“There’s another way in here,” Leslie said. “I realized—as we found the coffins—that I was here when I was supposedly knocked out by the falling ceiling.”
“All right.”
They began a search together. Nothing. No secret door. At least, none that the ages would still allow them to find.
Nikki set an arm around Leslie’s shoulders. “We did find Mary,” she said.
Leslie sighed. It was true. Now all she had to do was convince Laymon that the bones in the crypt needed to be disinterred so those of the woman they had discovered in what would have been the churchyard could be carefully buried with those of her child.
“Mary?” she called softly. “Mary, I need your help. Is there another way in here? Please, Mary, I need to know.”
One moment the child was nowhere to be seen and the next she appeared. But just as she did, there were loud noises from above. Laymon was returning.
Mary faded away, but just before she disappeared, it looked to Leslie as if a look of pure panic crossed the little girl’s face.
Because of Laymon’s interruption? Or because of Brad, who was right behind him?
17
“She’s your child, isn’t she, Eileen?”
Eileen Brideswell stared back at Joe for a long minute, her features giving away nothing. Then she lowered her head. He saw the tear she wasn’t able to catch land on the hard wood of the table.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Eileen looked up, quickly wiping her eyes. “Yes. You don’t understand. When I got pregnant…We were society. I couldn’t marry her father. He was an immigrant, a bricklayer. In fact—” she looked sad again “—he died in an accident on the job before he ever knew about Genevieve. Back then…I was afraid that the stigma of her birth would follow her throughout her life. My brother and his wife wanted a child so badly…I was pressured by my parents…I had to give her up, and by letting Donald raise her, I at least got to be her aunt. I was supposed to marry well, and my marriage did turn out to be a good one. I don’t expect you to understand…and I…I don’t have to explain myself to you. Your job is to find Genevieve.”
He’d learned over the years that defensive people could become angry and hostile. Still, he’d wanted—needed—the truth. From her own lips.
“Eileen, I’m not judging you. Not in any way. It’s just that to find her, I needed the truth. I believe you’re right—Genevieve wouldn’t have disappeared without a word to you. I also believe she’s alive.” She was staring at him with wide, pain-racked eyes. He set a hand on hers. “I think we’re close.” He pulled out a manila envelope from his briefcase, producing a number of pictures, but not the one of Betty, Genevieve and Brad. He had found newspaper photos of the men who might have been involved in the case. “I need you tell me how well you know each of these men, and how well you think Genevieve might have known them.”
She looked at him, startled when he showed her the first. “Well, that’s Robert Adair, of course. I know him very well. And through her line of work, and through the family, Genevieve knew him well, too, of course. You’re not suggesting that—”
“I’m not suggesting anything at the moment.” He produced his second photo.
She stared across the table at him. “Ken Dryer. Everyone in the city knows him. He’s on television every time anything happens and the police need to talk to the people of New York about it.” She leaned back. “He’s good at his job. He calms people down. He’s not a personal friend, but I’ve met him. And Genevieve must have met him, too. He spoke at the opening of a day care center that was a pet project of hers.”
“Here,” he said, handing her the next.
Eileen stared at him, nodding. “Professor Laymon. Of course I know him. Greta is a dear friend, and I’ve been involved with the Historical Society forever. You know that.”
“What about Genevieve?”
“I…I don’t know. I know she was fascinated with Hastings House. As I told you, I knew too late that she’d wanted to attend the gala. If only I’d known…but maybe it’s good that she didn’t go. She might have been…although maybe that would have been better than…”
He gave her a moment to pull herself together, then showed her the next picture.
“Hank Smith,” she said. “Yes, I know him and so did she. She wanted his company to start building affordable housing, rather than luxury highrises. She wanted to change the world.”
Last, he produced the picture of Brad. Eileen looked at him. “That’s Brad Verdun. Of course she knew Brad.”
“Of course?”
“She met him when he was working on Hastings House.”
“Oh?”