Unbreathed Memories (26 page)

I picked up the photocopy with both hands and held it in front of me. Paul leaned sideways and craned his neck to get a better view.

In a neat, looping hand, Fiona Voorhis had written:

I can’t go on living. Truthfully, I have been dying for years, a little bit every day, sick with the knowledge of what Mark has done to our daughter; hating myself for the part I played in his abuse out of simple ignorance and denial. Will anyone listen to me now?

Underneath, on the same piece of paper, was the photocopy of another note. Fiona had left a message for her daughter, too.

My darling Diane. Someday you’ll understand. Forgive me. I love you. Mother
.

A dozen words that thirteen-year-old Diane Sturgis must have memorized and carried about with her in her heart.

Finally, all these years later, Diane had understood.

chapter
20

It had been two weeks since Dennis first showed
us Fiona Voorhis’s last sad letters. Connie sat across from me at my kitchen table with a half-eaten piece of apple pie in front of her. “You did
what?
” Her voice cut through the air like a saw hitting a nail.

“I sent him a note.”

“What kind of note?”

“I got to thinking about that dumb movie
I Know What You Did Last Summer
.”

She closed her eyes. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

“So I sent him a note saying, ‘I know what you did.’ And I stapled it to a clipping from the
Sun
about this guy who’s on trial for abusing his daughters.”

“Hannah, are you nuts?”

“It was anonymous. He won’t know who sent it.”

Connie laid down her fork and relaxed into her chair. “So what’s the point?”

Connie was going to
hate
what I was about to tell her. “Well, I suggested he meet me at All Hallows to talk about it. At seven tonight.”

I was right. Connie half rose from her chair with a murderous gleam in her eyes, then sat down abruptly.

“The way I figure it, Connie, if he’s guilty, he’ll turn up just to see what I know. If he’s not guilty, he’ll ignore it. Tear up the note and throw it away.”

“What reason would he have to show up? You can’t prove he abused his daughter.”

“
I
know that, but he doesn’t.” I avoided her eyes. “I lied. I told him I had evidence he might be interested in.”

Connie’s silver earrings bounced against her neck. “Oh, Lord! And I suppose you’ll want me to go along with you on this?”

“Well, yes. Why else would I tell you?”

She frowned. “Dennis isn’t going to like this.”

“I don’t suppose he will, but I’m counting on you to get him to come along.”

“What!” Connie spluttered, her face an alarming shade of pink.

“Don’t blow a gasket, Connie.”

“Easy for you to say. I’m panicking. You are dangerous to know.”

“I’ve got it all figured out. Georgina told me about the sound system they use at All Hallows to record the sermons. It’s installed in the fellowship hall somewhere, underneath the sanctuary.” I had been trying to remember if I had seen an AV closet the night I crashed the therapy session. It might have been behind any one of several closed doors.

Connie avoided me by closing her eyes and resting her forehead on the palm of her hand.

“If Voorhis shows up in the sanctuary, I’ll get him to confess and we’ll have it all on tape,” I argued.

“Hannah, I told you. Dennis will have no part of this.”

“Why not?”

“It’s got to be illegal, for one thing.”

“That’s just on TV.” I leaned over and tried to look up into her eyes. “Look, I swear to you. Dr. Voorhis came to my hospital room. I was
not
imagining it. And don’t forget what Dennis found out about Fiona Voorhis.”

“Hannah, have you ever stopped to consider that Fiona Voorhis might have been deranged?” Connie skewered me with her eyes. “Just like a certain sister-in-law I could mention.”

“I agree. Any one of these facts taken separately mightn’t amount to much, but put it together with what Stephanie Golden told me about her last session with Diane Sturgis and it all adds up.”

“To what?”

I felt for the plastic syringe cap, still in my pocket. Whenever I began to doubt myself, I’d wrap my fingers around that solid object and know I was completely sane. “It adds up to the fact that Voorhis killed Diane when she confronted him about his abuse. What’s more, he knows I know it.”

Connie studied me seriously. “Consider this. If Voorhis really visited your hospital room, then the man is dangerous.”

“Exactly! That’s why I need Dennis. If things get dicey, Dennis will leap out of the woodwork and make an arrest.”

“Dennis can’t do that! It’s not his jurisdiction. You’ll have to pull your own chestnuts out of the fire this time, Hannah.”

Connie was remembering how Dennis had raced to the rescue the last time I had a showdown with someone intent on murder. Now I’d stuck my neck out again.
“Well, it’s too late now. Voorhis must have my envelope. If he comes, he comes.”

“Why don’t we just stake out the church, hide in the bushes or something, and see if he shows up?” Connie didn’t give in easily, but I was heartened to hear the “we.”

“That won’t do any good.
We’ll
know, but where’s the proof?” I shook my head. “Nope. We’ve got to get him to admit to everything on tape.”

Connie was close to tears. “What a mess.”

I smiled crookedly at her. “But, as you say, he won’t show up and we can all go out afterward for pizza and talk about how crazy Hannah is.”

Connie cocked her head to one side. “How are you going to get into the church? It’s Friday, for Pete’s sake.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the second object that I kept there. “I’ve got a key.”

“How on earth …?”

“I slipped it off Georgina’s key chain the day I was watching the kids. I had it duplicated.”

“Is there anything you haven’t thought of?” Connie sounded disgusted.

“Well, I’m not exactly sure how I’ll set up the recording equipment because I’ve never seen it, but I’m counting on the church warden being there. He usually is. And he’s such an old maid, he’d never refuse a policeman’s direct request.” I paused to see if she took my point. When she didn’t say anything, I drove it home. “That’s why I need Dennis.”

“Dream on, Hannah. Dennis could never afford to be involved in an unauthorized taping outside his jurisdiction.” She raised an eyebrow. “What do you need the church warden for?”

“Lionel Streeting? He’s got the key to the AV room.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t had that copied, too,” Connie muttered.

I made up my mind. “Look, we can do this without Dennis. I’ll talk to Streeting myself. He’s seen me, but he doesn’t have a clue who I really am. I’ll just
tell
him I’m from the police.”

“And when he asks to see your badge?”

“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

In the end, we didn’t need the key. When we got to All Hallows, the door to the parish hall was unlocked. Since Dennis wouldn’t be involved, I hadn’t dared tell Paul what I was up to, and in the absence of Dennis, Connie had finally agreed to come along, reluctant to leave me on my own. Following the same route as on my previous visit to the therapy group, Connie and I made our way along the darkened corridors.

“Do you suppose Lionel is here tonight?”

“If the door’s unlocked, he must be. We can always check his office.”

When we found it, the door to the Senior Warden’s office was closed, but a light had been left on inside that spilled out over the transom.

I rapped on the door, but there was no answer.

“Wonder where he is?” whispered Connie.

I shrugged and led Connie down the stairs that would eventually bring us to the fellowship hall.

Suddenly she grabbed my arm and jerked me to a halt. “What’s that?”

“What?”

“That sound.”

We stood in silence, listening. Somewhere nearby, someone was whistling the theme from the movie
Titanic
. “Must be Lionel,” I whispered back.

“I think we should get out of here, Hannah!”

“Shush. We can handle Lionel.”

We followed the sound of the whistling to an area near the church kitchen where we found the door to the ladies’ room propped open with a wooden wedge. The whistling emanated from inside. “Mr. Streeting?” I warbled.

The whistling ceased. Lionel emerged, blinking furiously, a roll of toilet tissue in each hand. “What do you want?” he asked. Then, recognizing me, added, “Mrs. Ives, is it? You’ve got the wrong day for therapy. That’s Wednesday.”

“I’m not here for therapy, Mr. Streeting. We’re private detectives.” I turned to my sister-in-law. “This is my partner, Connie Ives.”

Connie’s mouth flopped open and shut. Lionel’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I thought you were here for therapy the other night.”

“No, sir. I’m sorry if I misled you, but we’re investigating the murder of Diane Sturges. Our client is one of her patients.”

Lionel stared, his eyes enormous behind his glasses, the rolls of toilet paper quite forgotten. A war between propriety and curiosity must have been going on inside his head. Curiosity won out. He tucked the toilet paper under his arm. “What can I do for you, then?”

“You can help us set a trap for her killer.”

His eyes widened. “A trap? How?”

“We have reason to believe that the killer will show up in the sanctuary tonight. Our plan is to trap him into a confession and record it on tape.” Talking like that, I hoped I wouldn’t get cited for overacting.

Lionel wagged his head back and forth. “I don’t know. That sounds pretty dangerous.”

I grasped his arm and pulled him aside, speaking to
him softly in what I hoped was a conspiratorial way. “He’s also a pedophile, Mr. Streeting. We must get that man off the streets.”

Lionel appeared to be wavering, but suddenly his eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute! Everyone knows about that Monica Lewinsky thing. Isn’t it illegal to tape-record somebody without his knowledge?”

Of course it was. Everyone living in the state of Maryland during the whole unfortunate scandal knew that.

My mind was working fast. I remembered that Linda Tripp had recorded her conversations with Monica over a telephone. She’d also turned her tapes over to a New York City literary agent—how selfless, how patriotic—not to the police. I reminded Lionel of this.

I could see him taking it in. “I see, not quite the same thing, then, is it?”

“No, sir.”

He chewed on this for a while, running an index finger absentmindedly around and around the inside of one of the toilet paper rolls. “I see your point, Mrs. Ives,” he said at last. “How can I help?”

“We know you record the sermons each Sunday, Mr. Streeting. Is it possible to set that equipment up now?” I pushed up the sleeve of my sweater and checked the time. “It’s just now six o’clock. If anything happens, and I’ve no guarantee that it will, we’ll need to be ready to record around seven.”

Suddenly noticing the toilet paper, Lionel blushed to the roots of his five-o’clock shadow. He waved a roll in our direction. “I was just checking the rest rooms for … well, you know.”

Connie stepped forward. “Please go ahead and finish up, Mr. Streeting.” She nodded toward the fellowship
hall. “Then we’ll need to stake out the sanctuary. Is this the way, sir?”

“Yes, yes. Just give me a minute.” He disappeared into the ladies’ room.

“Stake out? Sir?” I silently mouthed to Connie.

She shrugged. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

Before I could comment, the light in the rest room snapped out and Lionel reappeared, empty-handed. He kicked out the wooden wedge and pulled the door shut behind him. “Follow me, ladies.”

Lionel led us down the corridor, past the kitchen, and into the deserted fellowship hall. I noticed that the chairs we had used during therapy had been folded and stacked neatly in a corner. In their place, long tables had been arranged, their tops covered with paper tablecloths taped down at each corner with red Mystik tape. “The monthly potluck supper,” Lionel explained. He stopped. “Here we are.”

“Here” was a solid wooden door with “Janitor” painted on it in three-inch-high block letters.

Streeting extracted a wad of keys from his pocket and unlocked the door, opening it to reveal a small, tidy room furnished with a metal desk and a gooseneck lamp. On a bookshelf behind the desk sat a professional-size cassette tape deck, an ancient reel-to-reel tape recorder, an amplifier, a tuner, several microphones, and assorted rectangular boxes labeled “Sony.”

I peeked into one of the boxes and took out a blank cassette tape.

“We record sermons for our shut-ins,” he explained.

I nodded and handed him the tape. “Can you set it up to record?”

“Certainly. Certainly.” Lionel mashed a red button
on a wall-mounted power strip, causing all the equipment to spring to life. Digital displays glowed orange and green; red gauges oscillated wildly as if a radio were playing silently. He fiddled with some dials, flipped up a toggle switch, then slipped the tape I had given him into the drive.

“How do you activate the system?” I asked.

“I do that from here.” He rested a hand on each hip, elbows pointing out. “I call it my command center.” He pointed to a chair. On a shelf directly behind it sat a pair of identical speakers a few feet apart and angled in slightly. “I come down during the church announcements and turn it all on. Father Wylands always says a prayer before the sermon, so when I hear, ‘Let us pray,’ I push the record button and let ’er go.”

I nodded, pretending to be impressed, but I was thinking how much easier it would be if the whole shebang could be operated by Father Wylands from a switch in the pulpit. But in that case, Lionel the High Lord of Toilet Paper and Everything Else would have one less excuse to hang around the church at night. “Can you show me the sanctuary?”

Leaving his equipment turned on, but carefully locking the door behind him, Lionel led us to a small door set in the wall. Surprisingly, it led to a spiral staircase about two and one half feet wide. He flipped on a light and began to climb, motioning for us to follow. “Careful!” he called down over his shoulder.