"Here I am."
Startled, Kelly turned to see Minerva coming up the path. "Hi, Min- "
There was a boy walking with her, carrying a basket covered with a gingham napkin. He was maybe thirteen, a year or so younger than her, and he was staring at her. She started to blush.
Minerva smiled. ''This is Mark. Mark, this is Kelly. You have some common interests and I thought you'd like to meet."
"How did you know I'd be here?'' Kelly asked.
''Minerva knows everything," said the boy.
"Let's go inside, shall we? We'll have tea and these tarts Mark helped me make."
"Ah, geez ... " Now the boy was blushing. "I just watched." he told Kelly.
Tentatively, she returned his smile. He was six inches shorter than she, but she liked him anyway and suddenly wished she'd combed her hair.
Eighteen
John Lawson sat back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk, glad to be out of the patrol car and back in the office. Scotty Carroll was out of town, on vacation until Monday, and Wyn Griffin had called in sick, so John had ended up working his ass off. Fortunately, Jeff Thurman, the pride of the night shift, had shown up early, bless him, and now, as the afternoon shadows lengthened. John stretched his neck to one side then the other, relieving his stiff muscles. He laced his fingers behind his head and relaxed for the first time that day. His boots could use a shine, he noted, but that was a job he secretly enjoyed. Though it couldn't compete with fly-fishing, it was therapeutic in its own way.
Moonfall had been quiet since the death of Lenore Tynan a month ago. The reports had come back a few days after her body was recovered and there had been no real indications that she had met with foul play. They had found bloody towels make shift bandages- at the bottom of the pond. plus a small amount of blood and the weapon- a single-edged razor blade- at the edge of the Mezzanine, dropped among the rocks. Tynan's fingerprints were on it After that, John had closed the case, and although he was relieved to be done with it, doubts continued to eat at him. First, there were the nuns, who had disobeyed his request and frantically cleaned the room. He and Cutter had talked it over several times, and he had eventually agreed with the doctor, whose Catholic schooling gave him a whiff of expertise, that they were, after all, dealing with nuns, who wouldn't be inclined to answer to any authority that wasn't from on high. Between that and the fact that the ever-unpleasant Mother Lucy claimed that Sisters Bibiana and Mary Oswald began cleaning up Tynan's blood-spattered room on their own while she was at the sheriff's office, it all pretty much made sense. Too, there had been her attempts to get tranquilizers and sleeping pills.
Richard Dashwood was a thorn in his side. There was no logical basis for his misgivings; the man had more than cooperated with him and had shown him every courtesy, but dealing with him had been an unaccountably unnerving experience. Dashwood had given him the most logical reason for Tynan's trip to the Falls-she had been intent on committing suicide and hadn't been able to secure any sleeping pills to do the job, hence the razor blade and then the jump. John forced himself to discount his unease, because he suspected it was born of personal dislike, not a cop's instinct
The other person who had set off his suspicions was St. Gertrude's caretaker, Basil-Bob Boullan, an old letch who was somehow simultaneously seedy and obsessively clean. Despite the fact that he leered at the girls and the nuns alike, no one had a bad word to say about the man and John had to let that drop, too.
The only other thing that still gave him pause was a slight chemical imbalance found in Tynan's blood. It was a very minor thing and Cutter had concluded that it was an unimportant allergic reaction to a food or an over-the-counter drug.
Apart, these things meant nothing, and together, not much more. Maybe it had been Gus's talk later that night-We've all got our demons, and yours are out there at St. Gertrude’s that had upped his anxiety. And that, combined with Mark's revelation that old Minerva Payne seemed magically to know he was plagued by nightmares, had made him overly suspicious, when all he really wanted to do was close the case and forget about it and the memories it stirred.
Right after the discussion with his son, John had intended to go talk to Minerva again. Her telling Mark that Greg's death wasn't John's fault intrigued and annoyed him as much as her apparent knowledge of his recurring nightmares. But the weeks passed and he didn't pay her a visit, partly because he was always busy, and if he were to be perfectly honest with himself, because he knew she would again ask him why he'd never told anyone that he'd seen her at Witch Falls the morning they found Greg. He didn't know the answer to that and didn't care to try to figure it out.
Maybe she cast a spell on you. Every so often, the thought would wing through his mind, unbidden, fueled by her knowledge of his nightmares and guilt. He did his best to quell his childish superstitions- what was he going to do, knock on her door and accuse her of witchcraft?
No. Not in a million years. If she did know about the dreams, Mark must be behind it; since he'd heard his father's night terrors, he was probably frightened and confided in her. He'd never known Mark to lie, but in this case it was likely, and he couldn't really be angry with the boy for worrying about him.
The doorknob turned and the door creaked. John swung his feet off his desk before his dispatcher's face appeared. ''Damn it all, Dorothy, why won't you at least knock? What if I was changing clothes in here?"
"Then you should lock your door." The little round woman gave him the same smile she'd given him when he was eight years old and had shown up at the office to charm her out of some of her never-ending supply of caramels. "There's someone here to see you, Johnny."
"Who?"
"A very pretty young woman."
"Did you ask her to come here?" Dorothy had been trying to fix him up ever since his divorce had been finalized, years ago.
"No, Johnny," she said, barely rolling her eyes. "I've never seen her before. Her name is Sara Hawthorne and she would only say that she wants to talk to you about a case."
"Okay. I'm coming." He stood, leaned back to stretch his back, then followed her out of his office.
The young woman waiting at the tall counter was pretty, Dorothy was right about that. She had pale skin, dark eyes, and glossy dark brown hair that waved in a pageboy just above her shoulders. The tall counter unfortunately hid the rest of her from view.
"Hi. I'm Sheriff Lawson. You need to see me?"
''Uh, yes." Her voice was soft, tentative.
''Regarding?" He smiled and waited.
"Something that happened a long time ago." She suddenly sounded more sure of herself.
"How long?"
"Twelve years."
With a nod, he walked over to the end of the counter and opened the gate. "Come on in. We'll talk in my office."
"Thank you."
As she walked past him, he sensed uncertainty under the air of confidence and liked her for it, maybe because he'd felt the same way so often lately. She wore a navy business suit with a white- button down blouse. The pleated skirt barely kissed her knees, and though she was no more than five-three, her legs looked long and slim. Noticing her low-heeled black pumps, he liked her even more; his ex-wife wouldn't have been caught dead in anything that comfortable.
As he held his office door for her, he looked back at Dorothy and saw her reaching into her bag of caramels, watching him with an ear-to-ear grin. He gave her a warning glance.
''Hold your calls?" she asked, as she popped a caramel into her mouth.
"If something important comes up, buzz me."
Dorothy nodded, then turned her attention to an office supply catalog. Lord, how that woman liked to buy cheap pens and paperclips.
John saw that the young woman was standing by his desk. "Have a seat, Ms. ah, I'm sorry-" he said, closing the door behind him.
''Hawthorne."
John rounded the desk and sat down. "Do you live in Moonfall? I don't recall seeing you around here." If I had, I'd sure as hell rememb
er.
"I'm a resident as of today. I've been hired to teach history at St. Grue-St. Gertrude's."
He grinned. "Were you going to say 'St. Gruesome's'?"
She blushed and nodded. "It's rude, I'm sorry."
"Not at all. We all call it that more often than not. You must have grown up here to know about the nickname."
"I was an orphan and lived at St. Gertrude's for several years. I ran away when I was sixteen."
''What in the world possessed you to come back?" he blurted.
She tipped her head, eyeing him. Her hair caressed her jaw. Then she laughed, covering her mouth with her fingers. "I take it you're familiar with St. Gertrude's?"
He studied her a moment, then said lightly, "Everyone who grew up here knows the stories about St. Gruesome's. It's infamous."
She smiled uncertainly. "Stories? What kind?"
John suddenly realized he was treading on thin ice. ''Oh, you know, kid stuff. The gargoyles come to life at night and steal children, that sort of thing." He wasn't about to mention any stories about the nubile young virgins. ''The headless monk was a favorite." He paused. "What's the inside story? Is there a headless monk lurking around the chapel?"
"Some of the girls used to claim they saw him. Even one of the nuns, Sister Elizabeth. She painted a picture of him. It's so horrible that it used to give me nightmares."
''Is she the one responsible for all those gruesome portraits?"
Sara smiled. "Yes. You've seen them?"
"A few of them."
"When? Years ago?"
''No, just recently." He hesitated, then decided that she surely knew about the suicide. ''There was a death last month. A teacher."
''Lenore Tynan," Sara told him, the smile gone from her face. "I'm her replacement." She paused. "If I'd known that was the reason for the opening, I'm not sure I'd have taken it. They even put me in her room." Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. ''The caretaker told me about all the blood on the walls, and how they had to get me a new mattress. St. Gruesome's hasn't changed a bit, and the name is very appropriate."
Her eyes glistened, and for a brief instant, John thought she was going to cry. Instead, she sat up straighter and tilted her chin up, defying the threatened tears. ''The place gives me the creeps."
"If it helps, she didn't die in the room."
Sara Hawthorne stared at him in amazement. "She didn't?"
"No. The caretaker you mentioned- was that an older gentleman named Boullan?"
''Yes, why?"
He wanted to tell her to be cautious around the man, but he had no basis for such a warning. "I just wondered. He seemed to be something of a storyteller," he added carefully.
"You're saying he let me think Tynan died in my room just to frighten me?"
''It's possible." Another careful answer.
"Just where did she die?"
He suddenly wished he hadn't brought it up, but he owed her an answer. "She was found in the pond at the bottom of Witch Falls. Do you know the place?''
''I think so. It's in the park on Apple Hill Road?"
"That's right."
''But if she cut her wrists in her room, how could she possibly end up at Witch Falls? That's at least a mile."
''As best as we can tell, she threw herself over the cliff. She may have known that water would keep the blood flowing, but was afraid of being discovered if she used the water in the common lavatory. Hence the falls. Or, she may simply have decided to drown herself when the bleeding proved insufficient. There's no way to be certain."
A long moment passed before Sara spoke. ''Maybe she decided she didn't want to die at St. Gertrude's." She shivered. "I wouldn't want to."
"That's a possibility. People intent on suicide don't want to be saved."
"But I still don't get it." Sara pushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek. "What about the blood? How could she have traveled so far if she'd already lost so much?"
''The nuns had the room partially cleaned by the time I arrived, but I can assure you that there was nowhere near as much blood as Mr. Boullan probably led you to believe."
"How much was there?" She sat forward, her eyes narrowing.
He was slightly taken aback by the abruptness of her question. He didn't really know the answer, but the nuns had claimed there hadn't been any large puddles on the floor. "A little goes a long way."
"How much?" she demanded.
"Probably a pint or less." He didn't want to go into details with her. "That's enough to, ah, make for an impressive crime scene."
''Crime scene. That means you think it was murder?"
"No, I didn't mean to imply that. It was a poor choice of words."
"Then why did you use them?" Her eyes drilled into his. John's emotions had been mixed, but irritation was coming quickly to the fore. "Because I'm a cop, and that's what we say. Look, Ms. Hawthorne, we investigated thoroughly and found absolutely no reason to believe foul play was involved."
He sat forward, causing her to move back slightly- very slightly. "I thought you were here about an old case."
"I am, but I think there's a connection."
''A connection?" He was having a hard time hiding his anger now. "Between Lenore Tynan and an old case?"
She nodded. "I'm surprised you didn't check your files. You'd know."
''There is virtually nothing in our files on St. Gertrude's, Ms. Hawthorne. Despite the stories about gargoyles and headless ghosts, it's a very quiet place."
"Do you really believe that?" Sara Hawthorne's knuckles were white as she gripped the edge of the desk. ''Tell me how you explain the similarities between Lenore Tynan's and Jennifer Blaine's deaths?"
"Who's Jennifer Blaine?" he asked quickly.
"Were you the sheriff in 1984?"
Slightly insulted- did he look that old?- John shook his head. "I was a deputy. A rookie, in fact. And I'm not going to answer any more questions until you answer mine. Who's Jennifer Blaine?"
Sara twined her fingers together-probably, he thought, to hide the trembling in her hands. "She was my roommate. She slit her wrists in our room in 1984. It was declared a suicide, but it wasn't. She was murdered."
"How do you know?"
"She wouldn't have done such a thing," Sara said passionately. "She was getting out, going to get a job and go to college, and I was going to join her. But the sheriff said it was suicide."
"In 1984, Christopher Scarzo was sheriff, but I'd remember something like that, even if I had nothing to do with the case. We just don't get that much excitement around here." He paused. "Did Sheriff Scarzo interview you?"
"No. Mother Lucy didn't allow anyone to interview the students. She asked us the questions herself and gave the answers to him."
"That's absurd," John told her. "Did you find Miss Blaine's body?"
''Yes."
"Then there's not a chance in the world that your Mother Lucy could prevent the sheriff from questioning you, and that's what he would have done. You don't remember at least having someone in a uniform in the room when Lucy questioned you?"
She shook her head slowly. ''No. Absolutely not. Some of my memories are a little fuzzy, but I'm sure about this because I wanted to tell the sheriff Jenny'd been murdered, but I couldn't. They wouldn't let me."
Fuzzy memories. She's a fruit loop. Even as John thought it, he realized that his memories were pretty fuzzy, too. "It doesn't add up. You were probably in shock. Maybe you just don't remember talking to him."
''I'd remember," she said, fire in her blue eyes. ''Would you at least look it up? Or ask this Scarzo person about it?"
''Chris retired years ago. Moved to Wyoming," he added, as he rose and crossed to the files. ''But we can take a look. That should clear things up for you." He opened a drawer and began going through manila folders. As he searched, he heard Sara's chair scrape and her heels clicking across the room. She came to stand at the side of the open drawer and tried to peer inside. It gratified him that she was too short to see well; she was re
ally starting to get on his nerves.
Finally, he closed the drawer and turned to her. "I'm sorry, but there's nothing here about Jennifer Blaine or St. Gertrude's."
"You didn't look inside the folders. The report has probably been misfiled." Her voice was edged with panic.
"That's possible. Look, Ms. Hawthorne, I've got virtually no backup until Monday, so it may take until then to check thoroughly. Is there a number where I can reach you?"
"You don't believe me, do you?" she spat. "You don't even want to think that you might have to get off your butt, that your little Mayberry life might be disrupted."
He glared at her and opened his mouth to tell her off, but he saw the tears welling, saw the fear, and realized she was holding on by a bare thread. Her brashness was thin armor. Memories of the fear and nausea he felt just entering the nuns' property last month flooded him. And then, dimmer memories of the nightmares that continued to plague him, of chanting, and eyes, and the moon ...
He suppressed a shiver as his anger melted away. ''I believe you, Ms. Hawthorne," he said slowly. "And a death would have been reported, whether it was an accident, a murder, or a suicide." He gazed calmly at her. "Why would you think I don't believe you?"
She let air out of her lungs noisily. "Look, I'm sorry. I've had a bad day." A tear got loose and she wiped it away roughly.
"Do you have a number where I can call you?" he repeated.
"Yes. I mean no. Don't call me at the school. I'll call you, or come to see you. Sheriff, this information is very important to me. I really need to see the report on Jenny Blaine."
"I'll do my best to find it."
"I don't know how easy it will be for me to get away after the weekend. I'll be working full time then, and I think my schedule is heavy. Do you think you might find the report by Sunday?"
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