Escape to River's Bend

By E. S. Burton

On a sunny July afternoon in the small fishing hamlet of Bayou La Batre, Alabama, the trawler Bountiful Princess quietly leaves its mooring for a night of shrimping in the waters of the Gulf of Mexico. In the wee hours of morning, it silently slips back?minus its captain. Meanwhile, some miles away, a birthday celebration is in progress. Dina Sechrist, daughter of the socially prominent Sechrist family, has turned twenty-one. The two episodes, although miles apart, both physically and socially, are strangely connected. Its left up to Mobiles Chief Inspector Harold Anjou to find out what has happened to the missing captain. As he puts the pieces together, the glittering image of the Sechrist family slowly falls away to reveal a hotbed of manipulation and deceit. While he delves through the labyrinth of lies and cleverly told facts, Mrs. Sechrist fights to protect her family from something worsethe truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781491798744

E. S. Burton

E. S. Burton was born and raised in Louisville, Kentucky, graduated from the University of Kentucky, and was an investment advisor. Now retired, she lives on a farm with her two rescue dogs in the beautiful hills of Southern Indiana where she divides her time between writing and volunteering with the local Humane Society. This is the third book in her GlenMary Farm mystery series.

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CHAPTER 1

The Sechrists, Wednesday, July 12, 1972

C hief Inspector Harold LeRoy Anjou stood for a moment contemplating the distance his feet would have to travel before cool air could be reached. Mid-July on the Gulf coast was surely not where a fellow of advancing age and a waistline to match should find himself, and yet he was here. The weatherman warned 1972 would be a record breaker, and for once the prognosticator might be right. With a heavy sigh, Harry started his trek to the proverbial house on the hill. The infiltration of monkey grass on the narrow brick walk slowly began transferring the detritus of raindrops onto the cuffs of his trousers, wetting the last part of him that was still marginally dry. Unconsciously lifting each foot a bit higher in a kind of half march, his thoughts circled back to the service he’d just attended at the old Christ Church on Dauphin Street. Being a lifelong Episcopalian, and given Father John could chant as well as any Gregorian monk, the rite of Evensong had a way of calming the angst that was a part of his job. When time allowed, the hour was right, and he was in the neighborhood—three things that occurred about as often as a solar eclipse—he’d make an appearance. His participation this evening, however, had contained none of those prerequisites. The Sechrist family was to be present, and according to the powers that be downtown, they were the principals in the case he’d just inherited. They’d been there all right along with a rather long prayer that had mysteriously found its way into the normal liturgy. Perhaps it was intended as a form of divine intervention on behalf of their missing teenage son. Although Harry considered himself a religious man, still it seemed a bit abstruse, bordering on the metaphysical or, more realistically, the medieval. Obviously, it was something the Sechrists had requested, and even if they hadn’t been one of Mobile’s glittering four hundred, Father John would have complied. He was very simply that kind of priest.

The congregation was small, and Harry lingered in his pew until the gathering dispersed. It gave him the opportunity for a longer look at the troubled family. They seemed vaguely familiar. No doubt he’d seen their pictures in the society pages Sarah, his wife of some thirty years, insisted on sharing with him. She studied this segment of the population with an intensity he could only attribute to a Mobilian of the female gender. As a whole, they were handsome, the men being of a decent height, lean, and tan, the women tall and, for the most part, slender. They acknowledged Father John as they passed from the church with a light touching of hands and a brief but solemn exchange of words. He thought the simple familiarity seemed somehow stilted, an emotionless ritual, like actors following a script. Hell, maybe they were. Mobile, the last bastion against a classless society, would hang on to a station in life like a tick on a dog. Maintaining a stiff upper lip would be the first rule of thumb. It was probably inevitable, this time warp, for with the delta fanning out from the north and the Gulf of Mexico to the south, the city had been safely cosseted in that other, gentler era.

Evenin’, Inspector. So glad you could join us.

Father John, a bare slip of a man, stood expectantly, his balding head tilted slightly to one side. A perpetual expression of amusement added a kindliness to a face that would have, without it, been a bit stern. As with many men of a smaller stature, he was neat and trim in his dress—or, in this case, his vestments.

Drawn from his reflections, Harry came to attention and did a little zigzag into the aisle before stepping forward, hand extended.

Evenin’, Father.

How are things at Saint Albans these days, Harry?

Still treadin’ water, Harry responded. Havin’ another bake sale next week.

Father John smiled. Supporting a school is an expensive endeavor.

So you know how much we appreciate the support you folks at Christ Church give us.

I wish it could be more.

Harry let his eyes drift to the door. Having assured himself the last straggler was gone, he got down to business.

If you have a minute, Father—

Of course. Shall we go to my office?

No, here’s fine. And without further ado, Harry—not being one for ados—came straight to the point. It’s about the Sechrist boy.

Oh my, I hope your presence doesn’t mean he’s …

Harry watched the perpetual amused expression on the priest’s face change to alarm. Obviously, he anticipated news of a final nature, a knee-jerk reaction that, given his job, he was quite used to.

No, no, Harry assured him. Homicide’s often called in before the ipso facto.

You’ve found him, then?

’Fraid not.

Oh, I’m so sorry. I don’t suppose you’re allowed to conjecture. I’ve wondered about kidnapping. The Sechrists are quite well off, you know.

Mm. Harry nodded. So far, there’s been no request for money. Then, to sidetrack any further attempt at the good pastor’s soft third degree, he mentioned he had an appointment to drop by the Sechrist house after Evensong. Since it put me in the area, I thought I’d stop in for the service. I was told the Sechrists might be attendin’ and thought it wouldn’t hurt to get a preview of the family, possibly garner a little background information.

I see, Father John replied.

Harry picked up on the small glitter of disapproval regarding the reason for attendance, though it quickly changed to regret.

I’m sorry, Harry, but I probably can’t tell you much more than you already know, which would be public knowledge. Anything else would be privileged.

Harry nodded, thinking privileged would sail out the window like a kite in a stiff March breeze if the boy turned up dead.

You’ve known the Sechrists for a few years, I take it.

Indeed. I christened Jody, the eldest boy, when he was born. Let’s see. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He’d be about twenty-four now. An attorney, mind you, just passed the bar.

Didn’t want to go into the family businesses?

The priest shook his head. A disappointment to Joe and Geraldine, I’m sure. Of course there’s still Mark. But now that he’s gone missing …

A double whammy, Harry said rather bluntly, wondering which was the greater concern here, the loss of a son or a potential CEO. Accordin’ to the home office report, the boy’s workin’ on his father’s shrimp trawler. Don’t much look like he’s interested in the Sechrist and Sons enterprises, either.

A bit too early to say, I think. He’s only eighteen, you know. Working on the boat is merely a summer job before he enters college in the fall.

Harry raised his bushy brows and, with a smile that was slightly wicked given the male-dominated society of the yet-to-be-enlightened Mobile, said, I understand there’s a daughter between the boys. Maybe she’ll be the one to take up the reins.

The brick walkway was sheltered by live oak, longleaf pine, and the occasional magnolia. Though Harry welcomed the shade, the slightest atmospheric disturbance sent small showers of raindrops cascading onto an already damp head. Drawing a handkerchief from his back pocket, he patted away the worst of the moisture. He was both overheated and damp down to his drawers, and perspiration was beginning to work its way from the inside out, joining with the effects of the squall that had caught him halfway between Christ Church and his car. For him, the service had lacked the usual magic until the end when Father John chanted the Nunc Dimittis, raising his arms so that his surplice spread out like huge bat wings … now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace according to thy word … The first rumbles of thunder seemed to have been choreographed for the occasion: A foreboding answer from above? Or had they already counted the boy out? Either way, he knew he’d never beat the rain.

The house on the hill was a raised Creole cottage, which put the reception rooms on the second floor. Access to this rather convoluted design was provided by a long gallery flanked on either end by two ornate wrought iron staircases. Like a pair of welcoming arms, they curved down to the terrace where Harry, having finally arrived, now stood. He chose the staircase to his left and, taking a firm grip on the decorative railing, began the climb, silently cursing the perverse brain that dreamed up such an architectural triumph.

As he made his way across the long gallery to the oversize antique mahogany front door, he could only imagine what he looked like. With his hair hanging in stringy lumps and his suit the consistency of crepe paper, he probably looked like he’d just been pulled from the back end of Mobile Bay. Having cursed the storm, the long trek, and the architect, he added another malediction for the job that chased him all over town in a solar-heated automobile wearing the required coat and tie only to end up in an air-conditioned building to be chilled by his own sweat. The doorbell received the brunt of his frustration, and after a brief interval, an elderly black woman responded. The standard maid’s uniform added fuel to an already officious nature as, with brow elevated, she scanned him up and down, delivering several consonants that consisted mostly of Ms. In response, Harry produced his charming smile accompanied by a How you do.

I do fine, she replied, chin rising, eyes narrowing. Does I know you? You looks familiar.

Well, now, I surely do hope so, Miz … ah …

Johnson. Ellie Johnson. The corners of her mouth turned down in a reverse smile that smacked of superior.

Chief Inspector Anjou, ma’am, Mobile Police Department. Offering his hand, he grasped the tips of her fingers in what he considered a proper ladylike grip. The information turned the smile right side up, displaying a set of very white teeth, the front two trimmed in gold.

Lawd ha’ mercy! I thought I reckon-ize you! she said. You that reporter on TV.

Harry smiled. Reporter was okay, he supposed. She obviously thought it was. TV was the magic word, however, and a celebrity he might be, although the distinction extended no further than the local viewing area. His soapbox was the evening news where, when deemed necessary, he reported on the progress of his latest investigation—or, in some cases, the lack thereof. The cameras were not kind when it came to an already hefty physique, but on entering midlife, the rest of the aging process was behaving more fairly, adding a certain dignity to those features that had always been slightly out of sync. He still retained his hair, no inroads at the temples, no desert island at the crown; and although it was rapidly giving way to gray, it was not streaky but slowly washing out like a piece of cloth gently bleached by the sun. The fleshy lips had thinned down, the bulging brown eyes softened, and though a set of jowls was on the verge of sagging, as yet they had not.

Whoo-whee! he exclaimed as the maid stepped back to let him in. Some rain shower. Don’t take a minute to get a soakin’.

Looks like you got more’n a minute. Ellie smirked, the inverted smile returning. You axin’ fo’ a case a’ new-monia comin’ in heah all wet.

Reckon it’s what I get paid for.

Paid t’ git sick! Her voice rose with indignation. The salt-and-pepper afro trembled ever so slightly as the equivoque floated gently overhead.

Nice place. Harry’s eyes traveled across the spacious foyer. The Sechrists been livin’ here long?

Mm-hm. Almost twenty years. Built it hisself, Mr. Sechris’ did. Jody, he ’as goin’ on five, an’ Dina, she jus’ turn’ one back when.

Dina, you say?

"Short for Ger’l-deen. Her mama’s name."

I see. He grinned. Clever, shortenin’ it up like that.

Mm-hm.

You been with ’em awhile, I take it.

Twenty-five years las’ fall. She extended her arm for proof. Mr. Sechris’ gi’ me thi-shere gole watch, jus’ like he done his employees down to the bi’ness.

Mighty nice. He smiled. Mighty nice indeed. Good folks, I can see that.

Good as they come. She commenced twisting her wrist this way and that to better show off the piece.

Sensing more history regarding the gift was in the offing, Harry mentioned the family was expecting him. The smile disappeared, and the arm came down.

Ain’t no sense gittin’ folks all riled up jes’ now. Mr. Sechris’ jus’ got outta the hospital. Her eyes narrowed defensively. ’Sides, dat boy ain’t dade, just runned off. Done it b’fo’, an’ like a bad penny, here he come back.

Well, let’s hope that’s so.

Then what you doin’ heah? A wary, rather stubborn look crossed the broad planes of her face as she repeated the priest’s question. Ain’t you homicide?

We do missin’ persons too, he replied with a reassuring smile. Mr. Sechrist requested this meetin’, so the quicker I kin talk to the family, the quicker we’ll know what’s what.

With a shake of the head and another grumble of consonants, Ellie took off toward the rear of the house.

Harry strolled over to a small console and peered into the decorative mirror hanging above it. The hair, as suspected, was a disaster, too limp to stay put and recklessly fluffing out as it began to dry. He pasted it down with his hands and moved on to one of the long windows by the door. The property, he knew, was once part of a larger estate with a crumbling Victorian mansion smack-dab in the middle. Then one day the mansion was gone, and the acreage was subdivided. Such dicing up of property was a common practice in Mobile, what with the city practically surrounded by water and delta. The only expansion was west toward Mississippi. The municipal airport was out there, and new subdivisions were springing up around it like weeds in a pasture. He ought to know. He and Sarah had recently replanted themselves in one with the elegant name of the Estates of Bienville West. He knew what he’d paid for his little plot of heaven. With its location on Government Boulevard, he imagined these lots here had been sold by the square inch.

The New Orleans colonial / raised Creole cottage was the rage just now, something Sarah had tried her darnedest to talk him into. He had to admit they were attractive to look at, but the steps were a pain in the ass, and they screwed up the floor plan no end, turning the upstairs into the downstairs. Unless a third floor was added, the bedrooms would be in the basement. However, the Sechrist house had a third floor with a string of dormers to prove it. He had a feeling the only bedroom in the basement was Ms. Ellie Johnson’s.

The foyer was open, front to back, a lot of wasted space as far as he was concerned. Compounding the felony, a grand staircase led up to a balcony, a kind of mezzanine. The rear wall contained no less than three sets of french doors complete with fanlights opening onto what appeared to be a sun porch. He had to admit it made for an airy, outdoor feel, the filtered light abundant without being bright. Venturing a few steps to the right, he peeked into the dining room. It had the remoteness of formality, dim and cool, the drapes on the french windows pulled against the onslaught of any sunlight that may have accidently made it through the trees and covered gallery. A chandelier sent a cascade of crystal hovering over the long table where a silver bowl displayed an arrangement of magnolia blossoms.

Retracing his steps, Harry peeked into the living room, also heavily draped. It had a cluttered look, a watch-where-you-walk decor with lots of bric-a-brac and fancy lamps. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed. Before it finished, he heard the sound of feet and turned to see a young man in his midtwenties approaching from the direction the maid had taken. Harry met him at the halfway point, near the foot of the stairs. His first impression was that of interloper, for although tall and blond, which fit in nicely with the Sechrist clan, he wasn’t a Sechrist—not because he wasn’t at the service but because neither the poise nor the dress were there. Both were just a little bit off. When Harry’s How you do received only a curt nod, he smiled to himself. The Sechrist’s self-appointed Rottweiler, no doubt. The pretense of welcome dispensed with, Harry presented his warrant card. And you are …?

Stephen Layne, the young man replied smoothly, adding more brusquely, I assume you have information about Mark.

What I have is an appointment.

The young man raised his brow, whereby Harry tilted his head to one side and waited.

The Sechrists have just returned from a memorial service for Mark.

I believe that’s a bit premature, Harry replied, taking silent exception to the any-idiot-would-know-this-is-not-the-proper-time tone.

Excuse me?

Memorial service. It was Evensong. I was there, and now I’m here. If you’ll please give Mr. Sechrist that information.

Though the upper lip formed a microscopic sneer, Stephen Layne retreated. It was Ellie who returned, informing him, The fambly is in the liberry.

Harry followed her down a hallway behind the grand staircase to yet another set of french doors. Announcing guests was apparently not in her job description, for as soon as the doors parted, Ellie did a little sidestep and parted as well. He found the eyes that observed him slightly intimidating, although they were only five sets in number, certainly way fewer than his television audiences, the difference being they were human as opposed to a camera … and he wasn’t facing it half drowned. The feeling subsided, however, as Mr. Sechrist rose from a chair at the far side of the room and ambled toward him, hand outstretched. He was a tall man, but his slightly bent frame added years to the fifty-two he could claim. As he came closer, Harry noticed he also suffered from a common affliction of the southern gentleman—namely, a hide tanned by a lifetime of golfing at the club and yachting on the Gulf of Mexico.

Joe Sechrist, Inspector. So good of you to come. I expect there’s a family of your own you’d rather be with at this hour.

I’m sorry for the circumstances that require it, Harry replied, surprised to find the hand of this owner and controller of two thriving businesses and a shrimp trawler, not to mention a home in town and a spread on Fowl River, had the limp-wristed grip of his maiden aunt.

We’ve just about reached the end of our tether, I’m afraid.

It was a subtle plea, one which Harry was all too familiar with, impossible to accede to without raising false hope, an aspect of the case he felt least capable of handling. Homicide was a fait accompli and the problem simply how to convey the news. Missing persons was hope in limbo that contained no such absolute.

Tell us what we can do to help your investigation, Joe said.

Well, Harry began, relieved to be on firmer ground. First, I’d like to meet the family, take away as many faces as I can this evenin’.

Of course, Inspector. There’s possibly something we’ve overlooked. Coming in fresh, you may spot it immediately.

Harry unconsciously turned his gaze to the room, away from the raw pain that momentarily ravaged the man’s face. Besides the Sechrist family, it contained an abundance of cherry paneling with shelves of books on either side of the fireplace. Over the mantelpiece, an oil painting in a heavy gold frame depicted a Spanish galleon listing as it ran with the wind, sails billowing beneath a sky that threatened an already dark and roiling sea. Long windows on either end of the room let in what remained of the day, but the light was dim, adding to the somberness. Not, Harry thought, a place to come if you were depressed. Although they’d chosen to assemble here, ostensibly to share their grief and to find consolation, he had no sense such a thing was actually happening. Rather, they seemed too quiet, too introspective, as if only the first half of the equation, the assembling part, had been learned, and they were waiting patiently for someone to tell them how the rest of it worked.

I suppose you may as well begin your interview with me, Joe said, though I’m afraid I won’t be much help. My work leaves me little time with the family.

It’s hard to tell what’s help and what isn’t, Harry countered, wondering at such dissembling in the face of the self-proclaimed desire of assistance.

Joe immediately agreed but remained stationary. With a mental shrug, Harry got on with it.

Could you tell me what your son’s state of mind was in the days and weeks before his disappearance?

State of mind? The man looked genuinely puzzled. As far as I know, he was as he always was, nothing out of the ordinary that strikes me. He cocaptains my shrimp trawler, so he keeps a rather erratic schedule. We never see as much of him as we like, but then who does of their grown children?

An erratic schedule? Harry inquired.

That’s how it is with shrimping. When the season opens, the boats work at night and then gradually shift over to days. Still, sometimes they’ll go back to nights if the catch during the day is poor. Usually by fall, it’s all days. Being July, it’s quite hard to know which schedule he’s following.

Then he doesn’t live at home?

Only part-time. It’s a bit far to the bayou, so mostly he’s on the trawler. And it depends, too, on how things are going. If they’re doing well, they’ll come in and unload the catch, put on fuel and ice, and go right back out. Other times, when it’s slower and if he needs a good rest, he’ll come home. It’s much quieter here than at the wharf.

Was it possible for him to, say, come home, go to bed, have a good sleep, and then leave without anyone knowin’?

Joe frowned. Possible, Inspector, but not probable. Besides Ellie, we have a cleaning woman, Marge McNeely, and a yardman, Jessie Markum, and then of course my wife, Geraldine, is here a good bit of the time, as is my daughter.

Are all the employees full-time?

Only Ellie. She lives in—always has. Then he confirmed Harry’s suspicion by mentioning her rooms were on the ground floor. Marge comes three times a week—Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, if I’m not mistaken—but my wife can confirm that. And then Jessie comes as the yard requires. As for meals and curfews, Mark is his own man. He smiled wistfully. So you see how difficult it would be to find anything out of the ordinary when nothing about his life follows a routine.

Harry nodded and inquired what Mark did when he wasn’t shrimping. The question brought another hesitation and frown.

Mark loves the water, always has, but then being on it so much, one would hardly think he’d go back out on his off time. I suppose he met with friends, that sort of thing. Dina could help you more there.

Harry wondered if ambiguity was a way of life with the man or just when it came to his son. He soldiered on despite the fact it was like slogging through mud.

Had he been in any scrapes that you know of? Girls? Parties? Drinkin’?

Oh my! The man seemed somewhat shocked by the question or perhaps its abruptness. I have to say, Inspector, Mark’s always been a bit headstrong, but ‘scrapes’ might be a little extreme. He likes to have fun. I’ve been told the youngest in the family is often that way, a counterbalance to the oldest, who’s usually quite serious. At least that’s been the case in our family.

Just your normal, fun-loving, all-American boy. The fact that Joe Sechrist had no idea what his son enjoyed on his off time was questionable. That he wouldn’t say his son got into scrapes was definitely subjective.

Can I assume he’s chosen shrimpin’ as a career?

No, no, it’s merely a summer job. He’ll be going to college in the fall.

I see, and that would be …?

Pardon?

The hand he raised to his ear enhanced an impression of senility.

College. Where’s he goin’?

Oh, I’m afraid that hasn’t been decided quite yet. I think he ought to go off to school, maybe the university in Tuscaloosa. Of course, his mother would like him to stay here and attend Spring Hill as Jody and Dina did.

The ability to procrastinate on such an important decision, Harry decided, must be related to money and connections giving one the assurance of being accepted, check in hand, right up to the bell for classes. Having exhausted the father’s admittedly meager knowledge of his son, Harry moved on.

I understand you’ve received no communication from anyone.

If you’re referring to a ransom note, no, we haven’t.

He’s never taken a little vacation before without tellin’ anyone?

There was another split-second hesitation.

Perhaps a day or two here and there. You know how it is with boys. They need to have a bit of fun and burn off a little excess energy. He’s always called or come home.

The file report, Harry thought, was not quite so sanguine when it came to Mark’s bouts with fun. During his formative years, the boy was at the very least hard to handle and at the worst reckless, a borderline case for reform school. To date, however, the wildness hadn’t landed him in any lasting trouble … maybe because he hadn’t been caught. There were a couple of drunk and disorderlies, fights at school, and one incident with a girl that was eventually dropped by the girl’s father. Money will talk, he mused, though in this case it had probably done some shouting.

He and Sarah had wrestled with their own son, a child prone to fun, though Sarah called it free spirit. When she finally overcame her denial, they sent their bundle of fun and excess energy to the army, with excellent results. Joe Sechrist would do well to try that route with Mark, except for the fact there had probably never been a Sechrist PFC in the annals of the family. A boy who’d nearly been expelled in his senior year from the local private academy for young men would not exactly be a candidate for West Point. The rich did have their problems, convoluted as they might seem.

Harry noticed that above the pallid, leathery cheeks, a thin sheen of perspiration had formed on the man’s forehead. The questioning was apparently taking its toll. Rather than push the interview, he looked around for his next victim only to find the decision had already been made. A young woman had risen from a comfortable chair near the fireplace where she’d been dividing her time between her father and the still-life view through the window.

Harry wouldn’t have called her attractive, though in her circle she was probably considered to be. She had what Sarah referred to as good bones. Her fair skin was nicely tanned, and there were streaks of sunlight in her dark blonde hair. The inverted V cut, the rage of the younger set, bobbed gently against her cheeks as she crossed the room. But here the picture began to fall apart. A certain reserve made it clear she was uncomfortable with an audience even if the audience was her own family. Almost as tall as her father, she walked up beside him and, slipping her arm through his, made the resemblance complete.

My daughter, Dina, Inspector. Dina, this is Chief Inspector Anjou come to help us find Mark.

How do you do. She held out her hand and favored him with a soft, rather sweet smile.

Harry was struck by her eyes. They were brown, not blue—somewhat unusual for a blonde. It upgraded his original opinion from plain to pleasing, and though she would never achieve pretty, she would wear well. He could picture her in later years, one of those properly turned-out women who give little speeches at charity luncheons. As her looks began to fade, the willowy frame would finally come into its own.

You should be sittin’ down, Daddy, she admonished, and then she turned to Harry. He has a heart condition, and he just came home from the hospital this mornin’.

A very mild one, I assure you, Joe rebutted. My heart goes out of rhythm on occasion, and I have to spend the night in the hospital to get it back in. More of a nuisance than anything.

Still, you should be sittin’ down. Why don’t you use the study? It’s much more private.

A good idea, Dina, honey. He smiled benevolently, patting the hand that was slipped through his arm. But I believe the inspector’s finished with me. He’d like to meet the rest of the family, though, so if you’ll show him the way, I’ll explain things to your mother.

The study turned out to be a small room just down the hall, one Harry had passed earlier and failed to notice. Compared to the rest of the house, it was quite plain. A desk, a credenza, and two comfortable chairs made up the furniture, while an oriental carpet covered most of the random-width pine floor. An old, very fat black Lab snoozed on a pallet in the corner. He lifted his graying muzzle and made motions to get up, but Dina halted him with a Never mind, Noir.

She indicated Harry should take the larger of the two overstuffed chairs and then settled into the other, folding a leg beneath her. Harry thought she looked quite vulnerable, and he suddenly realized no little tea parties or cotillions taught at her private school could have prepared her for the situation in which she now found herself. He endured a gut-wrenching moment as he wondered what his daughter, Meg, would have been like had the leukemia not taken her away. She’d be about this girl’s age, maybe a little older. He shook off the morbid thought as she began to speak.

I’d … I’d like to say how grateful we are you’ve taken the case. Her speech was stilted as if it had been rehearsed, but she looked him square in the eyes. Daddy put a lot of pressure on somebody, I’m sure. I just hope it didn’t cause any problems. Her fingers worried with a pair of gold bangle bracelets as she spoke, turning them round and round on her wrist.

He bobbed his head in acknowledgment and assured her no problems had been created.

Miss Sechrist, he