Chapter XVII

I spent a couple of fruitless hours approaching as many of Colleen Clark's neighbors as I could, starting with the ones who didn't appear to bear her any outright malice. Colleen had provided me with a comprehensive list of associates, casual acquaintances, and friends, but the latter were few, and far outnumbered by those she believed bore her some antipathy. Inevitably, I questioned some of the hostiles, too, because they couldn't be ignored, and received responses varying from "Nothing to say" and "I already told the police all I know," to "Get lost" and "You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

Unfortunately, even the obliging ones had little to share other than that Colleen and her husband were always polite but kept mainly to themselves, and none of them had ever spent longer inside the Clark home than it took to conduct a brief conversation, sometimes over coffee but more often not. After Henry's birth, Colleen sometimes joined the younger mothers at Dougherty Field if the weather was good, and would sometimes take part in the weekly Mom Kids breakfasts at the Crooked Mile Cafe on Milk Street, but she was an irregular attendee, and more of a listener than a talker.

"I liked her, though," said a woman named Piper Hudson, who lived one street over from the Clarks on Bolton. "Once you got to know her, she was really sweet. I think she was just lacking in confidence. My sister struggles with an eating disorder, and I thought I saw some of that in Colleen, though we never discussed it in depth."

Hudson was bouncing a one-year-old girl named Isabella in her arms. She had two other children, with a Colombian nanny to help take care of them, which struck me as a full-time job given the noise that was coming from inside the house. Their mother left me alone for a moment to hand Isabella over to the nanny before returning to the porch. She hadn't asked me to step into the hall because she said it was quieter outside. From behind the door, I now heard the sound of three children competing to see who could scream loudest, should confirmation have been required.

"If you'd told me before the first was born that I'd get tired of the weight of a child in my arms, I'd have scolded you," she said. "That novelty wore off the first time I went to bed with aching muscles and woke up the same way."

We watched a squirrel forage for black walnuts beneath the mature ornamental tree in her yard. Black walnuts are not native to Maine, but squirrels love them. The rodent would earn its meal, though; it would have to gnaw its way through the hard green husk to get at the nut inside. I knew fishermen who would pay good money for those discarded husks: to be crushed, cast on the water, and used to poison fish. It was odd the information one picked up as the years went by—or more correctly, the details one remembered. That knowledge about black walnuts and fishermen had probably displaced something useful from my brain, like how to avoid drowning.

"Did you and Colleen ever talk about her son?"

I could see her turning the question over in her mind, like a package of which she had grown suspicious halfway through its unwrapping.

"Of course."

"My job isn't to undermine Colleen, Mrs. Hudson," I said. "I'm only interested in helping her."

I could tell she was still wary. I was glad. It would make me trust what she said that little bit more, especially as she was the first person I'd interviewed who asked me to sit down with them.

"What do you know about Colleen's relationship with Henry?" she asked.

"I know that Colleen suffered from depression, struggling with the first years of motherhood, and then some," I said. "She told me she'd been seeing a therapist, which helped, and was now emerging from that dark period. Her husband said she'd displayed feelings of resentment toward Henry, which she doesn't deny."

"They'll use that against her, though, won't they?" asked Hudson. "In court, I mean."

"They'll certainly try," I said.

"A bunch of men in suits, with no understanding of what it means to go through pregnancy, childbirth, or caring for an infant day and night, and no idea of what that does to a woman's body and mind."

"I imagine it's one of the reasons why they've gone for a female prosecutor. They're aware of the optics."

"Then maybe Colleen should have chosen a female lawyer," said Hudson.

"Instead she chose the best one."

"You're saying there isn't a female attorney in the state of Maine as good as Moxie Castin?"

"There isn't an attorney in the state who can compare with him," I said. "Colleen is in superlative hands."

"What about you? Where do you fit in?"

"I bask in Mr. Castin's reflected glory. So what can you tell me that I don't already know about Colleen and her son?"

She squinted at me. She had kind, shrewd eyes. Her husband was a lucky man.

"She loved Henry," said Hudson. "I mean, she always loved him, even when she was frustrated by him, or bored—because they don't tell you just how uninteresting babies can be—or floundering for lack of sleep. But loving and liking aren't the same thing, and I doubt there's a mother out there who hasn't at some point wanted to shake her baby to make them stop crying. You don't do it, but that doesn't mean you haven't considered it, and desperation and depression can make you think the worst things about your child and yourself. I speak from experience.

"But however low she felt, I don't think Colleen ever so much as raised her voice to that boy. It's not in her nature. Her instinct is to internalize, and suffer quietly. But I could see the toll motherhood was taking on her, and glimpsed myself in her. I got her to open up about it. I was the one who persuaded her to go to therapy, and recommended she consider my therapist. I know Colleen resisted medication, though. She tried it for a while, but didn't like the way it deadened her, so she ended up with something less heavy that she could take when things got too much. But foremost, she needed someone who would listen and empathize, because she couldn't manage alone."

"What about her husband?"

"The cheater? He wanted to be a corporate big shot Monday to Friday, and a dad for a couple of hours on weekends, if it suited, but I don't think he was a husband or father at all toward the end. Colleen didn't want a divorce, though she suspected he did. Eventually, he'd have gotten his way."

"I spoke to him earlier today," I said. "He was convinced that Colleen would have surrendered custody of Henry to him."

"He told you that? What an asshole. And just who was supposed to look after Henry if that came to pass? Because he sure as hell wasn't going to be the one. He'd probably have handed him off to his brother and his wife, and they'd have been happy to take Henry, not having children of their own."

"You and Colleen seem to have shared a lot."

"Not everything, but enough. I told you, I liked her. I mean, I like her. I don't know why I'm talking about her in the past tense. Her life isn't over, no matter what others might say."

"And Colleen's mother?"

"Evelyn's okay, I think," said Hudson. "She's a widow and Colleen's her only child, so Evelyn is very protective of her. She tried to help out as best she could, but she and Stephen didn't get along, especially after he cheated on her daughter."

"Did Colleen talk to you about the other woman involved?"

"Mara? She mentioned her, but she wasn't able to find out a whole lot, and I bet Stephen didn't share even half of what he knew. What man would? It's weird, but it's almost as though Mara Teller didn't exist, not really. It's like someone made her up, but couldn't be bothered to do it properly."

I whistled softly.

"What do you do for a living?" I asked.

"I'm a forensic accountant, but I've taken time off to raise my kids. I plan to return to work, though, as soon as they're all old enough for school. Why?"

"Your view of Mara Teller is remarkably acute."

"So you agree?"

"Let's just say that if I ever need the services of a forensic accountant, I'll know where to turn. As for Mara Teller, there's no shortage of false identities on the Internet. It was made for fake lives and alternative existences."

"If Colleen isn't responsible for whatever happened to Henry—and I don't believe she is—then someone else must have taken him," said Hudson, "so why not this Mara Teller? But then, you're already thinking that way, aren't you?"

"I'm not ruling it out."

I wasn't ruling out Stephen's brother and sister-in-law either, but I kept that to myself. The bloodstained blanket didn't fit with them, though. If they had somehow contrived to abduct Henry Clark because they couldn't have a child of their own, why would they then harm him? Something might have gone wrong, of course, but if it had not, and by some miracle Henry was still alive, where could they be keeping him? After all, his father was currently sharing their house, so how could they have hoped to hide Henry from Stephen? I still wanted to test their alibi, but logic said they weren't involved.

Inside the house, one of Hudson's children began wailing for her.

"Time for me to put on my mommy pants," she said. "There is another thing, although it doesn't mean much. I just considered it odd. Colleen told me she was surprised that Stephen bothered to have an affair. He'd never been very interested in sex, not even when they first began seeing each other. She used to worry it was her, a sign that he didn't find her attractive, but he admitted it early on. He liked running, and wanted to be a success in business, and it might be that getting married and having a family were things he felt he was supposed to do, because it was what regular people did. I always thought he was a cold fish, but I guess he proved me wrong by cheating on her."

"And this absence of a sexual component to the marriage didn't bother Colleen?"

"I'm not saying they never slept together, but it wasn't as though they were doing it more than a couple of times a month, even as newlyweds. Colleen had confidence issues, so it might have suited her to pursue a less physical relationship with her husband, or maybe the absence of sex compounded those difficulties. Who knows? That's not one I'd like to judge, and there was a limit to how far I was prepared to explore the subject with her."

"People change," I said, "or so I've been told."

"Some do. But most don't, or not so you'd notice."

The wailing increased in volume.

"I have to go, or the nanny will quit," she said. "Feel free to get in touch if I can be of any more help. Will Colleen make bail?"

"Today, with luck."

"Then I'll go see her later in the week. Don't let them put her back behind bars again, Mr. Parker. If you do, I'll be disappointed."

She went into her home and closed the door. I experienced a brief flash of a life with her, decided it wouldn't be so bad, and let it float away. I saw that the squirrel had bitten through the husk to the nut inside and took it as a good omen. We find them where we can. I checked my watch. I had enough time for a couple more calls and so, strengthened by Piper Hudson's cooperation, and the success of the squirrel, I headed back to the Clark house.

BY GOOD OR BADfortune, Alison Piucci was once again out on the Clarks' street as I pulled up to the curb. She was in conversation with Kirk Roback, the man with the wandering hands. They were standing quite close to each other, their body language open and relaxed, even mildly intimate. Had Mrs. Roback witnessed their interaction, her husband might have had some explaining to do. They stopped talking as I approached, the pair of them radiating nothing resembling good cheer.

"We haven't met," I said, showing my ID. "My name is Parker. I'm a private investigator."

"We saw you on TV," said Piucci. "You're working for Colleen Clark."

"Technically, I'm employed by her attorney, but let's not split hairs."

Roback spoke up. "We have nothing to say," which was that day's echo. His voice was high for a man's, but soft, too. He was soft all over, like a figure made from marshmallows. Beside him, the slim Piucci resembled the first digit in the number 10. If anything was going on between them, Roback was pitching way out of his league.

"I haven't asked you anything yet," I said.

"We're not going to help her get off," said Piucci.

"We should let justice run its course," added Roback.

"That's where I come in," I said. "We've moved on from witch dunking and trial by ordeal as proof of guilt or innocence. I just have a few questions—"

"I told you," said Roback. "We have nothing to say."

He took a step forward, but when I didn't take a step back in response, he was left looking awkward, though in his mind it might have played well for Piucci.

"If she's a killer," said Piucci, "she should pay, but I have nothing against her personally."

Her tone suggested that she did.

"The key word there," I said, "is ‘if.'?"

"We're not interested," said Roback. "Try your patter someplace else."

"I'll do that," I said. "Thank you for your time."

Before I went on my way, I waggled a finger at Roback, as though a half-forgotten detail about him had just returned to mind. All those episodes of Columbo I'd watched as a boy hadn't gone to waste.

"I remember you now," I said. "You're the guy who tried to grope Colleen at a party."

Roback reddened.

"That's slander," he said. Piucci, meanwhile, was staring at him like he'd just begun picking his nose.

"Not if it's true," I said. "And if it's put to you on the stand, and you deny it, that would be perjury."

"What do you mean, ‘on the stand'? Why should I be put on the stand?"

"Anyone could be called as a witness in this trial. You know Colleen. You had interactions with her, at least one of which she claims was unwelcome. Think about that. We'll be in touch."

I gave them both my best farewell smile, then crossed the street to the Clark house.