“That must mean that I didn’t tell anyone what I saw. Why on earth didn’t I?” Sister Mary Katherine demanded accusingly. “Not telling is inexcusable.”
Fred and I exchanged glances. No one who had heard the frightened little-girl voice of Bonnie Jean Dunleavy would have wondered why she had kept quiet or blamed her for her silence. “Have you viewed the tapes of your own sessions?” I asked.
Sister Mary Katherine shook her head. Fred was the one who answered aloud. “I still want what she remembers to be what she remembers,” he replied. “I didn’t want to layer in what she had already related on the tapes.”
“You were scared to death,” I said. “The woman threatened you. She said you’d end up like Mimi if you told anyone what you had seen.”
But Sister Mary Katherine wasn’t satisfied. “Still,” she said disapprovingly, “keeping quiet about such a thing is unforgivable.”
The wine and coffee came. Sister Mary Katherine took a careful sip before asking, “What do we do now? Clearly this Marchbank woman was once my friend. I want to know whether or not her killers were ever brought to justice. Certainly I owe her that much. It’s the only way to atone for my silence back then.”
I wanted to tell her to give the poor little kid she had once been a break, but Fred cut me off before I had a chance.
“What do you know about forgotten memories?” he asked me.
“Not much. It usually happens with kids who have been sexually molested, right?”
Fred nodded. “Most of the time. But it can also have to do with some other early childhood trauma. Beau, you’re focused on the crime aspect of all this. My job has to do with helping Sister Mary Katherine rid herself of the nightmare that’s been robbing her and her nuns of their good night’s sleep. You’ve been able to verify some of the details of what happened and where. If we can compare additional details with what’s been buried in Sister Mary Katherine’s subconscious all this time, we may be able to bring it back into her conscious memory as well. Hypnosis is fine as far as it goes, but in my experience, dealing with the memory consciously is what it’s going to take to break the nightmare’s hold.”
“But how?” Sister Mary Katherine asked.
“Do you have the exact address where Madeline Marchbank was living when she was murdered?” Fred asked.
“I don’t have it right this minute,” I told him. “But I can get it tomorrow once I can access official case files. By then I’ll be able to have vehicle licensing records as well. Why?”
“I have appointments in the morning, but it might be helpful if you could drive her through her old neighborhood-past the house where she lived-to see if there’s a chance that recognizing familiar ground might be enough to cause a breakthrough in her memory barrier.”
Sister Mary Katherine shook her head. “I doubt Mr. Beaumont has either the time or the inclination to drive me around my old neighborhood.”
I remembered what Harry had said. Busying myself with the good sister’s difficulties would keep me from interfering in Ron’s situation.
“You’re wrong about that,” I said. “In fact, there’s nothing I’d rather do. Give me a chance to get into the official records on the Marchbank case. I’ll also make copies of all the material I found today. Once I have the information I need, I’ll call and make arrangements to drive you to Mimi Marchbank’s former residence. By the way, when are you planning to head back to Whidbey?”
“Tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “Weather permitting,” she added. “But believe me, if I need to stay longer, I will. I’m ready to put an end to this problem, and so is everyone else at Saint Benedict’s. In fact, they may be even more ready than I am.”
My cell phone rang. “Beau?” Mel Soames asked. “I thought you said you’d be home all evening. I’m at your place, but the doorman said you took off.”
“Sorry. Something came up, but I’m only a few minutes away. I’ll be there shortly.”
I ended the call and turned back to Sister Mary Katherine. “I have to get back home. Give me until midmorning to gather information, then I’ll call you and we can figure out what to do next.” As I stood up, so did Fred. “You don’t have to leave,” I told him. “I’m sure I can catch a cab.”
“No, I said I’d take you home,” he insisted, “and I will.”
“I didn’t expect her to be so hard on herself for not telling someone what she had seen,” I said to Fred as we waited for the valet to return Fred’s Lexus. “She couldn’t have been more than four years old when the murder happened.”
“She’s spent forty years as a Catholic nun,” Fred said. “I suspect you don’t do that without having a well-developed sense of responsibility for the state of humanity.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I told him.
With the lift from Fred, I was back at Belltown Terrace within ten minutes of Mel Soames’s phone call and found her waiting in the lobby. She was bundled in a long black leather coat complete with scarf, gloves, and boots. She surveyed my sweater and loafers with visible disdain. “You did take off in a hurry.”
“As I said on the phone, something unexpected came up.”
“How unexpected?” she asked. Her tone of voice was sharper than it should have been, and it put me on edge. So did the icy look on her face. I’ve finally learned that seeing an expression like that on a woman’s face usually means bad news for any man dumb enough to remain in close proximity.
The front door opened and a group of people, sharing a laugh, tumbled into the lobby. They were all drenched in snow, having just been through some kind of killer snowball fight. All of them seemed to be having a very good time. Their high spirts and easygoing banter stood in stark contrast to Melissa Soames’s dour expression.
“Maybe we should talk about this upstairs,” I suggested. “In private.”
She nodded. “You’re right,” she agreed stiffly. “Privacy is probably a very good idea.”
CHAPTER 8
Most of the time when people walk into my twenty-fifth-floor penthouse apartment, they are so agog at the wall-to-wall windows and amazing views that they’re momentarily struck dumb. I doubt Mel Soames even noticed the view. Blue eyes blazing, she rounded on me the moment I shut the door.
“What the hell were you thinking?” she demanded.
Seeing Melissa Soames that angry was a daunting sight. I was pretty sure I knew what she meant, but I decided to play dumb anyway. “What are you talking about?”
“About your going to Ron Peters’s place this afternoon, as if you didn’t know!” she exclaimed. “Didn’t Harry give you strict orders to keep your nose out of it?”
“Tracy called me,” I said in my defense. “She’s seventeen. Her dad had just been hauled off for questioning in handcuffs, her mother had gone to meet with a lawyer. She called me asking for help. Do you have any idea what it feels like to be a teenager in circumstances like that?”
“You’d be surprised,” Mel returned.
“Well, what was I supposed to do?”
“Obey orders, for starters,” Mel shot back.
“Who told you I had been there?” I asked the question more to get her off track than because I wanted an answer.
“Does it matter?”
My first guess was easy. Based on my latest meeting with Amy’s sharp-tongued sister and her obvious low opinion of me, I assumed Molly Wright to be the probable squealer. “It doesn’t matter at all,” I said. “Now, are you going to stay awhile? Would you like me to take your coat?”
Mel seemed to consider. With a resigned shrug, she removed her gloves, stuffed them into a pocket, and then slipped out of the coat, folded it and laid it down beside her.
“Something to drink?”
This was a bluff, of course. I don’t keep booze in the house and only a limited supply of sodas.
“Coffee,” she said. “I’m working.”
Fortunately, I do keep a supply of Seattle’s Best Saturday Blend beans in my freezer. “I’ll be right back,” I said. “Make yourself comfortable.”