“It’ll slow down eventually.”
By then, she’ll be long gone. So here she is, wearing mascara on vacation, along with her nicest, slightly clingy T-shirt—not being a stranger.
Wilbur Morton, the recently hired new desk sergeant, who looks like someone’s jolly uncle, greets her with a warm smile and calls her by name. Not Sully, and not Gingersnap, of course, but Detective Leary. Wishing she still had official business here as she did back in December, she reluctantly tells him that she’s just stopping in to see Lieutenant Colonomos. Again.
“I think you’re in luck this time. He’s in.” Sergeant Morton picks up the phone. “Hey, Nick? Detective Leary from the NYPD is back . . . yeah . . . yeah, okay. I’ll tell her.” He hangs up. “If you want to wait a few minutes, he’s finishing something.”
“Sure.”
She sits on a comfortable chair sipping her tea and making small talk with Wilbur until at last Nick appears. He’s accompanied by a familiar-looking uniformed cop.
“Detective Leary, it’s good to see you. Do you remember Sergeant Ryan Greenlea?”
She does, of course. Back in December, Barnes had dubbed the rookie cop Babyface—privately, of course.
He is young, with a ruddy complexion that still shows remnants of acne. Tufts of sandy hair and large ears stick out from under his cap. She finds herself thinking that Barnes was right when he said New York would eat this kid alive. But when he strides over to greet her, his handshake and tone are authoritative. “It’s good to see you again, Detective Leary.”
“You too. Oh, and I brought these cookies—they’re for all of you, so help yourselves,” she adds, tossing her empty cup into the garbage and holding out the white bakery box, tied with red string.
“I’ll take a couple,” Greenlea says appreciatively. “I’m on the tail end of a double shift and that’s just what I need to keep me going.”
He opens the box, helps himself to a couple of cookies, and passes it to Nick, who shakes his head.
“No, thanks. Leave them on Wilbur’s desk where people can help themselves. And listen, Ryan, if they give you any problem, tell them I sent you. Good luck.”
Sergeant Greenlea thanks him and leaves, and Nick escorts Sully down the hall to his office.
“I only have a few minutes,” he says, sitting and gesturing for her to take the chair across from his desk. “I’m guessing Greenlea will call me in back to say they’re giving him a problem.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“The Marranas. They own the Trattoria down the block.”
Sully knows the place. She’s been trying to eat there since she arrived, but like every other restaurant in town, the wait for a table is always too long.
“They have a sidewalk café license,” Nick goes on, “but someone just called to say they set up too many tables out there today, and one of the petunia planters is too close to the door of the building next door again. This is the third time we’ve had to send someone over there this week.”
“Is he going to make an arrest?” Her question is tongue-in-cheek, but the irony seems to escape him.
“An arrest? No, but we have to fine them this time.” He shakes his head. “I’ve known Mrs. Marrana all my life, and she’s respectful, but she likes to do things her way. Yesterday, she sent us a tray of meatball subs and a note saying she was sorry and it wouldn’t happen again, but now . . . here we are. I think I’m going to have to handle it myself. It’s turning into a real problem.”
Sully can just imagine what Barnes would have to say about a “real problem” that consists of a box of wayward petunias and bribery with meatball sandwiches. Back home, it’s dodging bullets.
Or not managing to dodge them at all.
“I know it must seem small-time for you, coming from the city,” he says as if he’s read her mind. “But with all these people flooding into town, we have to stay on top of everything. And believe me, an event like this draws a lot of nutcases.”
“I’m sure it does. I think I’ve seen a few of them.”
“I’m sure you have, staying in The Heights. That’s why a lot of people who live there get out of Dodge whenever Mundypalooza rolls around, and this year is worse than ever. Especially for the poor folks who live in the three houses where the crimes took place.”
“Do they leave town, too?”
He hesitates. “It varies. They worry about break-ins—with good reason, since burglar alarms at two of the houses have gone off every night this week.”
“So there were break-ins?”
“Attempted. It might have been just kids—you never know. But it makes people nervous.”
“I’m sure it does.”
“Don’t you worry, though.”
“Me?”
“Staying where you are, alone at night. You really are safe there. People are only interested in—”
Nick’s phone rings before she can assure him that she’s not afraid, and is perfectly capable of defending herself against the mischievous kids of Mundy’s Landing, if it came down to that. She gets the feeling that if he hadn’t been interrupted, he’d have called her “little lady,” or something along those lines.
As he reaches for the phone, she says, “I’d better let you get back to work.”
He doesn’t protest. Nor does he tell her not to be a stranger. He just answers the call and gives her a distracted wave as he tells whoever’s on the phone that he’ll be there in about ten minutes.
She makes her way back to Wilbur’s desk, where he brushes crumbs from his jowly face. “Make sure you come back and see us again, Detective.”
“Oh, you just like me for my cookies,” she teases.
He grins. “I do have a weakness for sweets—but for sweethearts, too.”
“Funny—not many people call me that back home.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Yeah, well, you haven’t met my partner, Sergeant Barnes. He calls me a lot of things, and ‘sweetheart’ isn’t one of them.”
Nor, thank goodness, is “little lady.”
As she heads for the door, she promises Wilbur she’ll come by again, but she isn’t so sure.
After all, she isn’t in Mundy’s Landing to spend time with Nick Colonomos. She’s here to relax and heal her wounds and enjoy the bucolic village and the beautiful weath—
Oh.
She stops short in the vestibule, seeing that the sunshine has given way to a drenching downpour. Caught without an umbrella, she wonders how long it’s going to last. Not that she’s in a hurry to get anywhere. She lingers, watching people and cars splash through the rain.
If she had her cell phone with her, she’d be checking the forecast online. She does that a lot in New York. You can find out how long rain is going to last right down to the minute.
Here, who cares?
Let it rain. If she feels like it, she can kick off her sneakers and splash barefoot all the way back to The Heights.
Yeah, she doesn’t feel like it, though.
She turns away from the glass door, and her gaze falls on the bulletin board. It’s covered with notices: a memo about parking restrictions for the next couple of weeks, a schedule of events for ML350, a wanted flier, and a couple of missing persons fliers.
They of course remind Sully of the job, but she finds herself leaning in to read them anyway.
Both are females, both from the Hudson Valley.
Juanita Contreras, an eighteen-year-old who worked at a mall in White Plains, hasn’t been seen in over two weeks.
Indigo Selena Edmonds—whose nickname is Indi—disappeared in Albany over a month ago. She’s a minor, Sully calculates—born January 31, 1999, which makes her seventeen.
She shakes her head. It never ends, and you can’t escape it. Not even here.
For some reason, Holmes can’t stop thinking about the girl he saw leaving the Bingham house on Friday night. She was young, barely a teenager, he’s guessing, and just the same size and colo
ring as his Kathryn.
Yet unlike his Kathryn, whom no one seems to have reported missing even now, this girl would trigger an immediate Amber Alert. Especially after what happened to Brianna Armbruster,
He’s been hoping to catch a glimpse of the other Catherine ever since, but he hasn’t. Today, he crept through the yard of her house to look for her, but she wasn’t around.
“Such a disappointment,” he says aloud, to himself, thrumming his fingertips on the steering wheel. He would never have gotten away with abducting her, but it’s fun to pretend otherwise.
Stuck in traffic on the way to Home Depot on Colonial Highway, he’s counting on the store to be just busy enough to guarantee that he—and his last-minute purchases—won’t stand out like a sore thumb.
Yes, he’s been prepared for months. He thought he had everything he’ll need for tonight.
But he forgot one thing.
“Come on, come on,” he mutters at the brake lights stretching ahead through the rain-spattered windshield. “I don’t have all day.”
No, he has other things he’s supposed to be doing; other places he needs to be.
But once an idea pops up in Holmes’s head, it’s as entrenched as the poison sumac taproots that choke the old trolley turnaround.
And that’s typically a good thing, he reminds himself. Call it what you may—perseverance, or obsession—it’s what enabled him to unlock the key to the greatest unsolved crime in the history of the world. He’d simply made up his mind that he was going to do it, and he did.
At first, he was motivated by the challenge, and the reward money, and the respect that would come with solving the case. But as time went on, he realized that there was far more to it.
It was all so real to him. The past. The more convinced he was that he’d actually been there, the more he grasped his true mission.
And now, at last . . .
Tonight’s the night. And this last small detail will make it go off without a hitch.
If I ever get to buy it.
Finally making it into the parking lot, drives up and down the rows in search of a space. The store is busy, all right. Why are all these people at Home Depot in the middle of a weekday morning?
Because it’s raining, and they can’t find anything better to do?
Losers, all of them.
Holmes strides into the store and snatches a cart from the few that are left in the vestibule, avoiding eye contact with everyone he passes. Most appear to be out-of-towners, and those who are not wouldn’t be suspicious, seeing him here. But he’s all business, rolling up and down the aisles, maneuvering around meandering customers who appear to be browsing as if they’re in a fancy dress shop.
He grabs a couple of random items—flashlight batteries, lightbulbs, some nails—to camouflage the one he really needs. Reaching for a box of garbage bags—not the target purchase but always handy—he bumps arms with a fellow shopper.
“Sorry,” they say simultaneously.
“Oh—how are you?” she asks, as if she knows him.
He reluctantly allows himself to look at her. She’s vaguely familiar, probably a local. But he can’t place her, which means she’s insignificant.
“I’m fine,” he says briskly, tossing the garbage bags into his cart. “How about you?”
“I can’t complain.”
Sensing she’s about to, he says, “That’s good. Have a great day!” and rolls on to the next aisle.
A few minutes later, he joins the shortest checkout line. Ahead of him are a couple who are, in his opinion, far too pasty and flaccid to be buying a tent and other outdoor gear.
When it’s their turn, the cashier, a friendly older woman with a broad face and kinky yellow hair, asks if they’re going camping.
“Unfortunately, yes,” the woman says. “We just drove all the way up here from Tennessee for Mundypalooza. We figured if we got here a day early we’d find a place to stay, but everything is sold out.”
Holmes is quietly appalled. Did they honestly think they could just show up in town for Mundypalooza at the last minute and get a hotel room?
Even the cashier finds it inexcusable. “You’d have to get here a year early, guys. That’s how long ago everything was booked.”
“We didn’t know.”
Seriously? Ever hear of the Internet?
Barely able to mask his disdain, Holmes shifts his weight and studies a counter display of pocket knives.
Rhythmically running their items over the scanner, the cashier asks, “So you’re going to camp?”
“We don’t really have a choice,” the man drawls. “But after we buy all this stuff, we’re going to be broke. Any idea where we can find a cheap campsite?”
“Those are all full, too. Even up where I live, in Hudson. But I’ll let you in on a little secret.” The cashier stops ringing and leans toward them. “About a mile down the highway on the right, there’s a big field and some woods behind it. There are no facilities, but you can pitch your tent for free if you do it way back in the trees above the river.”
The woman raises her overly plucked brows. “Isn’t that trespassing?”
“Trust me, no one ever goes back there. I mean, maybe the cops check it out the rest of the year, but right now, they’re busy with crowd control right in town. But you didn’t hear about this from me, okay?”
Naturally, they agree and thank her.
Still staring at the knives, Holmes shoves his clenched fists into his pockets.
Don’t panic. All you have to do is keep the Beauties tucked away a little longer.
The situation is certain to become less complicated in the weeks ahead. After tonight, there will be only two captives in the makeshift dungeon; after July 8, only one; and by July 14 . . .
None at all.
“If we get that reward money, we’ll stop by and take you out to lunch,” the man promises the cashier.
Fat chance of that, with a pair of idiots who know so little about Mundypalooza that they didn’t even bother to find lodging before driving a thousand miles.
Holmes closes his pocketed fist around his lucky buffalo nickel, wrapped in aged muslin.
Good thing he happened to be in the right place at the right time to overhear this exchange. Otherwise, those two dimwits might have found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time tonight. As pleasurable as it would be to get rid of them, he doesn’t need the distraction tonight, of all nights.
When they move on, the cashier greets Holmes pleasantly as he places his items on the conveyer.
“Haven’t seen you here in a while. Guess work is keeping you busy these days?”
“Sure is,” he returns cordially, resisting the urge to crush the package of lightbulbs he’s holding.
Why did she have to talk to him as if she knows him?
And why the hell did she have to tell those outsiders about his special place?
Purchases paid for, he grabs the bags and pushes the cart toward the door.
“Excuse me, are you done with that?” asks a harried-looking woman. “There aren’t any left.”
“All yours.” He gives the cart a shove. It careens toward her.
“Geez,” she says, jumping out of the way, and then, belatedly, “Thanks. I guess.”
Ignoring her, he steps out into the parking lot. The rain is coming down much harder now.
Good.
Even the annoying cashier wouldn’t question why someone might need a large plastic tarp on a day like this.
The rain started coming down just as Annabelle and Oliver were about to head to the pool for a swim. She promised him that they’d go as soon as it lets up, and he returned to his room and the box of leftover pool tiles. She has no idea what he’s doing with them, but at least he’s been busy while she unpacked another couple of boxes and thought about the stone angel.
Now, she sits down at the computer in the parlor and opens a search window. The logical thing to do is type in the letters and numbers exac
tly as they appear at the base of the statue.
Z.D.P. 3/31/04—7/7/16
She isn’t surprised when that search yields nothing of relevance.
Z.D.P.
If those are initials, then it stands to reason that the P stands for Purcell. She’ll start there, ignoring the dates for now.
She logs into the Ancestry.com Web site, where she has an account. Last year, Oliver’s social studies teacher gave an assignment in which students were supposed to trace their family back at least three generations.
She helped Oliver comb the Web site’s databases for birth and death records, immigration manifests, and censuses taken by the federal government every decade and by New York State in 1905 and 1915. It was fairly challenging to uncover Annabelle’s lineage. Her ancestors had emigrated from Europe through Ellis Island in the early 1900s and worked in New York City as household servants or laborers. Her parents moved to Mundy’s Landing before she was born, having discovered the area when visiting her grandmother, hospitalized for years in a nearby tuberculosis sanitarium.
By contrast, Trib’s family has been here for generations, and is well-documented back to the first Charles Bingham in the 1800s, and well beyond. The same is probably true of the Purcells.
Listening to the pleasant sound of the rain pattering on the roof and into the foliage beyond the screened windows, she begins the search with Augusta.
There are, she discovers, several Augusta Purcells in the ancestry database. Honoring previous generations with namesakes appears to be a tradition in their family just as it is in many others. She herself was named after her father’s grandmother, and her mother’s family tree is as laden with Marys as the Purcell family tree is with Augustas.
Annabelle’s Augusta—Augusta Amalthea Purcell—was born on January 18, 1910. The federal census shows only three people living at 46 Bridge Street that year: George H. and Florence Purcell and their infant daughter.
Another Augusta, George’s sister, Augusta Pauline, had been born in July 1875. She appears on the 1890 census, living in this house with her brother; her father, Floyd; and a number of servants. The 1900 census shows George and Floyd and an even larger collection of servants, two of whom were named Mary. There was no Augusta Pauline at that point, but Florence had joined the household, married to George before Christmas in 1899.
Blue Moon: Mundy's Landing Book Two Page 14
