“How you keeping, Tyrell?”
“Can’t complain.” He did not wait for the pastor to introduce them. “Deacon Wilbur, as I live and breathe.”
“Mr. Biggs.”
“And you must be that lawyer fellow I heard so much about, the one took on New Horizons.”
“Marcus Glenwood.”
“Always wanted to shake your hand. Yessir, took on the giants of this world with one little stone, ain’t that right, Reverend?” Tyrell Biggs was dressed in pleated cotton slacks and a coffee-colored shirt, one shade lighter than his skin. “How about I go fix everybody a glass of lemonade. Ida made some up fresh.”
“Lemonade would be fine, sir. Thank you.”
“Mr. Glenwood’s got some questions he’d like to ask you about Dale Steadman, Ida.”
“Don’t see as how I can talk comfortable about what’s gone on inside somebody else’s house.”
“That’s why we’re here, Ida, me and Deacon both. To tell you this ain’t just right, it’s important. Now sit yourself on down and see if you can help the man help Mr. Steadman.”
Marcus eased himself into the padded chair. Nothing hurt in an excruciating manner. But all his aches bonded together, forming a fabric that stretched and tugged with every motion. “Actually, I need to ask you about his former wife as much as I do about Dale himself.”
Tyrell called through the house’s open door, “It’s all about Benjamins with that lady.”
His wife sniffed. “No it ain’t.”
“Yessir, all about those Ben Franklins. All about big money.”
“What you talking about?” Something in her tone suggested Ida Biggs was actually glad her husband was speaking, as it released her from what was probably a tight and constant reserve. “You never worked in that home.”
“Who’s living with you then? Who’s watched you talk every day ’bout how hard it was to be in the same house with that lady. Who’s heard you fretting day in and day out over the baby being in that lady’s care?”
Marcus asked, “How long did you work for Mr. Steadman?”
“A year and some change. Ever since they moved into that house he built her.” But her eyes remained upon her husband, who was going around now with five glasses on a metal tray. “Listen to you talk.”
“I saw that woman more than I ever wanted to.” He handed his wife a glass, then seated himself beside her. “I watched them have words right there on my doorstep.”
His wife sipped from her glass. “Mr. Dale is a fine gentleman.”
“Did I say anything against that man? No I did not. Not one word. I’m talking about the lady.”
“The lady didn’t care nothing about money.”
“But she cared about her singing, didn’t she. She cared about her career. That was her pieces of silver.” He leaned back, satisfied. “Tell me I’m not right.”
“Go turn on the fan so we can get us some air.”
Tyrell set down his glass and rose from his chair. “Her singing was her obsession. Same sin, different currency. Ain’t that what you say, Reverend?”
Marcus asked, “You think Erin Brandt kidnapped the child because of her career?”
“She didn’t do it out of love, I know that much.” Ida Biggs looked straight at him for the first time, and Marcus realized the only reason she was talking to him at all was because of the baby. “One thing I can say for certain about Miz Brandt. She wouldn’t know love if it grew fangs and bit her on the backside.”
They made two further stops after the visit with Ida Biggs. The meetings proceeded at a country pace, which meant it was almost dark before they finally left Wilmington. Marcus dozed the entire way home. His sleep was never deep enough to dream. Every now and then the mournful note he had heard upon awakening in the hospital drifted through his heart, and he would sense anew the burden of unshed tears.
When Deacon pulled up in front of the house, Marcus opened his door and eased himself upright. He could not help but watch his front door. He knew Kirsten would not be there, but hoped just the same. “Would you come to court with me tomorrow?”
“You still plan on taking that lawyer Caisse to task?”
“You heard what I said to Dale. We don’t have any choice. Ida Biggs might be more comfortable on the stand if you were there to greet her.”
“Son, I’d rather watch you tear a patch out of that man’s hide than sit ringside at a revival.” Deacon slapped the car into gear. “I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty sharp.”
Marcus ate a solitary dinner and stretched out on his bed. But the day had already been too full of sleep. He slipped into his clothes and padded back downstairs. Marcus arrived on the porch just as a concert of wind began singing through his pines. He eased himself down in one of the rockers, testing each joint in turn. There was considerable soreness, particularly around his neck and upper shoulders. But other than a general sense of bearing a body-sized bruise and having come far too close to that last cold breath, he was all right.
The wind’s recital was particularly sweet that night. He rocked in cadence to the tossing branches as thunder’s profound bass filled the hollows of his chest. It seemed to him that Charlie Hayes walked up and settled into the rocker alongside his own. The sensation was so strong Marcus felt a need to say the words aloud, that he was welcome here always.
Then the first sheet of rain swept in, forming a tight enclosure for all the night’s scents. The magnolia blossoms and bougainvillea sang a perfumed lament. The leaves tapped out the rhythm of absent friends.
But it was not merely Charlie’s absence that harried him that night. His need to hold Kirsten was a pain that dwarfed his physical discomfort. He ached as well for all she carried. There was no question but that she was judging him through spectacles formed by her past. Marcus sat and rocked and listened to the storm enclose him in his safe little island, and prayed that he could trust her and their love enough to hope she would not only return, but return because she was ready for him. He hoped Charlie Hayes had been right. He hoped he had done the right thing. This time.
CHAPTER 15
Kirsten caught the midday flight to Washington and a late afternoon plane to London. She was plagued the entire journey by how her life’s rules were being tangled and respun in a web-like script she could not fathom. As she entered Heathrow’s Terminal Three, jet lag hulked in the back of her mind like the onset of a bad cold. She gathered her bags, passed through customs, and headed for the discount hotel counter. From the sparse high-season choices she selected a Best Western within walking distance of Paddington Station. On the express train into London, her jumbled thoughts chopped at the fineness of the sunlit morning with a blade honed from earlier times.
At Paddington she asked directions from an overfriendly porter and became lost a block from the station entrance. Jet lag and a plague of almost-familiar images pressed in from all sides. The sunlight was brighter than she recalled, the weather warmer. London to her mind was a place of cool nights and misting rain, even in July. By the time she finally found the proper road, the back of her shirt was clamped tightly to her skin.
The hotel receptionist was a slender Pakistani with soulful eyes and a manner that suggested he tried his wiles with every pretty woman. He pressed the key into her palm, then wrapped his fingers delicately about her wrist, pinning her into his grip. “Madame is being upgraded to one of the most newly renovated and air-conditioned rooms.”
Kirsten pretended not to notice either his tone or his clutch. “Can you tell me where I can find a good detective?”
The receptionist’s hand snapped away. “Please?”
“A detective. A large agency would be better. Someone with an international reputation.”
“I am certain I do not know.” A film descended over the liquid gaze. “Madame must excuse me now. Other guests are soon to be arriving.”