And we never would have met. And that would have been better for everyone.
“My brother didn’t need a cab. He needed a jump.”
“I don’t need a jump, Braden. I need a ride.”
“Sorry. Listen, I’m going to find one for you. Sit tight.”
“But—”
He’s already hung up.
Alone in the Jekyll Suite once again, Emerson opens the window shade Sully had lowered.
Morbid curiosity getting the better of her, she leans forward over the desk, pressing her forehead against the glass, trying to glimpse Roy somewhere below. Maybe if she sees him, she’ll be able to grasp the fact that it really happened—that he did follow her here to Mundy’s Landing, that he is dead.
But all she can see are the leafy maple boughs that scratch the screens like whispered truths she doesn’t want to hear.
She sinks onto the edge of the bed, head buried in her hands.
“I’ll call you when it’s time,” Sully promised before she left. “It won’t be until later this evening. I’ll come get you and drive you over. I know it won’t be easy.”
No, it won’t.
Death is disturbing no matter when or how it happens, but this isn’t like the first time, with her father—or rather, the man she believed was her father.
Hearing her phone chime with an incoming text, she lifts her head to see that it’s from an unfamiliar number.
25 Riverview Road—see you at 7:30!
Rowan Mundy.
If Emerson tells her what happened, will she cancel the dinner plans?
When Emerson returned to Oakland after her father died, she wanted to be left alone. This time, it’s different. This time, she wants to be with people, with family.
Of course, when her so-called father died, she didn’t even know she had family. Nor did she have reason to suspect that he wasn’t family.
She needs to uncover the truth. Maybe Rowan’s husband, Jake, can help her.
Can’t wait! she texts back.
Earlier, with Sully, she’d managed to dodge the bizarre scenario her imagination fired at her. Now it blazes in like a saloon cowboy.
Was she raised by an imposter—some sick predator posing as Jerry Mundy?
She looks so much like him . . . is it possible that they’re not related?
Is that why he’d isolated her from the rest of the world? Why he’d gone to such great lengths to hide evidence of the past?
No wonder there were no old documents, no vintage photographs. No wonder they had no extended family in their lives.
He’d claimed to be an only child, that his father was estranged from his grandfather, that his parents had passed away before she was born. She’d never thought to question him, never thought to research any of it, never . . .
Wait a minute.
She’s seen her grandparents’ graves. Inez and Donald X Mundy.
Unless the cemetery, too, was staged to perpetuate an elaborate hoax?
No. That’s far-fetched.
Okay, they really did pass away before she was born. Yay. The lone indisputable fact in this mess.
Had she buried a stranger beside them? Are those poor dead souls spending their eternal rest with someone who’d impersonated their son, and her father?
If so, then what happened to the real Jerry Mundy? And what about her mother? Where does she fit into the lies Emerson had been fed by the man who raised her as his own?
Her phone rings.
Sullivan Leary already?
No—Rowan Mundy. She’s probably heard about Roy and is calling to postpone tonight.
“Hello?”
“Sorry to keep bothering you. It’s Rowan. I just heard about Ora.”
“Ora! Oh, I’m so sorry. I was going to tell you, but then . . .”
Then came the chaos of Roy, and her own drama.
“I just ran into the Yamazakis’ housekeeper in the supermarket parking lot. They live across the street from the historical society. She said Ora fainted and was taken to the hospital in an ambulance, and that a young woman was with her. I’m so grateful you stopped over there. Otherwise, God knows how long she’d have lain there alone on the floor. I feel terrible that I haven’t checked in on her lately. She doesn’t have any family, and I’ve been worried about her.”
On her end, in the background, Emerson can hear a dog barking, dishes rattling, voices. A normal home, the kind she never had.
“Wait a second, sorry, Emerson. Guys! Quiet down! I’m on the phone! And can someone please feed Doofus?”
Emerson would have been unsettled enough to discover that she’d been adopted as an infant. But at least that would make sense.
If you’re adopted, your imagination can conjure noble birth parents who gave you up because they couldn’t provide the life you deserve, instead of—
“Sorry about that.” Rowan is back on the line. “I have to go referee before they kill each other. See you at seven-thirty, okay?”
There’s nothing to do but hang up, hoping Jake Mundy will shed some light on her past, and help identify her birth father.
Because if Ora is right about the heterochromia, then I wasn’t just raised as a Mundy. I am a Mundy.
Letter
1st July 1676
Dear Jeremiah,
Benjamin and I were married yesterday.
I regret that you did not grant your permission, but I do hope one day to receive your blessing.
I suspect that you endeavored to forbid my marriage because you feared that I would share with my spouse the truth we promised never to divulge.
I do believe the burden of that terrible secret was too much for Charity’s frail little body, and that it, and not the plague, did kill her in the end. But I am far stronger than she was. I have kept the truth safely to myself in your absence.
If Benjamin ever discovered the role his brother William played on that terrible day, he would never forgive me. I cannot bear to lose him, nor to hurt him. Thus, our secret will remain safe. I hope you shall find your way back home soon.
Your sister,
Priscilla Mundy Ransom
Chapter 13
At last, the commotion on Prospect Street has ebbed. The neighbors have gone back into their houses, most of the emergency vehicles have driven away, and a lone officer remains at the curb in front of the Dapplebrook Inn. The medical examiner’s van awaits the body, its driver smoking a cigarette and talking on a cell phone.
He waves at Sully as she leaves the property.
She waves back, wondering if he’s talking about the case. Or is he convinced this situation is exactly what it appears to be: a suicide, and nothing more?
Her sneakers make a hollow, staccato thud on the concrete as she hurries back up Prospect Street, headed home to see what she can find out about Emerson’s missing mother, and thinking about Barnes.
What if someone found him here?
Wayland? Stef?
Sully enters the house, walks quietly up the steps to her apartment, and slips the key into the lock with her left hand, her right closing over her weapon. She opens the door swiftly, poised for trouble, and finds none.
Unless you count Barnes, waiting for her.
“I thought something happened to you,” he snaps.
“I told you I was on a case.”
“I got a text from your phone saying you were on a case. Anyone could have sent it, and you didn’t pick up when I called.”
“Why would you think someone else texted from my phone?” She strides past him toward her bedroom.
He’s right behind her. “It happens.”
“I’m a cop, Barnes, not a thirteen-year-old. Who’s going to get ahold of my phone and text you?”
“What happened out there? Why all the sirens?”
“Suicide that looks like a homicide, or vice versa. I’m thinking vice versa.”
“Who? Where?”
“At the Dapplebrook.”
“Does it have anything t
o do with—”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“It doesn’t matter. It has nothing to do with you, or anything you’d know about.” Seeing the hurt look in his eyes, she softens her tone. “You haven’t been here in a year. It’s not connected to what went on last summer.”
“Okay. But—”
“What about me?”
“What about you?”
“What do I need to know, Barnes?”
He remains silent, looking at her.
“You showed up here, and you’re obviously hiding, and you thought something happened to me just now—something that had something to do with you. Why? Am I in danger because you’re here?”
“No one knows I’m here.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because if they know where I am, I’d already be dead. Or someone else would.”
“Me?”
He shrugs.
“Beautiful,” she mutters, shaking her head.
“No,” he says, “not you, okay?”
“Who else is there?”
“In my life? Besides you?”
“That’s not how I meant it. I meant—”
“Look, if they’re still looking for me, they aren’t going to find me here.”
“Who’s they? Wayland?”
“I told you, it’s complicated. But now that I have some distance to think—and sleep, and eat—I’m feeling like I can handle it better.”
She throws up her hands. “Fine. Handle it. Whatever. I don’t have time right now for complicated. I have to look up something before I go interview some witnesses.”
“Where?”
“The Windmill.”
Her bedroom door is ajar. She can see the quilt untucked and tangled, one of her pillows on the floor.
“Sweet of you to make my bed,” she says.
“I was going to change the sheets so you can sleep there tonight. Sorry about your back, and . . . everything. I should have thanked you before for letting me have your bed, for buying me clothes, for bringing me lunch. Look, I owe you a huge favor. When the dust settles—”
“Wait a minute, you know what? I need a huge favor right now.”
“From me?”
“No, I was talking to him.” She points to the empty spot beside Barnes.
“Must you always be so sarcastic?”
“I must.” She crosses the room to her desk, grabs a pen and pad of paper from a drawer, and flips open her laptop. As it boots up, she jots some hurried notes on the pad, tears off the top sheet of paper, and hands it to him.
“Didi Mundy . . . Los Angeles . . . What is this?”
“I need you to find her. She went missing between Christmas and New Year’s in 1983.”
“Who is she?”
“A suspect.” She bends over to type on the keyboard, accessing the database. While it loads, she jots more notes on another sheet of paper.
“What kind of suspect?”
“Murder.”
His eyebrows shoot up, and she quickly explains her theory—that Emerson’s absent mother might have resurfaced and is responsible for staging the deaths of her father and Roy.
“But what’s the motive?”
“I’m not sure, but the romantic relationship may have been abusive. For all I know, the father-daughter one was as well.” She tears off the second sheet of paper. “Maybe the missing mother’s been keeping an eye on her daughter all along, and she’s trying to punish those who have wronged her, or just protect her from further harm.”
She holds out the paper. Barnes just looks at it and then at her, wearing a strange expression.
Patience, especially at a time like this, doesn’t come easily to Sully. If at all.
“This is a cakewalk for you, and it’ll take your mind off your problems. Here.” She thrusts the note at him. “A few more details and names—Emerson’s father, Jerry, born in 1940, and the victim. Roy Nowak. School teacher from New York, lives in Oakland. See what you can find out. One more thing . . .” She quickly writes out the hangman diagram.
_ _ N E
“While you’re at it, see if you can solve this puzzle, okay?”
“Oh sure, why not,” he says, having snapped out of his funk, at least momentarily. “Anything else? Errands? Foot massage?”
“That’ll do it for now. I need to change and get out of here.” Shoving the third piece of paper into his hand, she thanks him and hurries toward her room.
“Wait, Sully—”
Her phone rings, cutting him off.
Nick. She answers it, continuing on to her room. “Detective Leary.”
“We found the truck.”
“Where?”
“Parked in the municipal lot at the north end of Market. Forensics is going through it now.”
“Was his cell phone in it?”
“No. There was a charger plugged in, but no phone attached.”
“Either he lost it, or someone stole it, or he left it at the hotel.”
“Well, it wasn’t the Holiday Inn. I called. He wasn’t a registered guest there last night, which explains why we didn’t find a room key.”
“That’s odd. I saw him pull into the parking lot. I figured he was either staying there, or about to check in.” She balances the phone between her shoulder and ear, about to unbutton her shirt. Remembering Barnes somewhere behind her, she stops.
“Maybe didn’t have any rooms available?” Nick suggests.
“The sign said there were vacancies. Unless . . . what if he wasn’t checking in? What if he was meeting someone there?”
“That’s possible.”
“One other thing, Detective. There was a big bottle of calamine lotion in the console of the truck. Looks like he did have some kind of itchy rash.”
“Meaning the scratches were self-inflicted.”
Meaning, most likely, that Emerson hadn’t lied about a physical altercation between them.
Relieved, though it by no means clears her as a suspect, Sully says, “We need to get ahold of his call and text records.”
“You know that takes a while, Detective.”
Yeah, she knows. Complicated seems to be her theme today.
It’s hard enough to get a warrant when you have an active homicide investigation. In this case, they’ll need to provide paperwork and justify a court order.
“Maybe he just lost the phone and it’ll turn up at the Windmill,” Nick suggests.
“Yeah, and maybe Roy Nowak will rise from the dead and solve the hangman puzzle, too. Did you find his mother?”
“Still looking. We’ll need Emerson Mundy to make the ID.”
“She’s aware.”
“And you’re keeping an eye on her?”
The question has nothing to do with concern for Emerson’s emotional well-being. She tells him that she knows where Emerson is, and where to find her.
“See you later, Lieutenant.”
She hangs up, strips off her shirt, tosses it into the wicker hamper, and reaches into the closet.
What if Roy really was meeting someone at the Holiday Inn? Or what if he was about to check in, and something happened that made him change his mind? Was he being followed? Did someone waylay him in the parking lot?
She doesn’t recall seeing another car enter after his. But she wasn’t paying close attention, unaware that she was witnessing the prelude to a suicide, or homicide.
Did Roy get a phone call, maybe, or a text? Did someone lure him to the Windmill?
Maybe he decided to have a drink over there on his own, looking for female company, or for Emerson herself. If he were trying to find her, though, why wouldn’t he have gone straight to the Dapplebrook?
That’s sure as hell where he ended up, but—
“What was that all about?”
Barnes’s voice stops her in her tracks. She’d forgotten he was even here. Standing with her back to the doorway wearing only a bra, she presses the
uniform shirt against her, not turning around. “What?”
“The call.”
“Just . . . more about the case. I’ve got to get going.”
“You need to be careful.”
Yeah, she thinks. I do.
She sighs, her back still to him, trying to sound cavalier. “You want me to barricade myself in here with you? Or can I go out and do my job?”
“Do your job. Business as usual. Just . . .”
“Yeah, I’m always careful.” She pulls on the shirt, buttons it swiftly, and reaches back for the knob to close her bedroom door between them. “Listen, I’m changing in here, so unless you want an eyeful of Sully butt . . .”
“Hey. Look at me.”
She turns, reluctantly. “What?”
“I mean it. Be careful.”
She sees something in his eyes that was never before so stark.
Stockton Barnes is afraid—and he cares about her more than he should.
To Savannah’s surprise, Sean knocks on the window of her lab a scant half hour after Braden called back to tell her he’d be picking her up at some point this afternoon.
“You’re sending your cousin?” she’d asked in disbelief, having expected Braden to say he’d canceled his interview and was on his way.
“Yeah, he’s just hanging around the house. He doesn’t mind. I told him to knock when he gets there.”
“Any idea what time that might be?”
“What’s that?”
“What time should I—”
“Sorry, I’m having a hard time hearing you . . . the signal is spotty here . . .”
As he hung up, he added something that sounded like Wish me luck, though for all she knows, it could have been I don’t give a . . .
“But if he didn’t care,” she told Jane Doe’s skull, “he’d let me find my own way home, right?”
Jane Doe seemed to stare back, saying, If he cared about you, he wouldn’t have volunteered to go to Hartford today.
Jane Doe, she decided, is childish and petty.
Now Sean is here, in broad daylight appearing even more careworn than he did last night in the bar. He’s wearing the same black T-shirt. She wonders if he slept in it; wonders, too, how he went from Paris and Notre Dame University to bartending and living at his aunt’s house.
Bone White Page 24
