The guard booth outside Goodfellowe House was empty. Sutton must’ve taken off for the day. Before showing me in, Roland whispered an anxious question:
“Did you get to see her?”
“Yes,” I whispered back. “We can talk about it later.”
He wanted to say more but we were at the open parlor door by then and Mrs. Goodfellowe could see us. Roland led me in, announced me, then left, closing the door behind him. Mrs. Goodfellowe sat, as before, in her wheelchair before a roaring fire. The room was suffocatingly hot, but she was wrapped tightly in a thick woolen shawl.
“Well,” she said, “looking me up and down. To what do I owe the pleasure—again?”
“I’m here about a Mr. Carter, Mr. Tillman Carter—”
“Him!” She rolled her eyes. “But why in the world would you ask about him? I thought you were working on Esther’s case.”
“I believe Mr. Carter uncovered information that might be relevant. —”
“You’re mistaken.”
“Perhaps. But could you tell me what he wanted to see you about?”
“I could. But I won’t. It seems to me you’re on a fishing expedition. Nosing about in affairs that don’t concern you.”
“I know that Mr. Carter was very interested in your second husband, and that he wanted to see photos of his remains. Do you know why? Did he tell you?”
“No, he didn’t. But it’s really no business of yours.”
“Did Mr. Carter ask whether you’d met Bobby Kelly or seen him around your husband?”
Her lips pressed together. “How dare you mention that name, that—”
“Mr. Carter’s dead, by the way. Shot to death in your husband’s hometown.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but––“
“Did you know that he told Kelly’s sister he thought Kelly was innocent?”
“I know no such thing. It’s no—”
“Don’t you want to know why Mr. Carter said that? Aren’t you curious as to why he wanted to see the postmortem photos?”
“He was—his questions were unacceptable.”
“I’ll tell you what I think he suspected—and what I now suspect, too: that the dead man wasn’t your husband. It was Kelly.”
“You’re crazy,” she whispered.
What little color she had drained from her cheeks. Her face looked like a death mask, hollowed and ill. I had to steel my heart against feeling sorry for her.
“The killer obliterated his victim’s face. Why?”
“Anger,” she said, her voice shaking. “Anger and jealousy. Eric once told me how Bobby envied him.”
“The photos show that Powell had a smooth chin; Kelly had a dimpled one—”
“Ridiculous.”
“Your husband killed his friend and switched identities. And he did it to create an alibi.”
“A what? What for?”
“To cover his part in the heist.”
Her lips parted in shock. “No! Oh, no, you won’t. You are not going write that. I won’t let you.” She rang her little bell. “Roland! I won’t listen anymore. Get out.”
She was the picture of aristocratic, blue-blooded stubbornness. Despite her fall from social grace, she had power and she knew how to use it.
But power has its limits.
“No matter who we are,” I said, “we can’t change reality by simply wishing it wasn’t so. We can deny the truth, even try to conceal it. But sooner or later, the truth wins out. So, think about it. Reflect on everything I’ve said. Because I’m not finished. With or without the paper’s approval, I will continue to dig.”
I heard the door open behind me. Roland came in.
“You’re worse than the others,” she said. “You say you want to help, but you just want to—”
“Think about it. One has to wonder. About them. About you.”
“What do you mean?”
I didn’t answer. Her eyes showed sudden understanding.
“Oh, no,” she gasped. “You think that I …”
Seeing her agitation, Roland touched my forearm. “I’m sorry, miss, but you’d better go.”
“You’re wrong,” Mrs. Goodfellowe said in a horrified whisper. “Terribly, terribly wrong. How could you think that I’d––?”
“Your husband dead, a faceless corpse; your protégé kidnapped and your home robbed––”
“Esther? You think I hurt Esther.” She sounded hurt and bewildered. “Oh, no,” she said again.
I waited, hoping she’d say more, but all she did was murmur words, phrases that were barely sensible.
“You don’t understand. I’ve got to make you understand. You can’t go out there, thinking that ... I can’t let you … I—”
Her gaze went to Elizabeth’s photograph and she stilled. An unutterable sadness touched her face.
“Did you know that Esther was the same age as my daughter when she died? They were both taken from me so … so suddenly. I had no time to prepare. I never thought about them dying. They were so young. I never…”
Her eyes glittered wetly. I was transfixed, and I think Roland was, too. I’d never seen her this way or imagined such vulnerability. The transformation from haughty socialite to grieving mother had happened so quickly. Perhaps, it was always there, just below the surface. Perhaps, it had merely taken the shock of my accusation to bring it out.
“Maybe Elizabeth’s death was a curse to humble me,” she said. “I was—am—a proud woman. Born of a proud family. Maybe the Lord thought I needed a lesson.”
Her right hand gripped her handkerchief, working it into a ball. “After Elizabeth died, I buried myself in this house. I wanted nothing to do with anything.” A tear escaped her iron control. She dabbed at it.
“Then I heard about Esther. I felt compelled to hear her play. It was at a small church. Music like I’d never heard before. I can’t tell you how it affected me. I wanted to do everything for her. Everything I’d been too thoughtless, too selfish to do for my daughter. I even thought, stupidly, that God was giving me a second chance.”
There was another tear. “Hurt my friends? Maybe. But Esther? Never. She was my heart, my Elizabeth, come back to me. Don’t you see? She was my last chance to live.”