The Bishop’s Wife (Linda Wallheim Mystery, #1)(23)

“Who are you?” a voice called out.

“The bishop’s wife,” I called back, and that was that. They didn’t need any more information from me, it seemed. I tried not to be annoyed that my presence was taken for granted; my invisibility was an advantage.

I rang the doorbell and waited patiently for several minutes. I could hear someone behind the door, looking through the peephole. I held out the bread. “Bringing a gift,” I said.

Finally, the door opened.

Jared Helm looked as if he had been exercising. He was wet with sweat and his hair was standing on end. He must have run his fingers through it a hundred times. “Sister Wallheim, come in,” he said.

“I thought you could use some home-baked bread,” I said. I couldn’t find it in myself to offer him verbal sympathy.

He took it from my hands. “Thank you so much. It feels warm still.”

“Just out of the oven.” I tried not to be too obvious about looking for Kelly behind him.

“It’s so nice to know that there are people out there on my side,” he said, and caught a sob. And that was all it took—the next thing I knew he leaned forward and put his head on my shoulder. I felt awkward and tried to remind myself that I was the mother of the ward, and that included Jared Helm, guilty or not. We are all sinners, aren’t we?

He took a deep breath. I closed my eyes for a moment and thought of Samuel with his head on my shoulder. It helped.

Then I heard a voice. “Daddy, can I come downstairs? It smells good.”

Jared pulled away from me and wiped at his face. “Come on, Kelly,” he said, beckoning to her.

She skipped down to him, and threw her arms around him. Her hair had been combed and pulled into a ponytail, but it was already looking a little matted at the back, and curls were poking out around her ears. Her outfit was horribly mismatched, pink polka-dotted leggings with a plaid flannel shirt. She had big pink pig slippers on, as well, which looked as if they had passed their best days. I didn’t know if her father had allowed her to dress herself or if this was his idea of appropriate clothing, but it was hardly evidence of abuse. Or neglect, for that matter. For the moment, he seemed an ordinary father with a daughter he adored.

He carried her into the kitchen and set her on the counter. The cabinets were white-painted wood that looked as if it had been done recently, with the stencils that are so popular as lessons at Relief Society meetings. Likely Carrie had done them herself. The floor was spotless, and the dishes were all in the dishwasher. There were no high-priced, flashy appliances, but it looked like a kitchen that was used often.

Jared Helm opened the bread bag and cut a big slice for Kelly.

“Can I have butter and jam, Daddy?” she asked.

“Butter and jam,” he said, and went to the refrigerator. He gave her a portion of butter that was nearly equal to my own, then jam as well, and handed her the dessert.

She ate it happily, getting jam all over her face.

He watched her and seemed in no hurry to clean her up.

I couldn’t help but think that this could be a performance, designed specifically for me. I thought of how tightly wound and controlling he had been the last time I’d seen him; this seemed like a different man. Had it been the stress of Carrie’s departure that made him so short that morning when he’d come to see Kurt? Had he been broken by the publicity? Or was this tender father act just that? But Kelly was only five years old. It wasn’t an act on her part.

I considered the possibility that Jared Helm was telling the truth about his wife. What if he were the injured husband and she psychologically unstable? It wouldn’t be the first time a woman had made up stories about abuse. “Is there anything I can do to help you?” I asked.

He looked at me like I was offering him a lifeline. “Do you know, you are the first person who has asked me that. Every other person who has called to talk to me has wanted to ask me questions about my life. They want to make judgments about me. Or they ask about Kelly, as if they think I don’t know how to take care of her. If she is eating enough. If I need some help finding her games or giving her a bath. As if I haven’t had anything to do with my daughter for the last four years of her life.”

The very questions I had wanted to ask but had held back.

“I’m five years old, Daddy,” said Kelly, wiping her face off on her father’s shirt.

He looked down at the mess, and sighed. Then he ran a hand down her hair and kissed her cheek. “Of course you are.” He looked back at me. “They’re almost as bad as the reporters who want to interview me. They’re vultures, feeding off a carcass.”

“I’m sure some of them are just trying to help. Sometimes people don’t know how to ask or what to say.” I knew that as well as anyone.

“Well, I’m the one who has suffered a tragedy. Why do I have to make excuses for them?”

“Because it’s the human condition, being stupid,” I said. “We all have to make excuses for each other or we would never survive.”

He let out a short breath, then nodded. “True,” he said. “Thank you. For treating me normally.”

“You’re welcome,” I said. I wasn’t sure I had treated him normally, but he was clearly a devoted father and that meant a lot to me.

I stood up, ready to leave. I didn’t want him to think I was staying too long, and I had found out what I wanted to know about Kelly. Whether or not Jared was guilty of abusing his wife wasn’t yet clear to me, but Kelly was well enough. For now.