Charlaine Harris - Grave Secret

“Who was he?”

“Said his name was Ted Bowman.”

Oh, not that that was anything like Tom Bowden, oh, no.

“And he wanted…”

Tom Bowden looked troubled, or rather, more troubled. “He wanted to know the same things you two wanted to know, but not for the same reason.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“It was like he already knew the whole story. He just wanted to know how much I knew about who was involved.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him I had no idea who the man who brought me to the house was, that as far as I could tell, the last time I saw the baby she was fine, and that I’d never talked to anyone else about that night.”

“And he said?”

“He said that was good news; he’d heard the baby had died and he was glad to know that she had survived. He said I better forget about that night, and I told him I hadn’t thought about it in years. He warned me that someone else might come asking questions, and he told me whoever came would be someone who was just trying to create trouble by saying Mariah Parish was still alive.”

“What did he tell you to do about that?”

“He told me it would be in my best interest to keep my mouth shut.”

“But you talked to us anyway.”

For the first time, Tom Bowden met my eyes. “I’m tired of keeping the secret,” he said, and I believed him. “I got divorced from my wife anyway. My practice isn’t doing too well, and my whole life hasn’t turned out like I thought it would. I date this downward slide from that night.”

He’d told the truth that time, I was sure. “And what did this man look like?” I asked.

“He was taller than your friend here”-Dr. Bowden nodded condescendingly toward Manfred-“and a good bit stockier, big muscles and chest. Dark hair, in his forties or fifties. Graying a little.”

“Visible tattoos?”

“No, he was wearing a rain jacket,” Dr. Bowden said, in the tone of one pointing out the obvious. His attitude was creeping back. Evidently, crying time was over. I tried to think of more questions to ask him before the well dried up. “You really don’t know the name of the man who took you out to the ranch house?” I found that hard to believe, in a little town like Clear Creek. I said so.

He shrugged. “I hadn’t been in town that long, and the ranch people keep to themselves. This man said he worked for Mr. Joyce, and he was driving a ranch truck. He may have given me a name, but I don’t remember it. It was a stressful evening. Like I said, I suspected he might be Drexell Joyce. But I’d never met Drexell, so I don’t know.”

I’ll bet it had been a stressful evening. Especially for Mariah Parish, whose life might have been saved if the ambulance had come for her… if anyone had been humane enough to call one.

I was a little surprised that she hadn’t been outright murdered, and the baby along with her. At that time Rich Joyce had still been alive, and maybe the fear of what he’d say and do if his caregiver disappeared in his absence had been the deciding factor. He’d miss Mariah, even if no one else would. And Rich Joyce wouldn’t let go if he decided something strange was up.

Maybe the child had been stowed in someone’s home as a bargaining chip of some kind. Maybe one of the ranch hands was raising her. I could make up all kinds of stories in my head, but none of them was more likely than another.

“Where was Rich Joyce that evening?” Manfred asked.

“The man just said he was gone,” Bowden said. “His truck wasn’t there.”

“He didn’t know his caregiver was pregnant? He didn’t notice?”

Bowden shrugged. “That never came up. I don’t know what she told Mr. Joyce. Some women just don’t show that much, and if she was trying to hide it…”

Manfred and I looked at each other. We didn’t have any other questions.

“Goodbye, Dr. Bowden,” I said, standing. He couldn’t hide his relief that we were leaving.

“Are you going to the police?” he asked. “You know, even if they exhume poor Ms. Parish, they won’t be able to tell a thing.” He was regretting having talked to us. But he was also relieved. This guy had had a hard time for the past eight years, living inside his own skin. I, for one, was glad of that.

“I don’t know,” Manfred said, very thoughtfully. He’d had the same reaction. “We’re considering it. If the child came to no harm, it’s possible you may keep your license.”

A horrified Dr. Bowden was staring at us as we went down the hall and out through the waiting room. There were three more patients there, and I felt sorry for them. I wondered what kind of care the doctor would give now that he was definitely on the upset side. He’d had two visits in one day about an event he must have hoped was buried forever; that would be enough to rattle any man, even one made of better stuff than Tom Bowden.

“That guy is a human sewer,” Manfred said when we were in the elevator. He was very angry, his face red with strong emotion.

“I don’t know if he’s quite that bad,” I said, feeling at least ten years older than my companion. “But he’s weak. And he’s a joke, based on the standards a doctor ought to uphold.”

“I wouldn’t be so surprised if it was the 1930s,” Manfred said, surprising me. “That sounds like a story you’d read in a collection of old ghost stories. The knock on the door in the middle of the night, the stranger who comes to take you to a mysterious patient in a big house, the dying woman, the baby, the secrecy…”

I was goggling at Manfred when the doors opened on the ground floor. That had been exactly what I’d been thinking. “Do you believe what he told us was the truth? If we both think he was telling us a story that sounds incredible, maybe it is. Maybe it was a pack of lies.”

“I don’t think he’s a good enough liar,” Manfred said. “Though some of what he told us was lies, of course. How has he made it this far? Didn’t he know that someday, someone would come asking questions? He has to be at least a little smart because he’s a doctor, right? Not everybody can make it through med school. And his license was there on the wall, I read it. I’m going to check up on it. Maybe we need another private eye.”

“No, not considering what happened to the last one,” I snapped, and then felt contrite. “I’m sorry, Manfred. I’m glad you went with me. It’s good there was another set of ears listening and another pair of eyes seeing. Did you believe the main outline of his story? You’re the psychic.”

“I did believe him,” Manfred said after a perceptible pause. “I went back over it in my head, and I think he was telling us the truth. Not all the truth; he did know who the man who came to get him was, for example. And I don’t think the man hid his phone; I think he told the doctor he absolutely couldn’t make a phone call, and I think he told him that in a threatening way. A really good threat would be enough to flatten a guy like Dr. Bowden. I also think the guy had warned the doctor what to expect at the house. Doctors don’t go out now with big bags, like my grandmother said they did when she was little. I think Dr. Bowden knew to take medication for a woman who’d just had a difficult birth, and something for the baby, too.”

That made a lot of sense. “You’re right. So who do you think came into town to get the doctor? Who made that mysterious drive out to the empty big house? Who took the baby? Whoever took Dr. Bowden to the ranch, he was wearing a wedding ring.”

“Oh, that’s right. Good for you for remembering. Well, we know that Drexell was married for a while, and we know that Chip was, too. Could have been either one, or even someone we haven’t met yet.”