Husband and Wives (2 page)

I looked around the bunch of kids. Four of them were girls, all wearing long dresses made out of similar material. The boys wore blue jeans and shirts made of the same sort of material, with the top button buttoned up tight. ‘Everybody all right?’ I asked.

Stepping closer to me she whispered, ‘The little ones didn’t see her. They know something’s wrong, but they don’t know what.’

‘Have you contacted your father?’ I asked her.

She shook her head. ‘He works at Telecom International. I left a message on his voicemail to call me on my cell phone immediately, but he’s an engineer and he’s in meetings all the time.’

‘Let me go in and get Little Mark, OK, Lynnie? I’ll be right back. Y’all stay right here.’

I headed for the front door. The house was two and a half stories of white rock with a double front door made of hand-carved oak with inlays of beveled glass. I opened it gingerly and went inside. Beautifully crafted hardwood floors gleamed in the foyer and off to the right where there appeared to be a living room. At a glance it was sparkling clean and neat as a pin. Hard to believe seven – no, make that eight – children lived here. To the left was a large dining room with an enormous oak table with ten oak chairs arranged around it. Each corner of the room had an oak corner cabinet built in, displaying children’s crafts. I could see the kitchen to the back of the dining room. I headed in that direction. Mama laid on the floor my side of an island that held the stove top and a rack above, showing off sparkling copper pots and pans. I know I’ve probably said ‘sparkling’ or ‘shiny’ a hundred and eleven times, but with reason. The whole house shone like a Christmas tree.

The lady in question was on her back, her head being the source of all the blood. Her hair had to be as long as her daughter’s, spread out all over the place – blood-soaked blonde hair. Squatting down, I could see a gash on the right side of her head. There was a dishrag clutched in her left hand and a wooden spoon in her right. She was wearing a larger version of the dresses the girls outside were wearing, but her feet were shod in pink fuzzy slippers. I put in a call to the ME, who was already on her way and slightly miffed that I would question her ETA.

Just as I was hanging up from having my butt chewed out, I heard a squeal from further back in the house. Then a yell and some more squealing. Having a six-year-old myself, I knew the sound of a baby up from his nap. I followed the sound only a few feet, beyond a bar that separated the kitchen from the family room, which was furnished in beanbag chairs, plastic slides, a small see-saw, bouncy toys, and shelves crammed with books and toys. Little Mark was standing up in a playpen, cotton-blond hair sticking up all over his head, and his coveralls showing wet stains all down the front. He looked to be about a year to eighteen months. Hard to tell with some babies.

I picked him up, cooing at him, and used my cell phone to call my wife. Jean’s a psychiatrist and she’s on the county roll to call in such cases. Not finding her, I called Holly at the shop and told her to try to get in touch with Jean and why, then I grabbed a diaper and the box of wipes and headed outside with my new pal.

I’d barely gotten out the front door before a minivan pulled up and was abandoned behind The Branches’ official security car, wherein still sat Maynard Ritchie, I presumed. Two women jumped out of the front of the minivan, and a mass of children came out of the back. They all ran to Lynnie and her siblings, one of the women snatching Little Mark out of my arms.

‘What’s going on?’ demanded the woman who snatched the baby out of my arms. Four boys, pre- to mid-teens, were following along behind her like ducklings. She was somewhere in her mid-thirties, reddish-blonde hair, slim, but wearing the same long dress, long hair hanging down her back.

The other woman was much younger, maybe in her early twenties, very long brown hair, a long, shapeless dress, a baby in her arms and one clinging to her leg. Something clued me in that these people were family.

‘Ma’am, may I speak to you privately?’ I asked the older one.

She nodded and pointed at the four young boys. ‘Stay with Mama Rene,’ she said, and moved to the side with me.

‘Sorry to say the lady in that house,’ I used my head to point in the direction of Lynnie Hudson’s house, ‘is dead.’

‘Oh, sweet Lord Jesus!’ the woman said. ‘Mary’s dead?’ The woman began to shake, and I grabbed her by the elbow to steady her. She thrust Little Mark into my arms. ‘No, oh, Lord, no.’

‘Ma’am, I’m so sorry,’ I said, trying to hold her up while holding the baby. ‘Lynnie!’ I called out. She came to me. ‘Take Mark,’ I said, which she did. I moved the woman carefully to my car so she could sit down.

‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ I said, once I’d gotten her settled. ‘But I’ve got to ask you some questions.’

‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘That it’s Mary? That she’s dead?’

‘Yes, ma’am. I’m real sorry.’

She shook her head and began to sob. I let her go for a couple of minutes, waving off the security chief as he walked towards my car. Finally I said, ‘Lynnie said she tried to call her daddy but she’s only been able to leave messages—’

She rolled down the window and called out, ‘Rene, call Jerry! On his cell!’ She turned to me. ‘The children aren’t supposed to call him on his cell,’ she said, pulling a small pack of tissues out of her purse and blowing her nose.

‘Could you tell me the name of the lady of that house? And her husband’s name as well?’ I asked.

‘Mary Hudson, and her husband is Jerry Hudson. We all just moved here from the west coast. Well, two years ago, but still . . .’

I smiled. ‘I got the felling y’all are family,’ I said.

She nodded, tears pooling in her eyes.

‘And you are?’ I asked.

‘Oh, sorry. Carol Anne.’

‘Carol Anne . . .?’

‘Carol Anne Hudson.’

I wrote the name down. ‘Your husband and Mary’s husband are brothers?’

‘My husband will explain it to you when he gets home,’ she said. ‘I need to be with the children.’ She got out of my Jeep and walked over to Mary Hudson’s children, pulling as many as possible to her side.

At that point, I got out of the Jeep myself and found Maynard Ritchie, the head of security for The Branches. He was maybe a couple inches shy of my five feet ten, and maybe a few pounds heavier. His hair was that weird color red turns when it wants to go gray, kinda pink. He had on a brown uniform with a jacket that had real live epaulets, I swear to God. When he introduced himself, he said he preferred to be called ‘Captain,’ which I was disinclined to do.

I filled him in on the tragedy at 1803 Magnolia Way, and asked him what he knew about Mr and Mrs Jerry Hudson.

‘Not much,’ he said. Then he waved his arms, encompassing the cul-de-sac. ‘See these three houses?’ I nodded. ‘Mr Hudson bought all three. Well, I guess you can’t say bought,’ Maynard Ritchie said. ‘Stole would be a better word.’

‘Pardon?’ I asked, and if I could raise just one eyebrow like my wife, I woulda done it for sure.

‘The builder who bought this little section here, and that one over there,’ he said, pointing to the cul-de-sac one over, ‘went belly-up last year after he built all six houses. Total bankruptcy. Mr Hudson got these three houses, and those over there were bought by individual buyers.’ He snorted. ‘Until that happened, this was a real nice place.’

‘You saying you had some trouble with the Hudsons?’ I asked.

He scratched his head. ‘No, not really. Although they got some teenaged boys, and usually that means trouble, but these kids are pretty quiet. Some kind of weird church thing, I think. Now on the other side over there,’ he said, pointing to the other cul-de-sac and, leaning in, he half-whispered, ‘Mexicans.’

I pulled back from him. ‘You don’t say?’ I said.

‘Hell, man, I
do
say!’

‘Trouble?’ I asked.

‘Any day now,’ he answered.

The ME, the ambulance, my wife, and the victim’s husband all arrived at the same time, or pretty close to it. The husband was the first one to get out of his car, and everybody, and I mean
everybody
– kids and neighbor ladies – all ran up to him and it was the group hug to end all group hugs. He was a tall, thin man with light brown hair turning gray. He wore polyester slacks and a polyester short-sleeved shirt, no tie. His shoes were well-worn loafers. The ducklings – the four boys who’d been following Carol Anne – were all yelling ‘Daddy’ at the top of their lungs. This confused me, but that’s not an uncommon occurrence for me, so I let it slide.

‘Mr Hudson?’ I said, breaking up the huddle.

‘Sheriff! My wife?’ he said, face blanched white, hair disheveled, eyes red.

‘Inside, sir,’ I said, and led him and the ME into the house.

Once in the kitchen I held up my hand to stop the ME and the ambulance guys, while the husband knelt next to his wife. ‘Try not to touch anything, sir,’ I said.

He nodded his head, and put his hands behind his back, like a little kid. Finally he looked up at me, tears streaming down his face. ‘Who did this?’ he asked, his voice choked.

‘We’re not sure yet, sir,’ I said. ‘Can we go in the living room while I ask you some questions?’

He nodded and stood up, leading me into the sparkling living room. There was a cross over the mantel and nicely framed prints of Norman Rockwell paintings in a grouping over the couch. The outside wall of the room held double windows with professional portraits of all eight children, four on one side of the windows, four on the other. The room was furnished in old-fashioned ‘early American’ furniture covered in the kinds of prints I haven’t seen since my mama passed away and I gave her furniture to Good Will. Which was a good thirty years ago.

Jerry Hudson took the large armchair with the ottoman (obviously his) while I sat on the couch. ‘Sir, I’m sorry to bother you at a time like this, but it’s important that I get as much information as possible as soon as possible if we’re going to find whoever is responsible for this,’ I told him.

He nodded, leaning his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. ‘Whatever you need, Sheriff,’ he said.

‘Do you or your wife have any enemies?’ I asked.

‘No. Not at all. Mary was well loved by everyone who knew her. And I – well, as far as I know I don’t. There’s a guy at work who doesn’t like me, but that’s because I got a project he wanted. I doubt he’d kill my wife for revenge.’

‘Sir, you just never know,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you give me his name and number?’

He jumped up from his chair, his hands in his hair as he moved around. ‘This is ridiculous! No one would kill Mary! Everybody loved her! This
could not
have happened!’

‘Mr Hudson, I need you to sit down. This did happen, and sir, your children witnessed the carnage.’

Hudson fell back into his chair, a sob escaping him. ‘Oh my God! My poor Lynnie.’

‘Your neighbor said y’all moved here from the west coast a while back. Do you think some trouble there may have followed you?’

He shook his head. ‘No. Everything was fine there. I just got this job with Telecom International, offering twice as much as I was making in Oregon, so we decided to move.’ Again, he jumped up. ‘Oh my God, if I hadn’t taken this job, Mary would be alive right now!’

I got him settled back down in his chair and decided to ask some easier questions. ‘Who all lives in this house?’

‘My wife . . . Mary did, with eight of my children.’

‘Sir?’

He looked up, his formerly white face taking on color fast. ‘Ah, Sheriff, I might as well tell you upfront, my family is breaking the law here, or at least I am. We’re a plural family.’

I nodded my head. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘What’s a plural family?’

Jerry Hudson halfway smiled at me. ‘The two ladies out front are also my wives. All the children out front are mine.’

I nodded my head. Who’d a thought this guy was a glutton for punishment?

Jean McDonnell – Monday

There is a list used by both the county sheriff’s department and the Longbranch police department of psychiatrists on call. There are two names on it. Mine has been on top since Dr Leonard got fed up and refused to take any more cases about six months ago. I’ve been called by the police department four times in that six months. I’ve never been called by the sheriff’s department. Trying to be honest with my feelings on this subject, I do believe it has more to do with the fact that Milt doesn’t want to overwork me than the fact that he feels I’m incompetent. Any feelings of incompetence, I’m sure, belong to me alone. I have told my husband repeatedly that my caseload at the hospital is slim and I’d welcome a call from him if the occasion ever arose. In six months it has not.

So color me surprised when I received a call Monday afternoon from Holly, the new dispatcher at the sheriff’s department, asking me to meet Milt at a house in Bishop for a consult. As I had no one in my office and my time was being consumed by hospital busy-work, I dropped everything and headed to my car.

Due to early childhood polio, I don’t move at a rapid pace on my crutches, but once I’m in my car I can, excuse the expression, haul ass. And since I got my name on that list, the police department gave me one of those light/siren things that adhere to the top of the car. I turned it on and put the pedal to the metal.

I made the twenty-minute drive to Bishop in ten. It’s the little victories that keep us sane. I got to the cul-de-sac the same time as the ME and the ambulance, and one other car. The cul-de-sac itself looked like a scene from Dante’s
Inferno
, the level of hell he didn’t write, about wailing children – what seemed like thousands of them – all blond-headed, all wearing almost the same thing. The boys in jeans and printed shirts, the girls in long, shapeless printed dresses, hair streaming long down their backs. Or it could have been the set of a movie about cults in the nineteenth century.

The man who drove in the same time as me jumped out of his car first and ran into the gang of children and babies, which I finally saw included two adult women. As I got out of my car and adjusted my crutches, I saw my husband neatly divide the man from the herd and lead him into the house. The wailing resumed with the two women ineffectually trying to calm the children. All I knew at this point was what Holly had told me: a woman, a mother of several children, had been murdered and one child – presumably a baby – was still in the house. But since two of the women were holding babies, with a third older baby attached to one’s leg, and Milt had just led what I assumed to be the father into the house, I could only deduce that the baby was now safely in the arms of one of the women.