The Taciturn Hottie: Part Four

 

December 2, 2009

 
A Joe Downing Mystery

 
The following is fiction:

 

 

The

Taciturn Hottie

 

 

 

 

PART FOUR: “DID YOU LOSE THIS, MISTER?” A child of about five years of age came toddling over through the grass to me, her hand extended with a bracelet in it. A thin gold chain, broken at the hasp, hung down from her fingers. The now-useless chain was meant to secure within its circumference the peace-sign medallion in the palm of the little girl’s hand. The attractive medallion was also of gold. Well, now, if you’re still with me, I can let you know that now I was standing in Macarthur Park, L.A., about three in the afternoon. After lunch at Hal’s, I had been here combing the grass, walking slowly, head down, eyes alert, just outside the murder scene — luckily the LAPD was finally pulling up stakes in their CSI, so I could see precisely where the heck it was (the murder). I had waited discreetly and “inconspicuously” until the boys had departed, then I had begun.

 

I reached out for the chain and medallion from the little girl’s hand as she neared. I looked it over, frowning. I felt uncomfortable standing alone, as a stranger, with a little girl: anybody could accuse me of anything they wished to. My dream of last night flashed in my mind, painfully. I didn’t look around. I spoke quietly: “Well, I don’t know, but maybe a friend of mine did,” I said to her, and smiled briefly. I then took it from her hand gently, ready to yield her the victory if she resisted.

 

She looked up at me innocently. She allowed me to hold the prize. On the arms of the flip side of the peace sign the medallion read: “from IMB, con amor, to PR. ELD 4eva.” Obviously, the thought that now shot through my mind like quicksilver was: ‘It’s from Ingrid.’ I looked down at the little girl patiently standing there, standing there as if I had to give her leave before she could go. Her brown eyes sparkled with a child’s uncertainty.
 

“Where did you find this?” I asked her carefully. She turned her hips promptly and awkwardly around 90 degrees and pointed her little index finger at a palm tree that stood twenty feet away.

 

“In that tree?” I queried her again. She nodded. I walked over the few steps without speaking and looked closely at the palm. The fronds were recently cut. They were close to the trunk, cropped very short, so they formed many small, upward slanting shelves for whatever tiny object you please. Tiny objects like peace-sign medallions, say. I circumnavigated the tree, speculating, then asked the girl, who had comically followed me in the circle,
 

“In here? In one of these pocket things?” She nodded her chin up and down solemnly and pointed to the exact spot where. Again, she didn’t speak. She stood there waiting for an answer. So, I gave her an answer:
 

“You know, I think I know who this belongs to…..” I stopped for emphasis, and for her reaction. I then turned the thing over and continued, pointing:

 

“You see here? This writing? It says: ‘IMB’ — that means ‘Ingrid Maureen Biddleman.’ And here: ‘PR.’ That means ‘Pancho Rodriguez.’ I know them. I can give this to……the right people. Is it all right if I give this back to the right person?” The girl again nodded her head up and down in affirmation. I expressed my gratitude:
 

 

“Thank you, very, very much, I –” I was smiling at her assistance appreciatively when I was curtly cut off by heavy, brisk footsteps approaching in the grass and the sound of an uncompromising, unyielding, forbidding voice:
 

“Crystal! Vamonos! Mi amor, we’re going! Stop talking to that man and ven aqui! Ahora! Nina, come!” I lifted my palm with the chain in it and smiled my best benevolent-guy smile, and began explaining to the youngish mother, just a few steps off by now, but she glowered at me, and she even momentarily considered giving me the finger, I think. I ceased to persuade at that point. Sometimes you just simply and suddenly lose all sympathy for a person. Crystal pointed at me as if to say, ‘I’m doing something,’ but then she trotted off nervously and laboriously to her mother. (I woulda been nervous, too — what a face on that gal! Ugh!)

I didn’t say anything. But I now had a piece of evidence that put Pancho in the park, close by where the murder of Gomez had taken place. So Gomez, no wallflower, had possibly ripped the chain off Rodriguez during the fight and melee, and it somehow had flown off and ended up in the palm tree. The cops had missed it. Only a little girl, with her detailed inner world, could have had the patience or imagination to look, for whatever reason, in those little palm-frond pockets. (Not to mention the short stature.) I proceeded to look in all the pockets of all the neighboring trees, after Crystal and her mother left, but I found nothing further. After a bit of this, I heard bicycles arriving on the gravel path of the park and a young voice behind me. A group of boys had arrived. Their tires made a crunching, sliding sound as they came to a stop.
 

“Are you religious?” one of them queried me.

 

“What, kid?” I responded, a little puzzled, but not too: I knew it had to be impertinent.
 

“You’ve got holy pants,” he continued, looking at me. I then noticed a couple of slight holes in the knee of my jeans. So, all right, the joke was there, and it was pretty good, it had a little wittiness to it. Credit where credit is due. Hilarious.
 

“Are you looking for Pancho in there?” the kid went on. A gaggle of preteen kids had gathered, all sitting insouciantly on their little bikes. They laughed some at the continued wittiness of the kid. He was on a roll, let me tell you that at least. He was a brown, skinny, shirtless thing, and he looked boldly into my eyes. But I fought back, intrepidly:
 

“You never know, homie, maybe he’s got some super blinged-out office in there.” I waited expectantly…..no response. Just deadpan looks. (I thought it was funny. My jokes don’t count, I guess.) I continued in a more serious vein:
 

“How come the Diablos off’d Gomez?” I looked up from the palm tree I had been inspecting. I had just about given up on that score. A pause, and then, 
 

“What?” the kid asked.

“How come the Diablos killed Gomez?” I repeated. The confidence in the kid’s countenance was somewhat diminished as awareness dawned. He then proceeded to blurt out:
 

“Cuzz he’s a punk-ass bitch! He’s a whiteboy motherfucker! He was trying to take Pancho’s park!” I nodded in appreciation of these well-considered words. I proceeded to absorb these perspicacious observations carefully and pensively.

“All right,” I finally said, nodding, “but Pancho usually doesn’t do it himself. Why this time? Why did he personally do Gomez?” The kid had this prompt rejoinder:
 

“Cuzz fuckin’ Gomez is a bitch! I told you chicklit, aren’t you listening?” The kid looked saucily into my eyes. The others giggled uncertainly. A spike of anger went through me at this juncture. The kid wavered a bit. I walked over to him. I wasn’t gonna hit him. I put my face down by his. I spoke gravely, patiently, my hands on my knees.

“Children shouldn’t talk like that, not to older people, not to anyone. What’s up with you, little homie?” He gazed at me silently, still pretty confident. No response forthcoming. The others were all motionless and quiet. I raised up in exasperation, my face somewhat flushed from leaning down to little homie. I sighed disgustedly. It wasn’t my place to fix the world, just the small part of it that I had been entrusted with. I had three basically worthless summer kids staring at me, but I was finished here. At least I had a double confirmation now that Pancho had done it himself.

 

I walked away without a word through their bikes and out of their lives over to the Corvette parked on Wilshire. No reverse-Parthian shots from the kids, at least. Maybe my appeal had had some merit. Just then a big, brown, shirtless, tattooed guy in flip-flops and shorts was staring at me implacably as I departed, and he approached the kids leisurely and had a conference with them about me. Some laughing. They weren’t exactly on my side, no indeed. Gotta protect those murderers, you know.
 

“Hey!” the guy said ominously when I was fully twenty-five yards away. I felt a spike of fear now, but I knew I could handle myself if it came to that. It was overwhelmingly likely that I was in much better physical shape than he was. I just kept going, and didn’t respond. These types had done that to me often enough — in fact, they had just done it. Let them get a taste. Anyway, as I always say, you can swallow your pride a little bit now or a lot later on. I wanted to talk to Aly, in any case, ASAP. ‘Mr. Hey’ can take a number and maybe someday I’ll get back to him.

*****************************************************************

 

 

The back garden of the Biddleman place was really nice: roses, a blonde, gravel walking path, a neatly-trimmed lawn, a small, well-done statue of David with a sling, about to smite the hell out of Goliath, and a gently muttering, red-granite fountain overflowing into a pool of meandering koi. Magnolia and coral trees meanwhile formed a dark green canopy overhead that the fierce sun could only partially shoot through even as late as four PM. This garden was the picture of serenity, cool and quiet. The fish wandered about the pool calmly. Flapper came bounding up to me happily as I let myself in the old, creaking wooden gate and approached Aly. She was just hacking around the garden, killing time. Mrs. B. saw me through the sliding glass door, and I waved without coming nearer, indicating thereby that I wasn’t approaching her. She waved back pleasantly and we both smiled. I gave her a thumbs-up to show that the afternoon’s efforts were going well. I petted Flapper on her back and then proceeded to query Aly as I produced the necklace.

 
 

“Recognize this, Aly?” She looked at it knowingly, and with some disapproval.

 
 

“It’s Ingrid’s present to Pancho.” She took it from my hand as I offered it. She continued:

 
 

“She gave it to him because he’s her boyfriend.”

 
 

“Oh, yeah? Is he over here a lot, then?” I asked.

 
 

“A little. Not a lot, though. He’s like, over here at dinner.” I was incredulous.

 
 

“Pancho actually eats dinner here?”

 
 

“No, just Ingrid. He leaves when we eat. My mom hates him.”

 
 

“Oh, really?” I said coyly, then continued, “Now, Aly, tell me this — do Pancho and Ingrid talk about doing things together?”

 
 

“What things?”

 
 

“Oh, I don’t know, anything at all.”

 
 

“They talk about movies.”

 
 

“Movies? Yeah? Well! Is that all they talk about? Do they talk in front of you about doing illegal things?”

 
 

“What’s that?”

 
 

“Bad things.”

 
 

“No, they talk about going away. They don’t talk about bad things. They want to go away. Is that bad?”

 
 

“Of course not. Now, do you know where Ingrid was last night, Aly?” Aly paused, and then responded matter-of-factly, her milky nose crinkled up:

 
 

“Here.”

 
 

“And is she always here, every night?”

 
 

“Yes. Just to eat, though. But sometimes she stays and sleeps.” (She’s here every night for din-din: good. No irregularities lately: good again.) Now for the $6.40 question:

 
 

“Okay…..so how did they meet, Ingrid and Pancho?”

 
 

“What?”

 
 

“How come they know  each other?”

 
 

“School….. at some dumb game. Pancho’s stupid team came over here. Her picture is in this book.” Aly motioned to a pile of newspapers strewn over a pebbled, mosaic-topped table by the pool of orange and white koi. I looked under the newspapers since Aly didn’t move. There was a high-school yearbook sitting underneath. I couldn’t believe it.

 
 

“Can I please look inside, Aly?” I asked, and Aly nodded wordlessly in the affirmative. She looked me and the book over. The yearbook was from Pasadena High School, class of 1999. I opened it to look for the big color senior pictures, past the photos of tennis and football and faculty. I did some flipping around, and soon there she was: Ingrid Maureen Biddleman, in fine feather, indeed. Quite a resume, too: Principal’s Honor Roll; Folksingers Club; Car Rally Club; Meditation Society; Sierra Club; Frosh/Soph, JV, Varsity Volleyball; California Scholarship Federation; Homecoming Princess. Not too bad, not too bad at all. 

 
 

The photograph of Ingrid, on the other hand, in contrast to the cluelessness of the boys’ photos, was uncommonly evocative, as only a sensitive, intelligent, and proud high-school girl could manage. Ingrid’s shoulders were turned demurely away from the camera, yet her neck and face looked past those slender shoulders to the viewer in 3/4 profile. Her shapely chin was slightly upturned. She was unsmiling, but nevertheless not dour or unpleasant: she simply knew that smiling would distort her not inconsiderable beauty, and she was having none of that. A quiet, elegant, serene confidence radiated from her lovely face, and an infinite confidence in her knowledge of what was tasteful reposed upon her stately, uncorrupted features.

 
 

She wore a black sweater that completely covered her neck, and which complemented long, romantic, reddish-brown tresses. A delicate, feminine, silver necklace, ending in a small white pearl, was suspended from her silky neck and lay gently upon her upper chest against the sable-colored wool of the sweater. This was as far as possible from the gossipy, cacophonous girl of study hall as you could get. One discerned, though, gazing at the picture, that young Ingrid here had no idea what was about to slam into her. I couldn’t believe that all the F-bombs I had heard earlier in her apartment had come from this same person. But I felt reasonably confident she wasn’t in the gang, first because of what Aly had said, and also because I doubted Ingrid could have survived the jumping in. I hoped against hope that she had known nothing beforehand about the whacking of Gomez.

 
 

“Did Ingrid go to college after this, Aly?” I asked.

 
 

“I don’t know,” she replied. Guadalupe then came out into the garden, and spoke to Aly:

 
 

“Mi amor, ven, come inside. It is dinner.”

 
 

“It is dinner? Is The Simpsons on, Blanca?” Aly asked in response.

 
 

“No, mi hija, it’s too early, and your mother wants you inside.” Blanca now turned to me and said, “Mr. Downing, Mrs. Biddleman would like you to stay to dinner.” I looked at my display: 5:00 PM. That’s some early dinner.

 
 

“She has something to discuss with you,” Blanca added. I shrugged, thinking my thoughts, and then said aloud,

 
 

“All right, I’d be glad to stay, thank you very much.” (I still wanted to visit Pancho, posing as a buyer, but it was still pretty early, so I’d have plenty of time.) Inside, then, the dining room was extravagant. A long, dark, wooden table ran through the center of the big room like a lazy cat stretched out with an arched back, and the ceiling reached up to about ten feet high. A thick wool carpet ran underfoot, sporting red geometric patterns: sorta Florentine this time, a Renaissance flair. A thick white linen tablecloth, finely woven, covered an underlying cloth, and beautiful plates and silverware were arrayed carefully and glistened, squeaky-clean, below a fabulous chandelier of small, angular bulbs illuminating the room. The room opened onto the kitchen. The chairs were comfortable and elaborate at once, like something Medieval.

 
 

A big cabinet of rosewood stood up tall against the white wall behind me as I sat down, and as I turned on my torso, I could see through the delicate glass of the bulky thing. Lots of stacked-up plates, and some nicely framed, wholesome pictures of Aly and Ingrid from years gone by, looking like maybe they were in Europe. The two sisters pressed their shoulders against one other affectionately and naturally, both of them delighted to be alive, and smiled with inner joy. Happier times than the present. A volume of the Old Testament lay quietly beside, in its own space, and it didn’t look dusty, if you know what I mean. I thought the old gal was a Buddhist.

 
 

Blanca soon brought in chicken cacciatore, wine, water, baked potatoes, green salad, vegetables, orange slices, apple sauce, sheep cheese, and a pitcher of lemonade. We sat chatting idly and stuffing our pie-holes sedulously. Aly was ferocious, and she held her lead throughout. Flapper quietly set about on patrol for scraps, bumping your shoe or leg every so often.  Mrs. B. started in:

 
 

“Mr. Downing, no doubt you spoke to Ingrid this afternoon.”

 
 

“Yes I did, Mrs. Biddleman. I went to her place in L.A. — it’s not in South Pasadena.”

 
 

“No matter. She moves so often I can’t keep up. Nevertheless, I would like to broach a subject with you that I’m sure Ingrid was only too happy to do herself.”

 
 

“That’s fine. Broach away,” I responded, and continued eating.

 
 

“Very well. You may have learned from her of certain improprieties in the administration of the foundation funds we are so fortunate to receive from the Living Trust.”

 
 

“Yes, I did. But it’s only ancillary to the case, Mrs. Biddleman, if that. I don’t care, frankly. It’s none of my business. I have no plans to do anything about that situation.”

 
 

“Still, Mr. Downing, I will not have you believing Ingrid’s version uncritically, without rebuttal. The truth is that we have certain deadbeat buyers for that part of the collection which is for public auction, and we must recover the shortfall, somehow. People sometimes don’t pay what they owe. Times are difficult, and one does what one has to. It’s only fair. My husband gets no retirement pay whatsoever, other than a little social security, and that is wholly inadequate to our needs. To absorb the failure of our buyers in addition is just too much to ask.”

 
 

“I understand, and I sympathize, Mrs. Biddleman, and, I repeat, this is a side issue. Getting Ingrid away from Pancho is the real issue. Nailing him is what I’m about, not a few funds falling through the cracks. I’m not judging you, since who am I, for God’s sake? I’m concerned only about Ingrid.”

 
 

“Thank you, Mr. Downing, I appreciate your discretion.” Mrs. Biddleman smiled and sighed with relief.

 
 

“Oh, I’m all discretion, Mrs. B.,” I shot back with a smile of my own, tilting my head back in mock drama.

 
 

“I do like you, sir. You’re a good man.” I nodded graciously (I hope). A human figure, unspeaking, then appeared in the archway of the dining room entrance. He was a rather sturdy fellow. His rounded shoulders seemed to fill most of the opening, but his face was ashen, however, as if he had just become privy to some final calamity somewhere. He was not a tall man, but was fairly husky and thickly-built, about late thirties. He wore dirty flip-flops under his big, wide feet, and from his shoulders hung an incredibly tacky old yellow tank-top with a Jose Cuervo ad on the front. “Discover wildlife, throw a party,” it turned out, was written on the back, with a cartoon of a drunk bear, feeling no pain.

The man’s natural brown hair was very short and flat against his head, and his sun-reddened cheeks betrayed a three or four day stubble. Cigarettes reeked from him like from here to Kansas City. White, soiled, canvas-style shorts extended to the bottom of his knees, perfectly in fashion, and he was also very tan, obviously outside a lot. He looked like the type of guy who would say “brewsky” quite a bit, comfortably, and without irony. He seemed, all in all, very likeable, maintaining a guileless, confused, self-deprecating mien. 

“Reggie!” Aly sang, and trotted up to him, running into him like a middle linebacker. She flung her skinny arms around him in a death grip, smiling up at him. He grinned down at her in return, kissed the top of her head, and said in a bright voice,

 
 

“Hi, Aly! How’s my girl?” Blanca came in and set a place for Reggie. Mrs. B. smiled benevolently: she liked Reggie, too. After a bit, she said gently, groaning a little,

 
 

“Aly, let Reggie sit down.”

 
 

“Thanks, Blanca,” Reggie said, as Blanca finished and departed from the dining room. She nodded sweetly at Reggie.

 
 

“I’m Joe,” I said to Reggie, and extended my hand.

 
 

“I’m Reggie Colombo. Nice to meet you, sir.” He inclined his forehead toward me smartly and pleasantly. Mrs. B. turned to Blanca, who has reemerged into the dining room from the kitchen.

 
 

“Blanca, we’ve detained you long enough, mi amor. Please take the rest of the evening off for yourself. Thank you so very much, my dear, as always.” Blanca beamed and said,

 
 

“Gracias, señora, gracias. Yo voy a casa ahora.”

 
 

“Yes, my darling. Use our phone to call your husband.” Mrs. B. gestured toward the black landline, and leaned in her chair to kiss Blanca on the cheek, who nodded beatifically, and went to the phone to call her hubby to pick her up early.

 
 

“Where’s Ingrid?” Aly abruptly asked, looking at Reggie, as if he would know somehow just by virtue of having been out-of-doors. He looked down at his plate, disconsolate and troubled, avoiding eye-contact.

 
 

“Uh…..well, I can’t say right now.” He gazed significantly at Mrs. Elizabeth Biddleman. Mrs. B. took up the signal.

 
 

“She’s your real girlfriend, Reggie,” Aly giggled and chuckled at him, rubbing it in.

 
 

“Reginald, have some wine with your chicken cacciatore.”

 
 

“Thanks, Liz, I think I will. I need a drink, after what I saw today. Or heard, rather.” Mrs. B. deftly interrupted his train of thought:

 
 

“Reggie is the curator of the Pasadena Old Heritage Museum, Mr. Downing,” she said proudly (and you know, don’t you, how she pronounced ‘curator,’ all fancy and everything?). She smiled happily, and Reg blushed, I think. This man was as far as possible from the effeminate, prickly, metrosexual type you would ordinarily expect in his job as can be.

“That’s great,” I said amiably, just to participate a little.

“You started with us just after you finished your Ph.D., wasn’t it, Reggie, dear?”

“Yes, it was,” he laughed nostalgically, “good ‘ol UC San Diego. Those were some good times, oh yeah, just studying art history all day. I loved it, man. Simpler times, yes, indeed, sports fans, simpler times. But we need to talk about something, Liz, about today.”

“Yes, Reggie, I know, I know: the budget, or the Founders Room, or the Selection Committee, or the maintenance people, or the new installation, or the ‘whatever:’ on and on endlessly.” Mrs. B. feigned exasperation playfully.

“Well, no, not exactly those things this time,” Reggie replied and knitted worried furrows on his high forehead. He shot a glance gravely over at Aly.

“Why is everybody looking at me?” Aly then asked, looking around a bit of her own. Her chicken cacciatore was utterly vanquished, defeated, and vanished from her plate.

“Aly, sweetheart, come here. Come to your mother.” Aly rose obediently, as did in unison the ever-alert Flapper, and the lithe girl slipped smoothly behind me and Reggie sitting elbow to elbow, to the arm of her mother’s chair. Mrs. B. stroked her daughter’s hair tenderly and kissed her affectionately.

“Would you like to watch The Simpsons now, my love?”

“Blanca said it’s not on yet ’cause it’s too early.”

“But that was awhile ago, wasn’t it? Possibly it’s on now. Go and watch with Flapper.” Aly then suddenly and unceremoniously reached down to snatch poor Flapper whole-cloth from the rug, and skipped happily out of the dining room into the capacious living room. Flapper licked Aly’s face vehemently, her eyes an inch from Aly’s, and Aly in return cooed sweet nothings at the little dog flying backward through space. The faint, distant sound of the T.V. came on. Flapper barked once in anticipation of the emerging picture. The Simpsons music could be heard.

Reggie hesitated. He glanced at me briefly, then looked down again. Mrs. B. said reassuringly,

“Reggie, Mr. Downing is in my employ. He’s a private investigator. You can speak freely before him concerning Ingrid. In fact, I would encourage it. Now, what happened today? What happened to your love?” Reggie blushed sheepishly, totally busted. He apparently had had a hopeless, unrequited crush on Ingrid for some time from here to Dodge City. He lowered his forehead at me graciously, as if in apology for hesitating earlier.

“Well, it’s not good, I warn you.” He shook his head sadly, then went on briefly: ”It was only a matter of time…..” Reggie stopped to collect himself, then began once more: ”Well, Pancho came by the museum today for a…..for a…..you know…..and we got to talking, him and me alone.” Reggie stopped again at this point and looked down at his plate, again collecting himself, and then continued: “Fasten your seatbelts, kids,” he sighed, “because, well, Ingrid has…..uh, Ingrid has…..well…..she’s gone with Pancho to Guatemala to root out Saliciamon,” he blurted out finally.

“Oh, dear Lord,” Mrs. Biddleman exclaimed and put her hand high on her chest in alarm. “Oh, dear Lord!” she repeated. She put her head in her hands. Her upright posture slumped. “My darling is lost! My darling little girl is lost! Oh, Mr. Downing, oh Reginald! What am I to do? What’s to become of my Ingrid?”

“We’ll get her back. Don’t worry about that. So Pancho obviously went there to follow up on the murder?” I asked. Reggie nodded in affirmation, at first without speaking, then said quietly,

“Yeah…..he feels vulnerable about this one, from the LAPD, I mean, and he wants to take care of business down there anyway. He’s nervous about Saliciamon now. They’re not allies anymore. They hate each other now. He wants to take them out. He thinks he’s Al Pacino in Godfather II, going away to Sicily after blowing somebody away. But he can still be extradited from Guatemala, though. The OAS or something.” Reggie grimaced in disgust and shook his head. I began speculating:

“I’ve been trying to figure out why the anomaly this time, though, why Pancho did it himself this time. Anything out of the ordinary is gonna have significant reasons behind it. Before I go down to Guatemala for Ingrid I better know this.” Reggie was then almost overcome with emotion. He knew why. His fists balled up in frustration and moved in close to his body, as if about to strike. Some unbearable emotion, some unbearable thought haunted him implacably.

“But if the Diablos and Saliciamon are battling over the distribution, and over the rights to the park,” I continued, “why not just send a foot soldier to off Gomez?” Reggie stared at me ominously. I looked back at him innocently, cluelessly. He turned away and sighed deeply. He twisted in his chair. He put his bulky forearms on the tablecloth, pushing his empty plate up against the glass pan of chicken cacciatore in the middle of the table. A clink sounded thereupon, hanging in the air. He sighed once again quickly, as if drawing strength sufficient to get something horrible over with. He then intoned heavily,

“She got raped,” he whispered, and looked down. “Ingrid got raped by Gomez and so Pancho had to personally take care of him. That’s why.” Reggie turned to me slowly and stared daggers. I looked away in astonishment. Mrs. B., grievously wounded, and motionless but for the trembling, simply clasped her eyes shut against this world. She was done. No one spoke. No one dared speak. The shocked silence was as thick as thieves. No one dared even to move. Aly stood in the archway, watching us uncertainly and expectantly. Her mother, Elizabeth Anne Biddleman, anguished beyond endurance, died in her sleep that same night.

 
 

…..to be continued…..