“You already asked me that. At my house. I told you. I’ve never heard of her.”
“Could you have met her, but not known that was her name?” It wasn’t like I had a picture of the woman I could show Marla, so the question was kind of pointless. And even if I’d had a picture, it wouldn’t have done much good. So Marla’s answer was not surprising.
“I don’t think so. I don’t go out all that much.”
“Have you ever been here?” I asked. “To this house?”
Marla raised her head and studied the house for a moment. “I don’t think so. But it’s a very nice house. I’d like to have a house like this. It’s so big, and my house is so small. I’d love to go inside and look around.”
“Not now, you wouldn’t,” I said.
“Oh, yeah,” she said.
“So you’re telling me you didn’t come to this house, yesterday or maybe the day before, for Matthew? You didn’t find him here?”
“I already told you how he came to me,” she said tiredly. “Don’t you believe my story?”
“Sure,” I said. “Of course I do.”
“It doesn’t sound like it.”
I happened to glance down the street, which had been taped off in both directions. A woman lifted up the police tape, ducked under, and strode purposefully toward us. When an officer attempted to stop her she brushed him aside.
“It’s your mom,” I said to Marla, and I felt her stiffen in my arms.
“I don’t want to talk to her,” she said. “She’ll just be mad.”
“She can help you,” I said. “She knows people. Good lawyers, for one.”
Marla looked at me with sad wonder. “Why would I need a lawyer? Am I in some kind of trouble?”
“Marla!” Agnes said. “Marla!”
Marla pulled away from me and turned to face my approaching aunt. Agnes took her into her arms, gave her a three-second hug, barely giving her daughter enough time to respond in kind. Then Agnes looked at me sharply and said, “What’s going on here?”
Marla said, “It’s all . . . it’s kind of hard to explain, Mom, but—”
“That’s why I’m asking your cousin,” Agnes said, her eyes still fixed on me.
My mouth was dry. I licked my lips and said, “I dropped in on Marla. She was looking after a baby. An address on a piece of mail tucked into the stroller led me here. The husband had been away on business, showed up at the same time; we went in, found his wife.” I paused. “She’s dead.”
Agnes’s face fell.
“And there’s something about a nanny they had. Mr. Gaynor, he was asking about someone named Sarita. I got the idea he was expecting she’d be at the house, but she wasn’t.”
“Good God,” Agnes said. “Who are these people? Who’s the woman, the one who was killed?”
“Rosemary Gaynor,” I said.
Agnes abruptly turned away from me, looked at the house, as if by staring at it hard enough she could make it provide some answers. I was given a view of her back for a good ten seconds before she engaged me again.
“The baby?”
“It’s being looked after by the police or the child welfare people, at least for now. Mr. Gaynor’s being interviewed by the cops.”
“His name is Matthew,” Marla said, moving closer to us so she could be part of the conversation.
Agnes was ready now to question her instead of me. “What were you thinking? How did this happen? How did you end up with that baby? Did you learn nothing after what you did at my hospital? Nothing at all?”
“I—”
“I simply can’t believe it. What on earth possessed you? What did you do? Did you grab him at the mall? Had she taken the baby out for a stroll?” She put a hand to her own mouth. “Tell me you didn’t snatch him here, at their house. Tell me you had nothing to do with this.”
Marla’s eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t do anything wrong. He was given to me. Someone came to my door and asked me to look after him.”
“Who?” Agnes snapped. “The mother? This Gaynor woman?”
“I don’t know who she was. She never said.”
“Honestly, Marla, no one in the world is going to believe a story like that.” More to herself than to us, she said, “We’re going to have to come up with something better than that.”
Agnes gave me a look of exasperation. “Have the police talked to her?”
“Briefly,” I said. “They’re trying to sort out the scene, I think, and told us not to leave. There’s a detective here already, and probably a forensics unit, too.”
“She doesn’t say a word, not to anyone,” Agnes said. “Not one word.” She raised a finger to her daughter’s face. “You hear that? You don’t say one thing to the police. If they so much as ask you your birthday, you tell them to talk to your lawyer.”
Agnes rooted through her purse, brought out a phone. She went through her contacts, found a number, and tapped it with her thumb. “Yes, this is Agnes Pickens. Put me through to Natalie. I don’t care if she’s with a client; put her on the phone right this second.”