Into the Dark (12 page)

S
NOW DAY, CONTINUED.

Mom was on a listing call—very important, as Ingrid, who’d heard a lot of real estate talk by now, knew well. It was all about getting listings: no listings, no power, inside the agency or out.

Ty was in his room, still playing video games; every once in a while Ingrid heard the crash of a helmet-to-helmet hit. She lay on her bed, turning pages in
The Complete Sherlock Holmes
, reading bits here and there.

Like “The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle,” for example, where the carbuncle—which turns out to be a diamond, although the definition Ingrid found
in an online dictionary was “a boil full of pus”—is hidden in a goose. But what interested her now came before that, where Holmes and Watson are examining a black hat with a red silk lining for clues, and Watson says he can’t see anything.

“On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however, to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your inferences.”

Inferences? What were they, again? Ingrid looked the word up for the zillionth time. Okay. An inference came when you were on the receiving end of an implication, a word she now had a good grip on, thanks to Mr. Tulkinghorn. Point being, as Mr. Sidney would say, that red and black hat implied things to Holmes that Watson remained completely obliv—

Red and black. The combination sidetracked Ingrid, her mind shifting to the memory of Mr. Thatcher lying dead in his red-and-black-checked jacket. Someone killed him, not Grampy; but the murder weapon was a World War II–era Springfield sniper rifle and Grampy had been issued one, a rifle that was never returned. How old was Mr. Thatcher? Despite a superficial resemblance to Grampy—same size, same white hair—Mr. Thatcher had been a lot
younger, maybe in his fifties, way too young for World War II. How could his death have anything to do with the war? Way off track. Mr. Thatcher was the conservation agent, maybe not that popular a job, so wouldn’t the motive more likely be—

Ingrid heard a noise out back. The snowblower? Only Dad used the snowblower—strict rules about that. Was he here? She rose, went to the window. Not Dad but Grampy: Grampy in his red-and-black-checked jacket. He was clearing a path from the house to the path in the woods. How quickly he worked, just as fast as Dad, but why was he doing it in the first place?

In three or four minutes he’d reached the first trees. Then for some reason he kept going—Grampy, snowblower, and white curling plume all disappearing in the woods. The sound grew fainter and fainter, died away completely. Not long after that, Grampy returned, the snowblower now turned off. He pushed it into the garage, then reappeared with a wheelbarrow loaded with lumber and tools. Grampy followed the path, now clear, back into the woods. Ingrid went downstairs, put on her boots, hat, jacket, and mittens, and started up the path. She was barely in the woods before she heard hammering sounds.

Ingrid followed them to the tree house. Dad had built it when she and Ty were little; now it was pretty much wrecked. Until that steroid-ring business last fall, she hadn’t been up there in years.

“Grampy?”

The hammering stopped. Grampy poked his head out the window, a pencil clamped between his teeth.

“What are you doing?” Ingrid said.

“Shoring up,” said Grampy. “It’s a disgrace.”

“But we don’t play here anymore.”

“Who said anything about play?” He ducked back inside, and the hammering started up again.

Ingrid climbed the footholds Dad had nailed into the tree. The entrance was a round hole in the floor, twenty feet up. Ingrid pulled herself through. Inside was a small square room with a sign on one of the rotting boards:
THE TREEHOUS. OWNR TY. ASISTENT INGRID.
Grampy had already ripped out half a dozen of the old boards, was hammering new ones into place. He looked very energetic, not sick at all.

“Surprised you kids can’t spell any better than that,” he said.

“But that was years ago, Grampy.”

He grunted, reached into his chest pocket for a nail.

“Grampy?”

“That’s me.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Needs doing.”

Ingrid took a chance. “Is it because of Dad?”

“What’s he got to do with anything?” Grampy hammered furiously for a minute or two. “By the time he comes to his senses, the train’ll be long gone.”

“What train?” Ingrid said.

He didn’t answer, maybe hadn’t heard her over the hammering. After a while he stood back. “How’s that look?”

“Much better.”

“A fort’s got to be defendable,” Grampy said, “or else what’s the point?”

“Defendable against what?” said Ingrid.

Grampy gazed out through the round window, a cold look in his eyes. Ingrid got a bad feeling.
Taking the plea deal didn’t mean he would let them put him in jail.

“Grampy,” she said, “do you…”

He turned to her. “Spit it out.”

“Do you have any ideas about who killed Mr. Thatcher?”

“Sure,” said Grampy.

“Who?”

“Someone fed up with all his meddling. Isn’t that obvious?”

“Who, for example?”

“Guy like that makes a lot of enemies. Could be most anybody.”

She took another chance. “The thing is, Grampy, that’s not true.”

The expression in his eyes changed, but not toward annoyance or anger; more like puzzlement or confusion. She didn’t like seeing him that way. “Oh?” he said.

“Because of the murder weapon,” Ingrid said. “That’s not the kind of rifle most anybody would have lying around.”

“Suppose not.”

“The World War Two Springfield with the sniper scope,” Ingrid said.

“Yup,” said Grampy.

“Can’t be too many of them around.”

“Nope.”

“So I was wondering what happened to yours.”

“Couldn’t tell you,” he said.

“Because you…?”

Now he did look annoyed. “What I said—couldn’t tell you.”

“Did you leave it behind?” Ingrid said.

“Leave it behind?”

“Up on that ridge.” Grampy had charged the machine-gun nest with the grenade; had he been able to carry his rifle at the same time?

“Ridge?” he said. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Ingrid backed up a half step. “The ridge on Bataan, Grampy. Where you won the medal.”

For a moment, Grampy went still. “How d’you know about that?” he said, his voice much quieter.

“Mr. Sidney.”

“Hole in his head,” said Grampy.

“Meaning it’s not true?”

Then something happened that surprised her—shocked her, really—and made her feel bad: Grampy’s eyes filled with tears. Not just moistened or dampened, but filled with tears. He turned his back, faced the window.

Ingrid thought of putting her hand on his shoulder or something, decided not. Instead she said, “Ty
and I would like to see the medal, Grampy.”

Grampy turned back to her, eyes dry now, but he didn’t look energetic anymore. “Wrong person got it,” he said.

Right away Ingrid thought of Mr. Porterhouse’s dad, the one who’d warned Major Ferrand—Captain Ferrand then—that they couldn’t defend the ridge, and had ended up dying on it. “Who?” she said.

Grampy gazed at her as though making up his mind. He said, “My wife.” For a moment Ingrid didn’t understand; then she did. “Got into her bones,” Grampy went on, “and back then they weren’t so good at controlling pain, like now. She never complained, not a single time. Set an example.”

Ingrid stepped forward, put her arms around Grampy. He patted her back. “Nothing to be upset about,” he said, letting her go. “As for the rifle, it just disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” she said.

“Night of the surrender,” Grampy said. “Disappeared right out of my tent. Had other things to think about at the time, of course, but what difference did it make? We had to give up our weapons anyway.”

“Mr. Sidney says you didn’t surrender—you were ordered to surrender.”

“One thing he got right.”

Ingrid still wasn’t clear about the distinction, but something in Grampy’s tone warned her off. “He also says Major Ferrand wasn’t on the Death March.”

That hard look that had appeared in Grampy’s eyes when he read the
Echo
article on Major Ferrand? It was back. “Second thing he got right.”

“Did Major Ferrand manage to get back to Corregidor before the surrender?” Ingrid said.

“Why d’you ask that?”

“Because the guys from Corregidor weren’t on the Death March, so I thought that maybe…”

Grampy’s head tilted, as though he wanted to see her from another angle. “You’re a smart young woman,” he said.

Woman? There was a first.

“But answer me this,” Grampy said. “How can the commanding officer go one way while the rest of the company goes another?”

Ingrid didn’t know.

“Maybe he lit out for Corregidor,” Grampy said. “Maybe not.”

“What do you mean?”

“Quite the sailor boy, Cyrus Ferrand,” said Grampy.

“He was in the Navy?”

Grampy laughed. “You’re a funny kid,” he said. “I’m going to mi—” He cut himself off, cleared his throat. “No, he was in the Army, but before the war he kept a yacht in Newport, did a lot of ocean racing.”

“He had his yacht in Bataan?”

Grampy laughed again. “Don’t know exactly what happened and how,” he said, “but the intent—that I’m sure of.”

Ingrid was lost. Maybe he saw that on her face.

“He disappeared that last night—missing in action, happened all the time. Later—this was in the camp—I ran into another POW who’d seen him casting off in a fishing boat just before dawn. Commandeered it, evidently.”

“What does that mean?”

“Took it,” said Grampy. “This POW saw some muzzle flashes.”

“You mean he shot the fishermen?”

“No idea,” said Grampy. “I assumed he’d been sunk by the enemy or lost at sea, but after the war, I found out he got picked up by a neutral freighter—Swedish
maybe—in a matter of hours.”

“So he deserted, Grampy?”

“Couldn’t call it that,” Grampy said. “A POW has a duty to try to escape.”

“But you weren’t POWs yet.”

“That didn’t bother me—got to be sensible,” Grampy said. “He was the commanding officer—that’s what bothered me.”

“Did he take any of the men with him?” Ingrid said.

“Sixty-four-dollar question,” said Grampy. “Nope.”

“And he spent the rest of the war in London?”

“Staff job,” said Grampy.

“Did you ever tell anybody?”

Grampy shook his head. “Long time ago.”

“That’s what everybody keeps saying—Mr. Sidney, Major Ferrand, and now you.”

“Done some thinking on that, matter of fact,” said Grampy. “Occurred to me maybe it wasn’t a good idea to let Cyrus Ferrand just swan off to eternity.”

“You’re going to do something about it?”

“What I
was
going to do,” said Grampy, “before all this…this other—” He cut himself off, said, “Sh. Someone’s coming.”

They peered down from the tree house, the hammer not quite still in Grampy’s hand. Ingrid heard soft thudding, faint and rhythmic. She saw a lone figure on the path—a snowshoeing figure, moving in the direction of her house.

“Joey?”

He stopped, looked up, approached the tree house. “Hi,” he said. “Snow day.”

“Joey, this is my grandfather.”

“Um,” said Joey. “Sir.”

Grampy made a little gesture with the hammer.

“Ingrid?” Joey said.

“Yeah?”

“Snow day.”

“I know.”

“So I was thinking—maybe she wants to go snowshoeing again.”

“Who are we talking about?” Ingrid said.

Joey looked surprised. “You. Ingrid.”

Ingrid thought she heard Grampy chuckle, very softly. At that moment, she got an idea, maybe a pretty good one. “Okay,” she said.

They snowshoed through the woods. Joey wasn’t going fast this time, in fact seemed to be making an
effort to stay beside her.

“You’re allowed to talk to me now?” Ingrid said.

“Not, um,” said Joey.

She took that for a no; meaning the plea deal hadn’t happened yet. “Your dad know you’re here?”

“We’re not going to talk about the case.”

“But does he?”

“He went to work early.”

“So he doesn’t?”

Joey stopped, faced her. “We’re not going to talk about the case.”

“Fine,” said Ingrid. “But there’s something I want you to do.”

Joey looked wary. “About the case?”

“No,” Ingrid said. “This is about Nigel.” She told him the whole story.

“You think this private eye from Bridgeport stole Nigel?”

“But not for himself,” Ingrid said. “For a client.”

“Who?” said Joey.

“That’s what I want you to find out.”

“Me?” said Joey.

“Your dad knows Dieter Meinhof,” Ingrid said. “He recognized his car.”

“So?”

“So Dieter Meinhof’s been in Echo Falls before. That means he had some client here in the past. I want to know who.”

“But why would it be the same one as now?” said Joey.

“Might not be,” Ingrid said. “Got a better idea?”

They walked in silence for a while. It was a three-colored world—white snow, brown trees, gray sky—a bleak world, but they had it to themselves.
Kids on their own.

“Okay,” said Joey. “I’ll do it.”

K
NOCK ON THE
door.

Ingrid looked out, saw an SUV in the driveway, the one with that
LEAGLE
plate. A plow roared down Maple Lane; the sky was clear. She opened up.

“Hello, Iris,” said Mr. Tulkinghorn. Iris? Weren’t lawyers supposed to get the facts straight, step one? “Your grandfather in?”

“He’s sleeping,” Ingrid said.

Mr. Tulkinghorn gazed down at her; she could feel him thinking. He’d acquired a nice suntan since the last time she’d seen him. “Can I trust you to do something for me?”

Ingrid nodded.

“Make sure he gets this.” Mr. Tulkinghorn held out a manila envelope. “Have him go over the contents and call if he’s got any questions.”

Ingrid took the envelope.

“Call by close of day, that is,” said Mr. Tulkinghorn. “The signing’s tomorrow, ten
A.M
. Can you remember all that for me?”

“He gets the envelope,” Ingrid said. “He goes over the contents, calls by close of day if there are questions. Signing’s tomorrow, ten
A.M
.”

Mr. Tulkinghorn blinked.

Ingrid took the envelope into the house, carried it upstairs. She stood outside the closed office door. “Grampy? Grampy?” No answer.

She went into her room, sat at her desk, examined the envelope.
Aylmer Hill: Personal and Confidential.
Steaming envelopes open, a familiar concept: She could see herself holding this one over a kettle, a sneaky expression on her face. Instead of all that, Ingrid slid her thumb under the seal and just tore it open.

Inside were pages and pages of dense print, the sentences so complicated, beyond her. But the Post-it
note stuck to the top of page one was clear:
FYI—plea agreement, final draft.
At ten
A.M
. tomorrow Grampy would be convicted of manslaughter and on his way to jail—unless he was getting ready to do something really crazy in the tree house. Ingrid heard footsteps in the hall, stuck the envelope in the top drawer of her desk.

Ty came in. “Phone,” he said. He tossed it to her and went away.

“Sorry,” Joey said.

“You couldn’t find out?” Ingrid said.

“I tried.”

“Thanks.”

“My dad doesn’t know,” Joey said. “Like, who the client was.”

“I get it,” Ingrid said.

“But he’s from here,” Joey said. “Originally.”

“Who is?”

“The private eye. Dieter Meinhof.”

“He’s from Echo Falls?”

“Yeah,” said Joey. “His mom’s a housekeeper for this old rich guy who’s hardly ever around.”

“What old rich guy?”

“Something Ferrand.”

“He’s one of the Ferrands?”

“You don’t have to yell at me.”

“Cyrus?”

“Yeah. That was it.”

“Dieter Meinhof’s mother works for the Ferrands?”

“Mrs. Meinhof’s a real witch, my dad says. They were all afraid of her when they were kids.” A real witch: Ingrid was pretty sure she’d seen her before—with Major Ferrand at Moo Cow, having a bad reaction to Ingrid’s Special.

Years ago, Ingrid and Chloe Ferrand—daughter of Tim, Dad’s boss at the Ferrand Group—had been good friends. But in seventh grade, Chloe had left the Echo Falls public school system, switching to Cheshire Country Day instead, and now they didn’t see each other much. Plus in the fall a couple of things had happened—like Ingrid winning the lead role in the
Alice in Wonderland
production when Chloe thought she had it in the bag—that had strained what was left of their connection. So this wasn’t going to be easy.

Ingrid dialed Chloe’s number.

“Hey, Chloe, how are you doing?”

Pause. “Who is this?”

“Ingrid.”

Silence.

“Snow day,” said Ingrid. “Here, at least. You too?”

“I suppose,” said Chloe. “I wasn’t going to school today anyway.”

“No?”

“No.”

More silence.

“How come?”

“I had a shoot. But of course it got canceled too.”

“A shoot?”

“Photo shoot,” said Chloe.

“Oh,” Ingrid said. Chloe was the most beautiful thirteen-year-old girl in Echo Falls, maybe in the entire central state, already had some real professional modeling gigs. “Too bad.”

“I don’t care,” said Chloe. “I wasn’t in the mood.”

What kind of mood did you have to be in for a photo shoot? Ingrid wanted to know—not that she’d ever have any practical use for the information—but this wasn’t the time. “So,” she said, “a free day.”

“I guess.”

“What are you up to?”

“Not much.”

“Want to come over?” Ingrid said; the least sincere
invitation of her whole life.

“To your place?” said Chloe. Would anyone living in splendor on an estate like the Ferrands’, with its indoor pool among other things, want to spend the day at 99 Maple Lane? Maybe, but not Chloe.

“Yeah,” said Ingrid. “We could go snowshoeing.”

“Excuse me?”

“In the woods.”

“What for?”

“What for?”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“I get it,” said Ingrid. “Like when you could be swimming in your indoor pool instead.”

Pause. “Actually,” said Chloe, “a swim sounds nice.”

“Doesn’t it?” Ingrid said and waited. And waited and waited, knowing that unless she kept her mouth shut, she’d blow it. She realized for the first time what a weapon silence could be.

At last, Chloe said, “I suppose you could come over here.”

“Thanks, Chloe. Sounds great.”

“For a little while,” said Chloe; or something like that—Ingrid, already hanging up, didn’t quite hear.

The Ferrands’ estate stood on a hill by the river, acres and acres with a huge main house, guesthouses, and other outbuildings, three or four miles from 99 Maple Lane. No one to drive her—Grampy asleep, and not allowed out in any case, Mom at work, Dad not in the picture. Ingrid stuffed a bathing suit and towel in her backpack, called out, “Going to Chloe’s,” as she passed Ty’s room, and went outside. Maple Lane to Hillcrest, Hillcrest to Crestview, Crestview to River: She was learning Echo Falls. But as Ingrid left the house, she happened to glance down the street, not in the direction of Hillcrest but toward Avondale, and saw a woman trying to stick a sign into the McGreevys’ snow-covered lawn.

Ingrid walked down the street. The sign, from Valley Properties, Riverbend’s big rival, read:
FOR SALE—NEW LISTING
.

“Hi,” Ingrid said.

The woman turned. “Does that look straight?”

“Yeah,” said Ingrid. “She’s, um, they’re, um, moving?”

“Yes,” said the woman. “Isn’t it a lovely little home?”

What about the leaky basement? Ingrid kept that fact to herself. “Where?” she said.

“Where?” said the woman.

“Where’s she moving to?”

“Boston.”

“Boston?”

“I think that’s where she’s from.” A cell phone rang. The woman fumbled in her purse. Ingrid drifted away.

She climbed the broad staircase leading up to the huge black double doors at Chloe’s house—biggest house in Echo Falls—and knocked, the tip of her nose feeling numb from the cold. The maid answered. She wore a plain gray dress and a white apron and carried a beautiful Chinese vase filled with delicate crimson flowers of a kind Ingrid had never seen.

“Hi,” said Ingrid.

“You are for Chloe?” said the maid, the
y
sounding a little like a
j
.

Against,
thought Ingrid at once, but she just said, “Yes.”

“This way.”

The maid led Ingrid down a long hall lined with paintings, around a corner, and left her at the pool room. The pool room was high ceilinged, glassed in
on three sides, almost as big as Ingrid’s whole house; the pool itself was a replica of one in Pompeii or someplace, overhung with a blazing chandelier that had come all the way from France. Chloe lay reading on a chaise longue, fully clothed.

“Sorry, Ingrid,” she said. “I forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

She rotated her wrist slowly, half extended her index finger in the direction of the pool. Ingrid looked: no water.

“Some—I don’t know—maintenance issue?” Chloe said.

Ingrid sat on the adjoining chaise. “That’s all right,” she said. “What are you reading?”

Chloe angled the cover so Ingrid could see:
The Supermodel Way of Life.

Ingrid laughed, assuming it was some kind of satire.

“What’s funny?”

Too late she remembered the whole photo-shoot business, a little hard to reconcile with how smart Chloe was, a straight-A student at CCD, where they didn’t give them away. “Nothing,” Ingrid said. “Any good?”

“It has some insights.”

“Like?”

Chloe raised an eyebrow, an elegantly curved golden eyebrow. “I’ll lend it to you when I’m finished,” she said.

That was cutting, but so quick and sharp Ingrid couldn’t have said exactly how. She got up, went to the tall window, looked out. The Ferrands’ land sloped down toward the river, other buildings standing here and there, some of them quite big, like normal houses. Smoke rose from the chimney of one of them, more of a cottage, maybe, wood shingled and half hidden in a grove of trees, close to the river. More than a grove, in fact: The trees covered a gradual rise to the left—south?—of the cottage, all the way to the top and beyond.

“Are those trees part of the town woods?” Ingrid said.

Chloe rose, came over. “Don’t think so,” she said. “Aren’t they ours?”

They stood side by side—Chloe much taller—gazing out the window. What did Chloe see? Ingrid didn’t know; same world, she suspected, but two different takes.

“Who lives in the cottage?” she said.

Chloe turned, the look on her face as close as she
ever came to surprise. “How did you know we called it that?” she said. “The Cottage?”

“I didn’t.”

“That’s what I like about you, Ingrid.”

“What?”

“You’re intuitive.”

“I am?”

“Guess that disproves it,” Chloe said. Then, for a moment, they were laughing together, like good friends. “My great-uncle Cyrus lives there when he’s around, which isn’t often.”

“What’s he like?”

Chloe shrugged. “An old man. Hardly ever comes up to the house.”

“He was in
The Echo
.”

“You read
The Echo
?”

“Yeah,” Ingrid said. “It was about him and the war.”

“Wasn’t he some kind of hero?” said Chloe.

“Some kind,” Ingrid said.

A man spoke behind them. “Chloe?”

They turned. Tim Ferrand stood on the other side of the pool, wearing jeans and a sweater. Ingrid had never seen him casually dressed; he looked smaller, and also like he was wearing borrowed clothes,
even though they fit fine.

“Is that you, Ingrid?” he said.

“Hi, Mr. Ferrand.”

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” he said. “How…” His eyes shifted. “How are things at home?”

Ingrid felt her chin tilting up in that defiant way it sometimes had and the reply
None of your business
struggling to get out. “Good,” Ingrid said.

For a moment it looked like Mr. Ferrand was going to ask a follow-up. Instead he spoke to Chloe. “Can you get ready?” he said. “We’re going up to Stowe.”

“What about school?” Chloe said.

“Tomorrow’s Friday,” Mr. Ferrand said. “We’ll take the weekend. I forget—do you ski, Ingrid?”

“No.”

“You would have been welcome to come. We’ll drop you on the way.”

“That’s all right,” Ingrid said, feeling the pull of The Cottage behind her, like a magnet. “I can walk.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Mr. Ferrand.

Mr. Ferrand drove, Ingrid and Chloe in back. No skis on the roof, or anything like that: All the
equipment waited at the Ferrands’ Stowe chalet.

“How long does it take?” said Ingrid, just to make conversation, be polite.

“No idea,” said Chloe.

“An hour, depending,” said Mr. Ferrand.

“I thought it was farther.”

“We go with Nevin,” Chloe said.

“Who’s Nevin?”

“Our pilot,” Chloe said.

“Oh,” said Ingrid; conversations with Chloe often ended like that, Ingrid reduced to
oh.

They dropped her in front of 99 Maple Lane. Getting dark already: Long shadows blackened the street, and the western sky was fiery. She noticed that the TT was in the driveway. What was that about? No time to investigate. The moment the Ferrands’ car was out of sight, Ingrid started walking back to Chloe’s.