“It’s nice that the lot isn’t overgrown. It looks well tended.”
“Yes. We all chip in. Everyone on the street. It’s a nice place for kids to play. We don’t want to see it go all to seed. And nobody’s wanted to rebuild on that spot anyway after what happened.”
“I can understand that.”
“But you wanted to know about their little girl?”
Lucky nodded.
“To answer your question, I don’t know what ultimately happened. She was given over to the state authorities after Liz and George died. She was probably sent to Salisbury.”
“Salisbury?” Lucky asked, shooting a glance at Sophie.
“Salisbury Retreat. Now it’s a hospital and an outpatient clinic for all kinds of mental health issues.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Sophie offered. “But wasn’t it used for other things?”
“Oh, yes. It was a dumping ground for all kinds of people. They dealt with everything. Alcoholism, drug addiction, depression. Lots of people got put there just because their families didn’t want them around for whatever reason. They took in unwanted children, so maybe that’s what finally happened to the child if they couldn’t get her adopted a second time.” June looked up quickly. “You knew she had been adopted, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Lucky nodded. “We had heard.”
“Liz wanted children so badly and tried for a number of years, but finally gave up hope. That’s when they adopted Georgina. That’s the name they gave her.” She smiled at the memory. “They used to argue, Liz and George.” She looked up at them. “In a good way, I mean. Liz wanted to name the baby after her own mother, but George, her husband, was insistent. So Georgina it was. Liz was so happy when she brought that baby home. For a while at least.”
“Did something go wrong?” Sophie asked.
June stared at Sophie for a long minute. “I don’t know how to put this into words, and it sounds like a terrible thing to say, but I always felt there was something wrong with that child. She didn’t seem to . . . connect with other kids.”
“Was she just shy?” Lucky asked.
“Possibly. Whatever was going on with that girl, believe me, it wasn’t the fault of Liz and her husband. You couldn’t have found nicer people. They loved that little girl just as if she were their own,” June continued, “but after a while even Liz had to admit there was something off. She was withdrawn and strange. Daydreaming and doing odd things . . .”
“Odd, how?” Lucky asked.
“Well, one time she locked one of the neighborhood kids in their cellar and didn’t tell anyone. The little boy’s parents were frantic that entire day. They were finally ready to call the police. Georgina had told her mother . . . Liz, that she had a new friend in the cellar. At first, Elizabeth thought it was a . . . what’s the name they use for that? An imaginary friend. That’s what they call it. Now, that’s accepted at a certain age, but the girl was way past the age when that would be normal. She thought her daughter was just making things up, but as the day wore on, it started to nag at Liz so she decided to go down into the cellar. That’s where she found the little boy. He was terrified, poor little thing. Liz was horrified to think what could have happened to him. He was too frightened to cry out, and if she hadn’t gone down to the cellar, who knows?” June shook her head. “Liz had to tell the boy’s parents where she found him. It was just awful for her. After that, people really viewed the girl as strange and no one would let their kids play with her.” June continued, “And then she liked to play with matches. That was worrisome to her parents. They finally had to get rid of all the matches in the house and lock up the rest. They even threatened to punish her if she played with matches again. That’s why . . .” She trailed off.
Lucky waited, allowing the silence to lengthen, hoping the neighbor would continue. Finally she asked, “Are you saying that the little girl might have started that fire?”
June’s jaw clenched. “I can’t say that. I really can’t, but . . . how is it she was the only one to survive the fire? They found her out in the backyard, not up in her room. How did she get out there? Was she wandering around the house at night? The Fire Department felt the Christmas tree was the cause of the blaze. Those things, if they get dried out, they can go up like a bomb, all that pine sap. I shouldn’t say this, but I’ve often wondered if that little girl was fooling around with matches in the middle of the night and ended up setting fire to the house and killing her parents.” She held a hand over her mouth. “I know it’s an awful thing to say, but all these years, I’ve wondered.”
• • •
LUCKY TURNED THE key in the ignition and drove down Poplar to Main Street. Then she pulled the car over and turned off the engine. “What are you thinking?” she asked Sophie.
“Whew! We just got an earful. You know that woman’s probably talked about that fire and the little girl for years. I have to say, I have never heard anyone talk about a kid like that.”
“I don’t know,” Lucky said, “I’ll play devil’s advocate here. People always want to blame someone when something bad happens. Something like that, something horrible and inexplicable happening to people you love and care about. That little girl, she’s a woman now. She isn’t here to defend herself, so I’d keep an open mind. We really don’t know. And like June said, the firemen thought it was caused by the Christmas tree. That can happen. They went to bed, maybe they forgot to turn off the Christmas lights, even a spark can ignite them. I’d take it all with a grain of salt.”
“I don’t know.” Sophie shook her head. “She also said that the little girl was too quiet, strange even.”
“Maybe you’d be strange if your own mother didn’t want you and you knew you were adopted. We have no idea how old she was when she was adopted. But did anything else she said strike you?”
“Like what?”
“The Salisbury Retreat.” Lucky waited.
“What about it?”
“The woman they found strangled in the woods. She was a psychiatrist . . .”
Sophie gasped. “At the Salisbury Retreat! That’s right. That went right over my head.” Sophie was quiet a moment. “What are you thinking?”
“It seems like too many threads are coming together. This child, Georgina, whoever she is now, could very well have spent many years at Salisbury. Maybe she even grew up there. And now her biological mother is strangled. Both women—Dr. Cranleigh and Hilary Stone—were killed in the very same manner.”
“Maybe. But that’s a huge place. And you don’t even know that’s where the girl got placed. She could have been adopted by another couple. She could have been placed anywhere in the state. This doctor and the daughter might not have had any contact with each other. And how would you find out anyway? Those records are extremely confidential.”
Lucky shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt to ask. You never know what you’ll find.” She turned the key in the ignition and made a U-turn heading toward the other side of town.
Chapter 38
NATE PULLED HIS cruiser into an empty parking space at the side of the Drake House sheltered by the bordering hedges. There were plenty of spaces to choose from, now that Barbara Drake’s first-floor tenants had all been released from questioning. Nate was certain none of them had had any involvement in either of the two murders. He climbed out of his vehicle slowly and walked toward the front entrance of the bed-and-breakfast. He pushed open the door and almost collided with Derek Stone.
“Ugh.” Derek let out a grunt as if the air had been knocked out of him. He took two steps backward.
“Mr. Stone,” Nate said, “you seem to be in a hurry. Going somewhere?”
“Oh!” Derek stared at Nate, his eyes wide. “Uh, no. Just stepping out for a walk, that’s all.” His eyes were still red-rimmed, his complexion pale and pasty.
“I’m glad I caught you though.” Nate smil
ed.
“You are?” Derek stuttered. “Why?”
“Oh, just a couple more questions. Why don’t we step into the sitting room here.” Nate gestured toward the large front room with a fireplace at the far end. The space offered several seating arrangements of overstuffed couches and chairs. “Please.” Nate gestured, indicating Derek should enter first.
Derek plopped onto the nearest chair. “What was it you wanted to ask me?”
Nate took a chair opposite and leaned forward. “When I asked you about the details of the night of the book signing, you neglected to mention that Audra had handed you a large manila envelope that had been delivered to the New York office. It was addressed to your mother.”
“Oh, yes?” Derek wiped his forehead. “Yes. That’s right. I guess it just slipped my mind.”
“What did you do with that envelope?”
Derek’s eyes grew wide. “Well, I . . . uh . . . I gave it to my mother. It was addressed to her.”
“When did you give her that envelope?”
Derek shook his head. “I don’t really . . . no, I do remember. I brought it to her room and left it on the desk.”
“When was that?”
“It was . . . when I came back here to take my mother to the book signing.”
“I see. Did she open the envelope at that time?”
“No. We didn’t have time. There was just enough time to get to the event.”
“Well, do you have any idea where that envelope might be now? It wasn’t among your mother’s possessions in her room.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No.”
“Well, I can’t imagine . . . I guess someone must have taken it. We were out that evening at the book signing. I brought Mother back and checked on her a little later. But I don’t remember seeing it. Perhaps she packed it away in her suitcase?”
“No. I’m afraid she didn’t.” Nate waited to see if Derek would offer any further information. Derek sat up straighter. “You don’t think—”
“I don’t think anything, Mr. Stone. I’m merely curious what happened to that envelope. Do you remember who it was from?”
“Uh, no. No. I don’t. I don’t think I even glanced at it. It was addressed to Mother at our New York office, that’s all I remember.”
“So you wouldn’t mind if I have a look in your room, would you?”
“No. Of course not. I have nothing to hide.” Derek heaved a sigh. “I want you to get to the bottom of whoever did this to Mother.”
“Thank you.” Nate rose from his chair.
“Is there anything else?”
“Oh, yes, one little thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I asked you about the woman who was waiting in the lobby, who you say was a fan. Did she by any chance give you her name?”
Derek shook his head from side to side. “I already told you, she didn’t.”
“It’s just that Barbara Drake seemed to recall you talked to her for several minutes outside on the entryway.”
“Oh. That. Yes. She was just going on and on about how much she loved Murder Comes Calling. I thought I’d never get rid of her. Mother was always pestered by people like that.”
Nate pulled a photo out of his pocket and held it up for Derek. “Is this the woman you spoke with by any chance?”
Derek stared at the photo.
“Mr. Stone? Do you recognize this woman?”
“No.”
“This isn’t the woman you spoke to that day?”
“I . . . I don’t know. I suppose it could be. It’s hard to say from this photo.”
“All right,” Nate relented. “You’re free to go.” He turned away and started up the stairs.
Derek’s eyes followed Nate’s progress to the second floor.
• • •
SOPHIE PEERED UP through the windshield at the hulking red brick monstrosity of a building. “Downright Gothic,” she shuddered. “Can you imagine the horror of being confined here a hundred years ago?”
“Definitely dreary,” Lucky remarked.
“I hope times have changed.”
“I hope treatments have changed. Maybe they’ve even stopped using chains and electroshock therapy.” She smiled. “Come on, let’s see what we can find out. Let’s start with locating Dr. Cynthia Cranleigh’s office.”
They entered a remodeled lobby, paved in tile with pastel walls and music emanating from hidden speakers. Lucky noticed a stack of newsletters on a long table just inside the door. She picked one up and tucked it in her purse. A smiling woman, this time in a blue smock, greeted them from across the lobby. “May I help you?” she called.
Lucky raised a hand in greeting. “No thanks, we’re fine.” Nudging Sophie’s arm, she led the way to a bank of elevators at the rear of the lobby.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Sophie hissed.
“Not a clue, but I didn’t want to be told Dr. Cynthia is no longer with us. And then we’d be asked what our business is. I’m hoping she has an office somewhere in this building and maybe we can get a little information if she has a receptionist or an assistant or something.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Sophie agreed.
At the edge of the lobby, near the elevators, Lucky spotted a glass-enclosed directory. She quickly scanned it and noted the name “Cranleigh” under the Department of Psychiatry. Suite 304. She pressed the UP button on the elevator pad and waited. Thirty seconds later, the doors opened, and several people spilled out, including a man on crutches with his leg in a cast. Lucky stepped back quickly to give him room. Once the way was clear, she and Sophie stepped inside. They were alone in the elevator. Lucky hit the button for the third floor and glanced at her friend as the elevator lumbered upward.
Sophie whispered, “I think this elevator only looks modern. Maybe there’s a little guy in the basement powering it with a foot pedal.”
Lucky giggled in spite of herself. “Behave yourself and don’t make me laugh.”
Sophie winked and made a zipping motion with a finger across her lips.
The doors opened to a long empty corridor. They followed the images of footprints laid on the tile to the end. Several closed doors stood on either side of the corridor, numberless, but next to the last door was a nameplate, CYNTHIA CRANLEIGH, M.D. Lucky knocked once on the door and entered.
A desk dominated the center of this room. The walls were lined with plastic armchairs and seats in vibrant colors. “Hello,” she called.
“I’m here,” a disembodied voice called back. “Just give me a minute.” They heard scuffling noises and a head appeared at the desktop. “Hang on.” A woman of sixty-plus years with a head of very short silver hair rose from the floor behind the desk. She leaned on top of it. “My back gets stiffer every day. Sorry about that, just dropped a bunch of files. What can I do for you?” She peered over her glasses at them.
“We . . . uh . . .” Lucky wasn’t sure how to begin. “Did you work for Dr. Cranleigh?”
“Yes, dear.” A shadow passed over the woman’s face. “I did. For fifteen years. You know she died, don’t you?”
“Yes, we know. We live in Snowflake, where she was found.”
“Oh! I see.” The woman sat heavily in the chair behind the desk. “So you’re not patients of hers then, are you?’
“No.” Lucky shook her head. “We . . . well, this is rather a long story. You may not know this but another woman was murdered in Snowflake a few days ago in the same manner. A friend of ours is implicated and we think there might be a connection.”
“Another woman?” The gray-haired woman peered intently at them. “My name’s Fern, by the way.”
“I’m Lucky, Lucky Jamieson and . . .” She turned to Sophie.
Sophie smiled. “I’m Sophie DuBois.”
“Wel
l, you’ve piqued my interest. How ’bout a cup of tea? I was just about to take a break.”
“Sure, we’d love that.”
“Come on in the back. We have a teeny kitchenette back here.” She opened the door behind her and led them down a short corridor. A door to the left stood open. Lucky peeked inside as they passed. Bookshelves lined the walls; the lighting was dim and comfortable. A large desk stood on one side and, on the other, a sofa filled with brightly patterned pillows and a wing-back chair. A box of tissues was placed on a small table in front of the sofa.
Fern noticed Lucky’s interest. She turned back. “That’s the doctor’s office where she saw her patients.” She opened a door at the end of the corridor. It led into a small room with a sink, a small counter, a round table and three chairs. “Have a seat.” An electric kettle was steaming on the countertop. Fern reached up and retrieved three mugs, filled each one with a teabag and then poured boiling water into the mugs. She unplugged the kettle and relayed the mugs to the table with a sugar bowl. “Milk or cream?” she asked.
“No, thanks,” Lucky and Sophie answered in unison. The room had an aroma that reminded Lucky of a teachers’ lounge in elementary school. An ever-mysterious inner sanctum where grown-ups gathered.
“Sorry, I don’t have any lemon to offer you.” She dipped a teaspoon of sugar into her mug. “So tell me all about this woman in Snowflake. Are you talking about Hilary Stone?” Fern asked.
“That’s right. You see, they died within a few days of each other and they were both strangled. I can’t help but think there’s a connection between Ms. Stone and Dr. Cranleigh. That’s what brought us here. A possible connection.” Lucky took a sip of her tea. It was delicious, some sort of mint and orange flavor. “We’ve also learned that the author, Hilary Stone, had a daughter years before, maybe forty years ago, who was given up for adoption. I’ve been trying to trace her.”
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