Blue Moon: Mundy's Landing Book Two

by Wendy Corsi Staub

“I’m not making myself crazy”—lie—“and there’s no way we’ll get into any pizza place tonight. The village is jammed with people.”

  Truth.

  “Anyway,” she goes on, tiptoed on the chair, rummaging through the contents of the shelf, “they want to see the house.”

  Also truth. Kim Winston has been texting all week. She was out on the porch steps waiting for Connor when Annabelle trailed the boys home from the bus stop, and she all but invited herself over tonight with her husband and their kids.

  It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now . . . not so much.

  Annabelle plucks the oil and vinegar from the shelf, climbs down, and looks around for a place to put them. There isn’t one. Removing a stack of unopened mail from the counter, she sets the bottles in the cleared space and thrusts the heap of bills and catalogs into Trib’s hands. “Can you please stick this someplace?”

  “Where? Or will I be sorry I asked?” He flashes the wry grin she fell in love with almost thirty years ago.

  She returns it, albeit fleetingly. “There’s just too much clutter on the counters, and I’m in way over my head with this dinner.”

  “No way, really?”

  He steps over to the dryer—the laundry facilities are in a kitchen nook—opens the door, and puts the mail inside on top of the load of dry towels she hasn’t had time to fold.

  As she rushes past him again, dragging the chair back to where it belongs, she decides that one of the best things about Trib—and there are many best things about Trib—is that he’s unflappable. She appreciates that, being largely unflappable herself, though not tonight.

  “Trib,” she says now, “yesterday when I—”

  The stove timer goes off a split second before the doorbell rings, and the moment is lost.

  Leaving the city on a Friday afternoon in the summer, Sully expected to hit some traffic. But she could have walked faster than this. Stuck on the Taconic in stop-and-go, she’s had plenty of time to think.

  Which, lately, is the last thing she wants to do.

  Working Missing Persons and the occasional homicide, she’s witnessed her share of tragedy over the years. But what happened a few weeks ago rocked her to the core.

  She and Barnes were in a rough neighborhood, interviewing the family of Roland Mitchell, a teenage kid who hadn’t been seen in a few days. As it turns out, he was a runaway. He turned up last week, safe and sound, in Newark. Roland’s story—unlike Manik Bhandari’s—ended happily.

  A couple of wasted-out-of-their-minds punks were joyriding down the boulevard, saw Sully and Stockton on the sidewalk talking to the locals, and opened fire for kicks. Sully has a scar on her temple where a bullet nicked her before hitting the kid sitting on the stoop behind her.

  Manik Bhandari was a seventeen-year-old honor student, about to graduate high school and become the first in his family to go to college. He died at her feet in a pool of his own blood, tinged with hers, and his tears, and her own. He died crying for his father. Sully, who never cries if she can help it . . .

  Sully cried. She’s still crying.

  Whenever she climbs into bed at night and closes her eyes, she can see his: teary, terrified, pleading . . . and then fixed on the gray summer sky. The memory keeps her up at night, haunting her in a way few others have.

  She stops at a crosswalk, watching the traffic fly by.

  Does it help that both punks were swiftly apprehended and will likely be behind bars for the rest of her lifetime, if not their own?

  No. Not really. Not this time.

  Nothing helps.

  They say sooner or later it happens to every cop, every fireman, every first responder: the one tragedy that hits you hard. The one that’s just too much to bear. The one that makes you wonder whether—

  The car behind her blasts its horn, and she sees that the one ahead of her is moving. She takes her foot off the brake, only to jam it down again as the traffic halts.

  At least they’re not going backward. Sometimes that’s how she feels back home, dealing with the challenges of city life and this job she’s always had, the only job she’s ever known or wanted, the job she was born to do. And every day, every night, she thinks of Manik, and her head throbs with a terrible ache that no amount of Advil can ease.

  The surface wound is almost healed. Her doctor ruled out a concussion. He thinks the headaches are from stress.

  “Go on vacation and forget about what happened,” he advised her at her checkup a few days ago. “You’ll be good as new after a week or two of rest and relaxation. If you’re not, you’ll need to see someone.”

  Someone. A shrink.

  Sully has already seen one. Protocol. Yeah, that didn’t help, either.

  Right now, her only option is vacation. And if that doesn’t work . . .

  No, it’ll work. Because what is the option? Giving up?

  Sully will never give up.

  She’ll just get away: from the daily chaos and violence, from being on high alert 24/7 because danger can strike at any moment.

  At last, the car ahead of her moves forward.

  Mundy’s Landing, here I come, she thinks, only to hit the brakes again and sigh, shaking her head. Eventually.

  The Village Common, a leafy park with fountains, statues, and meandering brick pathways, is sandwiched between Church and Prospect Streets to the north and south, Market Street and Fulton Avenue to the east and west. As this first busy summer weekend gets under way, every diagonal parking spot on the Common’s perimeter is filled, as are most spots in nearby municipal lots.

  Glad to be a pedestrian, Holmes strolls the brick sidewalks taking it all in, grateful for the late day sun that makes sunglasses an unobtrusive and essential accessory. Not technically a disguise, but they preclude eye contact with passersby or diners at sidewalk cafés.

  As he crosses the street, he gives a casual wave at the uniformed police officer directing traffic at the corner of Prospect and Fulton. The busy intersection lies in the long shadow of the Mundy’s Landing Historical Society at 25 Fulton Avenue and is, like many things here or in any small town, the subject of controversy. According to today’s Mundy’s Landing Tribune, a local citizens’ brigade is campaigning for immediate—which is laughable—installation of a regular traffic light and speed bumps.

  Charles Bingham wrote an accompanying editorial implying that traffic woes are the most urgent problem facing the village. Ironic, because Holmes was prowling through Bingham’s house right around the time the latest fender bender occurred at Prospect and Fulton.

  “Excuse me, mister, would you like to buy a candy bar for the Sunrise Project?”

  Turning, Holmes sees a kid seated at a card table in front of Vernon’s Apothecary.

  “It’s a good cause,” she goes on, “and they’re only five dollars.”

  Only five dollars? Well, that’s rich.

  And I’m not, Holmes thinks, yet he stops walking and pastes on a pleasant smile. “What’s the Sunrise Project?”

  “It’s our troop’s community service project.”

  She’s wearing a Girl Scout uniform and accompanied by another uniformed kid who’s pressing buttons on a sleek cell phone.

  Two vaguely familiar women hover nearby—the kind of women whose good looks are strictly courtesy of cosmetics, grooming, fashion, and the gym. Oblivious to kids and candy bars, they’re spending this ostensible mother-daughter bonding time in deep discussion with each other. From the sounds of it, they’re shredding a fellow mom whose parenting skills aren’t up to their lofty standards, as she’s allowed her daughter to wear “inappropriate” clothing. Whatever that means.

  Holmes thinks of Indi, so scantily clad on that May evening when he lured her into the SUV. She’s had plenty of time in the weeks since to reconsider every move she made on that fateful night. Chances are, she blames her plight on what she chose to wear—or rather, not to wear.

  Maybe I’ll let her go on thinking that. Or maybe I’ll tell her the real
reason I wanted her and only her.

  There are plenty of provocatively dressed young women out and about on any warm spring night. But that night was special—and so is Indi.

  “What kind of community service project?” Holmes asks the young girl holding the candy bar. Not because he cares about her cause, but because he’s fascinated by the mother’s utter lack of interest in her daughter’s interaction with him.

  Evidently, they feel safe despite Mundy’s Landing’s deplorable track record when it comes to young girls. These two women are all about appearances, and Holmes doesn’t merit an admiring or even a critical glance.

  I don’t seem like a threat, and so they don’t consider that there might be more than meets the eye. Idiots.

  Holmes focuses on the Girl Scout. She takes a deep breath and begins speaking as if she’s reciting from a PowerPoint presentation: “The troop project is to plant flowers and paint the benches around the stone monument at the Settlers’ Landing Overlook on the bike path at the—” She breaks off to ask, “What’s it called, Lauren?”

  Her fellow Girl Scout doesn’t look up from her phone. “What’s what called?”

  “The place.”

  “What place?”

  “You know . . . the flower-planting place?”

  “The bike path?”

  “No, what’s the park called? Where the settlers landed?”

  Lauren shrugs to indicate that she either doesn’t know or doesn’t care. The Girl Scout turns to the chattering women. “Mom?”

  “Please do not interrupt, Amanda.”

  “But I have a customer who wants to know about the project. What’s the park called?”

  Amanda’s mother flicks a gaze at Holmes. Her expression conveys that she is above all this—whatever this is. Her attitude is so abhorrent that Holmes wishes she were chained to the cellar wall alongside Indi and the others right now. Not because she fits into the plan, but because he would enjoy making her suffer.

  “It’s the Schaapskill Nature Preserve,” she tells Amanda, then turns back to her friend.

  Ah, the nature preserve. It’s adjacent to the site of Valley Cove Electric Pleasure Park.

  “That’s where we’re going to plant flowers next Thursday morning at sunrise,” Amanda tells Holmes.

  “Hence, the Sunrise Project.” He nods, thinking that next Thursday happens to be June 30—the date the first body will be discovered.

  “Hence?”

  Modern kids, and their limited vocabularies, he thinks, rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses. “That’s a beautiful place and a great cause. I’m happy to contribute. I’ll take three candy bars. You can keep the change.”

  “Thank you.” She carefully puts the twenty-dollar bill into the metal cashbox and reaches for the chocolate. “Are you going to eat these all by yourself?”

  “No, they’re for my girls.”

  “You have three girls?”

  “I do.” His mouth curves into a smile. “And they’re always happy when I bring them a treat.”

  “Well, candy bars aren’t healthy and you should only have a little taste. That’s what my mom says.”

  I’ll bet, Holmes thinks. The woman, whose skeletal frame is on full display in a sleeveless dress, looks like she’s never dared touch a candy bar in her life. She could stand to eat one. Or three.

  Immersed in her gossipy conversation again, Amanda’s mother—whose name, Holmes has discerned, is Bari—doesn’t give him another glance.

  Hmm.

  Maybe I’ll make her regret that later, just for fun.

  “Yes, practice does make perfect.”

  “What?”

  Seeing Amanda’s inquisitive expression, he realizes he spoke aloud. He thinks back, trying to remember what they were even talking about. Ah, yes.

  He improvises, “I said, it’s important to practice good healthy eating habits.”

  “I think I was the one who said that.” Amanda hands him the candy bars. “But thank you for your contribution anyway.”

  “Thank you for the chocolate anyway.”

  “Remember not to give them to your girls unless they eat a good dinner,” she calls as Holmes heads off down the sidewalk, “and then they should only have a little taste.”

  Aren’t we the bossy little twit.

  The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

  Holmes pockets the candy with a smile. When was the last time his three Beauties tasted anything sweet and delicious?

  But they don’t deserve a treat. This morning, they were a little too restless for his taste. He’d expected them to resign themselves to their fates by now. They might, if he were to tell them what lies in store. Perhaps they’d be comforted knowing they won’t be forgotten when this is over. Would they be struggling to escape if they knew they were about to take featured roles in the greatest crime of the twenty-first century?

  Possibly. But even if they mustered the herculean strength to break free of their steel shackles, they’d still be imprisoned. The windowless stone building is padlocked from the outside. It’s so remote that no one would ever hear their cries for help even if they hadn’t already screamed themselves hoarse.

  No need to check in on them again tonight, Holmes decides, as a mosquito buzzes around his damp forehead. The woods will be buggy in this heat.

  Instead, he’ll detour past the historical society, maybe even pop inside to pay a little after-hours visit. Dear sweet Ora Abrams never knows he’s there.

  It was Ora who first issued the challenge that consumed Holmes for the better part of a lifetime.

  Can You Solve the Sleeping Beauty Murders?

  The answer—Holmes’s ultimate answer, anyway: Yes, I can . . .

  And I have.

  Like the Binghams, Kim and Ross Winston were born and raised in Mundy’s Landing. Ross likes to tease Annabelle that she used to babysit for him, which is true. She was thirteen at the time, and he was a toddler.

  Now he’s a middle-aged man, still handsome, but with a slight paunch that strains the horizontal stripes of his polo shirt. Kim, a petite, fine-featured blonde, dresses and often sounds younger than she is. She delights in comparisons to her look-alike daughter, Catherine, who just finished eighth grade.

  Judging by the look on the girl’s face as she steps over the threshold, she’s none too thrilled about being here on this first official Friday night of summer.

  “Do you want to go upstairs with the boys?” Annabelle asks her, as Oliver and Connor make a beeline for the game console in Oliver’s room.

  “No way.”

  “You mean ‘No, thanks,’” Kim admonishes her, handing Annabelle a bottle of chilled sauvignon.

  “No, thanks.”

  Noting that Trib and Ross are already caught up in some manly conversation about woodwork or wiring, Annabelle invites Catherine to come to the kitchen.

  “No, thanks,” she says again.

  “Catherine!”

  “What? I said, ‘No, thanks,’ Mom!”

  “But if Mrs. Bingham needs help in the kitchen, you’ll come help.”

  “Oh, it’s okay. I have it all under control.” Not exactly the case, but Annabelle isn’t eager to turn the dueling mother-daughter duo into sous chefs.

  She settles Catherine in the back parlor and turns on the television, but the girl seems much more interested in texting on her phone.

  “Wow, what a great space!” Kim looks around the kitchen. “Just imagine what you can do in here. It could be amazing.”

  Annabelle and Trib had thought the same thing the first time they saw the expansive room. But a renovation isn’t in their budget, and Annabelle has come to realize that even the small galley kitchen in their rental cottage was more efficient than this one.

  Though the room is large, its design is sorely outdated. The cabinets are ancient—but, like the Binghams’ furniture, not in a retro-cool, kitschy way. Just in a flimsy, ugly way. They have to go. So do the green laminate countertops and scarred appli
ances, especially the refrigerator that smells of spoiled food no matter how many times she scrubs the shelves and bins and replaces the box of baking soda.

  “I really hope you’re not starved,” Annabelle tells Kim, sliding a tray of chicken into the oven and setting the timer for forty-five minutes.

  “I’m not, but I could use a drink after the day I’ve had.”

  “I’ll open the wine. I know there’s a corkscrew around here someplace.” She hunts through drawers until she finds an old butterfly one imprinted Mundy’s Landing Wine & Liquor. The store is still open on Market Street, but a few years ago, new owners changed the name to Mundy’s Landing Fine Wine & Spirits.

  Seeing the corkscrew, Kim laughs. “My mother the packrat has one of those. My dad teases her that she should donate it to Ora Abrams for the museum, which Mom says she’ll do that over her dead body.”

  Annabelle nods, knowing Kim’s parents—and Kim herself—are among the longtime locals who’d prefer that the historical society focus attention on the village’s illustrious past, rather than its tarnished one.

  But Annabelle has a soft spot for Ora, a close friend of her late mother’s. In fact, she’s been expecting her to show up any day now wanting a tour of the house. Maybe she’s just been too busy planning Mundypalooza.

  Annabelle opens the sauvignon and pours two glasses, handing one to Kim. “Do you think Catherine would like something cold to drink?”

  “As much as I’d like to improve her mood, I don’t think getting her drunk is a good idea.”

  Annabelle laughs. “I was thinking of iced tea or lemonade.”

  “No, just let her be. We need a break from each other.”

  “So she’s the reason you’ve had a bad day?”

  “Is there any other reason lately?”

  Between sips of wine, Kim tells her that Catherine had been invited to a pool party over in Mundy Estates, a luxury townhome development off Battlefield Road by the high school. But when Kim called to confirm the details with the mother of the teenage hostess, she discovered that boys would be there, and the parents wouldn’t be home.

  “You know how that goes,” she tells Annabelle. “Things can happen.”