The Betrayed (Krewe of Hunters) (11 page)

“Jane will head to the morgue now and try to get us a better image. I’m really hoping that will help,” Aidan said.

“Our computer renderings are pretty good,” Purbeck told him, a bit defensively.

“They’re excellent,” Jane agreed.

“Not to be obvious, but they lack a sense of life,” Aidan said. “Hey, let’s try everything we can, okay?”

“Yes, absolutely. Any murder is obscene, an affront to all of humanity, but the pressure on us in a case like this, when we’re looking at the death of such a high-profile man, is staggering,” Purbeck said. Van Camp nodded. “We’re going back over everything at the convention center.”

“Good,” Aidan said. “There’s no such thing as a locked-room case. Somehow, a door is always opened. Or a window.”

“I’ll get Jane to the morgue,” Sloan said. “And where should I go from there?”

“I think you should visit Mystic Magic. Spend a few hours hanging around, just watching.”

“All right. I’d also thought about interviewing the employees of the restaurant where you found the head,” Sloan told him.

“Great idea. But we need to know more about Mystic Magic.”

“Keep me posted. I’ll be in the office filtering through reports,” Purbeck said. “So far, we’ve been called out to inspect three pumpkins, a hanging skeleton—and, yes, a cloth rendition of the headless horseman wearing a
Jason
mask”

“We’ll keep in touch.” Voorhaven and Van Camp left.

Jane asked Aidan, “What’s your plan?”

“I’m going to find
Lizzie grave.
”

6

M
o wasn’t surprised when she heard a car on the gravel drive outside her house around noon.

She knew it was a friend, since Rollo gave a happy woof and wagged his lethal tail.

She salvaged a cup of pens and markers just before he could send it flying to the floor.

She’d managed to work for a while—with half her mind. Doodling, and letting her subconscious take over, often resulted in some of her best pieces.

Going to the door, she glanced out the small window; as she’d expected, it was Mahoney returning.

The day had become bright and beautiful, a fall afternoon when the sun was shining as a golden orb and the colors of the leaves were stunningly beautiful.

She opened the door and waited for him.

“May I come in?” he asked when he reached her.

“In here? You don’t want to go to another graveyard? This is the Hudson Valley. We have
plenty
of churchyards and cemeteries and even family plots.”

His look told her that he didn’t appreciate her sarcasm.

“Sorry,” she said. “Please, come in.”

He moved past her. She watched the broad contours of his shoulders and the straight line of his back. Just her luck. She’d always thought that real attraction was much more than the physical. That it was easy to admire someone who was beautiful or handsome or striking—but you didn’t necessarily really
want
that person.

Well, Mahoney made a lie out of that. He was simply compelling, from his stature to his long fingers and the bronzed breadth of his hands. His blue eyes were direct, searing at times.

As Grace would say,
I’d do him in a heartbeat!

Mo quelled her thoughts and followed him through her house. He usually looked at her as if she were a root vegetable. It wasn’t too smart to get a crush—even purely physical—on a man like that.

He paused, surveying what he could see of the house, then he hunkered down to greet Rollo.

“Great place,” he told her

“Thank you. I love it. And I love that I’m so close to Sunnyside.”

“You’re a Washington Irving fan,” he said.

“I am. I love his stories and I love the stories about him, too. He was a fascinating man, good to others, smart, filled with humor,” Mo said. “But then, you know all that. You’re from here.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t come to my house to talk about Washington Irving.”

“No.”

He straightened and continued to stand there.

“Has anything new happened?” she asked at last.

“A couple of my coworkers are here. One’s a fantastic artist.”

“Great.” He still hadn’t explained what he wanted. “Can I get you a drink? Soda, water—cup of coffee?”

“Yes, thank you. I’d love a cup of coffee.”

“How do you take it?”

“Black.”

She walked into the kitchen and poured him coffee, then handed it to him. He leaned against the counter. “It’s good. Nice and strong. I don’t know what it is, but I haven’t found a police station yet that brews anything but mud.”

“Well, I’m happy to offer you coffee anytime you like,” she said. She quickly turned to pour herself another cup and asked, “So, why are you here?”

“Lizzie’s grave,” he said. “I’m assuming it’s a grave, but I’m trying to figure out who Lizzie might have been, and why her grave was significant to Richard.”

“Want to come and have a seat?” she asked.

They went back to her office, where she took the chair behind the desk, allowing him the one across from her.

He sat, picking up her “witch’s cauldron” Halloween card from the edge of the desk.

He smiled. “You made this?”

“The art, the words and the paper engineering,” Mo said as he worked the pop-up angle of the card. “Well?” she couldn’t help asking.

He put it back down. “I’d buy it,” he told her.

“Thanks. So, Lizzie’s grave?”

“I found the words
Lizzie grave
scribbled on a matchbook Richard had in his pocket. They were also impressed on a notepad in his hotel room. Not the page he actually wrote on—he must have taken that with him, although it wasn’t found on him or among his things.”

“Did he have a relative who died here?” she asked.

“I thought about that, but—”

“You knew his family.”

He stared at her. “Yes.” She could sense another rise of hostility in him; she felt certain he was wondering,
Has this woman been looking me up? Checking out my credentials or my past?

“You said you were from here,” she said. “Logical assumption.”

Of course, she
had
been looking him up.

She didn’t blink. Liars, she believed from television, moved their eyes downward or to the left or right.

She kept her eyes on his.

He nodded.

“So, you were friends with Richard Highsmith?”

He looked away for a moment and then met her gaze again. “Yes. We spent a lot of time here together. We used to walk through the woods, making up our own stories. We told ghostly tales in the old cemeteries and graveyards, had campfires...ate pizza and played ball. All the things kids do. Then we grew up and went our separate ways. We became the kind of friends who follow each other’s careers, and call or write once in a while. Still friends, always friends, but leading separate lives.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

He nodded again. “I hadn’t seen him for a while. But I gather I would have soon. His campaign manager told me I was going to be invited to a political dinner.”

They were both silent for a minute.

“Maybe Lizzie was a long-ago ancestor,” Mo suggested.

“Yeah, I thought about that, too. I can get people started on tracing his ancestry,” Mahoney said. “But I have a feeling it didn’t have anything to do with his family. What I was hoping is that you might know about some legend or local story that has to do with a Lizzie or a Beth or Elizabeth.” He offered her a wry smile. “Grace was telling me that you know local history and legend like very few others do.”

Mo shrugged off the compliment, but took a minute to think.

“We have headless horsemen, women in white, Native American spirits and all kinds of legends,” she began. “You’re probably familiar with them all,” Mo said. “And historically, we have the tragic story of Major Andre, hanged as a spy. He
was
a spy—against the Americans—but even those who brought about his execution were sickened by it. He was just so charming that everyone loved him. Supposedly—”

She broke off, and he leaned forward. “Yes?”

“Well, supposedly, he fell in love with a local girl while he made his way through the area,” Mo said. “His captors liked him so much that while he was imprisoned, they let her in to see him. There’s a copy of a drawing done at his hanging that’s alleged to have his mystery woman in it. Hang on, I’ll find it. She’s usually called Andre’s secret love—he’d fallen for the woman who eventually married Benedict Arnold—but this was later and I think the relationship was more...real. Sometimes she was referred to as his Kat or his Molly—or his
Lizzie.
”

She hopped up and went to one of her bookcases, searching through her historical reference material until she located the book on Andre. Flipping through the pages, she found the picture and passed the book to Mahoney. “This was written in 1820, but it’s not public domain. The author was a man named Caleb Van der Haas. His family has kept up a copyright on it—adding forewords, extra chapters, info on the area with every new edition. My copy actually belonged to my mom and it was her mom’s, printed about 1920. But you’ll notice, Agent Mahoney, that in this rendition of the Andre hanging, the caption says ‘Andre’s
Lizzie
weeps as her beloved Major Andre swings to the hanged man’s dance.’”

He studied the picture, then looked up at her. She thought he’d continue with the subject they’d been discussing.

“Aidan,” he said instead. “Please just call me Aidan.”

She nodded. For a moment their eyes met, but she glanced away quickly. She wasn’t sure she liked him being so courteous and engaging. She could feel herself blushing, afraid that he could sense the effect he had on her.

Mo took a step back, leaving the book with him, and nearly tripped over Rollo. The dog seemed to need to be close to both of them.

“Where do you think this Lizzie—if that was her name—might be buried?” he asked.

His attention was all on the book. He hadn’t noticed her reaction or her embarrassment, and didn’t, apparently, feel any of that sweet and blazing chemistry himself.

For a minute she went blank.

Then she saw that he was staring at her again, waiting for an answer.

Her tongue didn’t want to work.

She pretended to weigh the question. “Well, not in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery,” she said. “It wasn’t built until 1849. And we’re assuming a lot. She might have died and been buried elsewhere. But if she really did exist, and her name was Lizzie and she did die here, she might be buried at the Old Dutch Church or the old graveyard that belonged to St. Andrew’s.”

“Where we found the woman’s body leaning against the pillar of the vault—and Richard’s body inside,” he said.

She nodded again. “This area is so rich in Revolutionary War history. And I’ve always had a keen interest in all the characters involved with the Revolution. While Andre was instrumental in causing Benedict Arnold to turn traitor, he’s still a beloved character—even now and even as the enemy.

“The man spoke at least five languages, and George Washington was said to have admired him. The truth has been obscured by legend. He supposedly joined the British army because of a broken heart. He didn’t have the name or the money to buy any kind of real rank, so he worked his way up. He was captured once and exchanged—and then caught with papers on him that proved him to be a spy.

“They say that he haunts much of the Hudson Valley, and that his specter is seen in Philadelphia, where he was the rage of Tory society during the British occupation. He was hanged in 1780, and he was only thirty-one at the time. From that day onward, stories about him ran rampant because he was such a romantic figure. But if it’s true that he had a young woman in this area willing to risk all for him, I’d say she must have been born sometime between 1750 and 1760. Even if she lived a long life, she probably died when burials were still occurring at the Old Dutch Church—or one of the other churches or family graveyards. Like St. Andrew’s.”

“Why would Richard have been looking for her grave?” Aidan mused aloud.

She didn’t have an answer for that.

His phone rang as they both sat in thoughtful silence.

He answered it. “Mahoney.”

Mo watched his face. She couldn’t hear the person on the other end.

“Thanks,” was all he said.

He smiled at her and rose. “Thanks for humoring my obsession. I appreciate all your help.”

“I wish I could do more.” She rose, as well. “Did...did they find something?” she asked.

“Yes,” he murmured. “But we’re keeping certain information out of the press for now.”

“I know. I’ve often helped the police. I’ve never shared anything that’s come up when Rollo and I’ve been working with them.”

“Well, that was the M.E. The toxicology reports came back. Both of the victims had traces of chloroform in their systems. They were knocked out before they were taken.”

“Hopefully they were unconscious when they were killed.”

“We did learn that they were strangled before they were beheaded.”

“I guess that’s a small mercy.”

“Yes.”

They walked to the front door, Rollo trotting beside them.

When Aidan opened the door, he told her, “I’ll keep you abreast of the situation. We owe you that, and I know I can trust you to maintain strict confidentiality. In the meantime...be careful.”

“I’m always careful,” she said. “I always know when anyone’s near this house.”

He grinned at that, resting his hand on Rollo’s head. “Don’t let him accept any candy from strangers,” he teased, then shook his head. “Seriously, people have been known to throw out poisoned meat or treats to take down a dog. Just watch out for him, too.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

Then he was gone; she stood at the door while he got into his car, watching until it disappeared down the drive.

Rollo let out a pathetic cry of loss.

“Hey! I’m your owner, the love of your life!” she admonished the dog. “Come on, we’ll get another dog treat.” She locked the door and walked back through the house to the kitchen and dug a treat out of the bowl. When she gave it to him, she thought about Aidan’s words.

Don’t let him accept candy from strangers.

“Aidan said we should look out for strangers,” she told Rollo.

She winced as she heard herself. They were now on a first-name basis. That didn’t make her any more comfortable. It was as if the man’s essence lingered, along with the scent of his aftershave or cologne.

“Back to work!” she said.

But she didn’t go back to work. She went into her office and began to skim through the various history books she had on the area, especially those that dealt with Major Andre—and all the legends that had arisen around him.

* * *

“Old-fashioned method of knocking someone out. Pretty simple, I guess,” Dr. Mortenson told Aidan and Sloan Trent. “You soak a rag, you put it over your victim’s face and he or she is out in a matter of seconds. The victim can struggle, of course, but any struggle is brief. Must’ve been
very
brief in the case of our two victims. They didn’t get their nails on their attacker. I found no skin, no fibers, nothing to indicate that either of them even touched him.”

“It might well indicate that Richard—and the young woman—were tricked into being someplace that would give their attacker a chance to knock them out,” Aidan said.

“Well, yes, it’s not something you could do in front of someone else without being noticed,” Dr. Mortenson said.

Sloan looked at Aidan. “That would most likely mean that Richard Highsmith was knocked out in the greenroom—or tricked into leaving the convention center and then taken in the parking lot.”