The Bishop’s Wife (Linda Wallheim Mystery, #1)(98)

Kurt was still at work, so that evening I drove to Sandy and marched to the Westons’ fine-looking front door. Judy Weston answered, though for a moment I thought I had seen a ghost. She looked so much like Carrie it was truly startling. She had her hair down instead of up and it had been lightened. It was carefully curled and she had far more makeup on than I had ever seen on her before. She wore sandals instead of heels and a pair of jeans that fit her figure nicely.

I had no idea if the transformation was on purpose or not, but it was eerie and it stopped me in my tracks. I had been ready to demand, to scream, to make a ruckus. Now I was tongue-tied.

“Sister Wallheim, what a relief to see a friendly face. Come in,” she said, looking behind me as she reached for the door, checking one direction and the other.

For news vans? Or for neighbors? A church court wouldn’t be public, but it wouldn’t be private, either. And even if people aren’t supposed to talk about what goes on behind closed doors, the results would likely be immediately obvious to anyone who was in the church itself.

“How are you?” I asked her, trying to play along with her warmth. She clearly didn’t know I had anything to do with instigating the church court all the way over here in Sandy, and I wanted to keep it that way as long as I could.

“It’s been difficult,” she said, her expression strained.

“You look—different,” I said. She looked like a woman who was trying to be a teenager again. Did she know that made her look even older? If I were truly her friend, I would pull her aside and gently tell her that she didn’t have to compete, that her wisdom and experience were of far more value than jiggly boobs or a clear complexion.

She held out her hands and looked at the cotton-candy-colored fingernail polish. “I’m trying to be my best,” she said. “I’m trying, even if no one notices.” She caught her breath on a sob, and then she sat down abruptly and covered her face with her hands.

How could I not have seen that something was wrong with her before? So deeply, deeply wrong. Gwen Ferris had said that her mother had been complicit in the rape of her daughters, but this went beyond complicity.

I stepped closer and put a hand on Judy Weston’s shoulder. “You can get out of this situation,” I said, each word clear as cut glass. “You don’t have to stay here, no matter what he has said to you, no matter how many years you have put up with things you knew were wrong. You can start over. There are people who would be willing to help you.” I was done playing roles here. I had to see who she was.

She threw off my hand immediately and looked up at me frostily. “I don’t know what you are suggesting. I will stand at my husband’s side no matter what terrible accusations are thrown at him. We are married eternally, and that’s what those vows mean to me and every other woman who loves the church and God.”

But I still didn’t know. Was she a monster who had sacrificed her own daughter to the god of a terrible, fiery pit? Or was she simply sick?

I tried to speak calmly to her, let her take her time to see the truth. “I’m sure this has all been very difficult for you. It must make it hard to see what the right choice is.”

“It hasn’t made it hard to see the right choice at all,” she said, playing with her hair like a child. She looked up at me. “But it has put a great deal of pressure on my husband. It makes him angry at times, though he is normally such a calm and peaceful man. You know that. You saw him before.” Her childlike tone made me want to shake her, and I had to clench my hands to keep them at my sides.

“I saw him,” I said. I had seen him in a fervor about Carrie’s disappearance. I wouldn’t have called him calm. He had been a force even then. I just hadn’t realized what kind of a force.

“But someone is spreading a terrible rumor about him and now Aaron has been called to a church court. This very morning he spoke to our stake president.”

I said nothing to this.

“And he blames me,” she went on. “He thinks that I had something to do with it, that I told the Relief Society president in our ward or one of the other leaders. No one will give him a name, but he is sure that it was me, and he will not speak to me. Maybe you could talk to him and explain that I would never do something like that.”

If only it had been her who had told the truth about him. I felt a heaviness settle on my chest and shoulders. Here it was, the revelation I had been waiting for. She wasn’t unaware of what had happened to her daughter. She wasn’t afraid of her husband hurting her if she told the truth. She was just afraid of it upsetting her perfect life.

“He blames me for the other girls, too. He says that it is my fault they won’t speak to him anymore.” She was literally wringing her hands over this.

“How many other daughters do you have?” I asked. I had never had the chance to ask Gwen Ferris if she knew. Gwen had sisters, but I hadn’t realized Carrie did. Strange that her father hadn’t mentioned that in any of his numerous television interviews. The sisters had never been interviewed. They hadn’t been at the funeral, either. And as far as I knew, Carrie hadn’t been in touch with them.

“Three,” said Judy. She looked cautious now of my questions, and I knew I would have to tread carefully.

“I hope they fared better than Carrie did. Did they marry well?” I asked.

“Yes, indeed they did. He was very proud of their marriages. It reflected well on him to have his daughters make such good matches.”