“Because they weren’t dead. They’re alive in these pictures. They’re”—air quotes—“taken because she gave ’em away. She put them in an orphanage or in foster care, or sent them to an adoption agency. They were taken by a social worker.”
“People had to know she was pregnant,” I said. “You can hide one bump under a big coat, but with twins in there? She’d have been huge.”
“Maybe the state took them away,” said Hennessy. “Maybe someone reported she was loony tunes.”
“But who’d rather say, ‘My babies died,’ instead of ‘I couldn’t take care of them’?”
“Anna Lavoie, sociopath, maybe,” said Dolan.
“I say they’re asleep,” said Hennessy.
“Me, too, one hundred percent,” said Oskowski.
I asked for another look. “Too bad the photos aren’t in color so we can see if their little faces are pink,” I said.
“Pink?” said Detective Dolan. “Look again.”
“Café au lait is more like it,” said Hennessy.
“They were born in 1956,” said Oskowski. “Big scandal—raising babies who’d be walking advertisements for your affair—”
“With a black man who wasn’t your husband,” Hennessy said.
“They’re starting to look more like they’re sleeping than dead,” I said.
Officer Oskowski said, “See that? On this one the nostrils are dilated as if taking a breath. And that’s a little drool. Car cribs and snowsuits? These babies were going somewhere.”
“You didn’t notice that they looked a little . . . dusky?” Dolan asked me.
“I had a hard time looking at them at all. I thought—well, you know . . . death makes you a little bluish.”
“And by the way?” said Dolan. “It’s not against the law to give your children up for adoption.”
“As long as you didn’t murder them first,” I said.
“They’re probably out there somewhere,” said Hennessy.
“Needle in a haystack,” said Dolan.
“Do you know any biracial twins? Half something? Around sixty years old?” I asked.
The two men laughed, and Oskowski translated: “Flattering that you think we know the entire population of Everton.”
“Besides,” said Hennessy. “They’d stand out like bumps on a log in this town. You can bet she had them adopted several towns away.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice to know they were put up for adoption and they went to a happy home and had a nice life—”
“Forget it, Pollyanna,” said Dolan. “You don’t go churning something like this up. Even if you found one of these twins, she’d probably know nothing. She may not even know she was adopted or had a twin. Or a white mother. And doesn’t the fact there were no recorded deaths tell the tale?”
“I wasn’t going to put up a billboard. I was just thinking that social media could help. I do know their date of birth.”
“No offense,” said Hennessy, “but it’s none of your business.”
“Let’s say you got lucky on Facebook”—and with that, Dolan discharged a disdainful ha! “What then? Go after a court-ordered DNA test? It’s a nonstarter. Forget about it, Nancy Drew.”
“I wouldn’t take it that far. I’m not going to fly to Maui to get a DNA sample from the daughter. Or exhume Mrs. Lavoie’s body—”
“Exhume?” he repeated. “Did you say exhume?”
What had I missed? Weren’t we discussing Mrs. Lavoie, presumptive mother of unaccounted-for twins? “Mrs. Lavoie,” I said. “Anna Lavoie? The deceased multiwidowed possible felon?”
Detective Dolan was now the one who looked perplexed. He said, “Anna Lavoie is in a semiprivate room at ManorCare. Why would we be investigating the possible murders of a dead woman’s husbands unless the suspected killer was alive?”
Off balance, groping for anything, I said, “Because . . . I don’t know . . . you leave no stone unturned?”
“On TV, maybe. A rumpled retired cop who rights wrongs just for fun?”
“She didn’t die here? Upstairs in my guest room?” I whispered. “She didn’t die at all?”
“She’s in and out of it. Faking the non compos mentis is what I think,” said Dolan.
“Her roommate backs that up,” said Hennessy. “They play canasta most afternoons.”
“You’ve been visiting Mrs. Lavoie? Talking to her?” I asked.
“Trying to.”
“How old is she now?” I managed.
“Ninety? Ninety-one maybe. She lies about that.”
“Can you arrest a ninety-one-year-old?” I asked Detective Dolan.
He snapped his fingers. “Like that,” he said.
37
I Waste No Time Getting Over There
THE PLACE WAS ONE STORY, neither sprawling nor appealing. A floor plan was framed in the lobby, an arrow pointing to an area designated SIGN IN.
“I’m here to see Mrs. Anna Lavoie,” I told the woman—Jacqui, according to her name tag—who was dressed in pink scrubs patterned with shooting stars. I wrote my name on the sign-in sheet, and in the column labeled RELATIONSHIP I wrote Buyer.
“Room 111-B, the side closest to the window.” She checked a chart, and said, “She should be back there in a few minutes. Beauty shop this morning.”
“How is she?” I asked.
“We’re not allowed . . . HIPAA laws.”
“Can you say just something like . . . ‘She can carry on a conversation’ or ‘She understands what’s going on’?”
“Both. Believe me.”
The door to 111 was open, but I knocked on the frame anyway. No one yelled permission to enter, so I did so on my own. The television was on, The Price Is Right, loud. A woman with only a few strands of white hair arranged over her otherwise bald head was watching from the closest bed.
I said, “Hello? Excuse me? Mrs. Lavoie?”
“She’s over there.” The woman gestured toward the empty half of the room. “You can sit.”
I didn’t immediately; I said I was told she’d be back soon, asked her how long she’d shared a room with Mrs. Lavoie.
“Since I got here.”
“Months? Weeks?”
“Six weeks. A couple of broken bones in my foot. And the emphysema.”
“Can I ask you a question about Mrs. Lavoie?”
“Are you a social worker?”
“No. Just, um . . . director of Stewardship . . . Is she, what’s the right term . . . with it?”
“You mean does she have all her marbles? Most of the time.”
I introduced myself, learned her name was Ruthie, and asked, “Is she a nice roommate? Or does she strike you as someone who’d hurt people when she was out in the world?”