by Todd Ritter
Perry Hollow had struggled mightily after the mill closed. It only started to come back after a few small businesses took a chance and set up shop. Now it was known for its quaint and quirky downtown, encouraging tourists to take a detour during their Sunday drives. Business wasn’t booming, but it was solid, which was enough for the people who lived there. Only now the tourists weren’t coming as frequently or staying as long. The Grim Reaper murders were to blame, although in the weeks that followed them, Perry Hollow had seen an uptick in visitors. Mayhem lured in people as surely as sugar drew flies. But that moment had passed quickly, replaced by a quiet that unsettled residents who remembered the darkest days after the mill closing.
“What this town needs is to take things to the next level,” Burt said. “Everyone knows it. It was all anyone was talking about last night.”
“During the Chamber of Commerce fund-raiser?” Kat asked.
Burt nodded, prompting Nick to chime in with “Is that where you were when the fire broke out?”
“It was.”
“Can someone else verify your presence?”
“Just ask anyone,” Burt said. “I made a point of greeting everyone there.”
Kat pictured the mayor working the room with an untouched drink in his hand. She was certain he patted everyone on the back and laughed too loudly at jokes that weren’t very funny before moving on to the next person. If that was socializing in Perry Hollow, she was all too happy to remain an outcast.
“Was anyone there acting suspiciously?” Nick asked.
Burt puckered his lips as he pondered the question. “Suspicious? Not that I can recall. There were some people who had had a few too many, but that’s normal at a function like that.”
“Anyone in particular?” Kat said.
“Well, I probably shouldn’t be sharing this.” Burt had lowered his voice and was now glancing around the gymnasium to see if he’d be overheard. “But there was a firefighter who was hitting the open bar pretty hard. His name is Danny.”
“Danny Batallas?”
“Yes, him,” Burt said. “He made a bit of a scene during the event. What made it even more embarrassing is that he’s a salesman at my dealership. Thank God only myself and a few others witnessed it.”
Kat tried to recall if Danny had seemed intoxicated at the museum blaze. She hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary, but that was almost an hour after the party had ended. Besides, he had just finished putting out a fire. A rush of adrenaline like that could sober anyone up.
“Are you certain he was drunk?” she asked.
Burt shrugged. “Well, I’m not positive. But it’s the only explanation I can think of for what transpired.”
“And what exactly happened?”
“At one point during the party, he cornered me,” Burt said. “He demanded that we talk about his salary.”
Kat tilted her head at him. “At your dealership?”
“No. As a firefighter. He wanted to be a full-time, paid firefighter, instead of a mere unpaid volunteer. He said there might come a time when the town needed a paid fire squad. He said, and this is an exact quote, ‘What if someone decides to set this whole town on fire? Then what will you do?’ I told him that the party was the wrong place to bring it up and that we could discuss it in my office at a later time.”
“Did he agree?”
“Not really,” Burt replied. “He simply walked to the bar and got another drink. That was the last time I saw him during the party. Someone must have driven him home because he was gone by midnight.”
Kat exchanged a knowing glance with Nick. He was thinking what she was—that Danny Batallas now looked guilty as sin.
“Do you know where we could find Danny today?”
“He’s scheduled to be at the dealership right now,” Burt said. “I’d stop by there first if you need to talk to him.”
“Thanks for the tip. We’ll be sure to do that.”
The gym floor had receded for the umpteenth time, revealing the pool in all its chlorinated glory.
“I hope it helps, although I’m sure Danny has nothing to do with this,” Burt Hammond said as he stared at the glimmering water. “But you better catch whoever the hell did this very soon. This town can’t take any more murders. Or fires, for that matter.”
10 A.M.
Henry’s eyes were killing him, thanks to an hour spent poring over documents about Giuseppe Fanelli. The pages were now scattered around the room. Some weighed down the poor excuse for a desk. Others sat in lopsided piles on the floor or spread across the bed. Henry had read them all. When he closed his eyes, he still saw them—lines of business-speak typed in crisp Italian floating across the back of his eyelids.
And despite all that time spent reading, he hadn’t learned anything concrete about Fanelli and his latest venture, Fanelli Entertainment USA. He certainly didn’t have a clue about what Giuseppe Fanelli planned to do in Perry Hollow.
It didn’t help matters that his mind insisted on drifting back to Deana Swan. More than once, Henry found his thoughts veering off the page he was reading and into the recent past. He’d think of the surprised expression on Deana’s face as she saw him at the end of the drive. He wondered about his appearance and if she noticed the new scars on his lips.
Most of all, Henry thought about how Deana looked. The past year had left her unchanged. She still had the same kind eyes, the same sweet smile that could turn naughty in an instant. But there was something different about her. Something invisible yet still palpable. Maybe it was sadness. Or maturity. Probably it was just the strange sensation of seeing her again after such a long time. Whatever it was, it was distracting Henry from the sole reason he was back in Perry Hollow—his job.
Henry closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Get it together, Goll. You’ve got work to do.”
And now that it was mid-morning in Perry Hollow, he needed to start doing it. That meant phone calls. Lots of them. Sitting on the edge of the creaky bed, he grabbed his phone and dialed the home of David Brandt, partner at Everhart and Brandt, the real estate firm that helped sell the one hundred acres of Perry Hollow to Giuseppe Fanelli. Mr. Brandt—who answered on the first ring, Henry noticed—didn’t seem to mind being bothered on the weekend.
“Yes, I’m the one who sold the land to Mr. Fanelli,” he said after the obligatory introductions and opening chitchat. “It was a very big get for our firm.”
“Just to clarify, this is the parcel that used to be occupied by the Perry Mill, correct?”
“It is,” David Brandt said. “If you have a map of the area—”
Henry actually did have a map, buried somewhere under the hundred other pieces of paper on the bed. He riffled through them as David Brandt continued.
“—you’ll see that the lot begins right at the edge of Lake Squall. It fronts the water for ten acres. Then it goes away from shore for another ten acres, making it a hundred square acres.”
By that point Henry had located the map and was using an index finger to trace a rectangle around the area David Brandt was talking about. It was a big chunk of land, and probably very expensive.
“How much did Mr. Fanelli pay for the land?”
“I can’t disclose the sum,” Mr. Brandt said. “But I will say it was more than what the land was worth.”
Henry discarded the map and reached for his notebook and pen. He scrawled pagato più—paid more—before realizing he didn’t need to take notes in Italian. Shaking off the mental jet lag, he asked, “Why would he do that?”
“I don’t really know. Apparently, he just really wanted the land.”
“Were there any other potential buyers?”
“The town, of course,” David Brandt said. “They’ve been interested in it for years.”
Henry paused, pen frozen over the notebook. “I thought Perry Hollow was the owner of the land.”
“No, the land was still with the Perry family. The town wanted them to donate it, but the family
refused. Then town officials tried to get them to lower the price. The family made an offer, but the town couldn’t meet it.”
At last, Henry lowered pen to paper. He wrote, “Town wanted land.”
“Do you know what Mr. Fanelli intends to build there?”
“We never discussed that.”
So much for getting more information. It appeared that Mr. Brandt knew even less than Henry did. Still, he pressed on, asking, “I’m assuming Mr. Fanelli contacted you about purchasing the land?”
“He did,” Mr. Brandt said. “Actually, he didn’t. One of his employees did. She said she was a vice president of Mr. Fanelli’s U.S. company.”
“Can I get her name?”
“Sure. It’s Trapani. Lucia Trapani.”
“And she’s based in Philadelphia?” Henry asked.
“I believe so, yes.”
Henry scribbled down the name and phone number David Brandt provided. “Do you know how Mr. Fanelli heard about the land being for sale?”
“You’d have to ask Ms. Trapani about that.” Impatience had crept into Mr. Brandt’s voice. Henry was asking too many questions. “Or Mr. Fanelli, if you can reach him.”
Henry thanked David Brandt for his time and hung up. He then prepared to call Lucia Trapani, but a knock on the door interrupted him before he got the chance.
“Hello?” said a meek voice floating in the hallway. “Is anyone there?”
Henry opened the door and saw the short and stout woman who had been behind the checkin desk in the wee hours of the morning. Her name was Lottie Scott—she had mentioned it three times during the two-minute checkin process—and Henry assumed she was the proud owner of the Sleepy Hollow Inn. Which meant she was also the cook, the plumber, and, judging from the set of towels she was holding, the maid.
Lottie looked surprised to see him. “Oh, you’re here.”
“I am,” Henry said. “Is there something you need?”
“No. I just came up to replace the towels and make the bed.” Mrs. Scott peered past him to the document-strewn bed. “Oh. I’ve interrupted you.”
Henry explained that he planned to spend the day in his room working and that he wished not to be disturbed. He even asked Lottie if there was a sign he could hang on the doorknob to prevent any other intrusions. Naturally, there wasn’t. All Henry could do was repeat that he was working while he accepted the towels.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Goll,” Lottie assured him. “You won’t hear a peep from me.”
“Thank you,” Henry said. “I appreciate it.”
After Mrs. Scott departed, Henry tossed the towels onto a nearby chair and returned to his phone. Since it was a Saturday, he didn’t expect to reach Lucia Trapani. At best, he planned to leave a voice mail and hoped she’d get back to him. So it was a surprise when the phone was answered by an officious secretary who told him, “Ms. Trapani is outrageously busy today.”
“But it’s a Saturday,” Henry said.
“Not where I work,” the secretary replied with undisguised bitterness.
“I only need five minutes of her time.”
“That’s like asking for the Easter bunny. Five free minutes simply don’t exist.”
“Then one minute,” Henry said, trying to summon patience from a well that was quickly going dry. “Surely Ms. Trapani has a minute available to answer a few questions.”
“Who are you again?” The secretary was starting to sound like a snobby maître d’ who was refusing to let him enter a restaurant because he wasn’t wearing a tie. “And what is this about?”
Henry stated, not for the first time, his name, his newspaper, and why he was calling. When he was finished, Lucia Trapani’s secretary said, “I think we’d both be happier if you just called the PR department on Monday. They don’t have to come in on the weekend.”
“Take down my number,” Henry said, giving up for the time being. “Tell your boss that if she gets the chance, I’d appreciate it if she could call me back and answer a few questions. Today.”
A flurry of half-whispered voices hissed out of the receiver. The secretary was conferring with someone, her hand trying to muffle the phone. Henry could make out snippets of the conversation. Who? What newspaper? And he’s where? That was followed by some ear-scraping rustling as someone else took control of the phone.
“This is Lucia Trapani.”
Henry was taken aback, not just by the fact that she was talking to him but also because her English was impeccable. Judging by her name—and the man she worked for—he had assumed he’d need to conduct the interview in Italian.
“Ms. Trapani, thank you for—”
“You’re welcome,” she said, cutting to the chase. “You’re calling about the Perry Hollow land, right?”
“I am.”
“And you came all the way from Rome to report on this?”
“I did,” Henry said. “It’s a big story. And from what I can tell, no one in the Italian press but us knows about it.”
“I see. You want to break the news. Unfortunately, I spoke to a reporter about it yesterday.”
Hearing that made Henry want to throw his phone out the window. He had traveled all that way just to be scooped. “Was it an Italian paper?”
“No,” Lucia said. “More local.”
The Philadelphia Inquirer, probably, Henry thought. Or maybe Miss Trapani was bluffing just to avoid talking to him. If another paper had broken the news, Henry would have heard about it by now.
“That doesn’t matter to the readers of my paper.”
“Of course. But what if I told you there’s no story to break?”
This time Henry knew she was bluffing. “If there wasn’t a story, then all your filings would have made it clear what Fanelli Entertainment USA actually does. They also would have explained why he bought land in Pennsylvania and not, say, New York or California. Finally, they would have provided some idea of what Mr. Fanelli plans to build on the land, because you and I both know it’s going to be something huge.”
“You’re correct in that regard. Giuseppe never does anything small.”
“So,” Henry said, “would you care to comment?”
“No,” Lucia replied. “At least not right now. It might have sounded like an exaggeration, but I really don’t have five minutes to spare today.”
Henry slumped on the bed, deflated. He needed to get something that day. Otherwise, his editor would start to get impatient, and Dario never liked to be kept waiting. There was also the fact that someone else could break the story before him, which would make Dario livid that the paper had spent all that money on travel for nothing.
“Please,” he said. “I’m desperate here. Like Tosca.”
Lucia Trapani surprised Henry once again, this time by laughing. “An opera buff, I see.”
“Very much so.”
“Is Tosca your favorite Puccini?”
“It is,” Henry said.
“It’s a good one,” Lucia replied. “Although I prefer Madama Butterfly. I suppose I’m girly and sentimental in that regard.”
“It has its merits,” Henry said. “I saw it again a few months ago in Rome. It’s more mature than I thought.”
“Listen.” Lucia Trapani sighed, like she was already regretting what she was about to say. “I can drive out to Perry Hollow tonight. I’ll give you an exclusive sit-down interview and tell you everything I know.”
“Isn’t that far for you?”
“Call it a favor for a fellow opera buff,” Lucia said. “Besides, I’m used to the drive. I was just there last night, in fact. And I have to drive out there tomorrow morning to monitor some site work. If I have to, I’ll spend the night at that wretched bed-and-breakfast they’ve got there.”
“When do you want to meet?”
“My schedule is packed until tonight, so it’s going to have to be late. How does nine-thirty sound?”
Anytime would have sounded great to Henry, so he agreed on nine-thirty. They arranged to meet for drin
ks at Maison D’Avignon, Perry Hollow’s fanciest restaurant. It was an expensive place, and a few cocktails there would probably blow through the meager food budget the newspaper had provided. Henry didn’t care. He was simply happy for the chance to get some information about Fanelli’s plans.
He was in such a good mood that he didn’t even mind when Mrs. Scott inevitably knocked on his door five minutes after he ended the call with Lucia Trapani. In addition to being overworked, the poor thing was also senile. Otherwise she would have remembered that he had specifically asked not to be disturbed.
“Mrs. Scott,” he said, opening the door. “More towels?”
Henry blinked. Hard.
Instead of the proprietor, he saw Deana Swan, standing with her hands folded nervously in front of her. Henry took a step backward, his good mood gone in an instant.
Deana noticed and attempted a smile. “Hi, Henry.”
Stunned by her presence for the second time that morning, Henry’s first instinct was to close the door. He couldn’t face her. Not now. Not ever. But Deana was quick and blocked the door’s progress with her foot.
“Please,” she said, the door bouncing off her shoe. “This will only take a minute.”
Henry wanted to keep pressing the door against her foot in the hope she’d pull it away and leave him in peace. But Deana sounded desperate. As desperate as Tosca, he noted. So he released the door, letting it drift open until there was nothing between them.
“I know you don’t want to see me,” Deana said. “I completely understand that. Even more, I respect it. But you just vanished. I know why you did it, and I came to terms with the fact that I was never going to see you again.”
She was on the verge of crying, the welling tears catching the light and setting off her big, blue eyes.
“And then suddenly you’re here again. I don’t know why or for how long. But I knew that I couldn’t let you leave again without telling you how deeply sorry I am about what happened to you. He hurt you so much, Henry. You almost died. And it tears me up inside that I was in some way a part of that. I will never forgive myself, and I understand if you can’t find it in your heart to forgive me.”
