Murder Scene

by Richard Montanari

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m afraid that’s going to take some time, too.’

  ‘You talked the knife down, Will. I saw it. We all saw it.’

  Will shook his head. ‘If I had done that, he would still be alive.’

  ‘That was his choice, not yours. You know that.’

  Will didn’t look convinced. ‘It’s a lot to take in, Ivy.’

  ‘I know. But you have your daughter and your life together. You have all the time in the world.’

  The nurse exited Detta’s room with her cart. She offered a half-smile meaning: Vitals are good. When she made her way into the next room, Will asked:

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘How did you know where he was going to take her?’

  It was a longer shot than Ivy would ever admit to anyone but Will Hardy. ‘That part of the river? Right where that small tributary snakes off toward Zeven Farms?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘That’s where Rinus van Laar landed when he came here. He named the stream Hoop River. It’s not on any map.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Will said.

  ‘Hoop is the Dutch word for hope. It’s about the first thing you learn in grade school around these parts.’

  Ivy saw the ER doctor coming down the hall, making his rounds. She knew that Will would want to talk to him. She glanced at her watch. ‘I should get back.’

  ‘What about you, Ivy?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How are you holding up?’

  Ivy had no idea how to answer this. It was all new to her, too. ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘I have some experience with this, you know.’

  ‘Experience with what?’

  ‘I’ve counseled more than a few police officers at times like these.’

  Ivy now understood what he meant. There were any number of protocols in place in large city police departments regarding the aftermath of an officer-involved shooting. Not so in her little village. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I might just take you up on that.’

  She slipped on her jacket.

  ‘I do have one question for you, though,’ she said.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘If I see you as a patient, do I have to call you Dr Hardy?’

  ‘Only if I have to call you Chief Holgrave.’

  ‘I think we can work something out.’ Ivy touched the door to Detta’s room. ‘If you or Bernadette need anything, you’ve got my number. Day or night.’

  ‘And you’ve got mine.’

  Ivy had every intention of turning and walking down the polished hallway at that moment, of returning to the station and the madhouse that awaited her, of taking the first steps in the long healing process for her little village.

  Instead, she found herself pulling Will Hardy into an embrace.

  The hug was brief, but it meant a lot to Ivy.

  It was the one she wanted to give Jimmy Benedict on that day nearly twenty-five years ago.

  90

  In the month following the Appleville Festival the evidence of nearly two centuries of crime was slowly gathered, processed, studied and catalogued. The arduous and painstaking process was undertaken by the FBI, with assistance from the Ohio State Police, Holland County Sheriff’s office, BCI, and the Abbeville Police Department.

  The three hundred acres that were the now-shuttered Zeven Farms were divided into quarter-acre sections, and would be scanned with methane probes. The process would take more than a year.

  The boy that Rebecca Taylor had seen with Josefina Mollo, near the entrance to Calvary House, was Dakota Rawlings. Evidence found in the Rawlings house tied him to Jakob van Laar when Jakob had traveled on what looked to have been a buying trip the year before.

  When shown a photograph of the boy, Detta Hardy recognized Rawlings as a boy called ‘Cody’ she had briefly met at Uncle Joe’s Sweet Shoppe.

  Among the items taken from Will and Amanda’s brownstone in New York, removed just before Anthony Torres killed Amanda, was the china tea service, and a large album of family photos. The album was found in a safe on the first floor at Veldhoeve, and survived the fire. It was safely returned to Will and Detta Hardy.

  Julie Hansen recovered fully. She told investigators a chilling tale of her time in Veldhoeve. She spoke of fourteen framed prints that Jakob van Laar told her were preliminary sketches drawn by Pieter Bruegel himself.

  The drawings were never found.

  Among the myriad grotesque and bizarre findings regarding Jakob van Laar’s madness were the items found scattered at the crime scenes. It seemed he had collected objects for many years, carefully placing them in the clearings where the girls would be found, objects exactly mirroring the collection and placement of objects in each of Bruegel’s drawings.

  Toxicology reports showed that the liquid in the silver flask Jakob had ingested was from a plant grown in a small hothouse on the grounds of Veldhoeve called atropa belladonna, more commonly known as deadly nightshade.

  The hallucinogenic drug in the apple Detta Hardy had eaten that night, as well as the tea she had ingested, was a unique strain of mandragora officinarum, also known as Satan’s Apple.

  The most surprising fallout was that Jakob van Laar, having no living heirs, ordered that his estate be divided between seven different charitable organizations upon his death, each to be distributed by a law firm in Columbus, each donation to remain anonymous.

  The amount was close to four million dollars.

  Even with the resources of city, county, state and federal databases, Ivy could not find any trace of a local boy named Billy.

  When the story broke wide, Ivy began to get calls from everywhere regarding girls who had gone missing as far back as the 1950s.

  While Ivy was invested in each and every case, had sworn an oath to do so, there was one piece of evidence she sought in the dark recesses and eaves of Veldhoeve.

  She did not find it.

  By the first day of spring, Ivy finished restoring the photograph of Delia Holgrave in the Fairgrounds. On that night Ivy opened a special bottle of bourbon, one she’d been saving for the moment. She poured herself a few inches, and raised a glass. From across her basement room she could finally see what had been there all along, waiting for her like some long-hidden cipher.

  Sitting on the branch overhead, on the day Delia Holgrave disappeared, was a white bird.

  91

  Detta sat near the huge apple tree by the river, feeling the warm sunshine on her face. The area had weeks earlier shed all remnants of that terrible day; all the yellow tape had been cut down, all the strange objects Jakob van Laar had placed near the riverbank had been collected by the police and sent to wherever it was things like that went.

  For the first time in months it looked the way it did the first time she talked to Billy.

  She glanced out over the river. The late afternoon light was milky and even and perfect.

  It had been weeks since she’d thought of New York, and their life there. There were moments when she could not recall much of anything about it. And that was okay. She’d come to believe that it really didn’t matter where you were, in the end, but who you were.

  She had made some good friends at Carver High. The school had a pretty good art department. There was an art show coming up, and she had a few pieces ready.

  Before she gathered her things, she looked at her new drawing. In it, the huge apple tree seemed to reach to the heavens.

  She decided to keep the lowest branch empty, for now. She never signed a work until she was done with it, and she knew that she might not be finished with this one for a while.

  She packed her pad and pencils and easel into her bag, stood up and headed down the riverbank, toward Godwin Hall.

  I know who you were, Bernadette Hardy.

  And I know who you were, Billy.

  I know.

  92

  Godwin Hall’s first paying guest sat with its owner and proprietor on the
second-floor balcony overlooking the Fairgrounds.

  The first sweet burst of April was upon Holland County, Ohio. Godwin Hall was booked every weekend through Labor Day.

  Down below the balcony, the year’s inaugural spring festival, the Holland County Maple Syrup Fest, was well underway, with a few hundred visitors already on the green.

  The Godwin Hall exhibit, with pancakes and French toast served by Miriam Yoder, assisted by Bernadette Hardy and Ivy Holgrave, was particularly popular.

  Detta and Ivy had become close friends over the winter. They had a bond that Will knew he would never be part of.

  Ivy had introduced Detta to the basics of photography, as well as the fundamentals of restoring an old photograph in Photoshop by enlarging and working on it pixel by pixel.

  Detta, in turn, had introduced Ivy to the pointillist painters; Seurat and Signac and Georges Lemmen. Detta had more than once remarked to Will how interesting it was that the two art forms could meet in the middle.

  Ivy and Detta had twice watched the Blu-ray of Antonioni’s 1966 film Blowup, at Will’s recommendation.

  As the festival crowd began to swell, the two men on the balcony sipped their Maker’s Mark, Will Hardy’s new favorite.

  ‘Is she married?’ Trevor asked. ‘I didn’t see a ring.’

  Will didn’t have to ask who Trevor was talking about. He saw Trevor’s eyes light up the minute he introduced the man to Ivy Holgrave.

  ‘She is not.’

  ‘You know I love a woman in a uniform.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I don’t think you’d get away with anything with her,’ Will said. ‘In fact, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I think you’re right.’

  The two men sat in comfortable silence for a while.

  ‘Do you miss it?’ Trevor finally asked.

  ‘Miss what?’

  ‘Teaching. The city. The life. New York.’

  Will didn’t have to think too long about it. ‘I really don’t, Trev. I know there’s a position waiting for me nearby if I ever have the urge to get back to teaching. As to the city, it seems like someone else’s life right now. I know Amanda isn’t in New York. She’s here with us.’

  Trevor just nodded.

  There was a lot both men wanted to say. There was a lot of sorting through regarding the madness of the last year. They would, in time. For now, there was the warm spring breeze, and the sound of children on the green.

  ‘I can’t believe I forgot,’ Trevor said.

  ‘Forgot what?’

  ‘There might be a new season of Broadchurch.’

  ‘Awesome. Will David Tennant be in it?’

  ‘Therein lies the mystery,’ Trevor said. ‘And, by the way, I finally figured out why you like that show so much.’

  ‘Have you now?’

  ‘I have. I’m a detective, after all.’

  ‘Okay,’ Will said. ‘Why do I like it so much?’

  ‘The main character’s name is DCI Hardy.’

  ‘I never noticed that.’

  Trevor laughed. ‘I think you may fold under further questioning.’ He tapped his empty glass. ‘Another round, innkeeper.’

  Epilogue

  Astor Shores was a county-run elder care facility near the Lake County border, a four-story brown brick building overlooking Lake Erie.

  Ivy sat in the parking lot for a long time, trying to talk herself out of what she was about to do. She could not find a single reason to move forward. There was every reason to let this part of her past, their past, fade into memory.

  Before she could stop herself, she exited the SUV, crossed the parking lot, and entered the building.

  Ivy stepped into the day room. Before long the woman’s face drifted into view, achingly identifiable.

  Ivy allowed the woman a few moments to find her, to place her in time, if that was still possible. When she was certain the woman had seen her, Ivy slowly crossed the room to where the woman sat.

  Arcella Richards watched her every move.

  ‘My God,’ the woman said. ‘It really is you.’

  ‘It is.’

  The woman studied her. ‘Has it really been twenty-five years?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Arcella Richards had just celebrated her eighty-second birthday. Ivy did the math on the drive to Cleveland. The woman had been only fifty-seven years old on that terrible day. It was a number that seemed ancient to Ivy at the time. It was a number just beyond her grasp now.

  They spoke of the weather. They spoke of the city. They spoke of everything except what put them together on this day, in this room.

  Arcella reached into her handbag, produced a faded school photo of her grandson, a gap-toothed boy wearing a too-large Cleveland Browns jersey. Number 32. Even at the time the photograph was taken, years after Jim Brown had retired, boys wore 32. Ivy still saw them from time to time.

  ‘Went to a game once, Terrance and me,’ she said. ‘He was about eight years old. It was right around Thanksgiving, but it was awfully cold. January cold. His daddy was already in the ground, his mama run off. The wind came off the lake that day like enough to kill you. Played the Cincinnati Bengals.’

  ‘Did the Browns win?’

  Arcella nodded. ‘They did. Score of twenty-four to six. Terrance was so happy. Got that Ozzie Newsome’s autograph.’

  They fell silent as the staff at Astor Shores started gearing up for dinner.

  ‘I watch the shows, you know,’ Arcella said. ‘On the TV.’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘They all talk about the how and the why of things. Why boys go bad, what we all should have done, what we all should do so they don’t go bad again. None of it makes any sense at all. Not to me.’

  Ivy had no answers for the woman. It was a question she’d asked herself since the day she first put on a uniform and a badge.

  Instead, she took the woman’s small hand in hers, and together they looked out the window until the sun began to set over the shore.

  The stereo played Patsy Cline’s Greatest Hits. It had been such a long and emotional day that Ivy figured she’d go all in.

  Frankie sat at Ivy’s feet, reading her mood.

  ‘We’re in this for the duration, aren’t we?’

  Frankie raised a paw to shake. Ivy obliged.

  A few minutes later Ivy stood, crossed the room, reached into the closet, and removed the large plastic bag. She went back to her chair.

  Frankie nosed the air. She was dying to know what was in the parcel. Maybe she already knew.

  Ivy unzipped the bag, took out the clothing. Frankie leaned in, sniffed the sweater. It was Delia’s favorite.

  ‘This one isn’t going to be easy, baby girl.’

  Frankie wagged her tail. Try me.

  On the way to the back door, Ivy slipped on her jacket. She took the long leash off its hook.

  Twenty minutes later Ivy and Frankie walked across the Fairgrounds to the stone gazebo at its center, then beyond, past ash and beech and box elder, past the whispered secrets of two great houses, into the dark and silent forests of Holland County.

  Acknowledgements

  With deepest thanks to:

  Meg Ruley, Rebecca Scherer, Danielle Sickles, Christina Prestia and all at Jane Rotrosen Agency;

  Ed Wood, Thalia Proctor and the brilliant team at Little, Brown UK;

  The Dalt Gang, Kathleen Heraghty, Robyn Morris, Michael Krotz, Michael Caticchio, Gary Wilgus, Dan McClelland, James Hyland, Douglas Bunker, Ronald Cimaglio, Kathleen Franco, and the inscrutable Mr. Z;

  My father, Dominic, for looking in on me when I’ve been quiet too long. Full circle, Pop. I love you.

  About the Author

  RICHARD MONTANARI was born in Cleveland, Ohio, to a traditional Italian-American family. After university, he traveled extensively in Europe and lived in London.

  Returning to the United States, he started working as a freelance writer for The Chicago Tribune, The Detroit Free Press, The Seattle Times,
and many others. He wrote his first book, Deviant Way, in 1996, and it won the OLMA for Best First Mystery. His novel Shutter Man was named a New York Times Crime Novel of the Year for 2016 and his books have now been published in more than twenty-five languages.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  Also by Richard Montanari

  SHUTTER MAN

  THE DOLL MAKER

  THE STOLEN ONES

  THE KILLING ROOM

  DEATHLESS

  THE ECHO MAN

  BADLANDS

  MERCILESS

  THE SKIN GODS

  THE ROSARY GIRLS

  KISS OF EVIL

  THE VIOLET HOUR

  DEVIANT WAY

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Lines from “Two Fusiliers” from The Complete Poems in One Volume by Robert Graves, edited by Beryl Graves and Dunstan Ward © Carcanet Press Ltd 2000.

  THE BURIED GIRL. Copyright © 2019 by Richard Montanari. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in ay form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Sphere, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group.

  Digital Edition FEBRUARY 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-246746-1

  Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-246747-8

  Cover design by Guido Caroti