by Tracy Donley
“Are you saying the man in the red truck doesn’t live in that cottage?”
“No. He’s the contractor. Bert Ander,” said Jack, still surprised that Ingrid knew all about the cottage.
Rosemary looked at Ingrid. “Ingrid, that time you told me I was through wandering . . . that I was home . . . Is that why you thought that I’d stay in Paperwick? Because you knew about the cottage?”
“Nope. I thought you’d stay in Paperwick because you’re loved here.”
“I—I’m—”
“Loved. Jack and Charlie love you. This goofball loves you too, but he doesn’t know it yet,” she pointed a thumb over her shoulder at Seth, who turned bright red. “You’re tired of wandering around—I can see that in your eyes. And you seem like a reasonable person,” she went on. “A reasonable person wants to make their home in the place where they can be surrounded by love.”
Rosemary was silent for a moment, not knowing what to say. She could almost feel her heart swelling with joy. “Jack. Charlie,” she said, turning to face them. “Are you renovating that cottage for me?”
“We wanted to tell you at the right time. And Rosie, there’s no pressure. It’s a great little place, and if you don’t want to live there, we’ll use it as a guest house or maybe a B&B or get a renter in. It’s just an idea. We thought that one day, you’d want to settle. And we’re your family. So, we were hoping you might choose to settle here.”
“Uh—” Seth raised his hand like a school kid. “I am also hoping you’ll stick around.”
“See?” asked Ingrid. “What’d I tell you?”
Rosemary looked across the water at the cottage, with its little railed porch overlooking the water. She could see herself on that porch. As clear as day, she could see herself, sitting in a rocking chair, drinking a cup of coffee, and amazingly, Smudge was curled up in her lap in this vision.
“Think about it,” said Jack. “Remember. No pressure, Rosemary.”
“I don’t need to think about it,” said Rosemary, a happy tear stinging her eye. “I’m home.”
Before she could say another word, she was engulfed in a hug and then Jack was doing his happy dance, and everyone was laughing. Even Ingrid.
“This is the real thing,” she said, as they started up the hill toward the house for dinner. “Not like what that Sam Wright had.”
“What do you mean?” asked Rosemary.
“You are all true friends. This is true love.”
“Oh, I think I see what you mean,” said Rosemary. “Sam and Victoria Winthrop. You’re right. That wasn’t real love. And what a sad end.”
“It was a ridiculous hoax,” agreed Ingrid. “Not to mention his friendship with Benedict Thatcher.”
“So, they weren’t really friends?” asked Charlie, confused.
Ingrid scoffed. “Lord, no.”
“Hold on,” said Rosemary. “Do you suspect Ben killed Sam on purpose? The story we heard is that Ben and Sam argued, Ben pushed Sam, and Sam hit his head on a rock when he fell.”
“Oh, I don’t think Benedict killed Sam on purpose. But I told you that murder was riddled with jealousy.”
“I’m not following,” said Rosemary.
“Well, it’s understandable that Thatcher was angry at Sam Wright. He’d just finally figured out that his wife—that Becky Thatcher—had been having an affair with Sam for God knows how long.”
“Are you serious?” ask Jack.
By now, they’d all stopped dead in their tracks and were gathered around Ingrid.
“Ben Thatcher does not have the knack. He is not observant. He lives with his head down. If he would look around him once in a while, he’d learn a lot. Of course I’m serious. Becky was the mayor’s secretary. She’s been in love with him forever. Doesn’t anyone notice these things anymore? It was obvious. They had a longstanding affair—and then when that no-good Sam announced his engagement the other day, and brought that piece of work Victoria Winthrop to town, Becky lost it. See, in that moment, she should’ve been happy for her boss and supposed friend. But she was clearly upset. That twit Benedict finally saw what had been right in front of his nose—heck, right in his own backyard. He confronted Sam, punched his lights out, and accidentally killed him to boot. Talk about your tangled webs!”
“So that’s why Becky has been falling apart all week,” said Seth.
“Yep,” said Ingrid.
“She didn’t just lose a boss or friend or neighbor, she lost the love of her life,” said Rosemary.
“Bingo,” said Ingrid.
“Unbelievable,” said Jack. “I never would’ve thought that sweet little Becky would do such a thing—be unfaithful. She just doesn’t seem the type.”
“But she does, really. You just have to look a little deeper,” said Ingrid. “She and Sam had dated as kids. She was moon-eyed over him back then, and she never stopped. She picked the better man, really. Samuel Wright wasn’t husband material. But in her heart, she’d never ended it with Sam. The real surprise is that Benedict couldn’t see it.”
“Or maybe didn’t want to,” said Seth.
“So sad,” said Rosemary.
They kept talking as they went inside, took their seats around the table, and Charlie spooned out generous portions of shepherd’s pie, it’s savory meat and vegetable filling seeping out from under steaming, buttery mashed potatoes.
“I wonder what will become of Becky,” said Rosemary after they’d cleared away the dinner dishes and cut into Seth’s brownies. “Will she wait for Benedict to get out of jail? I mean, how long will he be in there? Will they try to patch things up? Or get divorced?”
“They won’t make it,” said Ingrid. “The trust is destroyed, and it was misplaced from the start. Everyone was lying to everyone. No one was ever worthy of anyone else’s trust.”
“And now Victoria’s dead, too,” said Rosemary. “I went by the bakery while the police were still there and checked in on Mrs. Potter. She and George were talking, and he was saying that they weren’t sure what killed Victoria. Maybe an accidental overdose, or maybe she mixed some kind of medication with too much alcohol.”
“She was pretty upset when we saw her, not to mention drunk,” said Jack. “What if she meant to end it all?”
“She didn’t,” said Ingrid in her usual confident fashion.
“What makes you so sure?” asked Jack.
“She wasn’t depressed. She was just hopping mad. She was probably using Sam just as much as he was using her, and she was angry that her plans went wrong. All she needed to do was get a grip, and after the obligatory mourning period, go find another rising star to catch hold of.”
“I keep wondering if Benedict left Sam’s house that night and killed Victoria,” said Rosemary.
“She had really upset him, and he’s proved that he can’t control his temper. After all, he got into a deadly fight with Sam,” said Seth. “What if he confronted Victoria just like he’d confronted Sam?”
“George said they hadn’t determined the cause of death yet when I was at the Bed and Bakery. I wonder if the investigation has brought any answers yet.”
“I could give George a call,” said Charlie. “He won’t tell us anything that’s privileged information . . .”
“But he might give a hint,” said Jack. “Go call him, Charlie.”
Charlie headed toward his study to make the call, and everyone else dug into the brownies as the first distant roll of thunder sounded off.
“Here comes the storm!” he called from the hallway.
“There’s one thing that’s still bothering me,” said Rosemary. “Why would Benedict go to the trouble of drawing the witch’s mark on Sam’s shoulder? Was he trying to make it look like the curse had killed Sam?”
“The witch’s mark?” said Ingrid, standing up so abruptly that her chair fell over behind her and clattered onto the floor. “What are you talking about?”
“I—I meant the mark on Sam’s shoulder,” said Rosemary. “Where hi
s shirt was torn.”
“I talked to George about that,” said Jack, rising to pick up Ingrid’s chair. “He said it was done in black marker. Drawn on with a Sharpie. Believe it or not, Benedict must’ve drawn it on Sam’s shoulder and left the body that way so that it would appear that the curse had taken its toll on another member of the Graves family. Even if no one would buy it, it might have served as a point of a distraction. Maybe Benedict thought he could slip between the cracks in the confusion.”
Ingrid, listening intently, a deep furrow in her brow, was still standing.
“Ingrid, are you okay?” asked Rosemary.
“When I found Sam’s body,” said Ingrid, leaning forward and planting both palms on the table. “There was no mark.”
29
The room was dead silent for a long moment, save the rumbling of the approaching storm and the crackling fire.
“But Ingrid,” Rosemary finally said. “You knew there was talk that it was Hortence’s curse that had killed Sam. How could you not have known that it was because of the witch’s mark? That’s why his death was being blamed on the curse.”
“I assumed it was because of Samuel Wright’s connection to the Graves family,” said Ingrid. “They’ve been a cursed lot for forever.”
“I want to get this straight,” said Rosemary, going around the table and sitting in the chair next to Ingrid’s. Ingrid sat down, and the two women faced one another. “Let’s go back to that day. You and I talked in the woods. We both think we heard Sam and Ben arguing. You left me, and went back toward the trees. Where did you go?”
“I was going to go home. I was thinking about our conversation, and what you said about writing a book to set the record straight about Hortence. I was thinking about showing you Mercy’s diary even then.”
“Okay, so you walked through the meadow, into the trees, and back toward your house, which as we know, is just across the street.”
“That’s right. I was lost in my thoughts about Hortence. And I also felt better knowing that you saw the importance of protecting the meadow, and maybe others did too. I had been so angry earlier. But I didn’t feel angry anymore. I felt hopeful. And then that’s when I got the call.”
“What call?”
“Someone called and told me the mayor was in the meadow, and that he and Thatcher were planning to ruin the place. Of course, I already knew that. I had planned to wait until the right moment and approach them, but then I caught you taking my picture and got distracted.”
Rosemary smiled at the memory. “I thought you were furious with me,” she said.
“You’d probably never guess this,” said Ingrid, “But I’m not always the friendliest on first acquaintance. Anyway, I didn’t care for the mayor, and that went both ways. He wasn’t too fond of me either. Didn’t trust him from day one, although I had hoped he didn’t bear too many of the Graves family traits. Anyway, I was surprised to get that call. The woman said she was worried about Mayor Wright messing up our beautiful meadow. She said I ought to try to catch him while he was still there. Of course, I’d meant to do that in the first place. What better time to have a word with both the mayor and the city manager about their cockamamie ideas? So, I turned right back around and went in the direction of where we’d heard them talking. I had to look around for some time before I found him, at the edge of the meadow. Looked like he’d been hit in the head. There was blood in his hair and all over the ground near his head. I bent down to check for a pulse, and that’s when that Becky saw me.”
“And screamed?”
“That was the odd part. She didn’t scream at all. To look at her, I thought she was too stunned to scream. Her eyes were huge. But then there was a change.” Ingrid stopped talking and frowned thoughtfully.
“A change in what?” asked Rosemary.
“In her eyes. Like some thought had crossed her mind. Like a shadow. She said, ‘What have you done?’ or something like that. I knew it looked bad. I panicked. You know I’m not great with people. I shouldn’t have done it, but I ran away.”
“So, you found Sam at the edge of the meadow.”
“Yep.”
“Face down, bleeding from the back of the head.”
“Yep.”
Rosemary looked at Jack across the table.
“Holy cow,” said Jack.
“What is it?” asked Ingrid.
“When I found Sam, he was still face-down, but he wasn’t at the edge of the meadow. He was in the cemetery, in the Wrights’ corner, and he had the mark on his shoulder.”
There was a moment of silence as this new information sank into everyone’s minds.
“I came running because Becky was screaming,” said Rosemary. “She was in the meadow. She pointed to the trail of blood. She knew about the mark, because I heard her telling her husband she’d seen it—that it was the curse that killed Sam. Then, of course, she switched her story and accused you, Ingrid. She led us all to believe that when she found Sam, you were standing over him there in the cemetery. That is how you know who killed Sam and left the witch’s mark because, after all, you’re a descendent of—”
“Of a witch,” said Ingrid, nodding.
“And the person who called you and told you that the mayor was in the meadow?”
“A woman. Muffled voice. Now I see who it was.”
“Becky,” said Rosemary. “Ingrid, did you ever write a threatening letter to the mayor?”
“The thing with the brick? I didn’t threaten him, I just—”
“Not the thing with the brick. Before Weaser searched your house, Becky Thatcher had showed him a threatening letter that you sent to the mayor at his office.”
Ingrid looked taken aback. “I never wrote any letter like that,” she said.
Just then, Charlie came rushing back into the room.
“Finally got hold of George,” he said. “Victoria didn’t die of a drug overdose or an accident.”
“She didn’t?” said Jack, standing.
“Suffocation,” said Charlie. “She was smothered with a pillow.”
“She was murdered,” said Seth, amazed.
“Did Benedict confess to that, too?” asked Rosemary, a sick feeling growing in the pit of her stomach.
“Nope. In fact, George says Ben couldn’t have done it, because Victoria had only been dead a couple of hours when Mrs. Potter found her and came running into the memorial service this morning. By then, Ben was already in custody. Seems that during the time between Ben leaving Sam’s house and turning himself in, Ben was just walking around the village, trying to get his nerve up to go to the police.”
“Charlie, call the police. Call George back,” said Rosemary. “Jack, fire up Holly. We have to get to the Thatchers’ house, and I have a bad feeling it’s too late.”
They all piled into Holly Golightly, Jack driving like a maniac, and Charlie calling the police on his cell phone. Within minutes they were passing the village green, the rain coming down hard, Holly’s little windshield wipers beating furiously to little avail.
“I can barely see,” said Jack, leaning forward.
“Why is it so dark?” asked Rosemary from the backseat, where she was squeezed between Seth and Ingrid.
“The electricity must be out all over town,” said Charlie.
“A night as black as ink,” said Seth, meeting Rosemary’s eyes.
“It looks deserted,” said Jack, as they pulled into the Thatchers’ driveway.
A terrible clap of thunder boomed overhead and the sky broke open as they got out of the car and ran to the front door. While Seth and Ingrid banged on the front door, Jack, Charlie, and Rosemary ran around to the other three sides of the house, peering in windows and knocking.
“She’s not answering,” Jack yelled through the pounding rain as he ran past Rosemary. “I think she’s already made a run for it!”
“Ingrid and I will check next door at Sam’s!” called Seth over another clap of thunder.
“Hurry!” yel
led Rosemary.
“I’ll go check on Charlie!” said Jack, disappearing into the darkness.
Rosemary looked in the direction of Sam’s house, which, of course, was just as dark as all of the other houses on the street. That was when she saw it. Or thought she saw it. A slight flicker of light in Sam’s backyard. It was coming from his office.
Rosemary ran through the pelting rain to the little building behind Sam’s house.
She tried the door, and it opened. She stepped inside, and closed the door behind her, relieved for a moment to be out of the storm.
The moment didn’t last long.
There, sitting on the couch, a candle burning on the table beside her, was Becky Thatcher.
30
Rosemary pushed wet strands of hair out of her eyes.
“Hello, Becky,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm and gentle, as if she just happened to be in the neighborhood and had decided to drop by.
The police would arrive at any moment, and Rosemary’s only goal was to see that Becky stayed put until then.
“What are you doing here?” asked Becky, turning dazed eyes to Rosemary.
“Oh, you know. Just . . . came to look at the books. It’s quite a collection.” She motioned toward the bookshelves, now hidden in shadow.
“Coming to take more of his things,” said Becky, now looking straight ahead again, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“Oh, no, Becky. I would only borrow books. I wouldn’t keep them. They belonged to Sam.”
“Belong to Sam,” said Becky, nodding.
“Of course,” said Rosemary, taking a step forward, glancing out the window to see if any of the others were outside.
“Like me,” Becky went on. “I belong to Sam.”
“He loved you very much,” said Rosemary.
“Loves me very much,” said Becky, a spark of anger in her eyes now.
“That’s what I meant,” said Rosemary.
“No, you didn’t,” said Becky. “I know you want him too. Just like that stupid Victoria. I know you’re not really here to borrow a book. Please. I know how all of you vultures circle around him, looking for your chance to swoop in.”
