Wendy Hornsby - Midnight Baby

Mrs. Sinclair did not know we were coming. It was ten o’clock and she wore a high-buttoned white blouse, a pleated skirt, and a cardigan with brass buttons. Her shoes were good leather, low heels. Not new but well-kept. Everything about her seemed old but well-kept. She was tall and imperious, leaning lightly on a dog-headed cane.

Mike showed her his ID. “We want to talk to you about your granddaughter,” he said.

“My granddaughter?” Her voice was deep, almost masculine. She stood as if guarding the door against us. “You mean Hanna, my daughter. Hanna is deceased.”

“Not Hanna,” Mike said. “Hanna’s daughter.”

Virginia Sinclair seemed confused. “Hanna had no children,” she said.

“Hillary Ramsdale,” I said.

“Hillary,” she said, a light coming on. “Of course. But Hillary wasn’t Hanna’s daughter. She was my son-in-law’s cousin, I believe.”

I looked over at Mike, feeling prickly all over.

“May we come in?” Mike said.

“Of course.”

Mrs. Sinclair moved aside for us to enter. She led us through the turreted foyer and into a high-ceilinged sitting room furnished with dark Mediterranean antiques. The room was beautiful the way a museum room is beautiful. And, like a museum, it was oppressive, a monument to long-dead craftsmen. And perhaps occupants as well.

Over the mantel hung an almost life-size oil portrait of a younger Mrs. Sinclair, seated in the same ornately carved chair she now sat down on, sitting with the same straight posture, her hands resting on the head of the same cane, re-creating the pose. It was eerie, because Hanna was in the portrait with her, standing beside the chair with her hand on her mother’s shoulder. Looking at Mrs. Sinclair, an older echo of the woman in oils, I had the sense that her daughter stood there beside her. Mike saw it, too, and squeezed my hand.

Hanna was beautiful. She resembled her mother, though the features in the second generation had been refined, the bones cast more delicately, the contours rounded. Perhaps the genes had been overrefined, and the softness about her was symptomatic of her precarious health.

I sat down opposite Mrs. Sinclair, on a high bench with a carved back and an unforgiving cushion. My feet did not quite reach the floor.

Mike stood beside me with his hand on my shoulder, mocking the scene she had set, perhaps to wrest control from her. “Tell us about Hillary,” he said.

“Where is the child?” she asked.

I felt sour acid rise in my throat. “Hillary is deceased.”

“I see.” Her high, smooth brow drew into a frown. “She seemed a healthy girl. A bit strong-willed, perhaps. But then that is a Ramsdale family trait.”

“Hillary lived with Hanna and Randy,” I said, drawing her back to the topic.

“Yes. I don’t recall the exact circumstance of how that arrangement came to pass. Something about a boating accident involving her parents. The Ramsdales were boat builders, you know. Clipper ships originally, I believe. More recently, yachts.”

“We didn’t know,” I said. “We had no idea what Randy did for a living.”

She smiled behind her veined hand. “Randy played for a living. The family paid him handsomely to stay away from the business. Very wisely, in my opinion.”

Mike sat down then beside me. “You didn’t approve?”

“I did approve. Most fully. My Hanna had a heart problem, you see. We didn’t expect her to live as long as she did. I give all credit to Randy. He was a man with uncommon determination. He would have done anything humanly possible to make her happy, to give her a life.”

“Did Hanna want a child?” I asked.

“Oh, yes.” She raised her sharp chin. “A child of her own was of course impossible. That’s why Randy took on a little ward. Hanna doted on Hillary. And such a pet she was.”

I looked at Mike. “A pet?”

“Pretty girl,” Mrs. Sinclair said. “Very sweet. I’m sorry to hear she died.”

“How old was Hillary when Randy brought her home?”

“Just school age. Otherwise it would have been impossible for Hanna to manage. An hour or two in the afternoon, stories after dinner. Anything more would have destroyed her.”

I had finally reached the bottom of the roller-coaster ride, though my insides were still catching up. Virginia Sinclair was a spoiled woman, with the innate coldness that comes from getting one’s way too often. She was the sort who bought their children live bunnies for Easter because they were charming. Then set them out for the coyotes when they crapped on the carpet.

“Your daughter was beautiful,” I said.

She smiled with her eyes, very pleased by the compliment. “Yes, she was. Her beauty was far deeper than mere appearance. Hanna had a lovely spirit.”

“After she died, what happened to Hillary?” Mike asked. She frowned. “The girl was Randy’s ward. She stayed on with him.”

“Mrs. Sinclair,” Mike said, “are you acquainted with a family by the name of Metrano? George and Leslie and their daughter Amy Elizabeth?”

“Metrano?” She thought hard for a moment. Then she shook her head slowly, serious, still thinking. “I can’t say.”

“Amy Elizabeth Metrano,” Mike said again.

Again she shook her head.

My bottom had had enough of the hard cushion. And the hardness of Mrs. Sinclair. The old bench creaked when I stood up. The sound seemed to bother Mrs. Sinclair. She gave me a librarian glare. The air in the room was stale, musty. I felt claustrophobic and started to pace to shake it off. She watched me as I moved around the room, looking at the precious ornaments, the pictures on the walls.

Hanna’s house in Long Beach was open and full of light and air, alive. I wondered whether this room had ever had life. I was reminded again of the museum feel. The Hanna museum.

Mike was questioning Mrs. Sinclair. “You told us that Hillary’s parents died in a boating accident. What do you know about it? Where did it happen? When did it happen? Maybe you remember their names. Anything you can tell us.”

“Their names? Ramsdale, I assume. I never met Randy’s family. They all live in the East. As to where, I believe it was in Mexico. I remember Randy went down there and brought the girl home. She was quite ill for a while. Very upset, until she had to be sedated. Of course, it must have been a frightful ordeal for her to lose both her parents. Hanna and Randy sat at her side for weeks, reassuring her, until she recovered.

“The doctors had long told Hanna that living by the sea would be more healthful for her than living up here. Cooler, you see. And much less smog. When the girl was strong enough, Randy moved them all into a lovely home down at the beach. Had his boat right in front.”

“When was the last time you heard from Randy?” Mike asked.

“Christmas Eve. He took me to dinner – our little tradition.”

“The two of you?” Mike asked. “Or wife and kid, too?”

“The two of us. It would have been awkward for his wife. You see, Randy is still mourning Hanna’s passing.”

I had stopped pacing to look up at the portrait. “Did he tell you he planned to divorce his wife?”

“He did. She was unfaithful.”

“Divorce can be expensive,” I said, turning to her. “Especially for a rich man.”

She smiled slyly. “I said Randy likes to play. I did not mean to imply he is mindless. In fact, Randy is deceptively clever. He had prenuptial agreements with both of the wives who followed Hanna. They were entitled to very small settlements should they divorce. And no death benefits if he predeceased them. From a financial standpoint, it was to their advantage to stay married and keep Randy healthy for as long as possible.”

“He told you this?” Mike asked.