The Last of the Moon Girls

by Barbara Davis

  Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

  Just thinking about it made his temples throb. He got why Lizzy hadn’t wanted to make a big deal of it. And he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t awed by her commitment to clear Althea’s name. Which was why he’d backed down about involving the police after the doll incident. But the stakes changed when the orchard burned—for him as well as for Lizzy. Words, no matter how malicious, weren’t capable of actual harm. Fire was something else entirely.

  Before he could change his mind, he picked up the phone. There’d be fallout, and he’d deserve every bit of it, but he’d just have to live with that.

  He was on hold ten minutes before the police chief finally picked up. “This is Summers.”

  “It’s Andrew Greyson.”

  “Tom’s boy? Hey, I was sorry to hear about your dad. He was a good man. What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to touch base about the fire out at Moon Girl Farm, see if you had any information.” He saw no reason to mention his earlier conversation with Guy McCardle. “I know the investigators were out, and that they found what appeared to be two Molotov cocktails.”

  “And how would you have heard that?” Summers asked gruffly. “We haven’t made it public yet.”

  “I’m a friend of Lizzy Moon’s.”

  “Are you now?”

  Something about the way he’d phrased the response put Andrew’s hackles up. “Yes, I am. And I thought you should know about a threat Ms. Moon received a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Related to the fire?”

  “I have no way of knowing for sure, but the timing seems suspicious.”

  “And what was the nature of this threat?”

  “She found a doll hanging from the tree in her front yard.”

  “A doll? That doesn’t sound very threatening.”

  Andrew stuck a finger in one ear as the banging outside his office started again. “It wasn’t an actual doll,” he clarified, getting up to close the office door. “It was an effigy. It was hanging from a noose, with a note pinned to its throat.”

  “So, not a doll. An eff . . . Sorry, what did you call it?”

  “An effigy,” Andrew repeated more slowly than he probably needed to. “It means likeness. It was made of straw, and wearing one of those pointy black hats.”

  Summers belted out a laugh. “Hey, that’s pretty good. Someone’s got a sense of humor.”

  His laugh reminded Andrew of a braying mule, which he supposed was appropriate. The man had always been an ass. “You find that humorous?”

  “Come on now, Greyson. I know you were away for a while, but you live right next door to them. You must have heard the talk.”

  “What talk is that?”

  Summers cleared his throat awkwardly, as if realizing he’d misjudged his audience. “You said something about a note.”

  “Stuck to its throat, yes.”

  “And do you plan to tell me what it said, or am I supposed to guess?”

  Andrew breathed a sigh of relief when the hammering outside his office door abruptly ceased. “It was a Bible verse. From Exodus, I think. It said, Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”

  There was the sound of a breath being expelled, though whether it had to do with surprise or suppressed laughter, Andrew couldn’t say. “Well now, that does sound . . . When did you say this happened?”

  Now he had the old jackass’s attention. “A couple of weeks ago.”

  “I don’t recall Ms. Moon filing a report. Now that I think of it, why am I talking to you about this instead of her? A complaint has to be filed by the actual victim.”

  “I didn’t call to file a complaint. I called to find out if you had any leads on the fire, and fill you in on what’s been going on. Lizzy . . . Ms. Moon doesn’t know I’m calling.”

  “That so?”

  There it was again, that snarky tone that made Andrew want to drive down to the station and shake a few of the police chief’s teeth loose. “Yes, that’s so.”

  “Mind if I ask what your interest is in all this? If Ms. Moon believes she’s in danger, why hasn’t she picked up the phone herself?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe she was afraid you wouldn’t take her seriously.”

  “I hope you’re not implying—”

  “I’m not implying anything. I’m saying that over the years the Moons have been the target of some rather unfortunate pranks, most of which were written off as harmless. My concern is that this one is anything but harmless.”

  “We have no way of knowing that.”

  “Last time I checked, Molotov cocktails don’t just fall out of the sky. Someone has to throw them. Someone with an ax to grind.”

  “And you think you know who that someone is?”

  “I don’t. But I’m sure you remember Lizzy coming to see you. She asked you to take another look at the Gilman case. When you shot her down, she decided to take matters into her own hands. She’s been asking questions. My guess is she’s making someone uncomfortable.”

  “I warned her not to stir the pot.”

  “That’s your response? You warned her?”

  “Greyson, this is the first I’m hearing about this. You can’t expect me to act on something I didn’t know about.”

  “No, but you know about it now. That’s why I called. To make sure you did know—so there aren’t any excuses down the road.”

  There was a long pause. Andrew waited, imagining all the things Summers wanted to say, and wondering if he was stupid enough to go there. “I’ll send someone around to get a statement from her,” he grumbled finally. “That make you happy?”

  “Happy? No, I’m not happy. She’ll have my head when she finds out I called you, but I’m less concerned with that than I am with someone getting hurt.”

  Andrew stared at the phone after hanging up. He was going to have to go talk to Lizzy now—in person—and tell her what he’d done. And unless he missed his guess, it wasn’t going to go well. But it would go less well if the police managed to beat him to her door.

  He was dropping his phone into his shirt pocket with one hand and digging in his pants pocket for his truck keys with the other, when he nearly fell over Dennis hovering outside his office door. Startled, he held up a hand. “Sorry, man, I didn’t expect you to be there. I need to take off for a while.”

  Dennis acknowledged him with the barest of nods. He was studying the blade on his rotary saw, head bent so that the brim of his Red Sox cap hid most of his face. He’d always been a bit of a misfit, always watching but never having much to say. He was a decent enough worker, though. And it was hard to fault a guy who took a second job to help feed his dead brother’s kid.

  “I shouldn’t be long,” he told Dennis. “I’m just running out to the Moon place. Lock up if I’m not back before you break for lunch.”

  Dennis put down his saw and looked up. His face was covered with white dust, giving him an eerily skeletal appearance. “Hope to hell you’re bringing your cross.”

  Andrew stiffened, already disliking where this was going. “My cross?”

  “You know what folks say—that they’re . . . you know . . . spooks. Witches.”

  Andrew silently counted to ten. “You’re a little old to be afraid of witches, Dennis.”

  “You’re not? Not even a little?”

  “If we’re talking cauldrons and black cats, then no, I’m not. What I am afraid of are people who believe silly rumors, and pass them off as truth.”

  “Come on, man. Even their name’s weird. Moon? You gotta admit there’s something creepy about them. Especially the younger one. She’s been nothing but trouble since she came back. Slinking around town, talking about those dead girls, like folks don’t remember whose pond they came out of. Takes nerve, that’s for sure.”

  Andrew stared at him, trying to keep a lid on his temper. “After what this town put her family through, it was coming back at all that took nerve.”

  Dennis seemed to sense that he�
�d crossed the line. He pulled off his cap, smoothing his yellow hair repeatedly. “She’s wasting her time is all I’m saying. Everyone knows what happened to those girls, and dragging it all up again isn’t going to change anybody’s mind.”

  Andrew was holding his keys so tightly he could feel them bite into his palm. Lizzy had warned him about repercussions if he came to her defense. He didn’t care then, and he didn’t care now. “No one knows who killed Heather and Darcy Gilman, Dennis. Not you. Not the police. Not even Lizzy. I’d appreciate you remembering that—and keeping your opinions to yourself.”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “Don’t,” Andrew said, in a tone that felt ominous even to him. “Don’t say anything. Not if you want to keep working for me.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  The pungent aroma of vinegar assaulted Lizzy as she walked into the kitchen. Evvie was at the window, cleaning the glass with a spray bottle and a rumpled sheet of the Chronicle.

  “There’s a sandwich for you in the icebox. One for your mother too, if she’s still here. I haven’t seen her since this morning.”

  “She’s been with me, in the shop. She showed up with two cups of coffee, and told me she’d been out to the orchard.”

  Evvie put down her spray bottle. “What was she doing out in the orchard?”

  “Getting a vibe, apparently. She knows the fire was set on purpose.”

  “How much did you tell her?”

  “I told her about the torches. She’d hear it sooner or later. But I don’t want her to know I’ve been asking around about the murders, or that the fire might be related. I don’t need her flipping out, and I can’t babysit her the whole time she’s here.” Lizzy paused, not sure how Evvie was going to take the next bit of news. “She’s going to be staying awhile. I don’t know how long. We’re going to play it by ear.”

  Evvie shrugged. “Your mother. Your house.” She tipped her head to one side, looking at Lizzy closely. “So how is it? Seeing her after all this time?”

  Lizzy considered the question, sifting through the emotions of the last twenty-four hours. “It’s . . . hard,” she said finally. “I look at her, and I’m so angry. Then I think, How is she any different from me? We both left. We were both gone when Althea died, and we both came back too late. It’s the same.”

  “It’s not,” Evvie snapped. “Not by a long shot. You were running toward your dreams, to who you wanted to be. Your mama was running away from the mess she made. Where is she, by the way?”

  Lizzy hiked a shoulder. “Who knows? She said she was going for a walk. She was acting so . . . I don’t know what. Weird.”

  Evvie’s eyes narrowed. “Weird how?”

  “I’m not sure. I never thought of her as deep—she was always so wide open—but that’s what it felt like. Or maybe she was just playing me. We were talking about the mural she painted on the side of the barn, and all of a sudden she was talking about when she was a kid here, and how the sky used to look at twilight. I’ve never heard her talk like that, like she actually cared about something. I didn’t even know that was possible.”

  “And now that you do know?”

  Lizzy shook her head slowly. “I don’t know. When I saw her get out of Andrew’s truck, it was like someone punched me in the chest and all the air went out of me. All I could think was, Here we go again. After everything she put us through, all the heartache she caused, she shows up out of nowhere, pretending to give a damn, and I’m supposed to what? Take her at her word and welcome her with open arms? I can’t. Not after the way she left.”

  A series of short raps on the front door kept Evvie from responding. She dropped the wad of damp newspaper in the sink and grabbed a towel to wipe her hands. “Probably the pamphlet pushers again. I’ll go.”

  A moment later she was back. “It’s the police. They want to talk to you.”

  Lizzy went to the door, where a pair of uniformed officers were waiting on the stoop.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Sergeant Woodruff,” the taller of the two said crisply. “This is Sergeant Grainger. We’re responding to a call about a doll and some sort of threat. Are you Elzibeth Moon?”

  Lizzy jerked her head around at Evvie, who was now hovering within hearing range. She cocked an eye at Lizzy, then put up a hand. “Wasn’t me.”

  Lizzy believed her. But who? It couldn’t have been Rhanna. She didn’t know about the doll. Which left . . . She’d kill him.

  “May I ask who made the call?” she asked with a too-polite smile.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t actually have that information. We’d like to speak with you if we could, and take a look at the doll and note if you still have them, to get a feel for what we’re dealing with.”

  “Actually, I don’t think I do,” Lizzy told him, knowing full well that she’d ripped the hideous thing in half and stuffed it into a bin in the mudroom. The last thing she needed was Rhanna walking in to find the police in the foyer. “I’m pretty sure I threw it out. In fact, I know I did.”

  Evvie suddenly reappeared, cradling the remains of the doll in the crook of one arm. She passed the messy jumble of straw and black cloth to Sergeant Woodruff, then wiped her hands on her skirt, as if relieved to be rid of it. “There it is. The note too.” She cut her eyes at Lizzy. “They’re here. May as well show it to them.”

  Sergeant Woodruff examined the remains of the doll with more than a little curiosity, slowly turning the pieces over in his hands. “Crude. Definitely homemade.” He lingered briefly over the note, then handed it to Grainger, who had come in behind him.

  Grainger held the scrap of paper up to the light. “No watermark. Heavy, but definitely not expensive. Looks like it’s been torn from something. The text is in block letters. Red crayon. Could be a kid, but the verse feels too grown-up. Do you recognize the handwriting, Ms. Moon?”

  Lizzy shook her head. “No.”

  “Right. Just covering the bases. We’d like to take both the doll and the note with us, if you don’t mind. We also have some questions, if you can spare a few minutes.”

  Lizzy opened her mouth to protest but nodded when she couldn’t think of a plausible excuse. She was going to kill Andrew.

  Forty minutes later, Sergeant Woodruff finally closed his notepad and pushed to his feet, having gathered far more information than Lizzy wanted to share about her visits with Fred Gilman and Louise Ryerson. At least she’d managed to keep Roger’s name out of it.

  “I think we have what we need for now,” Woodruff said, slipping his pen back into his shirt pocket. “Thank you for your time, though I suggest you leave the detective work to us in future. There’s a reason we caution people about taking matters into their own hands. It rarely turns out the way they hope.”

  Leave the detective work to us? They’d done that eight years ago. It hadn’t worked out well. She managed to nod dutifully.

  Grainger collected the note and the remains of the effigy, cradling them awkwardly against his chest. “We’ll be in touch, but feel free to call us if you see anything suspicious. We’ll be working with SCFD on the shed fire. When we have something, we’ll let you know. Until then, try to be patient.”

  Lizzy watched from the doorway as the squad car backed down the drive. Thank the goddess that was over. She closed the door, leaning her forehead against it with a groan. Be patient. Were they kidding? She’d been patient for eight years. She was done being patient.

  “Hello.”

  She hadn’t heard Andrew come up behind her. She whirled, glaring as she waited for him to explain himself. At least he had the good grace to look sheepish.

  “I saw Evvie in the kitchen. She told me to come in. She said she was pretty sure you wanted to talk to me.”

  Lizzy folded her arms, eyeing him frostily. “I can’t imagine why.”

  “I’m sorry. I wanted to get here before they did.”

  “And that would make it better how?”

  “I know you’re mad, but they
needed to know, Lizzy. They needed to know all of it.”

  “And you thought you should be the one to tell them?”

  “You weren’t going to, so I did.”

  “The fact that I told you I didn’t want them involved didn’t matter to you?”

  “No. Yes.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Damn it. Of course it mattered. Just not as much as keeping you safe.”

  Lizzy closed her eyes and pulled in a breath, shaking her head as she slowly let it out. “I don’t need to be kept safe, Andrew. I need answers. I’ve spent the last two weeks trying to find someone, anyone, who knows how those girls ended up in my grandmother’s pond, and trying to stay under the radar while I did it, because that’s what you have to do when your last name is Moon. You have to not bother anyone. And then you go dragging the police into it. Who’s going to talk to me now?”

  “I get it. I do. It’s about Althea. But your grandmother would back me up on this. She wouldn’t want you putting yourself in danger.”

  “If they wanted to hurt me, they could just as easily have set fire to the house. Instead, they burned an empty shed. They wanted to scare me.”

  “And did they?”

  She stared at him, unwilling to admit that, yes, they had in fact scared her. Because that was the point of it all. “I’m tired of being bullied, Andrew. Tired of tiptoeing around lies and silly superstitions. Tired of having to apologize for my family.”

  “I know you are.”

  She sighed, dropping her arms to her sides. “Then help me.”

  “How?”

  “By letting me do what I have to. Stop trying to rescue me, and just . . . be on my side.”

  “I’ve always been on your side, Lizzy. Always.”

  It was true. He had been. Long before the Gilman girls had become a part of their lives. But she needed something else from him now. “I mean about this. All of this. Selling the farm, dealing with my mother, trying to find out what happened to two dead girls eight years ago. I need you to tell me I’m doing the right things—and that I’m doing them for the right reason.”