Grave Secret - Charlaine Harris [81]
“Jeez Louise,” said Manfred. He almost continued, but fortunately he decided to keep his mouth shut.
“Thanks,” I said, after I’d tried to think of more questions to ask. “Oh, did someone else come here this morning, asking about Mariah Parish?”
“Ah . . . yes, as a matter of fact.”
Why the hell hadn’t I thought to bring pictures of the Joyces with me? I’d done well so far, for someone who didn’t know squat about being a detective, but this was a huge mistake I’d made.
“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