Widowerhood was not how he identified himself to others. He almost never mentioned losing Lindsay if for nothing else than to avoid the mood slump and obligatory condolences. But for some reason, he wanted this woman to know.
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you.”
The mood lightened when outside, Dylan had switched to
Mrs. Whitman got up to refill her coffee and Greg agreed to a cup of black. When she returned they chatted some more about Dylan and his interest in Little League. His first game of the season was this coming Saturday.
While Mrs. Whitman described how excited the boy was in anticipation, Greg listened with admiration. She was engaging, her manner was open and warm. And regarding her son, she was manifestly devoted and adoring. When the boy passed through the porch for a cookie she could not help but pull him to her and plant kisses on his sandy red cheeks.
As he watched her, he wondered what it would be like to kiss her. He quickly snapped off the thought.
“My name is Greg,” he said to Dylan and put out his hand.
Dylan slapped him five. “Do you like ca-ter-pil-lars?”
The boy’s enunciation was measured, and he flashed a glance at his mother who smiled and nodded approval. Maybe he had just learned the word. “Caterpillars?” Greg said. “I love caterpillars.”
The boy smiled and handed Greg a jar with some leaves and a bright orange caterpillar inside. “That’s good. You can have her and watch her grow wings.”
“Thanks. That’s very nice of you. But what do I feed her?”
“Leaves and butter.” With that, Dylan went into the house for his cookies.
Mrs. Whitman looked at the jar in Greg’s hand. “Lucky you.”
“Don’t be silly,” he said, staring at the length of orange fuzz. “We’re going to be fast friends. Leaves and butter. That makes sense.”
Mrs. Whitman made a puzzled smile. “Yeah, I guess it does. In fact, I never quite noticed the
“There may be a lesson here about how kids see the world.”
She made a curious expression and nodded. “I guess.”
Greg could have gone on chatting with Mrs. Whitman. She was easy to talk to, and he also liked looking at her as they conversed. She was beautiful, and her large expressive eyes were flecked with gold, making them appear as if in kaleidoscopic motion, drawing him dangerously in as she spoke. He opened his notebook. “I hate to downshift, but I do have some questions,” he said, trying to feel cop-professional again.
“Of course.” She glanced through the porch screen. Dylan was back outside eating a cookie.
“How well did you know Vanessa Watts?”
“Really, not well at all.” She explained that they were members of the same country club, having seen each other only on occasion. But, yes, she had attended the party on that tragic night.
“Did you know her son?”
“I had met him once.”
“Can you tell me a little about him—what he was like?”
She hesitated at first, measuring her response. “Well, as I said, I really didn’t know him. But he was very smart and a talented artist.” And she went on to describe his ability to create images of photographic exactness and how he had taught himself Italian and Spanish by listening to speeded-up language tapes.
“Did you know anything about his medical condition?”
Instantly her expression clouded. “Medical condition?”
“That he had epilepsy.”
“No. I didn’t know he was epileptic.”
“Then you weren’t aware that he had seizures.”
“No.”
“Or that he had had medical operations as a child to alleviate the condition?”
“Operations? No.” Her face was full of concern. “Officer, may I ask what this is all about?”
Greg pulled out the schematic and briefly explained the circumstances of the two sets of skeletal remains. “One was six when he was kidnapped, the other about the same plus or minus a year.”
“And you think they all had epilepsy?”
“That’s what I’m trying to determine.”
“I didn’t know epilepsy was treated with surgery.”
“Neither did I, but I guess a small percentage of cases necessitate the removal of lesions.”
“Then how are they connected to Julian?”
“I’m not sure they are,” Greg said. “I was just curious about the configurations on the skull. And why the remains of two missing children with similar drill holes showed up in Massachusetts coastal waters.”
“I wish I could help you.” She glanced at her watch.
“Would you know any other friends or acquaintances of the Watts family that I might speak to?”
She hesitated for a moment. “Not really.”
“How about your husband?”
She made a flap of her hand. “He wouldn’t know.”
There was something dismissive in her gesture. “I was just wondering if he was a friend of Mr. Watts and might have some useful insights.”
“No. He’s very busy with work and not around much. I know he doesn’t know Brad Watts and only met Julian once.”
“By the way, what does your husband do?” The question had nothing to do with the investigation, and they both knew that, Greg thought.
“He has a recruitment company.”
“And what do you do?”
She smiled. “I’m Dylan’s mother.”
“And from all appearances, doing a fine job.”
“I hope so,” she said, and looked into the backyard again. Dylan was on the swing singing to himself.
Greg knew the question was a long shot and out of line, but he asked anyway: “This being a small town, I’m wondering if you’d know who Julian Watts’s pediatrician was.”
“His pediatrician?” Her eyes suddenly took on a curious cast. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t got a clue.” She glanced at Dylan then her watch again.
It was Greg’s cue to wrap things up. Greg got to his feet. “I know this is off the wall, but would you know if Julian was right-handed or left-handed?”
She thought for a moment. “I remember he did his pictures with his left hand.”
Greg nodded. “One more question, if I may.”
She hesitated. “Okay.”
“Have you ever heard of the Nova Children’s Center?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, she answered, “No.” But there was something in her eyes.
He thanked her for her time and waved good-bye and thanks to Dylan for the caterpillar.
Some time later, while he was driving back to Sagamore, Greg’s cop instinct kept bringing him back to that final look in Mrs. Whitman’s eyes—a look that said she was lying.
46
