Free Good Intentions by Joy Fielding Page A

entranceway of her designer-perfect town house. Lynn made a mental note of the woman’s age—late fifties—and flaming red, geometrically shaped hair. She said nothing as the woman shut the front door behind her and ushered her inside the spotless living room, awash in shades of glistening yellow and gray. Lynn walked carefully toward the matching pale yellow love seats situated in the middle of the large room, which afforded a most spectacular view of the Inland Waterway. She had the distinct feeling that this was not a room that was used to visitors.
    “I’m sorry I’m a bit late. I got stuck in traffic. You have a beautiful home,” Lynn remarked almost in one breath, seeing Mrs. Messenger wince as she sat down and took out her notebook and pen.
    “You will be careful,” the woman stated, more than asked, “with that pen.”
    “Of course,” Lynn told her, and tried to look reassuring, although she felt as she imagined her children must feel when told to get their crayons out of the living room. “How long have you lived here, Mrs. Messenger?”
    “Six years,” came the rapidly delivered reply. “We’re the original owners. We bought when the units were still under construction. We knew how beautiful they were going to be. We have an eye for beauty, my husband and I.” She tried to smile but the corners of her lips only twitched, and so she abandoned the attempt. “I don’t enjoy doing this, you know,” she said. “You will keep my name out of it, won’t you? The man I spoke to, he assured me that my name would be kept out of it.”
    “Your identity will be kept strictly confidential, Mrs. Messenger.” Lynn watched as the woman made repeated circles around the second love seat, picking up imaginary pieces of lint from the obviously expensive material.
    “They’re important people, the Fosters. He’s with Data Base International. Quite the big shot.” Davia Messenger’s eyes darted nervously around the room. She reached down and swept up a suspected speck of dirt from the pale Drury rug at Lynn’s feet. Lynn obligingly lifted her heels off the floor, lowering them only after the woman’s attention had been diverted elsewhere.
    Lynn made a quick note describing the woman’s highly agitated state, which she suspected was aggravated, but not defined, by her visit. The woman was starting to make her nervous as well.
    “Why don’t you tell me what prompted you to call our agency, Mrs. Messenger.”
    Davia Messenger seemed surprised by the question. “Well, the little girl of course. Ashleigh. She’s why I called. So many Ashleighs these days, don’t you think?”
    “You suspect her parents are abusing her?”
    “Not suspect. Know.” Davia Messenger swooped hawklike toward Lynn, her long fingers outstretched and shaking. “How else do you explain why that poor little thing is always covered with bruises? Last week she had a black eye. A few weeks before that it was a broken arm.”
    “Children have accidents, Mrs. Messenger.” Lynn felt Davia Messenger’s gaze shift from her face to the area just to the left of her cheek above her shoulder. Before she had time to wonder what exactly Davia Messenger was staring at, the woman reached over and snapped up a stray hair which had been dangling from the side of Lynn’s head, and which had obviously offended her strict aesthetic sense.
    “No accidents. Patty Foster is abusing her daughter.”
    “Have you actually witnessed this abuse?” Lynn was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate. She wished Davia Messenger would sit the hell down.
    “I’ve witnessed the results. I’ve heard the child crying at all hours of the day and night.”
    “But you’ve never personally witnessed Patty Foster physically mistreating Ashleigh?”
    “I’ve already answered that,” the woman snapped.
    “What specifically prompted your phone call, Mrs. Messenger?”
    “I don’t understand. I told you …”
    “You indicated that this has been going