Dwight signed for the delivery, took charge of the pump, unpacked it, confirmed it was the right model, then headed to the kitchen for a glass of ice water, saying he’d fetch Rusty and go off to study the manual.
While the Heberlings boned up on water pump installation in the side yard, I pulled weeds from the flower bed bordering the fence, daydreaming about soaking the dirt out from under my fingernails during a long, hot bath later that evening. I was tugging at a clump of stubborn crab grass, swearing under my breath, when the crunch of gravel on the drive announced the arrival of another visitor, driving the vision of lavender bubbles clear out of my head.
I looked up and swiped sweat off my forehead using the back of my hand.
A statuesque middle-aged woman and a young man were climbing out of a bright blue Chevy Volt. The woman, who had been driving, carried a notebook; the young man opened the trunk, leaned in and came out holding a shoulder-rigged Steadicam.
Reporters. Damn. Somebody had a big mouth.
‘Mrs Ives?’
I admitted that I was.
‘Madison Powers, Washington Post. We’re here to ask you a few questions about the body of the baby found in your home the other day. Do you have a minute?’
Although I was certain it would take more than a minute, I agreed.
The cameraman shouldered his camera, but before he got it rolling, I asked, ‘We read the Post, so I’m familiar with your byline. Didn’t you write that exposé on the chicken farming runoff that’s polluting the Bay? Won a Pulitzer or something?’
‘Guilty,’ she said. She pulled a business card out of her handbag and handed it to me. ‘I wish the article had resulted in some sensible regulation, but when forty percent of Maryland’s agricultural money comes from Big Chicken, it’s hard to get politicians to pay attention.’ She looped a wayward strand of dark brown hair behind an ear. ‘I won’t keep you long, as I can see you’re busy…’
I gestured toward the house with the trowel I’d been holding. ‘I imagine you want to see the fireplace?’
‘May I?’
As I led Madison into the house, followed by the cameraman, I told her about the discovery, and about my observations as to the child’s age and sex. ‘We named her Baby Ella,’ I said as I pointed out what remained of the fireplace.
‘Who made the actual discovery?’ Madison asked, entirely for the benefit of her viewers as she already knew the answer.
‘It was our contractor, Dwight Heberling,’ I told her.
Madison turned to the cameraman and made a cutting motion with her hand. ‘Where might I find Mr Heberling?’ she inquired.
‘He’s probably out by the garage.’ I explained about the broken water pump. ‘Follow me.’
We found Dwight sitting in a lawn chair in the shade of an oak tree, hunched over a schematic diagram spread open on his knees. Rusty leaned against the tree trunk, punching buttons on his iPhone. Both snapped to attention when we appeared.
I made the introductions.
As the camera rolled, the Heberlings gave their version of the gruesome discovery. ‘It looked like one of those Egyptian mummies you see in museums,’ Dwight concluded.
‘Like King Tut,’ Rusty added, grimacing into the camera.
‘How long do you estimate the baby had been in the chimney, Mr Heberling?’
‘It was wrapped in newspapers from the 1950s…’ Dwight began before his son interrupted again.
‘But ya know, Pops, I’ve been thinking. People leave newspapers lying around, ya know, so the body could have been a lot older than 1951, or even younger.’
Rusty was right. I hadn’t thought about the possibility that a more modern-day someone had wrapped a dead child up in old newspaper. Or that someone, upon discovering the little mummy in a suitcase in the attic or somewhere, had panicked and wrapped it up in a recent newspaper and hidden it in our chimney rather than contacting the authorities.
Madison Powers turned to face the cameraman. ‘County police are waiting on test results from the state medical examiner. Until then, exactly what happened to little Baby Ella and who placed her in the chimney of this eastern shore cottage, and when, remains a mystery.’
Although her cameraman perked up at my invitation, Madison refused a glass of iced tea on behalf of the both of them. ‘I’ve got to get going,’ she said as I walked them back toward her car. ‘Do you know who owned this house before you?’
I did, back to day one, but I’d worked hard for that information and decided I wasn’t about to do her research for her. She could get her own staffers on it. ‘The house dates back to pre-Revolutionary War times,’ I told the reporter. ‘From the style of construction, we know that the chimney was built sometime around 1770…’ I paused to do the math. ‘That’s two hundred and fifty years, give or take.’
‘So, until we hear back from the medical examiner…’
‘All bets are off,’ I concluded.
We’d reached the front gate. I was holding it open, waiting for the cameraman to catch up when a black sedan, traveling a lot faster than was prudent on such a poorly surfaced road – if you valued your shock absorbers – ground to a halt in a spray of gravel just behind the Volt. A preppy, college-aged dude slid out of the driver’s seat of the Acura and wrenched a rear door open.
‘Someone important, I gather?’ I murmured in an aside to Madison.
‘In his own mind, at least,’ she replied as we watched the kid’s passenger unfold a pair of long, chino-covered legs and emerge from the car smiling toothily, already in full meet-and-greet mode. ‘That’s Jack Ames, Tilghman County Council president,’ Madison said. ‘He’s running for U.S. Congress in November. Watched two full episodes of The West Wing and thinks it qualifies him to run the government.’
I didn’t need Madison to tell me who the guy was. I’d seen his face – and that of his beautiful wife, two point five adorable children and pedigreed chocolate lab – plastered all over a billboard at the intersection of Routes 13 and 113. SHARE THE FUTURE, it proclaimed in letters three feet high.
‘What the hell is he doing here?’ I asked.
Madison shrugged. ‘Same as me, I guess. You gotta admit it’s not every day you find the body of a baby hidden in a chimney.’
The cameraman had moved to put the Steadicam back in the trunk, but with a barely perceptible nod from Madison he shouldered the camera again, this time pointing it at the politician as he rapidly closed the gap between us.
‘Madison.’ Ames grinned. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’ A sudden gust of wind lifted a lock of his perfectly coifed, evenly colored chestnut hair.
Madison snorted. ‘Surprise, surprise, surprise.’ She turned to me. ‘Hannah Ives, meet Councilman Jack Ames. He’s stopped by to sweet talk you out of your vote.’
Ames laughed and extended his hand. When I took it, he covered mine with both of his, stared into my eyes as if checking them for cataracts and said, ‘Welcome to Tilghman County, Hannah.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied, thinking even his hair seemed insincere.
As far as trolling for votes went, though, Jack Ames was barking up the wrong tree. Paul and my primary residence remained in Annapolis, firmly in Maryland’s wildly gerrymandered third Congressional district, while Ames was running to unseat the Democratic incumbent in Maryland’s ninth. I decided not to mention it.
‘I heard about Baby Ella, of course,’ he said. ‘Somebody’s tragedy, for sure.’ He wagged his head slowly, sadly, sympathetically. ‘But that’s actually not why I’m here. Word is you’ve got a bum well pump.’ He slipped a thumb and forefinger into the breast pocket of his oxford button-down shirt and pulled out a business card. ‘Friend of mine, Hank Daniels, runs a plumbing and heating business in Elizabethtown. Give him my name when you call and he’ll fix you right up.’