Millie sure felt sorry for her, living in such a place.
Millie had played cards with Agnes Daley a few nights ago. They’d gotten to talking about the Blue Boy, and all the terrible things that had taken place there. Agnes was the town historian, so she knew the inn’s history. She told Millie that the first owner of the place had been a priest—no, not a priest, Millie, thought, trying to remember. It wouldn’t have been a priest back then. The house was built around the time of the Civil War, and Millie didn’t think there were all that many Catholics in Woodfield back then. She supposed Episcopalians had priests, too, but she didn’t imagine a great big Episcopalian church out there in the middle of the woods. No, the first owner had to have been a minister, of some long-forgotten Protestant church.
But what Agnes told Millie about this minister—well, Millie just couldn’t believe it.
Seems he was a very bad man. Not a man of God at all. This minister, Agnes said, was hanged for witchcraft!
“Now, that’s just plain crazy,” Millie had said to Agnes.
“Read the history books,” Agnes had replied.
“I don’t know much about history,” Millie had countered, “but I do know they weren’t hanging men for witchcraft at the time of the Civil War.”
“They found other reasons to hang him,” Agnes had insisted. “But the whole town knew what kind of witchcraft he practiced.”
Millie had snorted. Agnes liked to act so superior, knowing everything about the town, all its past and its history. But maybe, in fact, there was something to the story, since a curse did seem to cling to the place.
All those murders. All those people seemingly swallowed up into nothingness up at that house.
“May I pay for this?”
Millie looked up as she heard Annabel calling to her. The pretty young woman was standing up by the cash register, holding a packet of coffee.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Millie said, hurrying over to assist her.
That poor girl, she was thinking. That poor girl up in that frightening house....
“Did you speak with Charlie Appleby?” Millie asked when she got behind the cash register, ringing up the coffee beans.
“Yes, indeed, he sent over his son Chad,” Annabel told her. “We’ve got a man there making renovations now.”
Millie raised an eyebrow. “And Cordelia’s okay with that?”
The clerk remembered one of the few times old Cordelia Devlin had ever stepped into this market. She’d come in with that old handyman of hers, looking for duct tape to fix a leaking pipe. She had frowned deeply when Millie had asked if she ever thought about updating her plumbing. “It’s got to be plenty old,” Millie had said.
“The house is fine as it is,” Cordelia had grumbled. “Nobody’s touching it.”
Annabel smiled. “Well,” she admitted, “we did have to insist. She’s very sentimental about the old place. My husband and I had to assure her that we plan to do nothing that will hurt the integrity of the house. We really respect the architecture. We just want to make it more modern, more inviting to guests.”
Millie dropped the coffee into a paper bag. “Have you had any inquiries about guests?”
“We have two guests right now!” Annabel said happily. “Please spread the word that we are open under new management and that soon the place will be a wonderful getaway, complete with all-modern luxuries and amenities.”
Millie smiled tightly. “I’ll let people know,” she said.
“Thank you,” Annabel replied, and then, with a little smile and wave, left with her coffee, heading back to her car.
Millie returned to stocking her cans. Why did she feel so worried for that poor child? Surely the stories that the townspeople told about the place were just old wives’ tales—myths, legends, and rumors. There was nothing to them. Even if Agnes was right about the first owner being hanged—even if he had done some terrible things—that was a hundred and fifty years ago. Nothing that had happened up there since was in any way connected. It was just a series of unfortunate, random events.
Still, Millie worried for that poor, pretty girl.
42
Neville came staggering down the stairs. His head was pounding. Why on earth did he drink so much last night?
He noticed the drop cloths covering the furniture as he passed through the parlor. The fireplace was now open. Bricks were stacked alongside. A flashlight was on the floor, rolling slightly back and forth, shining its light toward the opening. But no one was around.
Neville made his way into the kitchen. Just as he entered, Annabel came through the back door, a bag in her hands.
“Well, good morning,” she said, smiling. “Just went out for more coffee. I figured everybody was going to need it today.”
Neville sat down at the table. “Yes, coffee might help,” he said, rubbing his forehead.
“I was wondering when you’d get up,” Annabel said, starting the coffee immediately. “I was going to wake you. You have a plane to catch soon.”
“Oh, yes,” Neville said, still massaging his head. “Florida awaits. Thank God.”
“Give yourself at least an hour to get to Hartford,” she told him.
“Yes,” Neville replied. “I’ll have a little coffee, then jump in the shower and then we’re out of here.” He looked around. “Has Priscilla already had her coffee?”
“No,” Annabel said. “She hasn’t been down yet.”
“Well, she must have,” Neville told her. “She wasn’t in the room.”
“She wasn’t?” Annabel looked over at him oddly as the coffee began to drip. Its aroma made Neville feel a little better already. “That’s odd, because I haven’t seen her. I slept a little later this morning myself, but she hasn’t been around for a least the past couple of hours. Could she have gotten up much earlier?”
“Not likely, given how much she had to drink,” Neville said. “But come to think of it, I don’t remember her coming to bed. I was pretty drunk, though. Maybe I just slept through it.”
Annabel poured him some coffee. “Maybe she slept elsewhere in the house,” she offered. “I haven’t looked in the other rooms.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Maybe you can tell me,” said Annabel, sitting opposite him.
Neville looked at her. The coffee was reviving him, but he didn’t know what Annabel was implying. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“Do you think . . .” She struggled with her words. “Do you think Jack was at all inappropriate last night? Could she have taken offense at anything he said? If so, I do apologize for him.”
Neville sighed and took another sip of coffee. “Oh, you mean the way he was flirting with her? I don’t think she would have been offended. From what I can remember, she seemed to enjoy it.”
“It didn’t bother you?” asked Annabel.
Neville shrugged. “Priscilla’s a pretty girl. Men seem to go for the pretty, bookish types. The ones who look quiet on the outside. I’ve gotten used to it. I’m not much of a looker myself, so if some handsome bloke like Jack can give Priscilla a little attention, I don’t mind.” He leaned in toward Annabel. “But did it bother you?”
“A little,” she said. “But Jack was right beside me all night, snoring like a bear.”
“All night?” Neville asked.
Annabel sat back in her chair. “I assume so. He’s up there now.”
Neville shrugged again. “I’m not suggesting anything. But it’s just curious that Priscilla isn’t in our room.”
“I’ll go look for her,” Annabel said.
Neville just nodded.
43
As Annabel passed through the parlor, she saw that Paulie was gone. She walked over to the fireplace and looked down. He’d gotten it opened, however. His flashlight was on the floor, its light still shining. Annabel reached down and shut it off. No need to waste the battery.
She glanced out the window. Paulie’s truck was still in the driveway, as she’d ob
served when she’d driven up a few minutes earlier. So where was Paulie? Maybe out back, taking a break, smoking a cigarette? Or smoking something else, Annabel thought. She hadn’t missed the fragrance of marijuana that clung to him.
Did she go looking for Paulie or for Priscilla? She figured it was more urgent to find Priscilla. If they didn’t leave soon, they’d miss their flight.
But Priscilla was nowhere to be found. Annabel searched every room of the house and she wasn’t there. She even opened the door to her own room again and all she saw was Jack, still sound asleep like a bear in hibernation.
She noticed the small narrow steps at the end of the hall that led up to the attic.
She hadn’t been up there yet. Zeke had told her it was dangerous. Annabel was sure it was. The rafters were probably so rotted that they’d snap underfoot. But still, she should check. What if Priscilla had been so drunk she’d gone up there for some reason?
Maybe to get away from Jack?
Or maybe . . .
Maybe she and Jack had gone up there for a tryst. Jack had come down, but Priscilla had spent the night up there, passed out.
That was the thought going through Annabel’s mind as she climbed the steep, narrow stairs. At the top was a door. She turned the handle.
But it was locked.
Well, if she couldn’t get in there, then Priscilla wouldn’t have been able to, either. At least that ruled out the attic.
Annabel came back down to the second floor. She had looked everywhere! Where could Priscilla be? Had she gone outside?
But her coat was still hanging on the hook beside the front door.
Annabel thought of something.
She hadn’t looked everywhere. She hadn’t looked in Cordelia’s room.
Annabel paused outside the old woman’s room. She knocked.
“Cordelia?” she asked softly.
There was no answer.
Had the two of them gone off together?
She knocked again and called the old woman’s name once more.
Still no reply.
Annabel hesitated, and then turned the doorknob. The door was open. She went inside.
Cordelia was lying on her back on the floor. Her head was propped awkwardly against an old cast-iron figurine of a hawk, used as a doorstop.
“Cordelia!” Annabel cried, rushing to her fallen grandmother-in-law and kneeling beside her. She noticed the small pool of blood behind the old woman’s head.
Annabel grabbed her by the shoulders.
“Cordelia!” she shouted. “Are you all right?”
The old woman’s eyes flickered open. One clawlike hand clutched at Annabel’s blouse.
“The fireplace,” Cordelia croaked.
“What?” Annabel asked. “What are you saying?”
But the old woman said nothing more. Her eyes closed and her head fell back.
Annabel rushed off to call an ambulance.
44
Chief Richard Carlson watched the people of the house carefully as the body of Cordelia Devlin was carried out the front door on a stretcher.
Here he’d been thinking of coming by the Blue Boy Inn to ask some questions about the cold cases of a generation ago and now, here again, was another mysterious death at the old bed-and-breakfast. Examining the body of the old woman, the coroner had declared it might have been accident. She was frail, and she might well have fallen, hitting her head against the iron doorstop. But until he had a chance to better examine the body, the coroner was reserving judgment as to cause of death.
That was wise, Carlson thought, as there were some other mysterious developments that might end up having some bearing on the case.
Three people had disappeared that morning as well. Paulie Stueckel, whom Richard would see every morning at Deb’s Diner, sipping coffee and eating a doughnut, looking as if he’d smoked a half-pound of weed as soon as he woke up. Priscilla Morton, a British tourist. And old Zeke, the caretaker of the place.
Any one of them might have slipped upstairs and whacked the old woman on the head, then taken off.
Chad Appleby was pulling up in his truck.
“What the hell happened?” he was asking as he hurried across the parking lot.
“Morning, Chad,” Richard said. “Or I guess I should say, afternoon.”
The sun was directly above them now, weakly shining down on the van as Cordelia Devlin’s body was loaded inside.
“Where’s Paulie?” Chad asked. “I left him here just a little while ago.”
“We don’t know where Paulie is,” Richard told him. “That’s why we asked you to come down here.”
Chad looked absolutely befuddled. “Last I saw him, I dropped him back at his truck. He was planning on heading back here to start work on the fireplace.”
The chief nodded. “And he did just that. He was hard at work when Ms. Wish left for the store, but he was nowhere to be found when she got back. She was gone less than fifteen minutes.”
“And the old woman was dead,” Chad said.
Richard nodded. “Tell me something,” he said. “Was Paulie high this morning?”
“Chief,” Chad said, looking at him as if he’d just asked the most absurd question of all time. “You know Paulie’s always high.”
Richard shrugged.
“Come on, chief,” Chad said. “You know Paulie. He’s harmless. A stoner, sure, but a pussycat. He swerves to avoid hitting squirrels. He wouldn’t kill an old lady.”
“I have to ask questions, Chad.”
The young contractor seemed to think of something. “But, you know . . .”
Richard looked over at him. “What is it, Chad?”
“Have you spoken with Annabel?”
The chief nodded. “Yes, she’s given a statement.”
“Did she tell you what the old man told us?”
“What old man?”
“Zeke. The caretaker.”
Richard’s ears perked up. Chad didn’t yet know that Zeke was missing as well. “No,” he said. “What did Zeke tell you?”
“He told Paulie and me that Mrs. Devlin would pay us double of whatever we quoted Annabel to not to do any work on the house.”
Richard raised his eyebrows. “No kidding. Why would she do that?”
“Beats me. And I told Annabel about it. Boy, was she pissed. That’s why she had Paulie start the work today. She said she wanted the old lady to come down the stairs and see the work being started.”
“Really now?”
“Yup. Crazy.”
“So, what you’re telling me is, Annabel Wish was very angry at her grandmother-in-law this morning.”
Chad seemed to be uncomfortable with the implication Richard was making, but he couldn’t deny the truth. “Yeah,” he said. “She was angry.”
The chief looked back at the house.
Now he didn’t have just three suspects anymore.
He had four.
45
Jack sat at the kitchen table, blinking frequently, unable to fully comprehend what had happened here this morning.
“Gran,” he kept saying. “Gone. And I slept right through it.”
“Jack,” Annabel said, pouring him more coffee, “there was nothing you could have done. She fell and hit her head. She didn’t suffer long.”
His eyes shot up at her. “The police chief seems to think there might have been more to it than that.”
“Yes,” Neville said, sitting across from him, “he was questioning all of us as if we’d killed her.” He paused. “Or rather, as if Priscilla had killed her, and taken off.”
“That’s crazy,” Annabel said. “Why would Priscilla kill Cordelia?”
Neville fixed her with his eyes. “It does seem crazy. But then where is Priscilla? She’s nowhere in the house!”
“Her coat is still hanging in the foyer, and it’s too cold to go outside without it.” Annabel turned to Jack. “Where is the key to the attic?”
Her husband looked at her without com
prehension. “The attic?”
“It’s the only place I wasn’t able to check. It’s locked.” She met Jack’s eyes and held them. “Did you and Priscilla go up there last night?”
“Me . . . and Priscilla?” he asked.
Neville stood. “Yes,” he said. “Come on, man. This is no time for games. Whatever happened last night happened. For now, who cares? Just tell us what you know about Priscilla!”
“Indeed,” came another voice. “I’d like to know that, too.”
They all looked up. Chief Richard Carlson had just walked into the kitchen.
“I let myself back in through the front door,” he said. His deputy was behind him, and behind him was Chad Appleby. “I’d like your permission to search the house,” the chief said. “I’d like to see if we can find some clue to the three missing persons.”
Jack, still sitting at the table, glowered.
“Do you have a search warrant?” he asked.
“Jack!” Annabel was horrified. “We have nothing to hide! If they can find something to explain where Priscilla and Paulie and Zeke went, then let them search!”
“I’d have to add my encouragement to that as well,” Neville said. “It seems highly unlikely right now, but if they can find Priscilla up in that attic, she and I might still make a plane bound for the sunny skies of Florida later this afternoon.”
Jack just shrugged. “Sure, go ahead. Search the place.”
Richard Carlson stood looking at him. “When I came in, you were being asked what you knew about Priscilla Morton. Is there anything you can tell us?”
Jack covered his face with his hands. “Why is everyone badgering me? My head is killing me!”
“Mr. Devlin,” the chief said, “we are just trying to understand what happened here this morning, and to locate three missing people.”
Jack stood. His hands were running through his hair. “Okay, so maybe Priscilla and I had a little too much to drink last night. That’s not a crime, is it?”
“No, it’s not,” the chief assured him.
“But then she went one way and I went another,” Jack said, not looking at any of them. Instead, he stood at the back door, gazing out into the woods.
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