Innocent (12 page)

SEE IF YOU
can coax him into eating something,” Mrs. Meyers said as she handed me the tray. “He hasn’t eaten since breakfast yesterday.”

Richie had been in the pigeon coop all of the previous day and then had refused to go back to the house to sleep. Nigel and Ralph had put a little cot in the coop. He was so worried about his sick bird. It was both peculiar and touching that he cared so much for them. He was such an unusual combination of things that I had to admit I felt protective of him, and I thought perhaps I could convince him to leave the coop. I also had an ace or two up my sleeve.

“Do you want me to come out with you?” Mrs. Meyers asked.

“I’ll be fine.”

“You know he doesn’t do as well when his routine has been changed,” she said.

“I know, but I understand. He really does care for those birds.”

She laughed. “Possibly more than he cares for anything or anybody else.”

“Mrs. Hazelton told me that you can usually judge a person by the way he treats animals. Somebody who is kind to animals is usually kind to people. Somebody who would kick a dog would probably kick a person, she always told us.”

“Richie is kind, but you have to remember he’s a whole different kettle of fish.” She looked worried, and I got the feeling that the worried look had less to do with Richie and more with me. “I’m going to come out with you—not into the coop, but I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

Her offer was reassuring and worrying all at once, but I wasn’t going to tell her not to come. We walked out the back door and across the grounds toward the coop.

“I’m almost finished with your dress,” Mrs. Meyers said. “I think I’m only one more fitting away from it being done.”

Mrs. Meyers was making me a new dress from some material she’d salvaged from an old dress of Mrs. Remington’s. She really was a wizard with a sewing machine.

“Thanks so much for all the work you’re doing,” I said.

“It’s been a pleasure. We’re just a bunch of old fogies around here. Having you here has been a breath of fresh air. Your mother was a very good seamstress. She made almost all of your clothes.”

“I didn’t know that.” There was so much I didn’t know.

“If you’d like, I could teach you how to sew, so that you can make your own outfits.”

“I’d like that very much.”

“Your mother and I used to spend time in the kitchen sewing—I taught her a few things. We’d work and chat and drink tea. You and I could do the same.”

“That would be wonderful!”

“It will be my pleasure. Sitting and sewing with your mother was one of the many things I missed when the two of you moved out.”

I saw the opening I’d been looking for. “Why did we move out?”

“
Perhaps
your mother wanted to strike out on her own.
Perhaps
it was just time. I don’t know for certain. Shall we do the fitting tonight?”

There was something odd about the way she said
perhaps
, and the way, once again, that she changed the subject when I asked about our leaving. Of course, her response made me want to know more. Was something being hidden from me?

Mrs. Meyers stopped at the door to the coop. “I’ll be right out here.” She walked over and sat down on a bench to take in the morning sun.

I tapped on the door of the coop and then entered. Richie was sitting in the corner, his back to me. A pigeon was on his right shoulder. Was the sick bird feeling better? No, this was a gold collar, and the sick one was a fancy. I’d learned a lot about pigeons from being around Richie.

“Richie?” I called out. He didn’t respond. Was he asleep?

“Richie!” I said it louder this time. A few pigeons, disturbed by my voice, fluttered across the cage, and he turned around and looked…not really at me as much as through me. The sick pigeon was on his lap, in his hands. It wasn’t moving. Had it died?

“I brought you breakfast,” I said.

“Not hungry.”

I put the tray down on the table. “Would it be all right if I joined you for a while?”

He didn’t answer, so I took that as permission. I dragged a chair from the corner and set it down beside him. I was there to bring him breakfast, but there was one other reason I wanted to be there.

“Could I hold the pigeon?”

He hesitated for an instant and then handed me the bird. I held it carefully with both hands. It struggled a bit before settling in. It was good sign that it was struggling.

It was soft and warm. Shifting it to one hand, I used the other to gently stroke its feathers.

“Could I ask you a question?”

He didn’t answer.

“Do you know about my mother and me leaving the estate?”

“July 1, 1950. It was Saturday.”

“That’s when we moved out?”

He nodded, looking at the bird in my hands.

“Do you know why my mother wanted to move?”

“She said she didn’t want to be here,” he said. “I wanted her to be here. She should have stayed here.”

“But why did she leave? Why did we leave?”

“I told her not to go.”

“But why did she want to go? Do you know why?”

“Because of him,” he said.

“Him?”

“The man who killed her.”

“My father? What did he have to do with it?”

“He came around and he wasn’t supposed to.”

“My father was here?”

“Around the guest house. He was trespassing, and my mother called the police. They took him. Twice.”

I tried to figure out how my father coming here would cause my mother to move. Was she trying to get away from him or moving someplace where he could come around?

Suddenly, the little bird in my hands started to shake all over. Richie noticed right away. He took the bird from my hand. It continued to convulse.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“It’s dying.” He brought the bird up close to his face. “I love you, little angel.”

He twisted the bird in his hands, there was a loud snap, and it stopped moving. He’d broken its neck!

I gasped, unable to believe what I’d seen. Without saying another word, I got to my feet and rushed away, leaving him and the dead bird behind.

I LEANED OVER,
turning slightly to try to
catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I stood atop the chair.

“Stay still or I’m going to prick you with a pin!” Mrs. Meyers said.

I straightened, but I really did want to see what the dress looked like—what I looked
like. Looking down, I loved the way the skirt flared out. The material was so soft,
like nothing I’d ever had against my skin before.

“I think the young officer is going to be suitably impressed,” Mrs. Meyers said.

“I don’t know. He might be.”

“You don’t like the dress?” she asked.

“I love the dress! It’s just that, well, he might not be that impressed with me.”

“You are an attractive young woman with a winning smile and a generous and kind
nature. If he isn’t impressed, then he’s not worth impressing!” she said forcefully.

“Let him know two things,” Nigel said as he turned away from the counter where he’d
been cutting vegetables. “First, if I was thirty years younger he’d have to be
fighting me off, and, second, if he doesn’t treat you with respect, he’ll be dealing
with me.” He held up the large knife he’d been using. “I can slice and dice as only
a cook can!”

“You may have a large knife, but that officer has a gun,” Mrs. Meyers said.

“That could be a problem. You know what they say—never take a knife to a gunfight!”
he said. “But seriously, somebody has to talk to him when he comes to pick you up,
and perhaps it should be me or James. You know, put a little fear of God in him.”

“Somebody is going to speak to him,” Mrs. Meyers said, sounding stern and looking
rather scary and serious.

“Well, you are more formidable than either of us, so that works fine,” Nigel said.

“Actually, it’s not me,” she said. “It’s Mrs. Remington.”

“Really?” I asked.

“She’s rather insistent. She told me she wants to make sure he understands that while
you’re under her roof, you are like her daughter and will be treated with respect
and care.”

“I’m sure that isn’t necessary,” I said.

“Probably not, but you are in no position to argue with her. Even the mayor and chief
of police don’t argue with her,” Mrs. Meyers said. “Besides, she’s doing it because
she cares for you.”

“We all do,” Nigel said.

That felt nice, so nice.

“I was wondering,” Mrs. Meyers said, “if you don’t mind me being a bit nosy, could I
ask you a question?”

“Of course you can.”

“Are you going to visit your father this week?”

That was the last question I expected. I thought it was going to be something about
David. This was worse.

“I hadn’t really thought about it.” That was a lie, and I knew from experience that
lies showed on my face. “Well, I haven’t thought about it
much
.” Another lie
but less telling.

“So are you?” she asked.

“Mrs. Remington doesn’t think I should visit him again.”

“I wasn’t asking what Mrs. Remington thought,” she said. “I was asking what
you
thought. Do you want to visit him again?”

I nodded my head ever so slightly.

“When you do, can you say hello to him from me?” Nigel said from across the room.

“You knew him?”

“Kingston’s a small place. I knew him pretty well. He was a little rough around the
edges, and Lord knows with his size and reputation I wouldn’t have wanted to get on
his bad side.”

The way my mother had gotten on his bad side, I thought.

“I always liked him,” Nigel continued.

“I did as well,” Mrs. Meyers said.

“But it doesn’t really matter what the hired help thinks of somebody,” Nigel added.

“You mean Mrs. Remington?” I asked.

“Mrs. Remington certainly didn’t approve, but Edward simply
hated
him,” Nigel
said.

“And I guess I can understand that,” Mrs. Meyers said. “They’ve always treated us
like family, and they simply didn’t think he was good enough for your mother.”

“Can’t blame them,” Nigel said. “I wouldn’t want my daughter being with a jailbird.”

“He was in jail before this?”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything,” Nigel said. He sounded like he felt guilty.

“No,” Mrs. Meyers said. “She deserves to know as much truth as we have. He was
imprisoned from right before you were born until you were almost three years old.”

“What did he do?”

“Some form of assault. A bar fight gone bad. He nearly killed the man—beat him with
his fists,” Mrs. Meyers said.

“He didn’t tell me that,” I said.

“You and your mother used to visit him there.”

“Where?”

“The Kingston jail. The same place you just visited.”

My head felt like it was spinning. That was why it had seemed so familiar to me,
especially the children.

“Your father’s release from jail happened six months before you and your mother
left,” Mrs. Meyers said.

“Is that why we had to leave?” I asked. “Because of him?”

Both fell silent. Nigel suddenly became intensely interested in the vegetables he was
chopping, while Mrs. Meyers focused on the pin work.

“I really want to know. Please, could you tell me why?”

Mrs. Meyers stopped working and looked right up at me. “I knew there was something
troubling her, but she never told me what it was. One day she just packed up and
left. She was here in the morning and gone by dinner.”

“And she didn’t say why?”

“She babbled about having to get on with her life, but there was something else,
something that she wouldn’t tell me,” Mrs. Meyers said.

“There was a tremendous argument upstairs when she told Mrs. Remington,” Nigel said.

“She was pretty upset when she couldn’t convince Vicki to stay,” Mrs. Meyers said.
“When a woman has spent her life getting what she wants, it’s hard to accept it when
she can’t. Besides, it was only because she thought she knew what was best for you
and your mother.”

“But she wasn’t nearly as troubled as Edward and Richie,” Nigel added. “Richie was a
wreck, beside himself for weeks. He’d go off walking and be gone for the better part
of the day. The two of you were a big part of his daily life, and you know how badly
he reacts when routines are broken.”

I knew how much a sick pigeon could unsettle him, so I couldn’t even begin to imagine
what he was like when we left. My thoughts went back to him snapping the neck of
that pigeon.

“My father told me he was innocent,” I said. “That he didn’t do it.”

“He said that throughout the trial,” Mrs. Meyers said.

“Do you believe him?” I asked. “Do you think he
is
innocent?”

“I’m not in a position to know anything.”

“My mother used to say that the best indication of the future is the past,” Nigel
said.

“What does that mean?”

“If you want to know what somebody is going to do in the future, you look to their
past. Your father had a history of violence,” he said.

“So you think he did it?”

“Nigel’s in no better position than the rest of us to answer that question. But
there’s one person who might have more information,” Mrs. Meyers said.

“Should I talk to Mrs. Remington?”

“Oh Lord, no!” she exclaimed. “I was thinking of your father.”

“But how can I believe anything he says?”

“Maybe you can’t. You’ll have to judge, and the only way to do that is to go and
visit him again,” she said.

I knew Mrs. Remington would find out about the visit, and she would not be pleased.
Still, he was my father, and I did want answers that maybe only he could give me.

There was a stomping sound by the back door. Ralph always stomped his feet before
entering. The door opened and he said, “You have a visitor.”

“I do?” Mrs. Meyers asked.

“Not you. Lizzy. He came to the back gate. He said his name is David, and he’s
wearing a police uniform.”

I quickly changed out of my new dress and back into my old clothing. I
didn’t want him to see me in my maid’s uniform. As I walked toward the back gate, I
was excited to see him but also worried. Was he going to tell me that he wasn’t able
to take me to the dance? Had something come up, or had he simply thought better of
going with me? I knew I certainly hadn’t made the best impression—falling, crying
and fainting after visiting my father, who was in prison for murdering my mother.
Who could blame him? At least he wanted to tell me face-to-face. That would be hard,
but it showed consideration and good manners on his part.

I stopped at the gate, the street still hidden by the hedges, and took a deep breath
before proceeding. Whatever he said, I would be all right. I opened the gate, which
made a loud creak, and stepped through. Just off to the side was the police car;
David was leaning against the hood. He smiled and waved. As I walked toward him, he
pulled a bouquet of flowers from behind his back.

I gasped. “Are those for me?”

“I tried to give them to the gardener, but he seemed even more surprised than you
do.”

He handed them to me.

“They’re lovely. Thank you so much.” Nobody had ever given me flowers before. Ever.

“I need to talk to you,” he said.

“I understand if something came up and we can’t go to the dance.”

“I wouldn’t let anything get in the way of something that important,” he said. “Are
you having second thoughts?”

“No, of course not! But why did you bring me flowers?”

“Because I saw them and they were beautiful and they reminded me of you.”

I felt myself blush.

“I came because I have information I want to share with you before the dance.
Information about your father. Come and have a seat.”

He opened the door to the car and I sat down, which was good because my legs were
feeling like jelly. What was he going to tell me? I’d thought I wanted more
information, but now I wondered if I really did. He climbed in behind the wheel. It
would have been easier if he’d simply told me he couldn’t go to the dance.

“So I did a little bit of digging into the records,” he began. “First off, you know
your father was in prison before.”

“I know. He was in there for beating somebody up.” I didn’t tell him I had only found
out moments before.

“He’d been in jail a couple of times before that.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Nothing long term. A couple of days for public drunkenness, a two-week sentence for
an altercation with a police officer, a weekend in jail for trespassing. And then
there was the whole episode when he was arrested for murder. It took five officers
to take him down. Two of them were badly beaten, and he sent one to the
hospital.”

“That’s awful.”

“What makes it more awful is that the police officer he hospitalized went on to
become the chief of police. My boss.”

Was that what my father had meant when he said there were people who weren’t going to
let him out of prison early?

“Of course, in the end your father got worse than he gave. When he showed up in
court, he was a mess—broken nose, a couple of shiners and a big gash on his head
from where he’d been smacked by a billy club. They beat him pretty badly once they
got him in the cell.”

“That was in the records?”

He shook his head. “I met with a retired detective who worked the case, and he told
me all sorts of things. Things that aren’t necessarily on the record.” He paused.
“Things like the fact that your father had an alibi.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“He was in a bar drinking with some buddies at the time your mother was killed.”

“Then he couldn’t have done it—unless his friends were lying.”

“Maybe they were mistaken. People really aren’t reliable witnesses when they’ve been
drinking. But his alibi would have held up if the murder weapon hadn’t been found in
a hole under a loose floor board in the closet of the room he was renting.”

“So there’s no doubt—none—that he did it,” I said. I felt my heart drop.

“That’s one of the interesting parts. They’d searched his house before and come up
empty, and then they got a call telling them exactly where to look.”

“Who called?”

“It was an anonymous phone call. The detective who worked the case said he thought it
was peculiar, but they were happy to get a break. He said the police were under a
lot of pressure from some powerful people.” He pointed at the estate. “Before you
and your mother moved out, there were two calls complaining about your father
trespassing on their property, and apparently there was an incident between him and
Edward Remington. It involved a weapon of some sort.”

“My father pulled a weapon on Edward?”

He shook his head. “Edward pulled a weapon on him. If it had been the other way
around, your father would have been arrested. As it was, the whole thing was
recorded, but a note was made that Edward was simply defending his property against
a trespasser, and your father spent the weekend in jail.”

I didn’t blame Edward for defending himself against my father, who was so big and,
from everything I’d heard, somebody to be afraid of. Edward must have been trying to
protect my mother and me. If only he’d been there the night of the murder. If my
father had the chief of police, the mayor and the richest woman in town against him,
then he was right: he’d stay in jail. I figured I should be grateful for what they
were doing, but somehow it still didn’t feel right.