suggest frailty. She gripped the wheels of her chair firmly, moved herself deftly around the open door and forward, effectively blocking our way into the house. She had a blanket folded over her lap that came down over her knees, and wore a brown sweater over a flowered blouse. Her silver hair was pinned back aggressively, not a stray hair out of place. Her strong cheekbones had a touch of rouge on them, and her piercing brown eyes were darting back and forth between her two unexpected visitors. Her features suggested that she might possibly have been, at one time, a striking woman, but there exuded from her now, perhaps from the strong set of her jaw, the way her lips pursed out, a sense of irritability, maybe even meanness.
I searched her for any hints of Cynthia, but found none.
“Yes, I’m Mrs. Sloan,” she said.
“I’m sorry to disturb you so late,” I said. “Mrs. Clayton Sloan?”
“Yes. I’m Enid Sloan,” she said. “You’re right. It’s very late. What do you want?” There was an edge in her voice suggesting whatever it was, we could not count on her to be obliging.
She held her head up, thrust her chin forward, not just because we towered over her, but as a show of strength. She was trying to tell us she was a tough old broad, not to be messed with. I was surprised she wasn’t more fearful of two men showing up at her door late at night. The fact was, she was still an old lady in a wheelchair, and we were two able-bodied men.
I did a quick visual sweep of the living room. Knockoff colonial furniture, Ethan Allen Lite, lots of space between the pieces to allow for the wheelchair. Faded drapes and sheers, a few vases with fake flowers. The carpet, a thick broadloom that must have cost a bundle when it was installed, looked worn and stained in places, the pile worn down by the wheelchair.
There was a TV on in another room on the first floor, and there was a comforting smell coming to us from farther inside the house. I sniffed the air. “Baking?” I said.
“Carrot cake,” she snapped. “For my son. He’s coming home.”
“Oh,” I said. “That’s who we’ve come by to see. Jeremy?”
“What do you want with Jeremy?”
Just what
While I hesitated, trying to come up with something, Vince took the lead: “Where’s Jeremy right now, Mrs. Sloan?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m afraid we’re the ones asking the questions, ma’am,” he said. He’d adopted an authoritarian tone, but he seemed to be making an effort not to sound menacing. I wondered if he was trying to give Enid Sloan the impression he was some kind of cop.
“Who are you people?”
“Maybe,” I said, “if we could talk to your husband. Could we speak with Clayton?”
“He’s not here,” Enid Sloan said. “He’s in the hospital.”
That took me by surprise. “Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry. Would that be the hospital we saw driving up here?”
“If you came up by way of Lewiston,” she said. “He’s been there several weeks. I have to take a taxi to see him. Every day, there and back.” It was important, I guessed, that we know the sacrifices she’d been making on her husband’s behalf.
“Your son can’t take you?” Vince asked. “He’s been gone that long?”
“He’s had things to do.” She inched her chair forward, as if she could push us off the porch.
“I hope it’s nothing serious,” I said. “With your husband.”
“My husband is dying,” Enid Sloan said. “Got cancer all through him. It’s only a matter of time now.” She hesitated, looked at me. “You the one who phoned here? Asking for Jeremy?”
“Uh, yes,” I said. “I’ve been needing to get in touch with him.”
“You said he told you he was going to Connecticut,” she said accusingly.
“I believe that’s what he said,” I told her.
“He never told you that. I asked him. He said he didn’t tell anybody where he was going. So how do you know about that?”
“I think we should continue this discussion inside,” Vince said, moving forward.
Enid Sloan held on to her wheels. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, I do,” Vince said, and put both hands on the arms of the chair and forced it back. Enid’s grip was no match for Vince’s force.
“Hey,” I said to him, reaching out to touch his arm. I hadn’t planned for us to get rough with an old lady in a wheelchair.
“Don’t worry,” Vince said, trying to make his voice sound reassuring. “It’s just cold out on the porch, and I don’t want Mrs. Sloan here to catch her death.”
I didn’t care much for his choice of words.
“You stop that,” Enid Sloan said, swatting at Vince’s hands and arms.
He pushed her inside, and I didn’t see that I had much choice but to follow. I closed the front door behind me.
“I don’t see any easy way to pussyfoot around this,” Vince said. “You might as well just ask your questions.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Enid spat at us.
I was taken aback. “Mrs. Sloan,” I said, “my name is Terry Archer. My wife’s name is Cynthia. Cynthia Bigge.”
She stared at me, her mouth half open. She was speechless.
“I take it that name means something to you,” I said. “My wife’s, that is. Maybe mine, too, but my wife’s name, that seems to have made an impression.”
She still said nothing.
“I have a question for you,” I said. “And it might sound a bit crazy, but I’ll have to ask you to be a bit patient here if my questions sound ridiculous.”
Still silent.
“Anyway, here goes,” I said. “Are you Cynthia’s mother? Are you Patricia Bigge?”
And she laughed scornfully. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
“Then why the laugh?” I said. “You seem to know these names I’m mentioning.”
“Leave my house. Nothing you’re saying makes any sense to me.”
I glanced at Vince, who was stone-faced. I said to him, “Did you ever see Cyn’s mother? Other than that one time, going out to the car that night?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Could this be her?” I asked.
He narrowed his eyes, focused on her. “I don’t know. Unlikely, I think.”
“I’m calling the police,” Enid said, turning her chair. Vince came around behind it, went to grab for the handles, until I waved for him to stop.
“No,” I said. “Maybe that would be a good idea. We could all wait here for Jeremy to return home, and ask him some questions with the police here.”
That stopped her wheeling the chair, but she said, “Why should I be afraid to have the police come?”
“That’s a good question. Why should you be? Could it have something to do with what happened twenty-five years ago? Or maybe with more recent events, in Connecticut? While Jeremy’s been away? The death of Tess Berman, my wife’s aunt? And a private detective named Denton Abagnall?”
“Get out,” she said.
“And about Jeremy,” I said. “He’s Cynthia’s brother, isn’t he?”
She glared at me, her eyes filled with hate. “Don’t you dare say that,” she said, her hands resting on the blanket.
“Why?” I asked. “Because it’s true? Because Jeremy’s actually Todd?”
“What?” she said. “Who told you that? That’s a filthy lie!”
I looked over her shoulder at Vince, whose hands were on the rubber grips of the wheelchair.
“I want to make a phone call,” she said. “I demand that you let me use the phone.”
