for me—well, Armand never let emotion rule.”
Something about that caused a small, secret, sad smile.
“Go on,” someone ordered.
Celeste took a breath and did as she’d been told. “I found being a clergyman’s wife just awful. There were so many expectations of me. From the congregation, from whatever community we were in, from Armand. And then, on top of it all, there were Armand’s expectations of me at home—I began to think I would have to be superhuman to live up to it all.”
The memory of how daunting it had been made Celeste’s eyes widen and her brows arch forlornly.
Mara reached over the arm of the recliner to squeeze the older woman’s hand, and for that Celeste gave her an appreciative look before she went on.
“No matter which way I turned, I was just never good enough,” Celeste said. “I couldn’t meet the demands or reach the high standards imposed on me, from both outside and at home. I loved my boys dearly and I wanted them to love me. I wanted to play with them and make them happy, I didn’t want to enforce hundreds of rules and regulations like some kind of tyrant—”
“Which, take it from me, is how the Reverend thinks kids should be raised,” Jared contributed.
“I wanted to enjoy my children,” Celeste continued after a soft glance upward at her grandson. “But it’s Armand’s nature to believe that his way is right, and anything different is wrong. And he can be very harsh if his way isn’t followed. He convinced me that I was a horrible mother. The worst mother ever. And about the time I was distressed to distraction by his criticisms and the criticism of his congregation, and feeling lower than I’d ever felt in my life, Mickey Rider and Frank Dorian came to town.”
Celeste said that fatalistically, covering Mara’s hand on hers with her other hand and holding on tightly.
“I went crazy,” the older woman said quietly, her tone full of shame. “I didn’t even understand myself or what I was doing, but there I was, doing it anyway—slipping out of my marriage bed to meet Frank, drinking at the bar with Frank and Mickey, dancing to jukebox music, kicking up my heels. And falling in love—or at least what seemed like love at the time—with Frank.”
Celeste was holding on to Mara’s hand so fiercely it was almost painful, but Mara simply endured it, knowing—seeing for herself—how difficult this was for the woman she cared about so much.
Celeste sighed. “Between that…infatuation…for Frank, the desperation I felt at home, and convinced by then that I was a horrible mother and my boys would be better off without me, when Frank asked me to run off with him…” Celeste shrugged as if she’d been helpless against the tides. “I not only wanted to go and be with him, I honestly believed that for the sake of my boys, I should remove my bad influence from their lives.”
“So you decided to leave with Frank Dorian and Mickey Rider,” Cam said.
“Yes. I had no idea Frank and Mickey were anything but itinerant farmhands, though, or that they were planning to rob the bank. I was shocked to the core when I met Frank at the bridge that night to leave town with him and found out what he and Mickey had done.”
There were a few questions to clarify that the bridge Celeste was referring to was the old north bridge that the town had been named after. The same bridge where, during reconstruction, Mickey Rider’s duffel bag had been found and near which his remains had also been discovered only recently.
“That night and what followed are important, Celeste,” Cam said, bringing her back to the story. “Tell us what happened.”
“I’ll tell you what didn’t happen—Mickey Rider wasn’t murdered the way the newspaper keeps saying he might have been. Mickey was mad when I met them at the bridge that night. At first I didn’t understand why he cared that Frank was going to take me with him. Then I saw the bank bags and Frank told me about the robbery. I didn’t want to go with them after that. But Frank wasn’t letting me out of it, and not even Mickey saying I would slow them down changed his mind. Frank said he wanted me with them whether either of us liked it or not. Then Frank and Mickey got into a big fight—like in the movies. There was punching and wrestling and bloody noses and cut faces and fists, and…” Celeste’s eyes were wide and tinged with the kind of fear she must have felt that night. “It was awful!”
“Why didn’t you run while they were fighting?” one of the female investigators asked.
“It was like my feet were frozen to the ground while my mind raced. I didn’t know if I should run, if I should go back to Armand, if Frank would come after me, what might happen if he told Armand what had been going on or even—seeing Frank fight with Mickey, I wondered if Frank might hurt Armand or the boys.”
Celeste shook her head as if she were reliving her own confusion. “Then, just when it looked like Mickey had the upper hand, Frank seemed to find a last burst of strength. He pushed Mickey off him. Hard. Mickey fell back and hit his head on a sharp rock. There was a shudder—” Celeste shuddered, but it didn’t seem like mimicry. It seemed involuntary, in response to the image in her mind, before she ended in barely more than a whisper. “That was how he died.”
“Do you need a glass of water?” Mara asked, seeing that Celeste’s face had gone gray.
It took the older woman a moment to answer. “No, thank you, honey. I just want to get this all out.”
Celeste looked back at Cam as though, if she focused on his familiar face, it would be easier to tell her story. “Frank dragged Mickey’s body into the woods to bury him and again I thought about running. But that was when Armand came out from behind the bushes.”
Mara’s shock was reflected in Jared’s expression when she glanced up at his handsome face.
“The Reverend was there?” Jared said.
“Yes. He said he’d followed me to the bridge when I’d left home.”
“If he saw that you weren’t guilty of anything, why the hell didn’t he speak up?” Jared demanded.
But before Celeste could respond to the anger-laced outburst, Cam kept things on a businesslike course. “You told me before that the Reverend recognized you a few years after you’d been living in Northbridge again, but—for the record—you’re saying that he was also at the bridge the night of the robbery and was a witness to what you’re telling us about that night?”
Celeste nodded. “Yes.”
“Did he know you weren’t involved in the robbery itself?” Cam asked, again to clarify things for the record.
“Yes. When he came out from the bushes it was to try to get me to go home with him. He said it wasn’t too late, that he’d been there to see for himself that I hadn’t had anything to do with the robbery. But that if I left with Frank the law would come after me too, the same as if I had been in on it, that I would be guilty by association. He even threatened to say I was guilty.”
“And you still left?” an FBI agent inquired.
“Before I could even think about it, Frank came up from behind us and grabbed Armand. Frank was in a state I’d never seen him in before—enraged and scared and I don’t even know what. He said he had to kill Armand and bury him with Mickey.”
