Chapter 38

The Fog Ladies sat that night in Alma Gordon’s living room. After the long day plus the long ride home, Alma wanted to put her feet up and think pleasant thoughts, but Frances Noonan, at least, still wanted to talk murder.

“Serena said her brother essentially got the insurance money after she was convicted because it went to the girls and he is their guardian. He can’t use it for anything obvious like a sports car, but she mentioned a vacation to Mexico. Evelyn Ringley will control the money that Joey gets. Do you think these guardians could be the killers?”

Alma shuddered. “Evelyn Ringley killed her own sister? No. I cannot believe that.”

“Not Evelyn,” Frances Noonan said. “Her husband. Evelyn told us her husband was amazed to hear how much insurance Shelley had. Shelley told them that summer she was there. Serena’s brother may have known about David Evans’s insurance as well.”

“Oh, yes, yes, I like this,” Enid Carmichael said. “Evelyn Ringley’s husband killed Shelley and then reaped the money from the kid. The brother-in-law did it.”

“‘Thou shalt not hate thy brother in thine heart,’” said Harriet Flynn. “Or brother-in-law. No, this is too much. Two different killers concoct the same plan, such horrific crimes, all for money. Greed. No, I don’t believe it.”

“What about ‘Thou shalt not kill?’” asked Olivia Honeycut. “Seems someone out there forgot that one.”

“I don’t believe it either,” Alma said. “Because that would mean Julia Blackwell killed Andrea. She is watching Ben now. She is the guardian.” She could feel her blood pressure rise, all this talk of family killing family.

“Okay, not Julia,” Frances Noonan said. “But maybe the others? Oh, I don’t know. This idea is a little outlandish. Bill always said find a pattern. A simple pattern. Things are usually just what they appear.”

“Which means we met a killer today,” said Enid Carmichael with relish.

“She sure didn’t seem like a killer,” said Mrs. Noonan. “And that brother is coming next week for Christmas. Better hope he’s not the one.”

Alma felt she had to change the subject. “Speaking of Christmas, Julia Blackwell told me Ben will get to see his father for two hours, that’s it,” she said. “But two hours is longer than any other visit he’s had. Ben actually drew a picture for a present, and Julia was thrilled because it was the first time Ben wanted to do anything. Then she saw what he had drawn. She doesn’t know what to do now. Ben drew a picture of their family and a Christmas tree. Their whole family. Andrea too.”

“Oh, my, that is very sad,” said Frances.

“That man should hang it in his cell and reflect on what he’s done,” huffed Olivia Honeycut.

“Olivia!” Alma and Frances shouted together. Olivia Honeycut just wagged her finger.

Harriet Flynn, bless her, broke in to change the subject once more. “Serena Evans and Paul Blackwell may be the only ones with visitors for the Lord’s birthday. No one else told me today they were expecting anyone.”

The Fog Ladies realized this might be true. Christmas was a week away, yet many of the women in the groups did not think they would see family or friends for the holiday. The prison was so far, and the families didn’t have the means to go.

Alma Gordon could see by Frances Noonan’s expression that her mind was churning. Alma looked around the room. It was clear the other Fog Ladies could see it too.

Olivia Honeycut was already shaking her head. “The women in my group were all quite civilized, but they are in prison to pay a debt to society. It is not our place to change the system.”

“I don’t intend to change the system,” said Frances Noonan.

Alma Gordon agreed with Frances. “A woman in my group learned to read and write while in prison and is dying to show her boy she can read to him. But he can’t be there. Wouldn’t that be a wonderful Christmas present?”

“That woman’s boy is thirteen,” said Enid Carmichael. “What’s she going to read to him that he can’t read himself?”

Enid Carmichael had been right next to Alma at the table, but she still didn’t get it. She could be so thick. “That’s just it,” Mrs. Gordon explained. “He’s thirteen, he’s almost a man. And now his mother can read. That’s something anyone can be proud of. He can be proud of her, instead of embarrassed. That’s why she did it.”

She thought of Baby Owen. Would he be proud of Chantrelle? Would he ever see his father again?

“We had a woman whose little girl is two, and she only sees her every few months.” Harriet Flynn’s voice was urgent. She looked different to Alma, with a spark in her eyes that made her look younger, less severe.

Harriet Flynn continued, sitting up straight on her hard chair. “Remember her, Frances? They grow so fast, she said she sometimes isn’t sure which girl is hers and which girl is her niece when they visit. They live here in San Francisco.”

Two years old. Owen wasn’t even two. How much was he growing? How much was he changing?

“Lots of them are in this city.” Mrs. Noonan nodded vigorously. Mrs. Gordon knew exactly what was coming. She had known her friend a long time, and she knew how her active mind worked. She felt a pang. She missed Frances Noonan even though they were right here in the same room together. Something had changed about their friendship, and Alma did not know why or what.

Mrs. Noonan was on her feet now. “It’s Christmas. We have to try to get them together. We can organize a group of cars and take as many family members as we can fit.”

“I can’t stand the thought of riding in that car one day longer than I agreed to,” said Mrs. Carmichael.

“You wouldn’t be coming, Enid,” said Mrs. Noonan. “We need all the space for the families.”

“Mr. Glenn and I were going to Sylvia and Harold’s on Christmas Day,” said Mrs. Gordon. “I suppose we could make other arrangements.”

“No, we don’t need you,” Mrs. Noonan said, a little dismissively perhaps, Mrs. Gordon thought. Mrs. Noonan continued, “We need cars. We need all the cars and drivers we can get.”

“Mr. Glenn can drive.” Mrs. Gordon was pleased to have something to contribute. “I’m sure he’d be happy to help.”

“Frances, we always spend Christmas together.” Mrs. Carmichael sounded crestfallen. “You always cook for us. Who’s going to make the dinner if you’re at the prison?”

Mrs. Gordon was lucky to have Sylvia so close. Enid Carmichael’s daughter was in Los Angeles. Like Baby Owen. Frances Noonan and Harriet Flynn didn’t have children. Olivia Honeycut’s family lived far enough that she saw them only a few times a year, not usually at Christmas. The Fog Ladies, minus Alma, had had Christmas together for years. No wonder Enid looked so lost.

“I’ll be here,” said Mrs. Flynn. “You can have Christmas with me and the Lord.”

“Oh, goody,” said Mrs. Carmichael.

“Me too. I’m not going.” Mrs. Honeycut thumped her hand on her walker. “We can manage to make dinner ourselves. Or order it from the grocery store. We’ll survive.”

Mrs. Flynn had that spark in her eye again. “Actually, Frances, I can’t drive, but I would like to come. This is a good idea. A very good idea.”

Mrs. Gordon had never seen her like this, positive, passionate.

Mrs. Carmichael let out a wail. “You too? Who will be here with me?”

Mrs. Honeycut’s low voice cut in. “You, me, and the supermarket.”

A knock on the door interrupted Mrs. Carmichael’s protest. Mrs. Gordon came back with Sarah.

“I thought you all might be here. I came to show you this picture from Helen.” Sarah held out a photo of two tiny babies sitting on Santa’s lap. Both faces were screwed up, both mouths open, howling. “Helen said this is the best picture of the lot, not one without the tears.”

“Babies!” Mrs. Gordon clapped her hands in delight. “Aren’t they adorable. I do miss volunteering in the nursery. Even when they cry.” Again she thought of Baby Owen and how she heard him crying on the telephone. Would he get to sit on Santa’s lap? He was certainly on her mind today.

“There’s a photo studio in the same building in Embarcadero Center as Spencer Tremaine’s office, and it’s the same studio Bill and I used all those years ago with Isabelle, just a different location. It was on Market then. They did such good work with babies,” Frances Noonan said.

How she was able to talk about Isabelle, her daughter who died young, without bursting into tears, Alma did not know. If something had happened to Sylvia at that age, Alma Gordon was not certain she could have recovered.

“I’m glad you stopped by,” Mrs. Noonan said to Sarah.

“Here it goes,” said Mrs. Honeycut.

“I hope you like prisons,” said Mrs. Carmichael.

Sarah smiled slightly and tilted her head. Mrs. Gordon chuckled. Sarah would go along with the plan because she was a good sport. She almost never said no to Frances Noonan. None of them did.

“We need Andy’s car,” said Mrs. Noonan. “And a driver.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s no problem. He or I would be happy to drive you somewhere. Is yours broken?”

“On Christmas Day. You have to drive three hours to the middle of nowhere and breathe dust,” said Mrs. Carmichael.

“And visit criminals,” said Mrs. Honeycut.

“She doesn’t have to visit criminals. She just has to drive their families. Mostly children. And those women didn’t look like criminals to me,” said Mrs. Noonan.

“Well, most of them,” said Mrs. Gordon, remembering the cussing woman in Mrs. Noonan’s group.

“Won’t you do it, Sarah?” Mrs. Flynn said. “The Lord will smile on you.”

Sarah stood there smiling herself. “I’m all yours. Andy and his brother are flying home for Christmas. Helen and Scott have the babies’ first Christmas. All the medical residents I know have to work. I’ve been wondering what I would do. This sounds just fine.”

“It’s God’s will,” said Mrs. Flynn.

“If it’s God’s will, then what about me?” Enid Carmichael whined.

In the end they had four cars. Mrs. Noonan drove, as did Mr. Glenn. Sarah drove Andy’s car with Mrs. Flynn riding shotgun, and Mrs. Gordon’s son-in-law, Harold, shuttled a group from San Jose in a minivan borrowed from a friend. All told they took eighteen family members, husbands and children plus one mother of an inmate who hadn’t seen her daughter since she went to prison.

Mrs. Gordon heard from Harold later that it was the best Christmas present he’d ever given anyone.