‘Any name?’
‘He said it was Smith, but I’m not inclined to believe him.’
‘I’m shocked, but I don’t doubt your instinct for dissimulation. Why the interest?’
‘I think he may have been keeping tabs on me. Not regularly, just occasionally.’
‘It’s not much to go on.’
‘I’ll talk to Dave Evans. We might get something from the cameras in the bar.’
‘If you do, send me the images and I’ll ask around, but I can’t promise anything. You still snooping for Moxie on the Woman in the Woods?
‘I am. In fact, I’m on my way to do some snooping right now.’
‘If you find out anything, share it with Corriveau.’
‘Done. You have a number for her?’
Walsh gave him Corriveau’s direct line, and her cell phone.
‘How’s Angel doing?’
‘Improving.’
‘That’s good to hear. And the other one?’
‘Still no change in his condition.’
‘That’s less good to hear.’
‘But not unexpected.’
‘No. And remember: Corriveau.’
‘Understood, and thanks.’
‘Doesn’t mean we’re dating again,’ said Walsh, and hung up.
The exterior of the Tender House had not changed a great deal since Parker’s last visit. Its status as a refuge for frightened and abused women was still unadvertised, and only the electronically operated steel gate, and the fact that its high white picket fence was made of metal instead of wood, suggested the two adjoining clapboard buildings might house anything other than another pleasant condo development.
Parker left his car at the curb, and rang the bell on the gatepost. He kept his head up so the cameras over the main door and on a nearby tree could see his face clearly. His arrival was anticipated, but it was still a good thirty seconds before he was admitted. He knew the reason for the delay: while two cameras were watching him, other eyes were monitoring the street for any signs of suspicious activity, just in case a husband or boyfriend with a grudge decided to seize the opportunity offered by an open gate to enter the property and reclaim his chattel. Cars were parked on the street, but all were empty, and any pedestrians were both distant and seemingly occupied with their own concerns. But Parker was careful to walk quickly into the driveway once the gate opened, and he didn’t turn his back on it until the barrier closed safely behind him.
Candy stood waiting for him at the main door. She was wearing her beloved pink bunny slippers, her hair remained slightly unkempt, and her smile had not altered one iota: it signaled unconditional pleasure at Parker’s presence. Candy had Down syndrome, and was the daughter of the original founders of the Tender House, both of whom were now deceased. She continued to live and work on the property, and much of its identity was tied up with her. She was a link to its past, but also a symbol of everything it stood for. Candy, in essence, was tenderness.
‘Charlie Parker,’ she said. ‘What you doing here, my darling?’
And she gathered him to her in an enormous hug, and he held her in turn, closing his eyes briefly against the world.
‘Are you better now?’ she asked.
‘Better for seeing you.’
‘But you got shot.’
‘Yes.’
‘You mustn’t get shot.’
‘That’s good advice. I’ll bear it in mind for the future.’
A woman emerged from the depths of the house. She was big and busty, with a manner that projected both strength and compassion. Her hair was grayer than before, and Parker thought she moved with a certain caution, even weariness, that was new to her. This was Molly Bow; if Candy was the heart of the Tender House, then Molly was its brain, its muscle, its sinew.
‘I wasn’t flirting!’ said Candy, as soon as she became aware of Molly’s presence.
‘Are you sure?’ said Molly.
‘Give me a break,’ said Candy. ‘Charlie Parker’s my friend.’ She turned to Parker for confirmation of this. ‘Right?’
‘Right. And I brought you a gift.’
‘A gift? For me?’
Parker handed over a bag from Treehouse Toys containing a design-your-own-stationery set, including stickers, stars, and glitter. Candy liked making cards for the women and children in the Tender House. She left them on pillows, and slipped them under doors. Her face lit up when she peered into the bag.
‘Thank you,’ said Candy, and hugged Parker again. ‘I must go and make you a card to take home.’
‘I’d like that a lot.’
‘A birthday card.’
‘But it’s not my birthday.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
And Parker decided that perhaps it didn’t. You accepted birthday cards when and where you could.
‘A birthday card it is, then.’
Candy headed into the house. Parker walked up to Bow and embraced her, although he noticed that she kept him at one remove.
‘How are you, Molly?’
‘I’m okay,’ she replied.
‘Just okay?’
‘I got beaten up.’
‘When?’
‘About a month ago.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘We kept it quiet. The police were informed, but we didn’t want to alarm any of the women. How can we expect to make them feel safe if we can’t even look after ourselves?’
‘Who did it?’
‘No idea. He wore a ski mask, so I figure it was some prick whose wife or girlfriend might have passed our way. He caught me as I was coming out of a movie. I should have parked closer to the light. He tried to drag me into the bushes. I think he had a mind to rape me, but he settled for kicking the shit out of me instead.’
‘How bad?’
‘A couple of busted ribs, and a lot of bruises. I managed not to get my nose broken, which is something. I always liked my nose.’
‘That wasn’t what I meant.’
‘I know. Physically, I’m on the mend. Psychologically, that’s another matter. I guess we have that much in common, right? But come on inside. I’ll make you a cup of coffee, and you can tell me what brings you to our door.’
If the facade of the Tender House was unchanged, its interior had undergone considerable renovation. An extension to the back of the main building now offered two rooms that could be used for meetings or therapy sessions, along with a small medical clinic and a new kitchen.
‘We received a bequest,’ Bow explained. ‘Enough to put together all this. We also have a nurse who comes in three times a week, and a therapist for two afternoons.’
She made coffee for both of them, and left Candy behind the main desk working on Parker’s card, with instructions to shout if she needed help. Bow and Parker went into the smaller of the new rooms, leaving the door slightly ajar. They sat opposite each other, a box of tissues on the table between them.
‘So why are you here?’ Bow asked.
‘The woman’s body found up in Piscataquis.’
‘I don’t know much beyond what I’ve seen on television and read in the newspapers. They’re saying it wasn’t a homicide, and she died of complications from childbirth.’
‘Probably postnatal hemorrhaging due to placental abruption, or that’s what’s coming from the M.E. No sign of any other injuries.’
‘And you’re investigating this?’
‘In a way.’
‘On whose behalf?’
‘Moxie Castin’s.’
‘Moxie Castin is a lawyer. So he’s employing you on behalf of a client?’
‘No, it’s all Moxie.’
‘Why?’
‘A Star of David that was carved into a tree by the grave. Moxie’s Jewish. Trying to trace Jane Doe’s child is his service for the dead.’
‘Which means you’re his service for the dead.’
‘Yes.’
‘You seem to spend a lot of time serving the dead.’
‘I serve the living too.’
‘Not so much.’
Parker conceded the point.
‘Could she have been someone with whom you were in contact?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so. I went back through our records following the police appeals. We had a couple of pregnant women pass through here during that time, but the ages don’t match. Do the police think there’s any chance she might be local?’