The room was silent except for Clare drip-drip-dripping onto the carpet. “Because,” Russ prompted.
“Because I’ve been using the Ketchem endowment money for personal expenses.” He glanced up at Mrs. Marshall. “I’m sorry, Lacey.”
She stared at him. “For how long?”
He looked at his shoes. “Since your mother died.” He lifted his head. “I needed it, Lacey. I had a growing family, and I was bleeding away my prime earning years in the clinic. Even with the extra cash, I was still making thousands less than my peers.”
Mrs. Marshall held herself stiff, but her hands were shaking. She clasped them together. “Allan. My mother died thirty years ago. Are you telling me you’ve been embezzling from her trust all these years?”
“I needed it,” he said. He twisted around, looking toward his wife again. “I wanted us to be able to afford a decent house. And to put money away for the kids’ college tuition.” He reached for her, the handcuffs clinking against each other. “I didn’t blow it on crazy stuff. I just wanted to provide a good living for us.”
Renee took his hands. Her brown eyes swam. “Sweetie, don’t you know you didn’t need to give me things?” Her voice was thready, choked out of a tight throat. “All I ever wanted was you, and our children, and a quiet life here at home.”
“It wasn’t that much,” he said. “Just enough to give us some breathing room.”
“It was three hundred thousand dollars,” Mrs. Marshall said. Her tangerine-colored lips tightened. “That my mother intended to serve the poor and the sick.”
Rouse whirled. “Your mother owed me,” he said, all trace of apology gone from his tone.
Russ held up his hands leaving wet stains behind on the chair’s arms. “Stop right there. Before we go any further, Dr. Rouse, I want your statement as to what happened the night of March nineteenth. Debba Clow, in a sworn statement, claims you called her, asked her to meet at the Ketchem family cemetery at Stewart’s Pond, and, during your discussion, fell, injuring your head.”
Rouse nodded. “I had been thinking a lot about Mrs. Ketchem. And Mr. Ketchem. Since I got the news about losing the trust money.” He glanced at his wife. “I didn’t really do any work when I went to the clinic that afternoon. I just needed time to think. There was a letter, from Lacey, to the board of aldermen, and when I read it, I knew that they’d be looking at the records of what I had done with the Ketchem funds. All I could picture was the scandal. Public disgrace. Prison. I decided to kill myself.”
Mrs. Rouse let out a strangled moan. Her husband went on. “But I got to thinking about that Clow woman. And I thought, if I could just persuade her about the immunizations, that would make up a bit for what I’d done. Mrs. Ketchem would like it. So I did just like she said. I asked her to meet me, and we went, and we talked.” His mouth twisted, and all at once he was the old Allan Rouse again. “The stupid woman couldn’t get it into her head that infectious diseases can kill you no matter how many homeopathic remedies you dose yourself with. You just can’t teach some people.”
“Did you fall accidentally?” Russ said.
“Oh, yes.” Rouse touched his head. “Worried me. I thought I might have concussed myself. But my vision was good, and I was alert. I didn’t want that idiot Clow woman driving me back home. I intended to return to the clinic, leave Renee a note, and then use my gun.” Mrs. Rouse made the noise again. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” The doctor patted her hands as well as his cuffs allowed. “I just didn’t want any of this to touch you.”
“So what happened?”
“I guess the blow to my head was worse than I thought. I got into my car, started it up, and promptly drove myself into a tree.” His gaze drifted to some middle distance. “I remember sitting there, in the dark and the cold, and thinking this was it. I had reached the absolute lowest point of my entire life.” He shivered. “And then another car stopped to help me.” His voice took on a note of wonder. “Skiers, going home to New York City. And it came to me, just like that, that I could go with them. That I didn’t have to die. I could just… disappear.” He looked up at Mrs. Marshall. “Like Jonathon Ketchem did.” He glanced at Russ. “It was like I had been weighed down with heavy chains, and suddenly, I was free. I took my wallet and the cash I had taken out for our trip. I left everything else behind. I told them I lived in the city and they drove me the whole way. Once I was there…” He spread his elbows, showing off his scavenged-from-the-Dumpster attire. “It’s very easy for a sixty-five-year-old man to vanish in New York City.”
“So what brought you back?”
Clare thought of Hugh’s phone call and knew before Dr. Rouse opened his mouth. “I read a story in the paper yesterday morning,” he said. “About Renee.” He looked up at her. She clapped her hands over her reddened cheeks. “I couldn’t let her go on wondering what had happened to me. I knew I had to come back and explain everything.”
“We appreciate that,” Russ said.
“Sweetie, why didn’t you tell me in the first place? I would have helped you.”
Rouse shook his head. “I don’t know. First it’s one thing, then another, and another, and by the time you realize what’s happening, the trouble’s grown like a tumor and taken over your brain.” He looked at Clare. “I’m sorry about locking you in that cellar. I just wanted to see Renee. I was still thinking that somehow I could get away from all this.”
“I want to know why you had Renee call me,” Mrs. Marshall said. Her usually pale cheeks were pinpointed with bright pink, and her voice was charged. “Was I to get an apology as well? Before you vanished for a second time?”
“I owe you an explanation,” Rouse said.
“I should think so.”
“Your mother would have understood. We grew very close those last months before she died. Near the end, she confided in me. So I’d understand what the clinic truly meant to her. It was a work of…” He looked to Clare. “What’s it called when you do something to make up for a sin you’ve committed?”
“Expiation. Atonement. Redress.”
“That’s it. Lacey, for your mother, the clinic was a way to atone-”
“If you’re going to tell me my mother killed my father, save your breath.” Mrs. Marshall crossed her arms. “I already know.”
Dr. Rouse stared.
“We sent a dive team into Stewart’s Pond looking for your body,” Russ said. “They brought up remains tentatively identified as Jonathon Ketchem’s. The M.E. ruled cause of death was blunt-force trauma with a wide, flat instrument.”
“A frying pan,” Rouse said under his breath.
“Ahh,” Mrs. Marshall sighed. “So Chief Van Alstyne was right.” Clare looked at the older woman for any signs of distress or grief, but she seemed to have gained strength from Rouse’s confirmation. Maybe having her father restored in memory outweighed the knowledge of what her mother had done.
“But you don’t know why.” Dr. Rouse’s voice grew more certain.
“There are only a few reasons why people kill their spouses, and we see the same sad stories over and over again.” Russ shifted forward in the barrel chair, as if he were about to rise. “Repeating one of ’em isn’t going to help Mrs. Marshall. And it certainly can’t make a difference to either of her parents at this point.”
Dr. Rouse continued to look at Mrs. Marshall. “I know why,” he said. “Do you want to know? Do you want to know what I’ve been carrying around ever since your mother made me her secret accomplice? God only knows, I’m tired of hauling it around.”
Clare glanced around the room. Everyone, including Officer Durkee, was looking at the slim woman at the far edge of the archway.
“Yes,” Solace Ketchem Marshall said. “Tell me.”
Chapter 39
Thursday, March 13, 1924
