by Debra Webb
"The candles in the windows," she said, breaking her silence. "Are those for the missing girl?"
Kale considered the houses along the street, tried to see them as she would. Most of the homes along Main were historic, with the accompanying plaques boasting the names of the original owner and dates as far back as the late seventeen hundreds. Trees, even older, guarded the picket-fenced yards.
"Some," he said in answer to her question. "Others are always there in the winter." He made brief eye contact. "A number of the folks who were born and raised here choose to head for a warmer climate in the winter. It's tradition to leave candles in the windows until their return. Electric ones, of course," he added.
"To keep evil away while they're gone."
And so it began.
"I prefer to consider the candles welcoming beacons for their return."
"The wind chimes dangling from porches? The sprigs of heather and rosemary hanging over front doors?" She twisted to stare at the house on the corner they'd passed. When she resettled in her seat, she tacked on, "And the glass bottles hanging from trees."
He braked for the four-way stop at the intersection of Main and High. "The family with the ornamental bottles moved here from Louisiana after Katrina. Don't folks down there consider that art?" He shot her a look that dared her to prove otherwise.
"The bottles are for warding off evil spirits, Conner. As are the rosemary and the heather. And the wind chimes."
Hadn't they decided to call each other by their first names? "Don't you have wind chimes in New York?" Lots of homes were adorned with those accents. It didn't mean the occupants believed in witches and demons or any damned thing else.
"Face it, Conner, this is New England. The place is steeped in ghost stories with vengeful spirits."
"I guess you don't have those in New York, either." He wasn't going to argue with her. Damn straight, New England was steeped in many things, first and foremost history and tradition. He wasn't ashamed of it. He just didn't want her ridiculing the town and the people he loved in her heartless magazine. She hadn't been here twenty minutes and she was already looking for ways to twist that history and tradition into something sinister and simpleminded.
Case in point, she didn't say a word about all the yellow ribbons. Folks had started putting those up the very next day after Valerie Gerard's disappearance. No, that was too normal to mention.
He rolled through the intersection, continuing east on Main. Newton's attention lit on Bay View Cemetery.
"You see the crow on the headstone?" She turned to face him. "People associate crows with death. But there's perfectly logical reasons they hang out in cemeteries."
"Is that a fact?"
"Pull over."
He'd asked for that one. "Sure." He eased to the side of the street. Stellar job so far of setting the tone for her visit. She was right. He'd definitely gotten a raw deal on this assignment.
But then, that was the story of his life.
"Tell me if I'm off course here," she allowed. "People believe there's something evil about the person buried in that grave because of the crow."
Oh, she was going to love this one. "Mattie Calder," he confessed. "According to village history"—he met his passenger's expectant gaze—"she was a witch."
"I rest my case."
"But," he continued with a listen-carefully tone, "she was a good witch. Her remedies cured the sick and enlivened the sex lives of many of our forefathers."
"Fascinating stuff, Conner."
He was on a roll now. Why not give her what she wants? "You're right, you know. People are a little afraid of cemeteries so they compensate. Take the six-foot iron fence, for example." He nodded to the subject of his topic. "That wasn't erected for the visual aesthetics. Its original purpose was far more important than keeping out the neighborhood kids and dogs." He turned fully toward her, leaned in slightly as if to ensure she didn't miss a nuance of what he had to say. "It was erected to keep the dead inside. Iron was the strongest metal at the time. The accepted notion was that it could withstand the fires of hell itself."
She stared into his eyes for one, two, three seconds. This close he could see the silver flecks gathered around her irises. The silver seemed to flare and darken into the deepest, purest blue he'd ever seen. That he found her eyes so damned distracting was annoying as hell.
"You're quite the tour guide."
Her lips tightened as she said the words. That was when he noticed how ordinary yet strangely unusual that feature of her face was. Plain, not particularly richly colored or plump… but there was something challenging about the shape.
"Or maybe you're a comedian."
Withdrawing the inch or two he'd encroached, he set both hands back on the wheel. "I'm making a point, Ms. Newton. Just because folks honor a tradition, whatever its roots, doesn't mean they're any different from you."
"Actions speak louder than words, Mr. Councilman." She faced forward. "They always have. Always will."
Kicking himself for antagonizing her, he mentally groped for a way to redeem himself as he pulled away from the curb. "You were going to tell me the real reason crows hang out in cemeteries."
"It's the trees."
"Trees?" There were trees all over town. Thankfully he had the self-control not to mention that obvious detail.
"They're attracted to the larger, old-growth specimens. Unlike in residential areas, the trees in the cemeteries are rarely removed for progress. They just bury the dead around them."
He nodded. "Interesting." But then, there were a lot of old trees in Youngstown, period. Something else he wouldn't point out.
"They're social creatures. Where there's one, there's usually more."
Social. Yeah. "This"—he made a right turn—"is Calderwood Lane. The witch's namesake." A fitting tribute considering how the narrow road snaked along the countryside.
"You, of course, know she wasn't actually a witch."
He flashed his charge a smile. "George Washington may or may not have chopped down a cherry tree, but that's the way the legend goes."
"I liked you better as a tour guide."
Guess his comedian days were over.
"Sorry. I couldn't help myself."
She fixed her attention back on the passing landscape.
He did the same. Although he had lived here his whole life, for better or worse, he never once took for granted the rugged beauty of the land. Grazing pastures elbowed out the trees in places, sprawling on both sides of the road, the left disappearing into the ocean, the right merging with the treed mountainside.
"Appleton Farm?"
He nodded. "Grandparents of Alicia Appleton."
That bleak reality settled deep in his gut. That was the real story here. The one that needed everyone's attention… if this woman, whatever her motives for coming here, could help that was all that mattered.
Alicia had gone missing four days ago. Less than two days after Valerie Gerard's body was discovered. Emotion swelled in his throat. It seemed impossible one of them was dead and the other was missing. So young. So damned young. Alicia was the same age as his little sister.
"You know her?"
Kale kept his focus on the winding road; mostly it was easier to maintain a hold on his emotions that way. "Everybody knows everybody around here." No matter that the number of year-round folks got smaller each year. "I can't name a handful of Youngstown residents I didn't grow up with."
"With no unknowns or variables, that kind of limits the suspect pool, don't you think?"
He looked at her then, the instant dislike he worked to ward off filtering in. She was either angling for information on the people he knew and cared about, or, worse, making an outright accusation. "There's no one here who would…" He tamped down the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him and his ability to keep his voice firm. "We don't grow killers in Youngstown, Ms. Newton."
"And yet," she countered. "You have one woman heinously murdered and another missing with fe
w or no newcomers to the area. According to my research, you had basically the same scenario twenty years ago."
He braked hard for the next turn but didn't take it, cut to the side of the road instead. "Let's get something straight right now." He let her see and hear exactly where he stood on the matter. "We have strangers passing through, just like any other coastal town on Route 1. Three seasons a year we get hundreds if not thousands of tourists from all walks of life and all kinds of places. The man who did this may have been here before, may even somehow know one or both of the victims. But he isn't one of us."
"What evidence do you have to suggest the perpetrator is a he? My impression is that it could go either way."
Was she purposely trying to piss him off? "That the killer is male is the predominant view in the investigation," he clarified. "Male or female, bottom line, the people in this community are God-fearing, compassionate, and trusting. Maybe that makes us easy targets, but that's the way we are."
She shifted her attention to the deserted road that lay before them. "I'll let you know in a few days just how compassionate your friends and neighbors are."
Give it up. Don't argue. She was from New York. Trying to convince her that the world outside the Big Apple was different was a waste of time. Just drive.
The right onto Chapel Trail led them deep into the woods. The canopy of trees blocked the noonday sun and the dirt road narrowed the farther they traveled. Evergreens far outnumbered the hardwoods, ensuring the thick mass of trees were mostly green even in the dead of winter. The lesser-numbered hardwoods were tall and broad with age and bare of leaves. A few weeks from now they would bud, heralding the official arrival of spring as marked on the calendar. But New England springs returned a bit more sluggishly than most. Still, when the worst of winter passed life changed dramatically in Maine. It was like a resurrection. Of both activity and spirit.
"Any houses back here?"
"Only one on this road. It's at the other end." Kale gestured straight ahead. "Through the woods in that direction"—he hitched his thumb left—"is BeauChamp Road. It runs parallel to this one but doesn't connect. There are seven or eight houses along that private road." He shot her a knowing glance. "The big houses next to the water."
"Rich folks," she offered.
"Very rich."
As he caught sight of the crime-scene tape ahead, his foot touched the brake. The tape fluttered in the cold wind, waving its too familiar colors like a caution light between the trees. That tightening sensation he suffered each morning on awakening and remembering the ugliness that had descended upon his hometown took hold of his chest now.
Who would have done such a thing? Couldn't be any of the people he had grown up with. Not possible. He didn't care what anyone thought or said. Unlike some of the older folks he'd heard talking, he didn't really believe in curses or legends. This wasn't the work of the devil. The person responsible for this was out there somewhere. All they had to do was find the bastard.
Whatever he believed to be the truth, he wasn't about to disrespect those who believed otherwise—as his passenger made her living doing. However the facts lined up, folks had a right to their own spiritual viewpoint, religious or otherwise.
The path that led up to the chapel was too narrow and steep for a vehicle. He parked in the designated area along the side of the road and was about to explain the reason when Newton hopped out and headed up the path.
Stay calm and focused, he reminded himself as he emerged from the Jeep. Do the job. Keep the peace. The less controversy the less likely the media was to latch onto Newton's presence here. He knew all too well what a circus this tragedy would turn into if that happened.
Problem was, he didn't see how keeping this quiet was possible considering the lady's reputation. She appeared to piss off just about everybody she met wherever she went. There was an arrogance about her. He hadn't decided yet if it was real or just a defense mechanism. Didn't really matter. The end result was the same.
He followed the route she'd taken. As brisk as the air was today he could still smell the death permeating the area. He understood that it was his imagination, but his gut seized just the same.
"Stay between the lines of tape," he called after Newton.
"I've done this before, Mr. Conner,", she tossed back over her shoulder without slowing her progress. That big black shoulder bag bounced against her hip.
With her moving upward and well ahead of him, he had a decent view of her lean hips. Nicely rounded. A runner's butt. He'd suspected as much. A woman didn't get legs like that any other way.
Way to go, Kale. Get distracted with the lady's ass. Step right on your dick.
He berated himself and stalked after her. The area had been thoroughly searched for evidence by the state forensic team. Though that part of the investigation was officially completed and a guard was no longer posted to preserve the scene, the tape had remained out of respect for the victim's family. The villagers wanted it that way. They wanted visible evidence of the investigation continuing until the killer was found.
The tape discouraged entrance into the chapel, but the small open-air structure was easily viewed from any side without crossing that line. Bare of leaves and blooms, the vines crept around its perimeter, except for the end where they'd been trimmed back for viewing the ocean.
"Give me some history, Conner."
Surely she'd researched the scene of the crime. Maybe she wanted the local folklore. That was something she'd have to dig up on her own. He'd given her all of that he intended to give.
"In 1885 Gracie Kingsley persuaded her husband to build this chapel in memory of their daughter who died at age sixteen of what's believed to have been complications from pneumonia. Mrs. Kingsley proclaimed this the Chapel of the Innocents."
" 'To all the innocent ones who pass through this world,'" Newton recited.
Oh, yeah. She'd done her research. That line was emblazoned upon the plaque at the end of the chapel that overlooked the ocean but she couldn't possibly read it from where they stood.
"The chapel is used for weddings and family reunions," he went on. The last Conner family reunion had been held here. "Basically all kinds of gatherings. Most tourists end up out here sometime during their stay."
"To get a glimpse of the bride they claim wanders the cliffs on summer nights?"
So she'd learned about that one, too.
When he didn't comment, she added, "They say her veil floats around her whether or not there's a breeze."
"That's what they say," he admitted grudgingly. As if that bride had abruptly appeared and slapped his face, the chilly air stung his cheeks. He shivered. Cold as hell out here. The image of Valerie Gerard lying on that cold stone floor kept appearing in his head, reminding him of the horror that had taken place here. His internal thermometer plunged several more degrees.
"She walks the cliffs looking for the groom who never showed." Newton peered toward the ocean and the cliffs of which she spoke.
Was that wistfulness he heard in her voice? He considered the woman. Nah. Not this tough-as-nails chick.
He guessed that setting the record straight would be the right thing to do. "According to village history, when her groom didn't show, she climbed down the hillside, walked through the woods and straight into the ocean. Her body washed up the next day." He'd heard that story his whole life but he'd never seen the lady in the white wedding dress. And he'd been up here plenty of times, usually with a girl. That was another thing this chapel was known for, a make-out spot.
"Fact or fiction? I doubt anyone really knows," Newton muttered, her attention seemingly still lingering on the cliffs.
"Stories like that have a way of surviving through the generations," Kale suggested, hoping to stay in that neutral zone. Some folks believed the stories, others didn't. "It's hard to say what's fact and what's fiction." The one certainty was that most of the tales were embellished over time.
Newton suddenly faced him. "Twenty years ago the
bodies of two young women were found here. You have any facts on that case?"
"Some." The chief had briefed the council on any possible similarities between Valerie's murder and the ones twenty years ago. "Other than location there are no real similarities. But we're not ruling—"
Newton lifted the tape and ducked under it.
"Hey, you can't do that." What the hell was she thinking?
She turned back to him and gave her head a little shake. "Don't get your boxers in a wad, Conner. This scene's no longer officially sealed."
"But—"
"We're alone." She sounded distracted now, as if she was totally focused on the place and could care less what he said or did. "No one will ever know unless you tell." She walked slowly around the perimeter of the stone floor, seemed to study every crack and crevice.
"Damn it." Short of physically hauling her ass back over to this side of the tape, what was he supposed to do?
She glanced at him. "Relax, Conner. I know what I'm doing. I'm not breaking any laws."
He hadn't meant to say that out loud. He surveyed what he could see of the road, listened for traffic. Shit. If Chief Willard found out he'd allowed her to cross that line. Shit. He would be in a buttload of trouble. Whether the techs were finished here or not, it was the fucking principle of the thing. Oh, yeah, how had he forgotten? This lady had no principles.
"You have pictures of how the body was positioned?" Newton pointed to the center of the stone floor where the darkened bloodstains remained.
Kale tamped down the urge to drag her back to this side of the yellow tape. "The chief has a complete file on the case." How did she think they did business up here? "We could go—"
"Have you seen them?" She looked at him when she asked the question. Really looked. As if she was watching for a certain reaction.
He nodded.
"What did you see?"
"You didn't read those details in the newspaper?" Just about every damned thing about the murder scene was outlined in print as well as on every news channel from here to L.A. Except for the one detail they had excluded from all reports. Nausea roiled in his stomach as the grotesque letters scrawled on the victim's body shimmered in front of his retinas.
