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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The five-o'clock television news gave little coverage to the Mid-Eastern crisis, spiralling inflation, the automobile workers' threatened strike or the dismal standing of the New England Patriots. Most of the half-hour broadcast was devoted to the disappearance of the Eldredge children and old film clips from the sensational Harmon murder case.
The pictures that had appeared in the Cape Cod Community News were reproduced. Special attention was focused on the one of Rob Legler leaving the San Francisco courthouse with Professor Carl Harmon after Nancy Harmon's conviction for the wilful murder of her children.
The commentator's voice was especially urgent when that picture was shown. 'Rob Legler has been positively identified as being in the vicinity of the Eldredge home this morning. If you believe you have seen this man, please call this special number at once: KL five, three eight hundred. The lives of the Eldredge children may be at stake. If you believe you have any information which may lead to the person or persons responsible for the children's disappearance, we urge you to call this number: KL five, three eight hundred. Let me repeat it again: KL five, three eight hundred.'
The Wigginses had closed their store when the power failed and were home in time to catch the broadcast on their battery-operated television set.
'That fellow looks kind of familiar,' Mrs Wiggins said.
'You'd say that anyhow,' her husband snorted.
'No… not really. There's something about him… the way he bends forward… Certainly is nothing to look at.'
Jack Wiggins stared at his wife. 'I was just thinking he's the type that might turn a young girl's head.'
'Him? Oh, you mean the young one. I'm talking about the other fellow – the professor.'
Jack looked at his wife condescendingly. 'This is why I say women don't make good witnesses and never should be jurors. Nobody's talking about that Professor Harmon. He committed suicide. They're talking about the Legler fellow.'
Mrs Wiggins bit her lip. 'I see. Well, guess you're right. It's just… oh, well…'
Her husband got up heavily. 'When'll di
'Oh, not long. But it's hard to worry about food when you think about little Michael and Missy… God knows where… You think you just want to help them. I don't care what they say about Nancy Eldredge. She never came in the store much, but when she did, I liked to watch her with the kids. She had such a nice way with them – never upset, never cranky, the way half these young mothers are. It makes our little a
'What little a
'Well…' Mrs Wiggins bit her lip. They'd had so much trouble with shoplifters this past summer. Jack got so upset even discussing it. That was why, all day, it just hadn't seemed worthwhile to tell him that she was absolutely certain that Mr Parrish had stolen a large can of baby powder from the shelf this morning.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The five-o'clock news was on in a modest home down the block from St Francis Xavier Church in Hya
Ellen Keeney shook her head as the picture of Michael and Missy Eldredge filled the screen. Involuntarily, she glanced at her own children – Neil and Jimmy, Deirdre and Kit… one… two… three… four. Whenever she took them to the beach, that was the way it was. She never stopped counting heads. God, don't let anything happen to them, ever, please. That was her prayer.
Ellen was a daily communicant at St Francis Church and usually went to the same Mass as Mrs Rose Ke
The commentator was talking about the article in the Community News – that the police were trying to track down the author. His words barely registered on Ellen's mind as she decided that Nancy was not responsible for the death of her children. It simply wasn't possible. No mother murdered her flesh and blood. She saw Pat looking at her and smiled at him faintly – a communication that said, We are blessed, my dear; we are blessed.
'He got awful fat,' Neil said.
Startled, Ellen stared at her oldest child. At seven, Neil worried her. He was so daring, so unpredictable. He had Pat's dark-blond hair and grey eyes. He was small for his age, and she knew that worried him a little, but from time to time she reassured him. 'Daddy's tall and your Uncle John's tall, and some day you will be too.' Still, Neil did look younger than anyone else in his class.
'Who got fat, dear?' she asked absently, turning her back to gaze at the screen.
'That man, the one in front. He's the one who gave me the dollar to ask for his mail at the post office last month. Remember, I showed you the note he wrote when you wouldn't believe me.'
Ellen and Pat stared at the screen. They were looking at the picture of Rob Legler following Professor Carl Harmon out of the courtroom.
'Neil, you're mistaken. That man has been dead for a long time.'
Neil looked aggrieved. 'See. You never believe me. But when you kept asking me where I got that dollar and I told you, you didn't believe me either. He's a lot fatter and his hair's all gone, but when he leaned out of the station wagon, he had his head kind of pulled down on his neck like that man.'
The anchorman was saying, '… any piece of information, no matter how irrelevant you may consider it.'
Pat scowled.
'Why do you look mad, Daddy?' five-year-old Deirdre asked anxiously.
His face cleared. Neil had said, 'like that man'. 'I guess because sometimes I realize how hard it is to raise a bunch like you,' he answered, ru
Through the prayer that followed, Ellen's mind was far away. They had pleaded for any information, no matter how irrelevant it seemed, and Neil had got that dollar tip to pick up a letter at General Delivery. She remembered the day exactly: Wednesday, four weeks ago. She remembered the date because there was a parents' meeting at school that night and she was a
'Neil, by any chance, do you still have the note the man gave you to show the post office?' she asked. 'Didn't I see you put it in your bank with the dollar?'
'Yes, I saved it.'
'Will you get it, please?' she asked him. 'I want to see the name on it.'
Pat was studying her. When Neil left, he spoke over the heads of the other children, 'Don't tell me you put any stock
She suddenly felt ridiculous. 'Oh, eat up, dear. I guess I just have a case of nerves. It's people like me who are always wasting policemen's time. Kit, pass me your plate. I'll cut up the end piece of the meat loaf just the way you like it.'