters, but neither saying a word about Edward or Gordon. Curious, Miriam flipped backward through the photocopied sheets. Nowhere did she see a reference to Sameen, either, though she’d need to read more closely to rule the absence as suspect.
And then she hit a page that she couldn’t look away from.
I
always wondered when Mr. Curry came to Dorothy’s house for a home check if he would whisk us out of there.
The foster agency’s employee assigned to visitation, a job now done by a social worker, had been a Mr. Curry. A little late in the game, since they’d already identified the foster siblings, but he might be able to shed some light on the Lacey family.
Maybe he’d even have an idea of what had happened to the missing Van.
F
ORTY
-F
IVE
Saturday, 11:00 a.m.
At eighty-two, Warren Curry lived alone in the house he’d shared with his wife for fifty-eight years. JoDean had passed at sixty-seven, and it had taken Warren a long time to get back to feeling as if life was worth living. She’d been his one and only love. She’d given him three beautiful children. Sure, they e-mailed. Called sometimes. None of them lived close enough to visit except on holidays.
But it was the children from his past who haunted him . . . they were the ones who’d convinced him to go on. He’d found himself ashamed for thinking he could do anything else when so many of them had suffered without ever having known the love of a parent or spouse like JoDean.
“So, you
do
remember Dorothy Lacey?” Miriam asked after listening to him talk about the past. “And the five children she fostered?”
She and Melvin were seated in Mr. Curry’s small living room. He’d offered to make them coffee or tea. Melvin had done the honors while the elderly man had shared his life story with Miriam.
He made her smile. His voice, his mannerisms; he was so polite. A true gentleman. He also made her think of her dad. She needed to go see him tomorrow. Take him out for breakfast before work if he could get away. She’d even take her mom if she wanted to go. Evelyn Rome would never call her children names.
The house wasn’t so large that Melvin couldn’t hear what was said from the kitchen. But he’d known, as a good partner should, that it was best to let Miriam listen and stew.
“I remember that bunch. Sure. Hard not to,” Warren said, taking the tea mug Melvin handed him with a nod of thanks. “Not often a family with children of their own takes in so many others.”
“Do you know why she did?” Melvin asked, placing Miriam’s cup in front of her on the coffee table as he sat beside her on the couch, the floral cushions faded to a drab lemon-yellow that perfectly matched the drapes. “Is that something you ever talked about with her?”
“Anyone else, I would have said money. But not Dorothy Lacey. She honestly tried to make a difference. She was one of the few that truly seemed to care. And those children needed caring for. Every one of them.” He sipped at his tea, his eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses drifting closed in pleasure. “This is good. Thank you.”
Hmm. “You never saw any abuse in the home?”
“Of the children? By Dorothy?” He shook his head, a vehement denial. “Not at all. They were clean and well fed every time I saw them. And the home was always immaculate. Just neat as a pin. Not once did I find reason for concern.”
Anyone could look clean and well fed yet still be emotionally abused. “Did you talk to the children during your visits?”
“Of course I did.” He leaned to the side in his recliner, placing his teacup on the lamp table’s doily. “Granted, there were five of them, so my time was short with each. But I never sensed any of them were at risk.”
“How often did you stop by?” Melvin asked.
“Not as often as I would’ve liked. I had quite a heavy caseload. Knowing what a good job Dorothy was doing made checking in with her one of my least worrisome tasks.”
Miriam hated to cast shade on the old man’s account, but she couldn’t help but wonder if his checking in had been more than waving as he drove by. Then she recalled what Gina had written in her diary. “You never considered removing any of the children from her care?”
He shook his head again with a frown that said, “Never.”
She thought for a minute, hating that her questions might cause him grief. “Is there anything you can tell us about the family of the oldest girl, Gina?”
“Such as?” he asked, reaching again for his tea.
“Why she was taken from them?” For starters.
His smile was less patronizing than it was understanding. “You’re in law enforcement, Detective. You know about confidentiality.”
She did. In this case, however . . . “I’m very sorry to tell you this, but Gina is dead.”
“Oh,” he said, then again, with more understanding. “Oh. That’s terrible. Is that why you’re here? You’re looking into her death?”
“Her murder. And, yes.”
His skin had blanched at the word
murder
. His eyes had gone wide. Melvin reached over to take his cup from his shaking hands before he spilled it. “Murder. She wasn’t the doctor’s wife . . .” When Miriam nodded, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands.
She looked at Melvin. His expression was blank. He was so good at masking his emotions. But she saw him swallow and knew he was feeling Warren Curry’s pain.
“Her parents, no, her father, was an alcoholic. I can tell you that. Drugs were suspected but never proved. He hurt Gina physically, though not sexually. He hurt her mother, too.”
Physically would also mean emotionally. One didn’t play without the other.
“Thank you, Mr. Curry. I appreciate your help,” Miriam said, getting to her feet.
Warren stood as well. “I’m not sure that I offered any. I always felt awful for the situation Gina and her mother were in.”
Miriam paused. “How so?”
“It was such a political time in Iran, women’s suffrage, the Shah and Khomeini in conflict. Gina’s mother’s activism did not sit well at home. I believe that was the source of much of the abuse.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Curry,” Melvin said, before Miriam had a chance. “I’m not sure I understand the connection.”
The older man looked from Melvin to Miriam and back. “Oh. I thought you knew. Her mother was Iranian.”
F
ORTY
-S
IX
Saturday, 12:25 p.m.
“So. Gina was part Iranian.” Melvin sounded as pleased as if he’d discovered Violet had baked peanut-butter cookies and dropped them off at the station as a surprise.
But that wasn’t what had Miriam’s pulse racing. “Isn’t Sameen a Persian name? And Shahidi?”
“I believe they could be.”
Miriam pulled open her door, unable to stop smiling. Getting even this tiny bit of new information felt so,
so
good. “This wasn’t the waste of time I was afraid it was going to be.”
From behind the wheel, Melvin glanced over. “Because your victim’s diary contradicts his point of view?”
“Because I was afraid he wouldn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know.”
“He told us that Dorothy Lacey tried to make a difference in the lives of five children who had no one else in their corner.” Miriam’s only response was a snort, so he asked, “You don’t believe him?”
“I believe she wouldn’t have had any problem convincing him of that,” she said, fastening her seat belt.
Melvin put the Yukon into gear. “The woman is almost incapable of communicating.”
“Now, maybe. Not then.”
“But you’ve just met her. Your sense of her now is what you’re using to judge her.”
She wasn’t about to admit he was right. “You haven’t read the diary.”
“And what if the diary is a sham? What if what she’s written was falsified? As a cover-up. There was a book where a woman did that. Made into a big movie.”
Really? He was going to burst her bubble over this? “Why would she do that? Gina. Not the movie.”
“I never knew her. I can’t assign her a reason. But my questioning her motives is no different than your questioning Dorothy Lacey’s.”
She blew him a loud raspberry. “You’ve been hanging out with Augie too long. You’re thinking like a priest, not a cop.”
He laughed loudly, a boisterous
ha-ha-ha
. “And that right there is the nicest thing anyone’s said to me today.”
F
ORTY
-S
EVEN
Sunday, 2:00 p.m.
Miriam had completely forgotten about her mother’s birthday party until her sister called that morning, waking her up and asking if they could get together for lunch. Since it had been close to ten, and Miriam hadn’t even had coffee, they agreed to meet midday, once most of the after-church crowd was at home, napping off their potatoes, pot roast, and sermon.
Miriam would’ve preferred not to get together at all. Her mind was as far from family birthdays as it could possibly be, but she’d promised her father, and Esther had asked nicely. Come one forty-five, she was scrambling to find her flip-flops to go with her yoga pants. Yes, yoga pants, but her good ones. She’d been in boots and blazers all week. Her body needed air.
And really, so did her mind. One could only deal with dead bodies for so many days in a row without hitting a wall. Her subconscious never stopped working the case, but there were times a change of scenery was just the ticket. A fresh eye and all that. She rarely returned to work without new ideas after something as benign as a lunch break.
They met for lunch at the Olive Garden because Esther had no imagination and Miriam didn’t want to argue. It wasn’t that she disliked the food, but unlimited bread sticks in the middle of the day did not bode well for the afternoon’s brain function. At least she didn’t compound the problem with pasta. She stuck to the salad instead.
Esther, on the other hand . . . since Miriam would be the one paying, as always, Esther didn’t show even a pretense of restraint. Which meant Miriam didn’t feel bad snitching grilled-chicken strips out of her sister’s big bowl of Alfredo, though Esther didn’t share the rationalization.
“You could’ve ordered if you wanted to eat. You said you weren’t hungry.”
“I’m good with the salad. I just wanted a bite of protein.” She forked up a bunch of lettuce and tomato and shoved it into her mouth, chewing through most of it before saying, “I can’t stay long. I’ve got to go into work.” It wasn’t a lie, though neither was it exactly the truth. Sunday
was
her day off. But serial-murder cases trumped downtime.
“Yeah, I figured.” Esther lifted her napkin from her lap and blotted it over her mouth. Today she had on white cotton capris, strappy gold sandals, and a fuchsia linen tank with the same chunky jewelry their mother had worn at Little Lori’s party. As in the very same.
Miriam gestured toward the bracelet. “You raiding Mom’s jewelry closet again?”
Esther twisted her wrist, her chin-length hair swinging forward as she admired the bauble. Her hair was newly cut and colored, too. Not a strand of gray to be seen. Just a lighter caramel brown than usual. “She had it in a box to go to Goodwill. I don’t see why I shouldn’t get some of her charity.”
Right. Because their mother didn’t already lavish Esther—and Erik—with every fashionable thing she thought would help her children appear successful. Her children who cared about such things as fashion. Which left Miriam out.
“So, the party?” she asked, reaching for her iced tea. Glassware and flatware clinked all around them, like triangles above a chorus of voices. If she were still in bed, there would be no noise. Well, maybe Thierry brewing coffee before he headed out for a run.
“Thanks for making time for this.” Esther reached for her wine and sat back. “I’m sure we can knock out the planning in what remains of the sixty minutes you have to spare.”
And what was a meal without snark?
“What kind of help do you need?”
“None, really. I mean, shit.” She reached for another bread stick and waved it. Miriam almost expected her to dunk it in her wine. “The party’s Saturday night. I would’ve asked before now if I couldn’t handle it. I only called because Dad told me you wanted to be involved.”
“Ah.” The man could not keep his nose where it belonged. But what a cute nose it was. “This would be the same Dad who told me you
needed
me to be involved.”
Esther tossed her bread on top of her Alfredo and set down her wine. “Maybe one of these days he’ll get the message that we’re able to do things on our own.”
That had Miriam smirking, even while lacking the energy for family drama today—at least the type of drama that embroiled the Romes. It all seemed so petty, so shallow. The coordinating of outfits so as not to clash, the money spent on another year of being alive . . .
“I’m not sure that’s the message he’ll get.”
“Why do you say that?” Esther asked, forking up a bite of her food.
Oh, why not?
“Because you and Erik have never learned to think for yourselves. You let Mom make all your decisions. I’ll bet she ends up changing the party plans to suit herself.”
“Seriously?” Her brown eyes narrowed, Esther stirred the air with her fork. “You think I can’t throw a party for my mother?”
Miriam tried not to laugh. “You weren’t even the one who threw a party for your daughter.”
“Mom wanted to do it,” Esther said, her defensiveness turned up high. “And you’re wrong about me and Erik. You don’t know anything about us. You were the baby. You had everything easy.”
There weren’t enough bread sticks in the world for this conversation. “Define ‘easy.’”
“Okay. You went from high school to college to your postgrad work to the police academy. You hardly worked at all before the HPD hired you. Mom and Dad paid for almost everything.”
Oh, how wrong her sister was. “I may have lived at home, but they paid for very little. I worked part-time. I had grants and scholarships and loans, some of which I’m still paying back.”
“You didn’t have rent. You ate their food. You used their electricity.” She ticked off the offenses as if keeping score, which obviously she’d been doing for a very long time. “You got yours then. Erik and I are getting ours now.” She punctuated her observation with a shrug.
“I’ll remind you of this conversation when your kids start lining up at your door. Where are they, anyway?” Miriam asked, stabbing at an olive in her salad that would not obey. “At home? You get a sitter?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes. They’re at home.” She finished off her wine and signaled to their server for a refill. “And no. I did not get a sitter. Haley’s fifteen, Miriam. Not that I expect you to remember that, as busy as you are with Erik’s boys.”
Where the hell had that come from? “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He tells me about you taking Haven to Chuck E. Cheese’s.”
On that count, she was guilty as charged. “I don’t get to see him very often.”
“You don’t ever see my kids,” Esther said, pouting now, her bottom lip quivering on cue. “You don’t ever take Gavin to Chuck E. Cheese’s.”
And . . . gauntlet thrown.
“Last time I picked up Haven, we stopped by to see if Gavin could come with us. Gavin wasn’t home. He was with his father for the weekend. Haley said she didn’t know where you were. You’d left with some guy the night before, and you weren’t back yet. Except right about that time, said guy came down the stairs buttoning up his shirt. I guess Haley didn’t tell you that.”
Esther toyed with her pasta, her cheeks coloring. “So I went out.”
“No, Esther. You brought home a man who spent the night without even telling your fifteen-year-old daughter you were back. And safe. You should’ve seen her face when she realized you’d been there the whole time. And that you hadn’t bothered to let her know. Not a note in the kitchen or anything.” Miriam leaned closer. “Not a single fucking word.”
“Oh, please. Don’t be getting all high and mighty. What do you even know about relationships? When have you ever had a real one? The doctor. The cop. And didn’t that one decide he’d rather be a priest than your partner?”
Miriam reached for her iced tea, smoke about to come out of her ears, then couldn’t help herself and whipped her hand across the table, toppling Esther’s wineglass into her lap. Esther screamed and jumped up, knocking her chair into the diner behind her. That woman screamed, too. Their server rushed over, the manager on his heels.
“Look what you’ve done!” Esther yelled, wiping at her thighs with her napkin as a flurry of cleanup activity and apologies commenced. “You’ve ruined my capris!”
Digging into her crossbody for cash to cover the meal and the clothes, Miriam got to her feet. Then she muttered, “Screw it,” and tossed down her emergency stash of two $100 bills. “Let me know if that covers my portion of the
help
for the party.”
She spun away without waiting for a response, but not before hearing the manager ask Esther, “Ma’am? Would you like us to call the police?”
And Esther’s disgusted reply: “She
is
the police.”