The Devil's Puzzle (28 page)

“Nice way to say good morning,” Jesse answered back.

“Good morning.”

“Can you meet me at the park?”

“Now?”

“Now.”

I hung up and got dressed as quickly as possible. Since Barney was whimpering by the door, I grabbed his leash and took him with me. It was a beautiful morning, and I was enjoying the walk enough to let Barney sniff at his leisure, a delay I hoped Jesse would understand. June was midway through and the flowers were in bloom. It would have been the perfect day for a romantic picnic breakfast, but I knew by the tone in Jesse’s voice that romance was not on his mind.

When Barney and I arrived at the park, Jesse and several of his officers were huddled around the area where the John Archer statue was supposed to be erected in a few weeks.

“What happened?” I asked as I arrived.

“Look for yourself,” Jesse said, and pointed toward the base for the statue.

A poster-size photo of Glad with a knife stuck through it was secured to the base. The word
killer
was spray-painted in red across the photo.

“That’s bizarre,” I said. “Who would do that?”

“The town vandal,” Jesse offered.

“It seems fairly elaborate, doesn’t it? I mean, the person would have to get a photo, get it blown up . . .”

“A service unfortunately not available in our little town,” Jesse said, “so it’s going to be fun to try to track down where it was done.”

“And this is different from the other things. This is personal.”

“So was hitting Molly over the head,” Jesse reminded me.

“Assuming it’s the same person.”

“I hope it is, Nell. Otherwise we have at least two people running around town. One hurting property and one hurting people.”

Jesse stepped back as one of his detectives took photos of the scene. “You haven’t heard of any threats against Glad, have you?” he asked.

“Are you kidding?” I said. “I’ve been close to killing her a few times myself.”

He rested his hand on my waist, a simple action that felt so reassuring. “Molly gets out of the hospital this afternoon, so that’s something. Except I’m not comfortable letting her stay on the hill.”

“On the hill” was the town expression for an old colonial-era home that was the one bed-and-breakfast we had. It was a small place on the edge of town, only a block from Mary Shipman’s home.

“I can ask Eleanor,” I said, reluctantly. We often had people staying at my grandmother’s large house, but they generally didn’t suspect her of killing their relatives.

“If you could,” he said. “And if you have any theories about this . . .”

“I don’t.”

I debated briefly about whether to tell him of the conversation between Ed and Eleanor that Natalie had overheard. I felt that by telling him I would be betraying Eleanor, though not telling Jesse also felt like a betrayal of sorts. I decided that I would delay sharing the information until I’d had a chance to speak with Eleanor.

I left Jesse and the other officers and walked to Someday to drop Barney off at the shop when Eleanor came out into the street, her face red and angry.

“There are people at the house,” she said. “I got a call from the neighbors. There are people walking all over the backyard and jumping into the hole.”

“I’ll go there and stop it.”

“Take him with you, as protection,” she said, pointing to our nearly deaf, slightly addled dog.

“I’ll take him, but I don’t think I’ll need the help. It’s just the mayor,” I said. “I forgot that he asked me to ask you for permission to take photos of the backyard.”

“I would have said no if you had asked me.”

“That’s what I told him.”

“Well, now go tell those people trampling on my property,” she said. “Imagine, exploiting poor Winston for tourism. What is happening to people?”

“I don’t know. It’s getting crazy. Jesse just showed me something in the park. Someone had put a knife through a photo of Glad and spray-painted the word
killer
on it,” I said.

I knew my grandmother well enough to know the shocked look on her face was genuine—at least, I hoped I knew her well enough. After reassuring her that I would put a stop to whatever was going on at the house, I left her at the shop and ran home.

As I passed the movie theater, I saw a woman walk inside. Though I couldn’t see her face, I could make out a distinctive silver bracelet dangling from her arm—it was the same one Mary Shipman had worn the day I went to her house.

When I arrived at the house, I saw two cars parked in the driveway. I recognized the mayor’s, but the other car was new to me. I ran to the back, and just as had been reported by the neighbors, there were three men milling about: the mayor, a man who was talking to him, and a photographer taking photos of everything from the rose garden to the back of the house.

“This is private property,” I shouted. “And none of you have permission to be here.”

“I told you to ask Eleanor if it was okay,” Larry said.

“And she said no,” I told him. “And I say no. This was a man’s grave, Mayor, and the site of an open murder investigation. This isn’t a tourist attraction.”

As I spoke, the photographer snapped a photo of me.

“I’ll call Jesse and have all of you arrested for trespassing if you take one more photo or stay on this property one more minute.”

“Now, Nell, don’t upset yourself,” the mayor said. “This is news. Big news. A leading citizen of Archers Rest spent more than thirty years buried in the backyard of one of our most beautiful and historical homes. Don’t you think people will want to read about that in the city papers?”

“Don’t care.”

He turned to the two men with him. “Nell Fitzgerald is our town’s favorite amateur sleuth. She and the police chief often collaborate on investigations, among other things.” He chuckled. “Perhaps you would like to be interviewed. Give your take on the story. Everyone likes a little publicity.”

“You want publicity, Mayor? Then maybe I should talk with these men about the library, the school, the pentagram at the church, Molly O’Brien, and what’s happening at the park right now. You want that kind of publicity?”

The mayor pursed his lips. “I think we have enough for now, gentlemen. Why don’t we take some photos of our beautiful Main Street?”

The men walked ahead, but the mayor stayed behind and whispered to me, “What’s happening in the park?”

“Someone stabbed a photo of Glad,” I said.

“I don’t understand why someone would do that.”

“Neither do I,” I admitted. “But I have a feeling it’s not the last thing that’s going to happen before your big celebration gets under way.”

CHAPTER 45

I
t took a few more minutes with the photographer frantically taking pictures before I could get them off the property. It was just a garden, and just a hole in the ground, but it was such an invasion of Eleanor’s privacy, and of Winston’s.

I sat on the grass near the torn-up rose garden and looked at the overgrown weeds, the black dirt, and the empty space that for so many years had held Winston’s body. Three hundred and fifty years ago, John Archer had felt driven to leave New York because of rumors about him, and now Mary Shipman seemed to hide herself away because people thought her odd. Winston hadn’t been a likeable man, at least to the people of Archers Rest, but had he been so unlikable that he deserved to die? They were all people, it seemed to me, who were honest about who they were—and paid a price for it. So far the only price I paid for my reputation was a little teasing from the folks in town, but maybe it was better to hide who I was and just fit in. It certainly would be safer.

I decided to head back to the quilt shop and an afternoon of sewing to clear my head, but five minutes after I’d left the house, I got a call from Jesse that meant I had to turn around. Molly had been released from the hospital, and he was bringing her over. I called Eleanor at the shop and got her approval for the scheme, quickly changed the sheets on my bed, and threw some of my clothes on the sofa bed in the sewing room. Much as I didn’t care for Molly’s suspicions, I couldn’t let someone just out of the hospital sleep on the lumpy mattress in that couch. Then I went downstairs and put the kettle on.

When she arrived, with a bandage on her head, Molly, Jesse, and I sat down for tea and some Oreos, the only cookies I could find in the house.

“My grandmother will be appalled I didn’t serve you anything homemade,” I said.

“I don’t want anyone to go to any trouble. But I do feel a bit safer here than I would at the hotel.”

“If someone is trying to hurt you,” Jesse said, “then that’s where they’ll look for you. But we’ll keep your being here under wraps. Eleanor and Nell won’t tell anyone.”

He looked toward me, and I nodded.

Molly got up and walked to the back window. “Is that where?” She pointed toward the dug-up rose garden.

“Yes,” I said. “It was really beautiful when Grace lived here. There were bushes of huge roses, yellow and pink and a really pretty orange. It’s small comfort, but it was a quiet place for him to rest.”

“I suppose. But seeing it just makes me want to know more. I feel like I owe him that much.”

Jesse stood up. “Molly, what you can do for him is rest and recover. You got a bad blow to the head. You’re just lucky that all it did was cut your skin and give you a mild concussion. It could have been much, much worse.”

“It could have been fatal,” she said, not taking her eyes off the rose garden.

“And to make sure that there isn’t a follow-up, I need you to stay here. Out of sight and out of trouble,” he said.

She nodded. “I have no intention of getting myself killed.”

Jesse looked to me. “Do you want to walk me out, Nell?”

“Okay. There’s more tea, Molly,” I said, but she was lost in thought.

Jesse and I were at the front door before he stopped me. “If you were her, would you stay here and rest or would you be more determined to find out what happened?”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “I don’t think you want to know my answer.”

“I was afraid of that. I’m going to send one of my guys over to watch the house. Not so much to keep anyone from getting in, but to keep her from going out.”

“I assume I can still go out,” I said.

He brushed a stray hair from my cheek. “I know better than to try to stop you.”