“Ready?” he calls.
She glances back at the skull and the old papers spread out on the table, along with a notebook and magnifying glass. She’d been planning to return the research documents to the library before closing, but she hasn’t worked her way through them all yet. She’ll have to drag everything home with her overnight—and she can’t jam fragile documents into her bag and dash out the door.
“I just have to put some stuff away,” she calls back to Sean. “Do you want to wait in the car, or . . . ?”
“I’ll come in,” he says, as though she’d intended that as an option. “Is that door unlocked?”
“No. It’s . . . uh . . .”
“Locked?” he asks with a smirk, or maybe a smile.
She nods and hurries out into the deserted hallway toward the back door.
How can she make him wait outside after driving all this way? He probably already knows Braden was here with her this morning.
He isn’t Braden. There’s something about him that makes her feel . . .
The opposite of safe.
Meaning what? In danger?
No.
Just . . . not entirely safe. Not with the murder gene research fresh in her mind. Is she really going to get into a car alone with him?
She should just thank him for offering a ride, and tell him she’ll find another way home.
Opening the door, she says, “Listen, thanks for coming. I feel bad about this, and—”
“You feel bad? Why? You’re the one who’s abandoned.”
Abandoned.
Instead of sending him on his way, she pauses to feel sorry for herself. Poor, abandoned Savannah. Story of her life.
“If anyone should feel bad,” Sean goes on, “it’s Braden.”
“Does he?”
He shrugs—not the answer she was hoping for.
“Listen . . .” she begins again.
“Hey—Ambroise Paré!” Sean points at the wall behind her.
“What?” She turns to see that he’s indicating one of the framed portraits that line the hallway.
“He was a sixteenth-century French surgeon.”
“No, I know that.” Paré was one of the forefathers of forensic pathology. “I’m just surprised you do.”
“Well, I visited the Musée d’Histoire de la Médecine a few times when I was in Paris. Ever go?”
“Yes! A few times.”
They discuss a couple of exhibits, and the next thing she knows, he’s following her into the lab, and she’s feeling okay about that—at least until he asks, “Is that the skull Ora Abrams gave you?”
“How do you know that?”
“I heard you telling Braden about it.” He gives an unapologetic shrug. “You hear a lot, working at the bar.”
“I’ll bet.”
He leans in to give the skull a closer look.
“Can you, um . . . I mean, you can’t touch it unless you’re wearing gloves.”
“I’ll pass. So the Mundys killed her and ate her?”
“No!” She hesitates. “I mean . . . someone did.”
“Someone killed her or someone ate her?”
“Both. Not necessarily your family.”
“That’s good news,” he says, and again she spots the traces of a grin, “considering that I’m not a Mundy.”
“You’re not? But . . . I thought you and Braden were cousins.”
“On our moms’ side. They’re sisters.”
So much for her psycho killer fears, at least where he’s concerned.
He asks how she can tell Jane Doe was murdered, and she shows him the same evidence she showed Braden yesterday. He seems compelled, and asks a couple of well-phrased scientific questions.
“You didn’t learn all this stuff from a few visits to a museum abroad. How do you know so much?”
“I took some bio courses, and anatomy, too. My father’s a surgeon. I was pre-med.”
“Then . . . why are you here?”
“Because my cousin asked me to pick you up, remember?”
“No, I mean, why are you staying with your aunt and uncle? What happened with your family?”
“You want the long version or the short?”
“I—”
“Short is, my parents split up.”
“That’s—I mean, that’s rough—but for some reason I thought—”
“Oh yeah, and at the tail end of my semester in Paris, my mother was attacked by a lunatic who just about stabbed her to death.”
Savannah’s jaw drops.
“She survived,” Sean goes on. “And my dad left her. He’s a bastard.”
“What about your mom? Is she . . . ?”
“Rehabilitation home. She’s not the same. Maybe she will be eventually. My aunt hopes so.”
“What about you?”
“I hope so, too.”
That wasn’t what she meant.
“What—”
“And that concludes the short version. Trust me, you don’t want to hear the long, and if you do, I’m not in the mood to tell it.” He looks again at Jane Doe, changing the subject. “Think you can find out who hurt her?”
“I’m trying. I’m waiting to hear back from Ora Abrams, because she might have access to some information that will help. But meanwhile I’ve got this stack of research to go through, and I have a list of people it could have been.”
“Can I see?”
“Got a few minutes?”
“I’ve got all day.”
She pulls up a stool and sits on the one beside it, reaching for the borrowed folder.
Papa!
At last, Ora has found him.
He’s just as she remembers him, dashing and wise, waving to her from across a vast green distance.
The Commons?
Perhaps it’s Schaapskill Nature Preserve, out by the settlers’ monument.
“Papa!” she calls. “I’m coming! I’ve missed you so!”
“I’ve missed you, too, darling!”
She starts toward him, but the grass is thick, tangling around her feet so that she can barely move, and the lights . . .
The lights are blinding.
“Papa! I can’t see you! Where are you?”
“I’m here, darling!”
But his voice is distant, and she can’t catch her breath, can barely speak.
“Papa! Wait!”
“I’m waiting . . .”
“Aurora! Stop this instant!”
She knows the voice.
Great-Aunt Etta.
She squints into the glare, seeing only a shadow in the distance, blocking Papa.
“Aurora, you must go back!”
“I’m so tired . . .”
She longs to see them again—Aunt Etta, and Papa, and her mother—
“It isn’t time! Not until you’ve told them!”
Told them . . .
Told them . . .
Told who?
Told them what?
Filled with despair, she struggles to make sense of it.
“We’ll be here waiting for you when it’s over,” her aunt’s voice floats across a great green distance. “Go back and tell them. You’re the only one who knows.”
Letter
TO BE DELIVERED UPON MY DEMISE
Mrs. Rowan Mundy
25 Riverview Road
Mundy’s Landing, NY 12573
December 31, 2016
Dear Rowan:
As a most eventful year draws to a close, I am thinking fondly of you and your family. It was so kind of you to invite me to ring in the new year at your lovely home. I regret that I was unable to accept your invitation, but I’ve had a cold and am afraid to catch a chill. At midnight, I shall reflect not just upon the momentous—indeed, notorious—events of the old year, but upon its many unexpected blessings. You have always been a good friend to me and to the museum. I have enjoyed your annual visits with your fourth-grade class, and your commitment to teaching local history to our youngest
residents.
Your concern and support, especially after all that unfolded this summer, have meant far more than you will ever know. I appreciate your regular visits, and your ongoing assistance with museum matters and my own personal affairs. As I look ahead to the new year, I hope that I shall live to see it through, sound in both mind and body.
Whenever my time does come, this letter will make its way to your hands courtesy of my attorney. While the historical society, and its collections, are not mine to give, you will inherit my personal estate. I’m certain that the money will be put to good use with your growing family, and that you will care for my possessions, and guard the secrets you will find among them.
With warmest friendship,
Aurora Abrams
P.S. You mentioned that your oldest son is studying history. Perhaps when I am gone, he will want to take over as curator, and carry on in my footsteps and Aunt Etta’s.
Chapter 14
Tucked into a corner of the small lobby, the Holiday Inn bar consists of little more than a couple of stools, counter, and beer tap.
Sully starts there, wondering whether Roy might have done the same last night. Maybe he really was meeting someone.
But the tired, middle-aged female bartender, like the tired, middle-aged female desk clerk she just interviewed, didn’t see him. Both were on duty from 6 p.m. until 2 in the morning.
“It was deadsville in here last night,” the bartender tells her. “Just me and the regulars.”
Sully thanks her and heads back out to her car, pocketing the photo she’d printed off the Internet—a headshot of Roy from the Web site of the school where he teaches.
Hoping Twyla is on duty, she drives across the street to the Dunkin’ Donuts. She’s in luck—doubly so, because the place is empty.
“Sully! Hey, I’m glad you came back. Dina’s having a cigarette break out back, but let me go grab her, because we wanted to talk to you about our trip to New York for—”
“Wait, Twyla, I just have a few quick questions for you. Official business, okay?” She flashes her badge.
Rimmed by thick liner and clumpy mascara, the girl’s eyes widen, then narrow.
Sully knows guilt when she sees it. Wheels are turning beneath that bad blond dye job. Twyla went from wondering if she’s about to be privy to some scandalous gossip to realizing she might have gotten caught doing . . . what?
Handing free donuts to her friends at the drive-through? Smoking weed at a concert? Meddling in murder?
Sully’s gut tells her the last option is highly unlikely, but she’s been fooled before.
“Twyla, do you remember the man who was in here last night?”
“There were a lot of men in here last night.”
“He was here when I was. Had a beard. Red shirt. You thought he was hot.”
“I don’t know. I meet a lot of people.” Now she’s gone celebutante, inspecting her nails, fingers folded, palm up.
“Twyla? He’s dead.”
“What?” She looks up. “Car wreck?”
“No. Did you see him again after he left here?”
“No.”
“And he didn’t come back?”
“No.”
“You didn’t see him leave the parking lot across the street?”
“No.” She takes a box of sugar packets from beneath the counter and begins restocking a container, her movements guarded. “But I was busy. We got a rush when the movie let out. Why are you asking me all of these questions?”
“Like I said, he died, and I’m investigating. This is one of the last places he was seen alive.”
“Yeah, but you saw him, too!”
“I know. I’m just hoping you might have noticed something I didn’t.”
When it becomes clear that Twyla will shed no additional light on the case, Sully hands over her card. She tells the girl to call if she remembers anything, just as she told the women over at the Holiday Inn.
She doesn’t expect to hear from any of them, though once in a while, someone surprises you.
She gets back into the car and drives down the highway into town. A ripe mango sun casts a late-day glow over the village. She parks in front of the Windmill, finding the door propped open onto the street, as always. Later in the evening, music will be blasting out onto the sidewalk. At this hour, she hears only clinking glassware and the chatty voices of the staff setting up for the evening rush.
Again, she wonders what brought Roy here, and what happened to his cell phone.
When you’ve got a dead body and no phone, chances are someone made it disappear because it contains evidence. Sure, it might have been Roy himself. He could have taken his own life, upset over what he perceived as Emerson slipping away. He could have found out the details of her father’s suicide, and mimicked them to punish her.
But what about the note Jerry left behind? Even if Roy had stumbled across it, could he have understood the hangman puzzle with only one letter available? If he didn’t know what Jerry Mundy was trying to say—if indeed Jerry had written the first note—why would Roy bother to duplicate it? And if he did know what it meant, wouldn’t he have solved it in his own final message, instead of doling out one more letter?
That’s the ominous part of the whole thing. Two different notes, each containing one letter of a four-letter word . . .
It implies that two more notes, two more letters are still to come.
But not if I solve the puzzle, and the case, first.
“Continue . . . straight . . . for . . . one . . . mile . . .”
Obeying the electronic GPS command, Emerson at last guides her rental car up the steep, winding stretch of Riverview Road toward the address Rowan provided earlier.
Though she’s wearing sunglasses, she squints into the glare of late-day sun with every westward turn as she follows the winding road along the Hudson’s bluffs.
She’s running late. It’s almost a quarter to eight. Emotionally and physically drained, she’d fallen asleep sitting on the couch in her suite, brooding about her discovery. When she woke up, it was after seven. She hurriedly changed into jeans, a crisp white blouse, and a blue linen blazer. After checking the brightly lit bathroom mirror, she took a few minutes to put on a little makeup, trying to hide the haggard circles a short nap couldn’t erase.
Oh hell, after what she’s been through, a weeklong nap wouldn’t help.
There was no sign of Nancy downstairs. A placard on the porch stated that the restaurant will be closed for the evening—no explanation given.
Emerson detoured through the business district, planning to pick up a box of cookies, but the bakery was closed. Instead, she stopped at Price Chopper and got a chocolate layer cake. Not fancy, but better than showing up empty-handed.
Never properly educated in social manners as a child, she grew up unaware that hostess gifts are customary until she was the only one of her college suite mates who didn’t bring something to a friend’s parents hosting them all at their beach house for a weekend. That was just one of countless embarrassing lessons learned over the years, yet another acute reminder of her mother’s abandonment and her father’s social ineptitude.
“You . . . have . . . reached . . . your . . . destination.”
It takes her a moment to spot the house. Set back from the road, the Queen Anne Victorian is as charming as the vintage homes back in The Heights, rising three stories with dormers, turrets, and a wraparound porch.
Of course. Yet another storybook home for the fortunate residents of this storybook village.
Turning into the driveway, she sees nearly half a dozen vehicles already there. She’d assumed she’d be the only guest, but a full-blown dinner party appears to be well under way.
How will she manage a private conversation with Jake about their shared ancestral connection?
Maybe she should just leave. No one would blame her for going back to the hotel alone after all she’s been through today.
But if she doesn’t stay,
her questions won’t be answered anytime soon—not with Ora incapacitated for who knows how long. And she’ll have to find a place to eat yet another solitary dinner, waiting to be summoned to the morgue, followed by another nightmare-plagued sleep in the Jekyll Suite, windows scraped by the shadowy boughs that sheltered Roy’s lifeless body.
No. No way.
She parks the rental car behind a tan Jeep already blocking a beat-up Honda, and heads for the front door carrying the cake.
A wide porch runs along the home’s façade and angles beyond the turreted windows at either corner.
Climbing the steps, Emerson notices that the potted red impatiens could stand to be watered. White paint is peeling in spots on the wicker furniture, and several blue cushions are askew. The fanned pages of a book lying facedown on the table are swollen as if from rain or a dunk in a swimming pool. An apple core someone left nearby is teeming with ants.
Yet this is different from the pervasive neglect in her own childhood home, or what she witnessed earlier in Ora Abrams’s kitchen. This house is lived-in, well-used, appreciated.
Ringing the bell, she’s aware that the ache in her shoulder blades has crept over the rest of her. The day’s events are finally taking a toll, and she still has a long night ahead. Any second now, Sullivan Leary is probably going to be in touch about the morgue.
Again, Emerson thinks of Roy, not just dead in the tree, but presumed murdered.
Who can Sully possibly suspect?
Come on, who do you think?
She’d asked so many probing questions. Yet she can’t possibly believe Emerson is capable of such a heinous crime, can she? She knows Roy was dangerous, mentally unstable, likely to have made enemies who might have taken his life if he didn’t do it himself.
What about the hangman notes? What about a pair of identical suicides?
What about my missing mother, lurking in the hospital, and God knows where else? If Sully—
The door opens, curtailing the thought, and she finds herself face to face with a smiling man.
“You must be Emerson. I’m your cousin Jake.”
Walking into the Windmill, Sully recognizes the waitresses on duty. Both are clad in black jeans and T-shirts, and both have long, straight dark hair and red matte lipstick. They look like sisters, but she’s enough of a regular here to know that they’re not. The taller of the two, Ellie, is a local girl, a teacher’s aide over at Mundy’s Landing Elementary School by day. The other, Jenna, lives in Kingston and has tattoos, a pierced nose, and a boyfriend who plays in a band.
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