“I don’t know how to respond to that, Bill.”
“I’m just thinking,” Gaynor said slowly, “that if the woman had died, if there was never going to be a trial, maybe they wouldn’t have to do any autopsy on Rose. They won’t have to . . . they won’t have to do things to her, cut her open. I can’t bear the thought of it. And even if this Marla Pickens woman doesn’t die, if she does go to trial, I mean, for Christ’s sake, it’s obvious what happened to Rose. All you had to do was see her lying there to know. Why the hell do they have to cut her open when it’s so fucking clear what happened?”
“Bill, I’m sorry, but they’ve probably already done that. It’s standard procedure, even in deaths that are pretty straightforward.”
Matthew was pushing the bottle away. He’d had enough for now. Gaynor handed the bottle to Sturgess, placed the child on his shoulder, and lightly patted his back. When Gaynor spoke, he whispered, as if the baby were somehow old enough to understand what he might be saying.
“I’m worried about that,” Gaynor said.
“About the autopsy?”
Gaynor nodded.
“About what it might show,” he said. “What else they might find.”
The doctor studied him. “I think you’re concerning yourself needlessly there.”
“But if they figure out—”
Sturgess held up a cautious hand. “Bill, I think I have an idea what you’re talking about, and you’re taking several leaps here. As you say, the cause of death in your wife’s case is pretty obvious. It’s unlikely anyone’s going to be looking at anything beyond that. I can’t think of any reason why they would.”
“You think?” Gaynor asked, still patting Matthew’s back.
“I do. You worry about your boy, and—”
“When will they release her? I have to plan a funeral and—”
“Why don’t I look into that,” Jack Sturgess said.
Matthew burped.
“Attaboy,” Sturgess said.
TWENTY-SIX
David
DURING dessert, the phone rang. Dad, Ethan, and I were sitting at the kitchen table, finishing up some chocolate ice cream, while Mom stood at the counter rinsing dinner plates. Dad and I had both told her to sit down, that she should stay off her leg, but she wouldn’t listen. When the phone rang she was standing right by it, and grabbed the receiver from its cradle.
I watched her face drain of color while she listened to whoever was on the other end.
“Okay, Gill,” she said. So now we knew who it was, and who it was likely about. “Keep us posted.” Slowly she hung up the phone.
“What is it?” Dad asked.
Mom looked at Ethan, wondering, I guessed, whether to discuss this in front of him. But the kid didn’t miss much, and before we’d sat down to eat he’d asked what was going on with my cousin Marla, so I’d told him. I left out the graphic details, including what I’d witnessed in the Gaynors’ kitchen, but Ethan knew Marla was in big trouble, and that the police probably viewed her as the prime suspect in the death of the mother of the baby I’d found her with.
Although Ethan didn’t say it, I think it may have put into perspective the trouble he was in with regard to the pocket watch.
“It’s okay,” I said to Mom. “I’ve explained things to Ethan.”
Mom took a breath and said, “Marla’s in the hospital.”
“What’s happened?” I asked.
“She . . . Agnes and Gill had taken her back to their house. Marla couldn’t go home. She was left alone in the kitchen for a second and . . .”
“No,” I said.
Mom nodded.
“What?” Ethan said. “What happened?”
I looked at him. “Marla tried to kill herself. Is that right, Mom? Is that what happened?”
She nodded again. “I have to get off my feet.” I shot up out of my chair and pulled hers out for her. Once she was settled in, I sat back down.
“How?” Ethan asked. “Like, with a knife? Did she stab herself? Did she turn on the oven and put her head into it? I saw that on TV once.” He might as well have been asking how birds fly. Pure, simple curiosity.
“Jesus, Ethan,” Dad said. “What a thing to ask.” He looked at Mom and asked, “How did she do it?”
“Her wrist,” Mom said wearily. “She cut her wrist.”
“That’s where all the blood comes out,” Ethan said, in case we didn’t know.
“You know what?” I said to him. “Why don’t you go do something?”
Ethan wiped his mouth with a napkin and dropped it on the table. “Okay.” He knew this wasn’t the time to push it.
Once he’d left the room, Mom asked, and not for the first time today, “What are we going to do?”
Dad said, “There’s not really anything we can do. Makes you wonder, though, if she really did do it. I mean, why the hell else would she try to kill herself?”
“You,” Mom said, looking at me. “You need to help her.”
“What would you have me do, Mom?”