“Here they are,” Amy said, before gliding down the tar side of the table, where she slid gracefully onto a chair next to her son.
Both men rose. After some prodding from his father, Christopher rose as well. “I’m Dr. Richard Bernard,” the man at the head of the table said. “This is my son Christopher, and this is our attorney, Alan Stouffer. I was led to believe there would be two detectives corning this afternoon, Detective Ernie Carpenter and Detective Jaime Carbajal. So you would be?” he asked.
“I’m Sheriff Joanna Brady,” she replied. “Detective Carpenter is otherwise engaged at the moment, so I’m accompanying Detective Carbajal. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Have a seat,” Dr. Bernard said. “What we do mind is having this unfortunate situation intrude on us. I’m sure Dora Matthews’s life wasn’t all it should have been, and I’m certainly sorry the poor girl is dead, but I can’t see how you can possibly think our son Christopher had anything at all to do with what happened to her.”
“I’m sure my officers didn’t mean to imply that Christopher was involved in Dora’s death,” Joanna said soothingly. “But we do know that he spoke to her on both Friday and Saturday, prior to her death on Sunday. In situations like this it’s our policy to inter-view all the victim’s friends. We’re here to learn if Christopher has any information that might help us track down Dora’s killer.”
“I don’t know anything,” Christopher Bernard blurted. “All I know is she’s dead, and I’m sorry.”
To Joanna’s surprise, he turned sideways on his chair then and sat staring at the breakfront with its display of perfectly arranged and costly china. It was only when he brushed his cheek with the back of his hand that Joanna realized he was crying.
“As you can see, Chris and Dora Matthews were friends,” Dr. Bernard said. “‘They met a few months ago when she was staying here in the neighborhood. Naturally he’s grieved by her death, but—”
“Christopher,” Joanna said. “Were you aware Dora Matthews was three months pregnant when she died?”
Chris Bernard swung back around on his chair. He faced Joanna with his eyes wide. “You’re sure then?”
Joanna nodded. “Are you the father of Dora’s baby?” she asked.
Chris looked at his father before he answered. Then he lifted his chin defiantly and straightened both his shoulders. “Yes,” he answered, meeting and holding Joanna’s questioning gaze. “I am.”
“Christopher,” Amy Bernard objected in dismay. “How can you say such a thing?”
“Because it’s true.”
“Excuse me,” Alan Stouffer said, leaping into the fray. “I’m sure Chris has no way of knowing for sure if he was the father of that baby, and I must advise him—”
“I was too the father,” Chris insisted. “Dora told me on the phone Friday night that she thought she was pregnant. I told her she needed to go to the drugstore and get one of those test kit things so she could find out for sure. I told her if she was, we’d run away to Mexico together and get married. Dad says I’ll never amount to anything, but I do know how to be a man. If you have a kid, you’re supposed to take care of it. That’s the way it works. I have my trust money from Grandpa. We would have been all right.”
The dining room was suddenly deathly quiet. From another room came the steady ticking of a noisy but invisible grandfather clock.
“Really, Chris,” Alan Stouffer said. “You mustn’t say anything more.”
“But I want to,” Chris argued, his face hot and alive with emotion. “Dora’s dead, and I want to find out who did it. I want to know who killed her. I want that person to go to jail.”
With that, Chris buried his head in his arms and began to sob. Meanwhile Joanna grappled with a whole new sense of respect for this homely and seemingly disaffected kid whom she had been prepared to write off as a privileged, uncaring jerk. She could see now that her own and Eleanor Lathrop’s hopes had indeed been granted. The boy who had impregnated Dora Matthews had cared for her after all. Somehow, against all odds and against all rules of law and propriety, the two of them had met and fallen in love. And even though Dora was dead, Christopher Bernard loved her still.
Amy Bernard reached out and patted his shoulder. “There, there, Chris, darling. It’s all right.
