On Turpentine Lane(58)

“We know something about babies who die at home,” said Hennessy. “We send a coroner. And then the undertaker comes. They leave in bags. Not in snowsuits.”

This was a very good point. Dead or alive, these babies were dressed in matching snowsuits of indeterminate pastels.

“Spiffy ones. New,” Dolan said.

“But couldn’t you imagine a mother crazed with grief, thinking it’s cold out, who’d put her babies in snowsuits?” I asked.

“Especially a fine, kindhearted citizen like Anna Lavoie,” said Dolan.

“Why write ‘Taken’?” asked Oskowski. “Why not ‘Died’ or ‘Passed’ or ‘Slipped the surly bonds of earth’ on that day?”

Dolan said, leaning back in the kitchen chair, arms crossed, “Want my theory?”

“Yes, I do, Detective,” I said.

“Because they weren’t dead. They’re alive in these pictures. They’re”—air quotes—“taken because she gave ’em away. She put them in an orphanage or in foster care, or sent them to an adoption agency. They were taken by a social worker.”

“People had to know she was pregnant,” I said. “You can hide one bump under a big coat, but with twins in there? She’d have been huge.”

“Maybe the state took them away,” said Hennessy. “Maybe someone reported she was loony tunes.”

“But who’d rather say, ‘My babies died,’ instead of ‘I couldn’t take care of them’?”

“Anna Lavoie, sociopath, maybe,” said Dolan.

“I say they’re asleep,” said Hennessy.

“Me, too, one hundred percent,” said Oskowski.

I asked for another look. “Too bad the photos aren’t in color so we can see if their little faces are pink,” I said.

“Pink?” said Detective Dolan. “Look again.”

“Café au lait is more like it,” said Hennessy.

“They were born in 1956,” said Oskowski. “Big scandal—raising babies who’d be walking advertisements for your affair—”

“With a black man who wasn’t your husband,” Hennessy said.

“They’re starting to look more like they’re sleeping than dead,” I said.

Officer Oskowski said, “See that? On this one the nostrils are dilated as if taking a breath. And that’s a little drool. Car cribs and snowsuits? These babies were going somewhere.”

“You didn’t notice that they looked a little . . . dusky?” Dolan asked me.

“I had a hard time looking at them at all. I thought—well, you know . . . death makes you a little bluish.”

“And by the way?” said Dolan. “It’s not against the law to give your children up for adoption.”

“As long as you didn’t murder them first,” I said.

“They’re probably out there somewhere,” said Hennessy.

“Needle in a haystack,” said Dolan.

“Do you know any biracial twins? Half something? Around sixty years old?” I asked.

The two men laughed, and Oskowski translated: “Flattering that you think we know the entire population of Everton.”

“Besides,” said Hennessy. “They’d stand out like bumps on a log in this town. You can bet she had them adopted several towns away.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice to know they were put up for adoption and they went to a happy home and had a nice life—”

“Forget it, Pollyanna,” said Dolan. “You don’t go churning something like this up. Even if you found one of these twins, she’d probably know nothing. She may not even know she was adopted or had a twin. Or a white mother. And doesn’t the fact there were no recorded deaths tell the tale?”

“I wasn’t going to put up a billboard. I was just thinking that social media could help. I do know their date of birth.”

“No offense,” said Hennessy, “but it’s none of your business.”

“Let’s say you got lucky on Facebook”—and with that, Dolan discharged a disdainful ha! “What then? Go after a court-ordered DNA test? It’s a nonstarter. Forget about it, Nancy Drew.”

“I wouldn’t take it that far. I’m not going to fly to Maui to get a DNA sample from the daughter. Or exhume Mrs. Lavoie’s body—”

“Exhume?” he repeated. “Did you say exhume?”

What had I missed? Weren’t we discussing Mrs. Lavoie, presumptive mother of unaccounted-for twins? “Mrs. Lavoie,” I said. “Anna Lavoie? The deceased multiwidowed possible felon?”

Detective Dolan was now the one who looked perplexed. He said, “Anna Lavoie is in a semiprivate room at ManorCare. Why would we be investigating the possible murders of a dead woman’s husbands unless the suspected killer was alive?”

Off balance, groping for anything, I said, “Because . . . I don’t know . . . you leave no stone unturned?”

“On TV, maybe. A rumpled retired cop who rights wrongs just for fun?”

“She didn’t die here? Upstairs in my guest room?” I whispered. “She didn’t die at all?”

“She’s in and out of it. Faking the non compos mentis is what I think,” said Dolan.