The sooner I talked some sense into my crazy sister, the better. I remembered what Ms. Bromley had said. Maybe this was just the kind of proof I needed to make Georgina see reason. I dialed Georgina’s number, but no one answered. By now I was wondering if Scott had taken his family on a vacation without telling anybody. I left a message saying I would call back, then considered what to do next. I didn’t feel much like talking to my Little Girl again, although I had to admit she’d been extraordinarily helpful about the Cabbage Patch Kid.
The pages from Dr. Sturges’s appointment book lay where I had left them on the desk. C. Cameron was next on my list. I had jotted down a possible telephone number with an address on Keswick Road. I dialed the number, and when a woman answered, I went into my spiel. “Ms. Cameron, this is Betty Smith from the Baltimore Police.”
“Yes?” She sounded meek, almost frightened.
“I’m following up on a few things from the other day.”
Suddenly her voice became guarded. “Haven’t I talked with you before? Your voice sounds familiar.”
Strangely, she sounded familiar, too. Suddenly the faceless voice on the other end of the line acquired plump cheeks and a dark brown ponytail held back with a red barrette. Claudia from All Hallows! I tried to make my voice sound like a cross between Debra Winger and Lauren Bacall instead of the Minnie Mouse range I sometimes slip into when I get excited. “No, you talked with Officers Williams and Duvall.”
“I could have sworn…”
I moved on quickly, not giving her the leisure to think. “Do you know of anyone who had a grudge against the doctor?”
“No one. She was helping us!”
“Irate husbands? Angry fathers?”
“How would I know that?” She became wary. “What did you say your name was?”
“Smith, Betty Smith. Baltimore Homicide.”
“Look, Ms. Smith. I already told you. Dr. Sturges was the kindest, most generous woman I’ve ever known. I can’t think of anybody who’d want her dead.”
A gravelly voice in the background wanted to know how long she was going to be on the telephone and demanded lunch. “Look,” she said, “I gotta go. Why don’t you give me your telephone number and I’ll call you back if I think of anything.”
Oh, hell. The only Baltimore telephone number I knew by heart was Georgina’s. I improvised a number recklessly and hung up, practically throwing the receiver into the cradle. I wondered whose number that was and hoped that Claudia would never have occasion to use it.
I added a line for Claudia Cameron to my list. Next to her name I wrote “Father?” After that evening at All Hallows, Claudia’s description of her abuse made me wonder where her father had been on the afternoon of January 15. He could have just as much motive as our father for getting rid of Dr. Sturges.
I studied the names in the doctor’s appointment book, looking for other possible matches with members of the group at All Hallows, but other than Claudia and JoAnne, none seemed likely.
I was so lost in thought that when the phone rang, I dropped my pen. I could see from the caller ID that Scott was on the line, calling from his cell phone.
“Hi, Scott.”
“It’s not Scott. It’s me, Georgina.”
“Oh, Georgina! Hi!”
“I hate it when you do that, Hannah. That caller ID of yours is spooky.”
“It wasn’t my idea. It was Paul’s. He likes to know when someone is calling from the academy.”
“Well, it’s weird.”
I guessed she was speaking from her car, because her voice kept fading in and out. I needed to find out, because I didn’t want to say what I was about to say if she was in control of a moving motor vehicle. “Where are you?”
“In the backyard, picking up the kids’ toys.”
So far so good. “Georgina, I want to tell you something and I want you to think about it.”
“How mysterious! What?”
“Cabbage Patch Kids were invented in 1978.”
The line hissed and crackled for an eternity before Georgina spoke again. “So?”
“You were twenty years old in 1978.”
“I honestly don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Hannah.”
“Just think about it, Georgina.”
I wondered how I could ask this next question without letting on that I knew more than I ought to about her therapy group. And then I thought, so what if she knows? Maybe it would help the truth get through her thick skull. “When you weren’t home last night, I went by the church looking for you.”
“I wasn’t there. Choir rehearses on Tuesday and I usually practice on Friday.”
“But I ran into Lionel.”
“Lucky for you.” She snorted.
“Doesn’t he ever go home?”
“From time to time. His wife’s something of a battle-ax.”
“Lionel told me about a therapy group that meets at the church and mentioned that you used to attend it.”
“What a tattletale!” She sighed. “I did go for a while, but I was finding the private sessions with Dr. Sturges much more helpful. Besides, I was practically living at that church. I needed a break.”
“Did you get involved with that group because it met at the church?”
“Quite the other way around.”
“How do you mean?”
“I heard about the organ job from one of the members in the group.”
I nearly dropped my cup. “So, how did you find out about the group itself?”
“Through the children’s pediatrician, Dr. Voorhis. After Julie I was going through a spell of depression, and during one of Julie’s well-baby visits, he recommended Dr. Sturges. In a way, that’s why I called.”
“Huh?”
“I think I’ve found a new therapist. Dr. Voorhis recommended him, too.”
“That’s great!” I said, hoping that it was. If the new therapist was from the same school as the old one, though, Georgina could be looking at years more of the same expensive nonsense.
“Scott’s taking me to interview him tomorrow afternoon, but I need your help.”
“Oh?”
“Could you watch Julie for me?”
“How about the boys?”
“They’re in school. I’ll only need you to pick them up if we’re running late.”
Tomorrow would be Friday. I would have to miss my morning at St. John’s. I thought about telling her to get a baby-sitter, but I didn’t want to do anything to discourage her from seeking treatment. Besides, I adored my niece, and it wasn’t Julie’s fault her mother wasn’t always playing with a full deck. “OK, what time?”
The relief in her voice was apparent, even over the bad connection. “Thanks, Hannah! I don’t know what I’d do without you. Can you come around ten-thirty?”
I said I’d see her then and hung up.
I sat there for a while, thinking. One woman had found her way to Dr. Sturges’s group via a notice in Fresh Fields. Georgina got there through Dr. Voorhis. Some of the women were undoubtedly church members. But then I remembered something Mindy had said about a tent revival. Tent revivals didn’t sound very Anglican to me. I wondered how Mindy’d gotten involved. I trotted upstairs to the entrance hall, found my purse, and rummaged through it, looking for the business card Mindy had given me.
Amanda Glover was CEO of a management consulting firm in Towson. After two intervening gatekeepers, one of whom must have been paid extra for her mellifluous British accent, Mindy came on the line.
“Hi, Hannah. I’m glad you called.”
“Look, I’m sorry to bother you at work, but I was wondering about something.”
“What?”
“Who recommended Dr. Sturges’s group to you?”
“Our pediatrician. Why do you ask?”