The Bishop’s Wife (Linda Wallheim Mystery, #1)(18)
Samuel was waiting for me and Kurt at the bottom of the stairs. He told us he had decided to go to the dance with the girl he was comfortable with and seemed relieved at the choice. I was relieved that he was going to the dance at all. I slipped out of bed late at night to go downstairs and watch the news. But there was nothing about Carrie Helm. Yet.
CHAPTER 6
The press conference with the Westons appeared on local television (on Mormon church-owned KSL, of all stations) at noon the next day. The two parents stood together in a picture of marital harmony in front of their local church, which looked much the same as ours. Aaron Weston did most of the speaking, as he had at our house. Kurt was at work, and I was sure he was fielding plenty of calls there, but within minutes of the end of the conference, I had to deal with the frightened women of the ward who suddenly thought Jared Helm was a danger to them.
The truth was, Jared Helm wasn’t a danger to anyone anymore, except perhaps his own daughter. The real danger to the women in the ward was the same danger they had faced yesterday and the day before that, and ever since they were married: their own husbands.
I am a happily married woman myself, but I acknowledge marriage can be a dangerous covenant. When both people are honest and good, it is still difficult to live together so intimately, day in and day out. But no one is perfectly good or honest. And so marriage becomes a dance over hot coals and metal spikes. We contort ourselves trying to disguise one habit or another, trying to pretend to love one part or another of our partner’s that we don’t. All so that we can get along.
Privacy cannot exist in a marriage, even when it should, even when it is healthy. And just as dangerous is the legal bind we are in. Shared finances may be fine when people have similar habits, but when they do not? And none of this begins to address the difficulty that is expounded when a marriage produces a family.
I know from personal experience that marriage can be a holy institution, blessed by God. I have felt moments of perfect bliss and contentment with my husband. I have been expanded in many ways by being yoked to someone who is so different, and I am glad for those chances. But there are twice as many occasions when I shake my head and wonder if we would be happier if we could only live together as friends. Or be business partners. Or share parental responsibilities. Does it always have to be marriage—everything shared and stirred together?
On television, Aaron Weston had said, “My daughter is missing. Her husband claims she disappeared in the middle of the night, leaving her five-year-old daughter behind. This husband claims that my daughter left no address for anyone to contact her. He claims that she took nothing with her, not a car, not her coat or purse, not even money from her checking account. I do not believe him, but the police refuse to do anything unless there is some evidence of foul play. My daughter may be in danger. She may be out of money, without food. She may be dead or lying badly beaten in a ditch. I need your help to help her.”
I found myself clenching my fists when he said the word “dead.” But it might bring more attention to the case, which could only do good.
The camera panned to Judy Weston, who was wearing a tailored pink wool suit and frilly white blouse, and far more makeup than she had the last time I had seen her. I wondered if she had chosen that herself, or if the television people had suggested it. Or if Aaron had.
She was looking down at a piece of paper in her hands. Aaron moved to the side so she could lean over the microphone. She read from Carrie’s letter.
“Jared told me that my daughter was his by blood and by right. He said that he could replace me as a mother if I left him. He said that Kelly would not remember my name or my face, that she would have a new mother, a better mother. He said that God would seal his new wife to him and to Kelly and would rip me from them, that I would live in the hell prepared for women who do not love their daughters and husbands naturally. He said that the whole world would remember me as a crazy woman and him as the wronged man. He said that he would be purified by any hurt I did to his heart, and that he would think of me as a trial that God had given him to prove himself.”
Then Judy looked up at the camera. Her face had blotches on it, clear marks of tears, but she wasn’t crying now. She had masked her pain so that she could do what had to be done. I felt like I was looking in a mirror. There was no peace in her expression, only terror of judgment. If she believed in God or in His mercy, she didn’t look like it now.
“That sounds very ominous,” said the newscaster, a woman in a bright royal blue suit. “Have the police seen that letter?”
“They’ve seen it and they said that it didn’t change their procedure,” said Aaron, moving in front of the cameras again. “If she had filed a police report or asked for a restraining order, that would be something else. But she was terrified of contacting the police. She only wrote this to us a few days ago, when she was so afraid that something would happen to her anyway that she didn’t think it added any risk.”
“And you, Mrs. Weston? Do you have anything you’d like to say to the police?” asked the newscaster.
Aaron put his arm around his wife’s shoulder, guiding her toward the microphone. Her voice sounded a little shaky now, as she moved off of a memorized speech.
“This is my daughter, my little girl. And she has been hurt by the very person she ought to have been able to trust the most, her husband. It is beyond my comprehension, beyond my ability to imagine—” She put her hands over her face, unable to continue.