The three of us let that thought sink in. Until we could prove that this man was Mr. Finch’s killer, I wouldn’t be able to rest easy.
“This is a list of contestants,” I thought aloud. “Whatever it means, I can only imagine that one of the judges wrote this, which suggests that Dr. Bellingham was down here.”
I imagined him in this space, the way he could easily navigate the confines with his thin frame and spry physique. After befriending Mr. Finch and acting as a judge for two different stints across more than two decades, he would know this property. Mr. and Mrs. Finch trusted him. He could get into places—shoe closets, whiskey cabinets, guest rooms, secret tunnels—that others had no idea even existed, let alone how to access.
“It has to be Bellingham,” I said, picking up the shoe with one finger inside the toe. I held it with one hand and the list in the other. “Let’s see where this ends.”
THIRTY
As we walked farther into the tunnel, I could feel my heart rate speeding, and it wasn’t only because of the briskness of Jemma’s stride. We were headed straight toward a killer, and the walls were definitely narrowing.
“Aren’t tunnels supposed to be the same size throughout?” Summer sounded like she was trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.
“We can turn around if you need to,” I told her, even though I certainly didn’t want to stop now.
Jemma, unexpectedly, began to sing. Her voice, tentative at first, rose, echoing off the walls. We stalled at first but then settled into the tune and kept moving forward, comforted by the sound. The melody was pure and clear, the words about knowing and being known, and some of the tension left my body as the song rang out for several minutes.
“That was beautiful,” Summer said when she’d finished.
It had been, and I was struck by the power that Jemma held with her voice.
“Music helps me calm down,” Jemma said, neither acknowledging the praise nor dismissing it. “It helps me distract myself, helps me think about something else.” She turned in acircle and pushed forward as if she hadn’t just astounded us. “Like, I don’t know… how long have you lived in Aubergine?”
I was grateful for the distraction but also had to blink a few times to refocus on the task at hand. If Jemma got up onstage and sang like that, I might never stand a chance. “I’ve lived here my entire life. My ancestors supposedly came over on theMayflower.” I pushed past the lump in my throat. “Momma raised me in the house that her great-grandfather built, but last year, she… she died.”
The two other women remained quiet.
“What about both of you?” I asked.
Jemma answered, “I grew up in Rhode Island, went to school in New Haven, majored in pre-law, hated it, and now I work at Starbucks near Times Square while I’m trying to find money to produce my show… the one about my brother.”
Wait. New Haven?“You went to Yale? And became a barista?”
Jemma’s voice was rigid. “That’s almost exactly what my parents said.”
“I mean… it’s… it’s fine. It’s just that?—”
“I didn’t use my degree? Reach my potential?” I could hear the self-deprecating tone in Jemma’s voice, and I wondered if she realized how much more likeable it made her. “My parents said that too. After my brother’s struggles, I was the grand hope of the family. So far, I’ve just disappointed them.”
“I was a pre-med major and switched to education, so no judgment here,” Summer chipped in. “I couldn’t manage anatomy and physiology. I felt like a dummy.”
Jemma chuckled. “I’m laughing because the only way I got through pre-law was by testing out of college algebra. I passed by one point.” She considered. “I can’t believe we never talked the last two years you’ve been here.”
“You weren’t exactly approachable,” Summer said, in a burst of raw honesty.
“Fair,” Jemma admitted. “After my first year competing, I gave up all chances of being Miss Rosie.”
“I guess it takes a murder to bring out your friendlier side,” I said, half-jokingly.
We walked several paces without speaking.
“What about you, Dakota?” Jemma asked. “What was your life aspiration?”
I couldn’t find the words to tell them that I’d wanted to open a veterinary practice in Aubergine since middle school when one of Momma’s friends, who had a practice a half-hour away, had let me shadow her for the weekend. I’d watched the doctor deliver a foal and stitch a puppy’s injured paw. I’d held a goat around the neck while she’d administered antibiotics, and I’d helped her diagnose a cat with heartworm before it was too late. Helping these creatures was the closest I’d ever been to experiencing any sort of divine calling, and that purpose had driven me for years—until I couldn’t help my own mother.
“I wanted… I went to vet school. I planned to work with animals. Horses, mainly.”
“I’ve heard that vet school is as tough as med school,” Summer said. “You could work here at The Rose with the stable full of horses.”
