by Todd Ritter
Since he didn’t have a driver’s license, in the U.S. or in Italy, he had to plead with a cabbie to drive him forty-five minutes into the middle of nowhere. When begging didn’t work, cash did. An exorbitant amount that he had to pay up front before he could even open the passenger door. Reaching town, he found a very familiar police car blocking the street his hotel was on, forcing him to carry his luggage several blocks on foot, through a crowd, in front of a fire.
A fitting end to his journey, really. And, he thought, yet another reason why he should have stayed where he was. But now it was too late to turn back. Now he couldn’t blame the traffic or the delayed flights or the snide jackass at customs.
Now, whether he wanted to be or not, Henry Goll was back in Perry Hollow.
He was staying at the Sleepy Hollow Inn, a three-story bed-and-breakfast that was the only game in town as far as hotels went. His room was on the top floor, and while surprisingly large, it left a lot to be desired. It was too antique, too flowery, and smelled too much like cheap soap. All that pastel and potpourri was suffocating—like being hugged too tightly by an old woman.
As he unpacked, Henry considered finding another place to stay. His options, though, were limited. He knew exactly one person who would put him up for the night, and she was two blocks away dealing with a fire.
Henry had heard Chief Kat Campbell shout his name through the crowd of onlookers. For a moment, he had almost stopped and greeted her with the warmth and kindness she deserved. Instead, he ignored her, escaping the crowd unseen while the chief was occupied with some tall man she had just bumped into.
It’s not that he didn’t want to see Kat. He was genuinely looking forward to catching up and hearing how both she and James were doing. But tonight wasn’t the right time. She was busy, and Henry was—well, he wasn’t happy to be here.
He never thought he’d be back in Perry Hollow. He had had no desire to return. There were too many bad memories of the last time he was here. The thread pulling through his skin. The scalpel at his throat. The fire and chaos and blood that followed. Moving to Italy had dulled the memories, but Henry was afraid seeing Kat would bring many of them back. That trip down memory lane, he decided, could wait until later.
When Henry finished unpacking, he looked at his watch, which was still set to Italian time. It was after eight A.M. there. Dario would definitely be awake. Which meant it was time to call home.
Henry’s phone barely got out one ring before it was answered with a terse “Pronto.”
“Sono Henry.”
“Henry! How was your flight?”
Although Henry was fluent in Italian, Dario Giambusso insisted on speaking English with him. Henry suspected his editor was trying to show off. Or maybe his Italian was that bad, and Dario was tired of hearing him butcher his native tongue. Either way, whenever they spoke, English was the language of choice.
“The flight was”—Henry grasped for the right word—“long. But I’m here.”
“Very good. Now you should relax. It’s early there, no?”
Dario’s voice was almost drowned out by a loud whirring noise. It was accompanied by the rhythmic slapping of bare feet on a hard surface. He was on his treadmill. Other than knowing English, a love of exercise was the only thing Henry and his editor had in common.
“It is early,” Henry said. “But relaxation isn’t on the agenda. I have a lot of background information to go through before I start contacting my sources.”
“Don’t run yourself ragged. You need sleep, too.”
“I slept on the plane.”
“Then maybe you can visit that lady friend of yours,” Dario said, voice thick with innuendo. “Does she still live in town?”
He was talking about Deana, Henry’s girlfriend before everything went to hell. Of course Dario knew about her. Most of the world did, just as they knew about what had happened to Henry. His story wasn’t a secret. It was the reason, in fact, he had been sent to Perry Hollow instead of the reporter who usually covered this beat. Henry certainly didn’t volunteer for the assignment. No, he had been handpicked by Dario, who thought Henry’s history with the town was something he could exploit.
“Seeing Deana Swan isn’t on my agenda,” Henry said. “I just want to do my job and go home.”
“That’s very noble, Henry.” The slapping noises got faster. Dario had just kicked up his speed. “But, in a way, you already are home.”
Henry, no longer in the mood to talk, told his editor he’d check in as soon as he found something. Then with a quick ciao, he hung up.
Tossing the phone onto the bed, Henry retreated to the bathroom and stared in the mirror over the sink. His reflection contained so many flaws he didn’t know where to look first. The large burn mark at his left temple had been there for so long that he barely even noticed it anymore. Same thing with the scar that ran from ear to chin, intersecting both of his lips in the process.
The others at his lips were more recent, and he still wasn’t used to them. Not even after a year spent studying them in any mirror he could find. The plastic surgeons had managed to save what they could, but it was still clear something horrible had happened to him. His lips were now a series of unsightly bumps, populated with specks of white where the needle and thread had slipped through. When Henry ran his fingertips over them, it felt like he was trying to read Braille.
Tugging on his collar, Henry examined the right side of his neck. His skin was eggshell pale, even after months of living in Italy, and logic dictated that the scar there wouldn’t be as noticeable because of it. But sometimes logic had no place where the human body was concerned, and the scar on his neck was the most visible one of all. It was a bright pink and wider than the others. Even when Henry wore a shirt and tie, it was still visible, a cruel reminder of his past peeking out of his collar.
“Welcome home, Henry,” he muttered to his reflection. “Hopefully you’ll leave in better shape than you did last time.”
3 A.M.
“I don’t know why anyone would want to hurt Connie. It’s devastating. Absolutely devastating.”
Emma Pulsifer used the sleeve of her nightgown to dab at her eyes. They were red and raw, the result of a crying jag that had lasted for the better part of an hour. Kat spent that time making calls to the appropriate authorities—county sheriff, prosecutor’s office, state police—and then greeting the endless stream of cops and crime scene techs who arrived at the museum. Now she was back with Emma, who had calmed down enough to talk.
The two of them sat in a dim conference room next to the museum’s back door. It was dry there and mostly free of the smoky residue left by the fire. Just down the hall, the small army of investigators got to work in the main gallery. Kat heard cautious footsteps on the charred floor and the low murmur of voices trying to piece everything together. Occasionally, the incandescent flash of a camera bounced down the hallway, causing Emma to flinch.
“Constance was a widow, right?” Kat asked.
“Just like me,” Emma said. “There weren’t any children.”
“Did she have any other family that you know of? Any immediate next of kin you think we should contact?”
“Not that I know of. The historical society was her family. She devoted her life to it.”
“Is there anyone in the historical society that didn’t get along with Constance?” Kat asked. “Anyone who might want to do her harm?”
The suggestion seemed to horrify Emma, who dropped her jaw before answering, “Of course not. Everyone loved her. There were disagreements, naturally. But nothing that would result in murder.”
She was mistaken there. Kat knew anything could result in murder. A grudge. An affair. A lie that spiraled out of control. Sometimes nothing prompted the killing. Sometimes people just snapped. The ominous warning scrawled on Constance’s hand—THIS IS JUST THE FIRST—pointed in that direction. Kat didn’t want to consider that possibility at the moment, so she asked, “What kind of disagreements are we talk
ing about?”
“Well, this museum, for one,” Emma said. “It’s free to the public, and some members disagreed with that. They thought we should charge admission. We’re always short on funds, and the extra money would help. Connie disagreed. She said the town’s history belonged to everyone. We were just the people who took care of it.”
“And what did you think?”
“It didn’t matter what I thought. Connie was the president. She had the final say.”
Kat leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “How many members does the historical society have? I know there were you and Constance. Who else?”
“It was just the five of us. Father Ron is the secretary. Claude Dobson is the treasurer. And Mayor Hammond is the honorary member, as were all the mayors before him.”
Kat had seen Father Ron and the mayor outside while the fire was still raging. As far as she knew, Claude Dobson, a retired high school history teacher, wasn’t with them. She wasn’t sure if that worked in his favor or not.
“When was the last time you saw Constance?”
“Tonight.” Emma checked her watch, seeing they had entered a new day. “I mean, last night.”
“What time was that?”
“A little before eight. I drove past the museum and saw the lights were still on. I popped in and found Connie still here, just like I thought.”
“In the gallery?”
“In her office. It’s across the hall.”
Kat looked past Emma to the doorway behind her. An office sat on the other side of the hallway, its door closed. Someone had been smart enough to criss-cross it with police tape.
“I’m assuming she was alone,” she said.
“It was just Connie at her desk, as usual.”
“What did you two talk about?”
“Chitchat, mostly,” Emma said. “I asked if she planned on going to the Chamber of Commerce fund-raiser later.”
The fund-raiser was the premier social event of the year in Perry Hollow, which wasn’t saying much. It probably looked like a rinky-dink affair to people from more metropolitan areas, but in a town where most wedding receptions were held in the Elks Lodge, the fund-raiser was a very big deal. Those who could afford it put on their best clothes, sipped cocktails, and gossiped the night away. Kat had been invited but politely declined the offer. She wasn’t good at schmoozing, nor did she enjoy it. Besides, it had been movie night with James—part of her renewed push to spend more time with him. That night’s selection was Toy Story, one of his favorites.
“Is the fund-raiser where you were headed when you passed the museum?”
Emma’s nod turned into a flinch as another burst of flashbulbs shot down the hall. “It was. Connie told me she’d be there in a little while. But she never showed.”
“Were any other members of the historical society there?”
“Yes,” Emma said. “All of us.”
“What time did it end?”
“I’m not sure. I left close to midnight. The others were still there.”
The fire, Kat had learned, was first reported by Dave and Betty Freeman, who saw it from their bedroom window. The 911 call was made at 12:52. Whoever was still at the fund-raiser at that time was in the clear. Emma Pulsifer, however, wasn’t one of them.
“Where was the fund-raiser held this year?”
“Maison D’Avignon,” Emma said, referring to the French restaurant that had helped turn Perry Hollow from a crumbling mill town into something slightly more upscale. It was located on Main Street, five blocks up and four blocks over from the museum.
“And did you pass the museum on your way home?”
“I took a different route.”
“Did you stop anywhere along the way? A place where someone else could verify your presence. A gas station, perhaps? Or maybe at the ATM outside Commonwealth Bank.”
“No. I went straight home.” Suspicion crept into Emma’s voice. “And I don’t see why any of this matters.”
“I’m just trying to place your whereabouts when the fire started.”
“I was in bed,” Emma said, tugging absently on her pink nightgown. “I heard the sirens, looked out the window, and saw the flames. I didn’t even know it was the museum that was on fire until I got closer.”
Since Emma was also a widow, there was no one at home to back up her alibi. Kat had to take what she was saying at face value. She didn’t want to, but for the time being, she had no choice.
“One last question before you can go,” Kat said. “Why was Constance here so late on a Friday night?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Emma said.
“Was she normally here at night?”
“In the past, no. But in the last few weeks or so, yes.”
“Was she working on something?”
“Maybe.”
Emma made no effort to elaborate, prompting Kat to say, “Either she was or she wasn’t.”
“She was. Possibly. On Thursday, she sent an e-mail to the rest of us in the historical society calling an emergency meeting.”
“About what?”
“No one knows. But I have a feeling it had something to do with all the time she was spending here lately.”
“And when did she want to have this meeting?”
“Tonight,” Emma said. “She wanted to have it tonight.”
*
Kat felt the yawn coming on as she guided Emma Pulsifer out of the museum via the back door. She managed to stifle it as she told Emma to expect more questions in the morning, both about Constance and about the museum itself. But once she was back inside the building, heading down the hall to the main gallery, the yawn erupted—jaw-stretching proof of just how tired she really was.
A sallow-faced man with gray hair standing in the middle of the gallery noticed—it was hard not to—and gave her a knowing smile. The man was Wallace Noble, the medical examiner, and Kat had known him since the days when her father was Perry Hollow’s police chief.
“Long night, eh?” he said in a voice made raspy by forty years of smoking.
Kat replied with another, more modest yawn. “Yep. And I’m afraid this is just the beginning of a very long morning. This case looks like it’ll keep me up for days.”
“I thought you’d be used to it by now,” Wallace said. “First the Grim Reaper killings. Then the Olmstead thing. You seem to get all the good crimes.”
“I guess I’m just lucky,” Kat said, although she knew the opposite was true. A lucky cop would be one who spent an entire career avoiding such cases. The only reason Kat felt fortunate was because she had somehow managed to survive them.
“This is far cleaner than those Reaper killings,” Wallace said. “No amateur embalming here, thank God. Remember how he attacked his victims?”
Kat gave him a slight nod. As if she could ever forget. The Grim Reaper, one of the two most evil people she had ever encountered, liked to play games. He’d place a dead animal at the scene, distracting his victims long enough for him to sneak up on them. Then he’d render them unconscious with a handkerchief doused with chloroform. Then he’d kill them.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Henry Goll had been the only one to survive.
“Well, now there’s this,” Kat said.
Her gaze drifted around the gallery, which looked far different than when she first arrived with Dutch Jansen and Emma Pulsifer in tow. The darkness that had previously enveloped them was now banished by a few well-placed klieg lights powered by a generator outside. The blinding glare highlighted the destruction, from the fire-scarred walls to the floors already warping from water damage. Shards of glass were everywhere, glinting in the light.
Above Kat, a portion of the ceiling had been eaten away, revealing both the second and third floors. She remembered from her grade-school visits that on the second floor were rooms decorated just as they would have been during the town’s founding. Above that, she assumed, was the attic, where Emma said the rest of t
he museum’s collection was stored.
The devastation from the fire and the water damage that followed meant there was likely very little trace evidence to be found. Still, a few crime scene techs huddled around the crawl space where Constance had been discovered. Although her body was now lying beneath a white sheet on a wheeled gurney next to Wallace, Kat still pictured her slumped over that trunk, her wool skirt wet and clinging to the back of her legs. The techs, who were probably used to seeing far worse, worked in silence. One of them, wearing a baseball cap with a penlight duct-taped to the bill, dropped into the crawl space like a seasoned spelunker.
“I’m assuming the cause of death is blunt force trauma,” Kat said.
“Probably,” Wallace replied with a nod. “She was certainly hit hard with something heavy. A single blow to the back of the head. Cracked her skull right open.”
“Any guess as to the time of death?”
“Fairly recent. The body was still warm, so I’m guessing no more than three hours ago.”
Immediately, Kat started forming a timeline of events. If Wallace was correct, Constance had died between twelve-thirty and one A.M., around the same time the fire started. Kat assumed that whoever killed her dragged the body into the crawl space before starting the fire.
“What do you think the murder weapon was?” she asked.
Wallace gave a palms-up gesture of ignorance before opening his arms wide. “Take your pick. There were probably a hundred objects in here heavy enough to do that kind of damage. Bronze statues. Household items, which were heavier back in the day than they are now. Housewives back then must have had biceps the size of bowling balls.”
“All the better to keep men like you in check,” Kat said.
Wallace let out a low chuckle that quickly morphed into a smoker’s cough and seemed to last a full minute. When he recovered, he said, “I’m off to do the autopsy now. I’ll call you as soon as I find anything.”
He started to wheel out Constance’s body, pausing long enough to pull a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket and pop it between his lips.
