by Pam Stucky
Until a year ago. A year ago it became hers alone.
Megan headed straight for her favorite formation of boulders, where one almost-flat rock served as a seat, and another acted as a backrest. She brushed a few pinecones and needles off the rocks, and sat.
“Okay, brain,” she said as she let her eyes become mesmerized by the lull of the waterfall, “find the thing we’re missing.” She knew from experience that if she stared at the waterfall long enough, letting her thoughts flow as easily as the falls themselves, that ideas might start to pop up out of nowhere. Things that had been clouded would become clear. The obscure would become obvious.
Maybe.
She went over what she knew about the party, starting from the beginning. She’d arrived. She’d talked to Kevin. Romy had greeted her at the door and shown her the priceless Nancy Drew collection. She’d talked to Lily and eaten some of the perfect cakes Courtney had made, indistinguishable from the actual books. She’d met Emlyn and Baz. She’d watched Edison flirt with Romy. She’d had some wine. She’d gone home. Edison had stayed late. Sometime between when he left (so he said) and the next day, Romy had been drowned. Well, Megan thought, she wasn’t sure about the logistics of the murder, but that part didn’t matter. Max could deal with that. What Megan's brain needed to figure out was who did it.
“Courtney found her,” Megan said out loud, just stating a fact rather than a revelation. Did that mean anything? Was that a cover? There was no gate around Romy’s house. Anyone—absolutely anyone—could have gotten in. She believed Gus. She believed Edison. They’d ruled out that other author. But what about another writer? A jealous, bitter, aspiring novelist, someone whose books were as yet unsuccessful? Surely a fruitless writing career would eventually take its toll. What’s more, it seemed that Romy had played loose with the rules of story ownership. If she’d taken liberties with Sylvie’s life, and with Edison’s, then it stood to reason she’d done the same with others, didn’t it? For all she knew, if Romy had lived, Megan's conversations with Romy could have been woven into the next book. “And what about those big checks she wrote?” Megan asked the peaceful glen. She’d have to ask Max if he’d had any breakthroughs on that. Was Romy involved in something illegal? Drugs or … or money laundering … or … Megan ran out of ideas.
A rustle of leaves brought Megan's senses to sudden alert. Black bears were not unheard of in this area, and with the recent wildfires destroying their natural foraging areas, they’d been ranging more widely than usual for food. She held herself still, ears perked, eyes watchful. For a few moments, there was no noise, and then she heard the rustling again. Then she saw it: a deer, staring back at her. Come to drink from the pond, Megan supposed, and she suddenly felt guilty for keeping the animal from quenching its thirst. Much as she tried, no new ideas were coming to her. What’s more, the light was fading fast as night approached. She decided to head on home. “Drink up, little deer,” she said as she passed where it had been, but it was already gone.
* * *
Back home, Megan soaked in her bathtub for a while, once again hoping to coax insights and inspiration from her mind. Once again, her mind refused to make any new connections.
But just as she was about to give in to the relaxation of the bubbles and the warm water, without fully knowing why, Megan sat up suddenly. Water splashed around her, some of it escaping over the edge. “What?” she said to herself. “What is it?”
Just one word came to mind: Courtney.
“Yes, I know, but what?” Megan said to the bathroom. Resigned to the knowledge that her luxurious bath was over whether she was ready or not, she climbed out of the tub, dried off, and slipped into her favorite flannel pajamas. It may have been April, but it had to be pretty warm before Megan would give up her favorite flannel pajamas.
She stood in her bedroom, trying to let whatever muse she’d heard before guide her again. “What now?” she said, but already her body was headed to her laptop. “Okay then,” she said. “Google it is.” She squinted hard, trying to remember Courtney’s last name. Kevin had mentioned it at Rae’s. She flicked her mind back to the pub. Kevin had been sitting next to her. What else could she remember? It was a four-letter last name, she was sure of it. Did it start with M? Moss? No, that wasn’t it.
“Well, there’s an easier way to do this,” Megan said to herself. Into the Google search bar, she typed “Rosemary Grace Garrison Romy Courtney.” Surely that would bring up something.
And it did. “Courtney Shaw, of course,” Megan said, on seeing the search results. Now she could remember Kevin speaking the name, spelling it out for Max. This time she typed “Courtney Shaw” into the search bar. On a whim, she added “Philadelphia.”
Unfortunately for Megan, the name was not completely unique. She sorted through various Courtney Shaws in Philadelphia, but none seemed to be the right one. She tried again, this time broadening her search: “Courtney Shaw Pennsylvania.” When the long list of results came up, she clicked on “images,” thinking that might be easier. She took a moment to conjure up a mental picture of Courtney: straight blonde hair, slender, polished, fake. Megan started as the word “fake” came into her mind. Where had that come from? But she decided to let the muse take over.
Browsing through the hundreds of photos quickly became tedious. Most were close-ups of individuals, which Megan could immediately dismiss. She zoomed in on a few group photos to look more closely at faces, but had no luck. Finally she came upon one picture that seemed to be of a group of sorority sisters. Megan again zoomed in on the photo, not expecting anything at this point, but her heart stopped for a moment when she realized she did recognize someone in the picture.
It wasn’t Courtney.
It was Emlyn.
Megan's heart raced as she scanned the rest of the faces. Why did this picture show up in a search on Courtney’s name? Was Courtney in the group, too?
And then she found her. Standing in the back, her face turned slightly, her gaze on another of the women. Her smile was smug, as though she had a secret. Whereas many of the young women were holding hands or had their arms wrapped around each other in sisterly love, Courtney stood alone.
THIRTEEN
Megan had texted Max about Courtney and Emlyn being in the same old college sorority photo, but he hadn’t replied. “As if there’s something more important than an old college photo?” Megan had grumbled, and then she’d flopped into bed and fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep. She woke once in the night, when the light of the waning moon had broken through the trees and directly onto her eyelids. A glance at the clock, a turn in the bed, and she was asleep again.
Now it was morning, and Megan awoke feeling like she’d already forgotten something. Romy’s memorial was to be held that afternoon at a tiny roadside church nearby. Romy had loved the church so much that she’d written a version of it into many of her books. The interior would only hold about six people, but this memorial was only for family and close friends anyway. Sylvie and Wade, Emlyn (although Megan suspected that was only a courtesy invite), Gus, Courtney, a few others. Rae had offered up the pub afterward as a gathering place for food and camaraderie, but Sylvie had declined. They’d all had enough of this place, it seemed, and they were ready to go home.
Having replaced the guests’ towels and sheets the day before, Megan decided to go back and collect the dirty laundry to wash. It was Saturday, and the library was closed. Time to get caught up on chores.
She headed first to Sylvie and Wade’s room. As she was about to knock, she felt herself tense up. Could she just leave a note instead? She hated to disturb them on this day of all days. But as she hesitated, the door opened, making her almost jump. She stood looking at Sylvie, who returned her look with surprise.
“Hello, Megan?” said Sylvie, making the greeting into a question.
“Good morning,” said Megan, instantly thinking that of course the morning was not good, but it was too late to take back the words that had fallen out of her mouth
. “Sorry. I thought I’d come by and collect the dirty towels and such. I hope it’s not bad timing.”
“No, no, that’s all right,” said Sylvie. She was already dressed for the memorial and made up flawlessly, as usual, put together in a way that made Megan think of the royal family. The way their clothes always were tailored perfectly, everything fit like a glove, nothing ever had a crease or a stain or a button loose. That was Sylvie. She would have fit in at the most exclusive of gatherings. And yet she had a gentleness about her, a softness, that made one feel welcome in her presence. Sylvie turned back into the room, disappeared briefly, and came back, arms loaded with sheets and towels. She transferred them awkwardly into Megan's arms, and both of them laughed lightly at the comedy of the exchange. “There you are,” Sylvie said. “Thank you for this. I’m sure it’s not in the normal job description for a Library Director.”
“Oh, it’s not a problem at all,” said Megan. “I don’t mind,” she said, and she pondered the dozens of tiny little lies every person made every day. Little white lies, the lubricant of polite society. What would happen, really, if everyone started telling nothing but the truth, she wondered? Would everything fall apart? “I know the memorial is in a couple of hours,” she said. “Is there anything you need today? Anything at all?” She found herself wishing she could spend more time with Sylvie. And now it was too late.
“I’m just off the phone with our lawyer. We have a few more details to see to tomorrow, and then we plan to leave on Monday,” said Sylvie. “We’re so grateful for your hospitality.”
Megan wondered if Sylvie had cried over Romy. Not because she seemed cold, but rather because she seemed so calm and put-together. Behind closed doors, she imagined. Behind closed doors, all bets were off.
“If you’re ever in Emerson Falls again,” Megan said, “I hope you’ll come by and say hello.” She couldn’t imagine what might bring Sylvie back, but then she realized there would be many estate details to be settled. The home, for example, would need to be emptied and sold. There it stood, not even finished, but yet soon it would be back up on the market. For a fleeting moment Megan wondered if she might like to live there herself, but the cost of the place—sure to be too high for her salary—and the fact that a woman had died there put an instant stop to those ideas.
“That’s kind. Of course I will.” Sylvie stood, patiently waiting, and Megan realized Sylvie was ready for her to leave.
“Be sure to say goodbye before you leave, then,” Megan said, walking away. “And let me know if you need anything else.”
“I will,” Sylvie said. She stepped back into her room and closed the door.
Megan dumped the armful of laundry just inside her front door, and then headed on to Emlyn’s room. She knocked lightly and waited, but Emlyn didn’t come to the door. It wasn’t early, but neither was it late: only about nine o’clock. Megan remembered Baz had gone out in the morning once on a run; was Emlyn a runner too? She knocked again, a little harder this time. “Emlyn?” she called out, but there was no answer. Megan decided to try again later. She headed back to her room, tossed Sylvie and Wade’s laundry into the wash, and sat and read Death of a Social Butterfly until the wash cycle was done. About an hour later, she moved the wash from the washer to the dryer, and decided to try Emlyn’s room again.
This time, she knocked loudly the first time, and then even louder another minute later. An hour had passed; surely Emlyn wouldn’t be out running still? Or was she in charge of the memorial? Maybe she was out at the little church already? “Emlyn, are you there? I’ve come to get your sheets,” she called through the door, deciding to knock one last time before she gave up.
Wade had heard the commotion she was making, and came out of his room, eyebrows raised. “Not there?” he said.
“Do you know if she’s down at the church already? Setting up?” Megan asked.
“No, she’s not,” said Wade. “Courtney’s in charge of everything. It’s going to be a small ceremony, anyway. Not much to set up.” He looked at Emlyn’s door. “Do you think you should check on her?”
“I hate to be rude,” Megan said. “What if she’s in the shower?”
“You were knocking on her door about an hour ago,” said Wade. “She can’t still be in the shower.”
Megan sighed. “Well, I’ll give her another half hour,” she said. “It’s only, what, ten now? I’ll try again about ten thirty.”
When Megan came out of her apartment again just after ten thirty, Wade was there waiting. Megan looked at him curiously: why was he so interested in Emlyn’s whereabouts? She headed down the hall and knocked again, loudly and firmly.
Again, no answer.
“I checked,” Wade said. “Her car is downstairs. And she’s not in the library.”
A moment of shame rushed through Megan. Why hadn’t she thought of those things? “That was smart,” she said. “Thank you.” She looked at the door, as if maybe, if she looked at it long enough, it would open itself. Finally, she reached into her pocket. “I brought an extra key,” she said, showing it to Wade.
He nodded.
She raised her eyebrows in question to him.
He nodded again.
Megan slipped the key into the lock and felt the resistance, then a click as the door unlocked. She turned the doorknob and slowly opened the door.
Inside, on the floor, lying with her face turned in a pool of vomit, was Emlyn. Her lips were blue. Her eyes were open.
She was dead.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, the upstairs hall at the library was a frenzy of people. The EMTs had arrived and quickly confirmed what Megan had seen from the doorway. Max arrived shortly after the EMTs, and was now calling in for a forensics team. After he was done, he turned to Megan, who had been waiting in the hallway, not wanting to stay but unable to pull herself away.
“Poison, or something toxic, I’m guessing,” he said, staring at the fluid on the floor. “Did you see or hear anything unusual or suspicious in the last twenty-four hours?” he asked.
“Twenty-four hours?” said Megan. “You think she’s been dead that long?” The thought was nauseating. Imagining a dead person just feet away from her as she slept. She shuddered.
“I can’t say yet. Probably not,” he said, looking back at Emlyn’s lifeless figure, “but I need to cover all bases.”
“I was completely out last night,” Megan said. “I mean, sleeping. Here. Out like a light. Hardly woke up at all. But this morning, well, Wade seemed awfully eager for me to check in on Emlyn. It was sort of strange.” She thought back to earlier that morning. “He was hovering. He hovered. I didn’t suspect anything at all yet, but he was out here, waiting for me to go into her room. When I came out the last time, he’d already checked to see if Emlyn’s car was outside, and he’d looked for her in the library.” Megan paused, thinking. “Or had he? I just assumed he was telling the truth. I didn’t ask. I didn’t check myself. Maybe he’d just wanted to hurry me along, to get me to look in on Emlyn, when he already knew what I’d find?” Megan gave Max a long look. “You should talk to him,” she said. “And, I don’t know, check for his fingerprints inside there. Or whatever you do.”
“We will, for sure. Thanks for that.” Max glanced back into the bedroom at Emlyn, a stern look on his face. “Something I didn’t tell you,” he said. “Those big checks Romy wrote recently, they were written out to a company that traces back to Emlyn and her husband.”
Megan's mouth formed a silent Ohhh. “You’re kidding!” she said. “Emlyn and her husband? But Baz has gone home already. Or at least, that’s what Emlyn said. Maybe he’s not actually gone but is actually dead?” She gasped, her eyes drifting to the large cedar chest in the bedroom. Could Emlyn have stuffed Baz into the chest? “Oh my gosh. Do you think Baz is dead?”
Max raised an eyebrow. “Don’t panic just yet. I’ll have someone check on that. It’ll be easy enough to find out if he flew home.”
Megan let out a brea
th. “Okay. Okay. So the checks that Romy wrote to Emlyn and Baz’s company. How much were they for?” she asked.
“Several checks, several thousand each,” Max said, but he didn’t elaborate. He nodded at the door. “You’re saying this was locked when you tried it this morning?” he asked.
“Yes, and Wade can confirm that. One thing, though,” she said. “I’m still getting used to this huge house, and having all these people around …” she paused.
“Yes?” Max encouraged.
“There have been unlocked doors. I’ve forgotten to check every night. Owen said when he came in yesterday afternoon that the door was unlocked downstairs. The bottom level, where the conference rooms are. I’d met with Edison in the morning, so maybe I forgot. But it’s not the first time. This hallway door that opens to downstairs,” she indicated the door by the stairs, “I’ve found it open a few times, too. Unlocked.” Megan lowered her voice. Sylvie and Wade had come out earlier to see the commotion, but had since returned to their room, Sylvie looking very pale. “Sylvie goes downstairs at night sometimes. I’m sure her mind isn’t on locks. I don’t know if she always checks, and I don’t know if she went down last night. Like I said, I was asleep. Dead to the world.” She cringed at her choice of words.
Max went to the door. He and the EMT had come up the back way, through the living quarters entrance, rather than through the library and up the stairs. After putting on a pair of blue gloves that he pulled from one of the many pockets of his uniform, he tested the door. It was unlocked.
“Is the door unlocked during the day?” asked Max. “While the library is open? Could someone have gotten in?”
The memory of Courtney waltzing down the stairs rushed to Megan's mind. “Courtney,” she said. “Courtney was there yesterday. Max, did you get my text? About Courtney and Emlyn?”
