Daisy returned. Her face was drawn and her eyes held the blank look of someone who hasn’t yet made sense of the world. “What’s left of the dog is on the floor. They can see skeletal remains in the backseat. The body’s wrapped in a shroud of some kind, though most of the fabric’s rotted away. Nichols says they won’t know cause of death until the medical examiner takes a look at her.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It gets worse. He says the shroud looks like badly disintegrating lace, probably a curtain, judging by the row of broken plastic rings they can see along one edge.”

26

We drove back to Daisy’s house. My impulse was to have her drop me off so I could pick up my VW and head for home, but she asked me to go with her to tell her father about the discovery of Violet’s body. I wasn’t sure she’d fully absorbed the impact of her mother’s death. Under the surface calm, she had to be in a fragile emotional state. She’d longed for closure, but surely not this kind. Though she hadn’t said as much, she’d probably had her hopes pinned on the notion that Violet was still alive, which would have afforded them the option of reconciliation. The certainty about Violet’s fate created more questions than answers, and none of the options seemed good.

In the meantime, ever practical, I made a quick dash inside and moved the clothes from the washer to the dryer so I could have my jeans back before I hit the road. We drove to Cromwell in Daisy’s car, and when we pulled up in front of the rectory, we could see Foley sitting on the porch in a wooden rocker, his hands in his lap. In the aftermath of the assault, his face looked painfully swollen. His cheeks and eye sockets had ballooned up as though tight with air, and his bruises were a deeper shade of dark blue and more widespread. He’d showered and his clothes were fresh, but the packing in his nostrils and the splint on his nose had precluded washing his hair. A residue of dried blood matted the strands. Watching us approach, Foley had to know the news was bad, in the same way you know you’re in for a jolt when a somber-looking state trooper comes knocking at your door.

Daisy stopped a few feet short of the porch. “Has anyone told you?”

“No. Pastor said there was a call, but I refused to take the phone until I heard from you.”

“They found her buried in the car. ID hasn’t been confirmed, but the dog was buried with her and there’s no doubt as far as I’m concerned.”

“How was she killed?”

“They won’t know until the autopsy tomorrow or possibly the day after.”