“Oh, no, not necessarily.” I’m trying to reassure myself as much as her. “But they have to cover all their bases, of course. Why don’t you go home now, Bonnie, and I’ll clear the stuff in the dining room later?”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thanks so much, hon.”
“One last thing,” I say as she rises. Because of the murder, I never had the chance to quiz Bonnie earlier as I’d intended. “You’ve been tidying the carriage house this week, right?”
“And the cottage, too. Is there something wrong?”
“Not at all. I was just wondering—and please don’t tell anyone I asked this, because it’s so silly—if you’d noticed if anyone had been using the oven there. To dry herbs—or flowers maybe?”
She wrinkles her brow. “Drying flowers? No, I can’t imagine why they would.”
It was a long shot. Surely Hannah would have covered her tracks.
“But I assume they’ve used the oven to do a little reheating,” she adds. “It was warm to the touch one day when I was over there.”
“Sunday?”
“Gosh, I don’t remember, Summer.”
“Okay, thanks. I know, dumb question. I’ll explain another time.”
I walk her out the back door to her red Honda in the upper part of the driveway and she jumps in and rolls down the window. “See you Friday,” she calls out and slowly backs out of the driveway.
WillI see her Friday? I wouldn’t be half surprised if she calls that morning to tell us that though she’s cherished her years with the Keatons, this seems like the right moment to move on.
Bella and Ginger have been trailing behind us, and now they’re eagerly thumping their tails, looking up at me expectantly. It’s probably been hours since they’ve been let outside. I don’t love being out here on my own, and besides, there’s something I urgently need to do, but it would be mean to ignore them. I lead them back to the patio, and tell them, “Go pee—though make it quick.”
They scamper off, and for a minute they sniff around in the grass right off the patio, but soon they’re fanning outward, nosing around a row of shrubbery. Ginger takes care of business fast enough and ambles back to me; Bella, however, suddenly strays from the circle of light thrown from the house and fades into the darkness beyond the bushes.
“Bella, come back here,” I demand. Though I can’t see her, I can hear her snuffling coming from the far side of the shrubs.
“Bella.” I’m nearly screaming now, desperate to get all of us inside, and two seconds later, she bolts toward me. I lead the girls indoors and after leaving them on their beds, I move quickly through the house to the side corridor where the slickers hang. It’s dark, but I can see the outline of the remaining slickers, bulging a little so they almost give the impression that there’s a cluster of people huddled against the wall. I snap on the light, walk over to the pegs, and count five coats all together. The one Jillian was wearing makes six in total, so Bonnie’s estimate was right. Hannah obviously put back the one she’d worn this morning.
If she actually was the intended victim, someone in the family obviously wanted her dead. I try to imagine how things might have unfolded. The killer could have seen Hannahfrom a window like Bonnie did, assumed she was on a walk, and decided to act. It would have taken a couple of minutes for the person to hatch a plan and possibly snatch something to use as a weapon. But even though the murderer would have lost sight of the woman believed to be Hannah, he—or she—would know to follow the trellis-covered path to the meadows. It’s the walk everyone takes, and it would require only a few minutes to catch up. And then there she was, standing by the stream and facing the other way. Had the killer realized his or her mistake as soon as Jillian collapsed from the blow? Or not until later?
With a jolt it occurs to me that the police might want to examine the slickers, and the corridor, too, so I shouldn’t be hanging out here. I snap off the light and head back to the kitchen, where I brew a cup of caffeinated tea in an attempt to stay alert. With the dogs eyeing me curiously, I let out a moan and sink bone-tired into a chair at the table.
As I nurse my tea, two names power their way into my brain again, the same ones I considered while rushing back from the woods, thinking I’d just found Hannah’s body.
Nick.Bonnie heard him and Hannah sparring last night. Somehow Nick might have obtained incriminating information about her, perhaps the same secret Claire had learned. Had it sent him into a murderous rage? It’s hard to imagine my charming, affable brother-in-law capable of such brutality. And yet... I’ve occasionally sensed that beneath his jovial facade, there’s something darker—perhaps a fear of failure, a concern that despite his designation as the family’s golden boy, he’s no match for his brothers in smarts or savvy.
And then there’sMarcus. I’ve watched how he studiedHannah, stone-faced, over dinner. I saw the fury in his expression as they talked in the glade. There are two possible explanations for his anger. He knows something incriminating about Hannah and wants her out of his brother’s life. Or, despite what he’s sworn repeatedly to his wife, he’s never got over Hannah, isinfuriatedby the idea of her sleeping with his brother, and even worse, planning tomarryhim.
And either one of them could have tried to make it appear as if a stranger attempted a sexual assault and then resorted to murder.
But there’s another name to consider, isn’t there?Keira. She’s clearly felt bothered by Hannah’s presence. Could jealousy have propelled her to try to murder a possible rival?
Stop, I command myself. I can’t let these ideas occupy any more space in my brain tonight than they already have. Nick, Marcus, and Keira are members of my family, people I love. Besides, there’s still the possibility that Jillian was murdered by a total stranger, that this has nothing to do with Hannah.
But even ifI’mnot entertaining thoughts of suspects in my family, the police are. They’re gathering information and trying to determine if any of us had reason to want Jillian dead. And after interviewing me and Bonnie, and learning about our confusion—as well as the fact that two women were wearing identical coats—they’re probably also wondering which of us might have wanted Hannah out of the way.
Once again, I wonder if I should have shared my suspicions about Claire’s death with the detectives. There’s still time to tell them, of course. And it would be better to do it before Claire’s buried. Maybe there’s a way for them tolook into the situation without identifying me as the one who raised questions.
But no, too dangerous, I think. What if it intensified the scrutiny on the Keatons, making the detectives surmise that if there’s one thing rotten in Denmark, there’s bound to be more? And am I still sure that Claire was poisoned, anyway? What if I’m looking at everything upside down, and some other dark drama has been unfolding here in this place I’ve loved so much? And Hannah is totally innocent?
