I pulled open my coat pocket.
“Emily,” Minette said.
“Oh, Lord.”
“Go home and lie down,” I ordered. “Don’t answer the phone or door, and call me if anyone bothers you.”
The instant I entered my house, Minette flew out of my pocket and hurtled for the hutch. Deliberately ignoring her, I filled the kettle with water, set it on the stove, and pulled a tin of tea from my cabinet.
Soon her honied voiced drifted down from the hutch. “Are you angry, Kate?”
It was nearly impossible to be angry with Minette, but she needed to know how hazardous her pocket-hopping was. I sat at the kitchen table and waited a few seconds before I looked up at her. “We need to talk about you flying into my coat pocket without asking. I could hurt you by accident. At the mansion, I almost stuck my hands in my pockets. One day I might lean the wrong way on a wall or bump into something—or someone bump into me. It happens all the time.”
“Yes, Kate.”
“You always say that.”
“But I promise. From now on.” She brought her pea-sized hands to her face, and her wings sagged—for Minette, both signs of either concentration or sorrow. Though she was almost frighteningly clever, she wasn’t devious and she tended to wear her heart on her sleeve. If she looked sad or contrite, she was. I dropped the subject and asked her if she wanted maple syrup.
“Yes! It’s superb!” Minette floated to the table and sat cross-legged, waiting for one of her favorite foods.
“So you’ve said.”
I took a pint of Maine maple syrup from the fridge, poured some of it into a measuring teaspoon, and laid the spoon on the table. “Did you hear everything that was said in the mansion?”
“Of course, Kate. Charlotte King doesn’t like that place.” She bent forward until her lips touched the syrup, sipped, and sat back up with a satisfied look on her face.
“No, she doesn’t. She’d like to paint and bleach it, and so would I.”
“Olivia thinks Patti’s ex-husband killer her, but he wouldn’t put her under a grave with the name Dawson.”
“He’d have to be incredibly stupid since that would point to him. The ex-husband gets his revenge by killing her and burying her under her maiden name? I don’t think so. But the police will find out where he was when Patti was murdered. It sounds like he doesn’t live in Maine.”
“Jonathan likes being executive director.”
“I thought so too.”
“He has ambition, but so does Olivia. They argue about everything.”
Hearing the kettle’s whistle, I went to the hutch to grab a teacup and then shut off the stove. “But did Jonathan’s ambition to be executive director lead him to kill the previous director? That’s an awfully big leap.” I spooned loose tea leaves into a sieve, poured hot water over it and into my teacup, and returned to the table to see Minette’s head tilted back and her hands curled into fists under her chin.
“I think Zane was afraid,” she said at last.
“Of ghosts?”
“No, afraid of Patti.”
“That she’s a ghost?”
“He was afraid when he saw her standing at the window and staring. His voice changed when he told you.”
“He wasn’t playing around, trying to scare me?”
“No.” She leaned in for another sip of maple syrup.
“Thomas Fairfield used to stare out the library windows. That’s what they say. Did you hear about the ghosts that supposedly live there?”
“I heard everything.”
“You told me not to be afraid of ghosts, but you didn’t explain what you meant by that.” I wrapped my hands around my teacup, warming them. Tonight I’d light a fire in the living room, I thought, and take the chill out of the house. “Minette?”
Pretending she was engrossed in drinking her syrup, she ignored me. Minette was clever and sometimes even wise, but she could be childlike in the way she evaded questions—acting as if she didn’t hear me or didn’t understand me. And she understood the English language better than most humans I knew, despite her sometimes peculiar way of putting things.
“Minette, look at me.”
As her emerald eyes rose, she put two fingers to her lips. “Shh.”
“Do ghosts exist?”
“I can’t tell you everything.”
“They do?” I set down my cup. My hands were beginning to tremble, and I was afraid I’d spill my tea. Minette never lied, and here she was confirming the existence of ghosts. I was stunned.
“They’re not what people think they are,” she declared.
“Are they dead people who don’t know they’re dead?”
She scrunched up her face and looked at me as though I were the biggest dolt she’d ever seen. “How can people not know they’re dead? They always know when they’re dead. Because they’re dead.”
It was hard to argue with that. “But you’re telling me there are things called ghosts?”
“They’re not what you think they are.”
“You said that already.”
“Leave them alone. They’re not allowed to do anything, and you will not see them. Be with the living.”
“How are ghosts not like what I think they are? You don’t know what I think.”
“I know what people think. But ghosts are like dreams.”
“You mean they’re not real?”
“Dreams are real.”
“Then how are they like dreams? You can’t leave me hanging like this, Minette. If you know something, share it.”
“God sent me to you, but I can’t tell you everything I know.”
My impulse was to march right out of my kitchen. Instead, I said, “Don’t even start on that. I won’t listen.”
“Why are you so angry, Kate?”
“I’m not angry, I’m frustrated. Are you saying fairies know more than humans?”
“About some things, yes. You are angry. You’re angry about your husband being dead.”
“I’m not. How, how . . . ? You don’t have the right to say anything about Michael.”
“About other things, humans know more than fairies,” she said, swiftly changing tack. “It’s the way it should be.”
“Oh, is it? And you know how it should be, I suppose.” I grabbed my teacup and made myself take a long drink before saying anything more. There was so much I wanted to know—about Minette, about other fairies, about this strange earth we both inhabited. At times I worried that Minette would tire of my pestering her and leave, and I’d be alone again in my rambling, two-story house, so when she clammed up or became evasive, I tried not to force the point.
“Did you notice how long Brodie was away?” I said.
Minette grinned, pleased by the change in subject. “He left the cemetery before we did, but he spent a long time at some other place before he came to the mansion.”
“And he should have been at the mansion, writing the addition to the house tour.”
Minette stood suddenly, announced someone was coming up the drive, and then took to the air, floating above the table. “It’s Rancourt. He breathes hard when he gets out of his car.”
“Hide upstairs,” I commanded. Following her out of the kitchen, I watched her flit up the staircase, listened for the doorbell, and waited a beat before answering it.
“Detective Rancourt,” I said, feigning mild surprise. “Come in, please. Is it still raining?”
“It never really stopped.” He stepped into my foyer and brushed rain from the shoulders of his coat. “I don’t mind, except when the wind picks up. Then you get it in the face.”
“I’ve got hot water on the stove,” I said, showing him to my kitchen. “Want some tea?”
“No, thank you.” He stood next to the hutch, hands in his coat pockets, his head pivoting every which way as he took it all in. I could have sworn he was studying me and my natural environment to see if anything had changed since he was last in my house. Was I a suspect?
> “Have a seat, at least.” I returned to my chair and my tea, and a few seconds later, when he’d finished perusing my kitchen, Rancourt sat, but not before eyeballing the measuring spoon and maple syrup I’d left on the table. “It’s good in tea,” I said. And it was true—maple syrup was good in certain spicy, flavored black teas—so I wasn’t lying. Not exactly.
“I was just at your neighbor’s house, trying to get hold of her,” he said. “I called her home phone and cell first, but there was no answer. How can I reach her?”
“She’s home,” I said. I couldn’t lie about that. “We were just at the Fairfield Mansion, and she’s exhausted and needed to lie down for a while. I’m afraid I told her not to answer her phone or door in case it was reporters.”
“Not a bad idea. She’s had a stressful day.”
You have no idea, Detective Rancourt.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and slumped a little in his chair, looking a bit tired himself. But every time I saw the man he looked tired, pasty, and out of shape. He needed vitamins. Or a plate of eggs and glass of orange juice.
“I can give her a call, if you like,” I said.
“Will she answer?”
“We have secret rings.”
He chuckled and a smile creased his lined face. Rancourt was a gentler man than his gruff and worn exterior let on. He was like one of those old clapboard houses I often passed on Route 2, I thought. Saggy in the middle and a little tattered, but probably warm and welcoming inside.
I took a drink of tea, hiding my smile in my cup, then said, “She was going to come over in a while anyway.”
“Right.” Looking thoughtful, Rancourt added, “So you two went to the Fairfield Mansion.”
“Emily wanted to find out if the cemetery tours are still on.”
“They told me they’re off.”
“Same here. But they’re going forward with the mansion tours, and they’re opening the third floor for the first time since Patti Albert was executive director of the historical society. Have you ever been up there?”
“Earlier today, for the first time in years. When I was in high school, that library scared me stiff.”
“And now?”
“Nothing much scares me anymore. Except for murder cases with too many suspects and no motive. Those keep me up at night.”
CHAPTER 8
After phoning Emily, and insisting I visit her along with Rancourt, I led him down the flagstone path for her house. On the sly, I gently probed my coat pockets for Minette, but true to her word, she hadn’t stowed away in one of them.
This time the three of us sat in Emily’s living room. She didn’t offer Rancourt coffee, but then, she wasn’t happy to see the detective again so soon. Feet on the floor, back straight, and with a somewhat guarded expression on her face, she sat in her red plaid armchair and waited for Rancourt to speak his mind.
“The first thing I wanted to say, Mrs. MacKenzie, was we don’t believe the hammer we found was the murder weapon.”
Emily didn’t flinch a millimeter. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
“Oh?”
“Why would the killer bring both the victim and the murder weapon to my house? Isn’t it strange enough that he dumped her body? And someone did just that, Detective, because I sure didn’t kill Patti, and I don’t appreciate being talked to like a suspect for the second time in one day.” She folded her arms across her chest and gave him a defiant stare. “I’m only surprised you didn’t ask me to give you fingerprints. Is that next?”
Obviously, her nap had revitalized her.
“Right now, that’s not necessary,” he said. “I’ll let you know if—”
I cut him off. “Right now? You don’t really believe Emily killed that woman. I know you have to keep your options open, but seriously, the logistics alone point to a man. Emily couldn’t have killed her in the cemetery, buried her, and then unburied her and carried her to her house. It’s not physically possible. And even if she could have, why on earth would she? Murderers don’t kill in one place and then move their victims in order to implicate themselves.”
Rancourt held up his hand. “I never said Mrs. MacKenzie was a suspect.”
“You suspect my husband,” Emily said.
“I didn’t say that, either.”
“Because you suspect him and you’re keeping quiet about it. You suspect a man who never hurt anyone and never even met Patti Albert.”
“Mrs. MacKenzie, please. We haven’t narrowed down our suspects, but if it will put you at ease, your husband isn’t on our list.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
It was as if Emily was a balloon and the air was being let out of her. She slouched in her chair and gave Rancourt a wan smile.
The detective set his eyes on me. “And I want you to know I don’t suspect you either, Mrs. Brewer.”
Good heavens. “Thanks, but until now I never thought you did.”
“My suspicions lie elsewhere for the moment.”
“Good to know,” I said. “So what was the murder weapon and where is it now?”
“We don’t know that yet. But I’d like to hear more about the historical society members. The ones who run the tours in the mansion and cemetery, I mean. Mrs. Brewer, had you ever met them before today?”
“Never, and I’d never been to the mansion.”
“Good. First impressions count. So tell me what you think.”
It was flattering that he wanted our opinions, but his interest brought a twinge of suspicion to my wary heart. Was our assessment of the society’s members truly valuable or was Rancourt hoping we would drop our guards, chatter away, and slip up? I was particularly worried about Emily and Laurence. Still, I decided to go for it and tell Rancourt everything I knew and thought—but only about the members, nothing else.
“First impression?” I said. “I think Olivia Atkinson is a bit of a tyrant. She seems to feel a personal responsibility for the mansion, and that makes her a stickler for the rules. I think some of the others see her that way too. She’s not the executive director, but you’d never know it by the way she talks.”
“She’s worse about the cemetery,” Emily said. “She has a strange affinity for Mount Hope, if you ask me. A while ago she made rubbings of some older stones and framed them. I saw them in her house. And now she’s teaching Charlotte King to do rubbings.”
“That’s not so strange,” Rancourt said.
“It’s not just the rubbings. I can’t explain it. It’s a feeling I get. She spends a lot of time there. And it was Olivia who contacted the cemetery about the tours—and stringing bats up in the trees. Patti hated the idea.”
Rancourt breathed deeply, whistling through his plugged-up nose as though he had the beginnings of a cold. “Who violated the agreement with the cemetery over where you were allowed to put these bats?”
Emily lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. Whoever it was shouldn’t have done it, but I’m sure it was an oversight. It’s not as if they used nails on the headstones. Didn’t they tape them?”
“The only bats I saw were in the trees,” Rancourt said, “and the cemetery didn’t report damage to headstones.”
“Someone must have taken them down,” Emily said.
“Charlotte seemed okay to me,” I said, moving on to the next society member. “Much easier going than Olivia. Though I do wonder why she joined the historical society. She isn’t as interested in the mansion as the others are, or as interested in history in general. It’s more of a lark for her. Is she a volunteer, Emily?”
“Yes, but she’s the only one. Except for me, that is. All the other positions are paid. Jonathan makes the most, now that he’s the executive director, but all the salaries are small.”
“That’s Jonathan Selkirk, who just rose to executive director,” I said. “In my opinion, he’s thrilled to be the director. His first decision was to open up the third floor to the mansion tour, and he did that hours after learning of Patti’s de
ath. Olivia said it was a mutual decision with her. One of the other members thinks Jonathan bends whichever way the wind blows so as not to offend anyone, and he is friendlier than Olivia.. Though he also was the only one to point out that all the mansion employees are suspects.”
Rancourt’s eyebrows arched. “Interesting.”
“Zane Parsons comes off as a friendly, good-natured guy,” I went on. “If you’re interested in mansion lore, he might be the one to ask. He enjoys telling tales and spooking people about the library. And then there’s Brodie Campbell.” I sat forward in my seat. “Emily and I ran into him in the cemetery.”
“When was this?” Rancourt asked.
“Not long after you left Emily’s house,” I said.
Emily jumped in. “I had to see where Patti was buried—in the daylight this time. Did you know Dawson was her maiden name?”
Rancourt nodded.
Of course he knew. I’d learned last month that he was no fool.
“I imagine her ex-husband has a good alibi,” I said.
“He was in Iowa,” Rancourt said.
“Brodie might have been curious to see where Patti’s body had been,” I said, “but I got the feeling there was more to his visit than that.”
“Was he surprised or nervous to see you?” the detective asked Emily.
“No, I don’t think so,” she answered. “He’s a jumpy kind of guy, so it’s hard to tell.”
“But he circled the Dawson headstone and looked overly intrigued by the ground around it,” I said.
“That’s right,” Emily said. “To me it looked like he was searching for something.”
“Patti was murdered where she fell,” I said. I wasn’t asking Rancourt a question so much as stating a fact I’d come to believe. I had been going over it in my mind. I didn’t know what had drawn Patti to the Dawson headstone, other than the name, but the killer had hit her as she stood there. And then she’d fallen forward, face down in the dirt. “When I was in the cemetery, it looked like no one had dug a real hole in the plot—nothing that would hold the thickness of a body. It looked more like dirt was tossed over her after she fell. Or maybe there really was a real hole there, but the killer acted quickly.”
Dead and Buried Page 5
