night, Marielle…” he whispered. She smiled as she walked him to the front door, and a few minutes later, she walked quietly upstairs to her own room. It was the first time in a month she had smiled, it was so wonderful to feel loved and wanted again, even if only for a moment.
9
“I want you to be sure, Mrs. Patterson, before you take the stand, that you're perfectly clear on what you believe happened. Do you understand me?” She was sure she did, and he was one of those people who spoke in a deliberate voice, and there was absolutely nothing endearing about him. His hair was slicked down, and his face was pale. He was probably John Taylor's age, a man in his very early forties. He was given to pin-striped suits and dark ties, he wore horn-rimmed glasses, and it was obvious that he was extremely impressed with Malcolm.
“I understand,” she said quietly. But there was still very little to tell. She had heard a noise late that night, and at midnight she had gone upstairs to check on Teddy, just to kiss him, she explained for the hundredth time, but the attorney looked untouched by her recital. He was only interested in convicting Delauney. He hated men like him, a socialist lurking in the robes of a rich man, as he viewed it. A spoiled playboy who thought he could do anything he wanted. “I found Betty, and Miss Griffin, bound and gagged. Miss Griffin had a pillowcase over her head as well, and she'd been chloroformed. And Teddy was gone…that's all there was really… he had vanished.” And there had been nothing since then, except the false alarm over the ransom left in Grand Central Station. It had never been picked up and they'd never called again, which convinced the police and the FBI that the call had been made by cranks in the first place.
“And the pajama suit found at Delauney's home, was that your son's?” She felt as though she were already on the stand as he paced the room and watched her.
“I believe so,” she said softly.
“You're not sure.” He stopped pacing and stared, as though in fury.
“I'm sure, but…”
“But what, Mrs. Patterson?” Malcolm had warned him that she was never sure, never certain, never brave enough to stand up for herself or have her own convictions.
“I don't know how it got there.” Malcolm had said, unfairly, that you couldn't really trust her emotions.
“Delauney left it there of course. How else would it get to his house, along with the boy's teddy bear? Do you not believe Charles Delauney kidnapped your son?” There was a long pause as she pondered it again. She had asked herself the same question a thousand times in the past two and a half months, and she thought he had, the evidence was there, yet sometimes she was unsure, when she let herself think of Charles as a person. And everyone said he still maintained that he hadn't. But the evidence…the evidence…the pajamas…the bear…
“Yes, I think so.” She looked pained as she said it.
“But you're not sure?” He bit off each word as though it hurt him. “Is there anyone else you think might have kidnapped your son?” She shook her head. She felt as though she were shrinking while she listened. “I don't know. I don't think anyone knows, or we would have found him.”
William Palmer looked shocked. “Don't you want justice, Mrs. Patterson? Don't you want to see the man who took your son punished? That's what your husband wants, isn't that what you want?” He made it sound un-American of her not to want to see Charles executed. But in truth that was not what she wanted.
“All I want is for my son to come home.”
“Do you accept the possibility that he may have killed him?” She closed her eyes as she nodded, and then opened them again, wondering how she was going to survive the trial. The past two and a half months had been a nightmare. The newspapers were hounding them night and day, and almost every day there were photographs of them, or Teddy, or Charles, on the front pages. She couldn't even listen to the radio anymore without hearing tales about herself, or Charles, or Malcolm, most of them untrue, and many of them filled with imaginary scandal. She was supposedly seen dancing everywhere, Malcolm was divorcing her, Charles had escaped, Teddy had been seen. It was endless and totally untrue, and perfectly awful. And William Palmer was part of the nightmare. “You understand that this man may have killed your son, yet you're not certain that you believe he is guilty. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” she finally spat at him, “yes, that's correct… No…” She changed her mind again, “I think he did it.” Palmer looked deeply annoyed as she turned and stood up and walked across the room, struggling with her own feelings. “I am not entirely sure that Charles Delauney kidnapped, and possibly even killed, my son. But I believe it is possible because of the pajamas and the teddy bear.”
He smiled a small wintry smile at her. “That's my job, isn't it? Why don't you have a little faith in me, Mrs. Patterson, and let yourself be convinced. Your husband believes Mr. Delauney is guilty, you know.” He was trying to soothe her. But she already knew what Malcolm thought, and why. He also thought it was all her fault, and that wasn't true either.
“He doesn't know him as well as I do.”
“I suppose not. But Mr. Delauney beat you when you were pregnant, didn't he?”
She didn't answer for a long moment, as she stared out at the garden, wishing that she would see her son there. “More or less. I'm not sure I'd call it that. He hit me…but he was beside himself with grief…”
“And didn't he kill your unborn child as a result?”
“I don't know. But he's not going on trial for murdering my baby.”
“No, but perhaps for murdering your son. And if he could do it once, perhaps he could do it again.”
“That's ridiculous. The two cases are entirely different.”
“Are you defending him, Mrs. Patterson? Will you defend him at the trial?” That was what he wanted to know. He wanted to know just where she stood before she hurt his case, and he was already more than a little worried.
“That's not my job, Mr. Palmer. I'm not here to defend anyone. All I care about is my son.”
“And all I care about is justice.”
“Then justice will be served.” She looked at him long and hard, and he was serious and unhappy when he left her. Patterson was right, she was unpredictable and unreliable, emotional, and he was beginning to wonder if the chauffeur was right after all. Maybe she still was in love with Charles Delauney. Maybe they'd been having an affair. Maybe there was more to this than met the eye. But his investigators had turned up absolutely nothing unsavory about her. The worst thing anyone could say about her was that she spent too much money on clothes, but Patterson didn't seem to mind that.
When Palmer left that afternoon, John Taylor had arrived only moments later. Visiting her had become part of his daily routine now. He enjoyed talking to her, or sometimes they just sat quietly over a cup of coffee. He liked just being there, somewhere near her. Sometimes he'd spend hours at the house pretending to keep an eye on his men, just so he could be around when she came downstairs. It was like being a kid again, but they'd smile at each other, or steal a look, or she'd bring him a sandwich, and he'd put a hand out quickly and touch her. He loved the smell of her, and the softness of her skin, and if he was very lucky, and no one
