The Address(58)

“Huh. This was in the trunk?” Melinda looked up at her. And it wasn’t her normal “I’m so pretty and want to make sure you’re looking at me” glance. She was studying Sara’s face, her eyes flicking from feature to feature. She’d noticed the resemblance, just as Renzo had.

Bailey pointed to the photo. “This seems crazy, but don’t you think I look like her?”

Melinda placed the photo on the table. “Not really. She’s harsh-looking, and you’re such a sweetie.”

“Black-and-white photography, along with corsets, will do that to a girl.” Bailey took a deep breath. “This may be a long shot, but what if Sara Smythe was Christopher’s mother? I’d love to find out why Theodore Camden and his family took in the kid of someone who then killed him.”

“Who knows.” Melinda chewed on the inside of her mouth. “Sounds like a bunch of looney-toons.”

“Maybe Theodore Camden was the father of the kid.” There. She’d said it. “That it was a crime of passion, not madness.”

Melinda shook her head. “Ugh. Now I’m just confused.”

Her resistance only increased Bailey’s fervor. “Sara Smythe looks like me. A lot. I know you see it, too. That’s not all. See the outfit the baby is wearing? It was in Sara’s trunk. Not Theodore or his wife’s. Sara’s.”

“So they raised this woman’s child because she wasn’t married. Seems really generous of them. But it doesn’t mean Theodore Camden was the father.” Melinda put her hand over Bailey’s. “Does this make you miss your mother?”

The non sequitur threw Bailey for a moment. But then it clicked. If Bailey was the great-grandchild of Theodore Camden, then she was also a threat. By sharing the family legacy, she might also deserve a share in the family trust.

She refused to be deterred. “I do miss her. But seriously, what if Christopher was the love child of Sara Smythe and Theodore Camden?”

Melinda yawned, obviously bored with the subject. “It’s not General Hospital. The lady was a freak, a sociopath. No way do you want that hanging over your head.”

“Like I’m not enough of a nut already?”

“You’ve had a tough time, but I think right now it’s important for you to move forward, not back. All that happened a long time ago. Let it lie. My mom and dad were horribly embarrassed about the notoriety of the murder. No one wants to talk about that.”

No one but Bailey. If only she had the courage to show Melinda the drawing.

No, not yet. The evidence was still flimsy at best.

Melinda snapped her fingers. “In any event, I totally forgot something really important I wanted to tell you.”

“Yes?”

“Koi pond.”

Bailey offered a polite smile, hoping Melinda would eventually speak in a whole sentence. “What about it?”

She clapped her hands together like a little child. “We’re going to put one in the living room! How cool will that be?”

“So cool.” Bailey sighed.

There would be no more talk of Sara Smythe.



Sunday evenings were usually quiet in New York, as families retrenched for the coming week, and the streets were fairly empty, except for a group of guys slouching outside the bodega on Seventy-First Street. Even though Bailey knew it was smarter to cross the street than get too close, tonight she couldn’t be bothered, and she took their nasty words in stride, staring straight ahead, shoulders hunched. Like she deserved it.

Bailey practically ran up the steps to the AA meeting at the church on Sixty-Ninth Street, avoiding any eye contact with the people standing outside, smoking and chatting, and took a seat near the back. Everyone seemed to know one another and she was content to listen to their snatches of conversation rather than join in. The room was warm and close and smelled like smoke and burned coffee, but that didn’t bother her. She took a deep breath and joined in the serenity prayer.

When the time came for people to share concerns of the week, Bailey lifted her hand. The chairperson, a woman of about sixty with bright red hair, nodded in her direction. Bailey spoke without making any eye contact, her gaze directed at the front wall.

“I was recently in rehab but I went out and drank on Friday night. I put myself in a situation where I knew I might drink and do coke, with friends who I knew would drink and do coke.” She shook her head. “Stupid, I know. But I guess, in a way, it was good. It showed me just how precarious I am in recovery. It’s not a joke, a passing phase. If I drink, I can’t stop.”

Her throat strained from the effort of keeping the tears at bay. “I’m not in a good situation at the moment, and I’m not sure how I’m going to manage. But it’s helpful to come here and hear your stories and I thank you for that.”

“Keep coming back.” The phrase echoed around the room once she’d finished, and the man sitting next to her offered her a tissue.

She took a deep breath. The best thing about meetings was that you could vomit up all your thoughts and feelings and crap, but you didn’t get advice in return. Just acceptance. That’s what she needed right now.

At the end, Bailey tried to sneak out but got caught in the bottleneck near the door. The redheaded woman touched her on the arm and pressed a pamphlet for newcomers in her hand. Bailey thanked her and folded it in half, embarrassed by the attention.