“Litchfield?” He sounds surprised. “All right, I’ll get back to you later. I’m here as well—for most of the rest of the summer.”
There’s still a gruffness in his tone, but at least he’s not rebuffing my entreaty.
“Thank you, Sam.”
“Right” is all he says in response.
I exhale, relieved that Sam seems willing to pursue the topic further. He’s not likely to have any more luck with the police than I did—but once he’s thought this through, he can relay the information about Maverick to Jamie’s uncle. Drew has plenty of clout in the area—and as Vic revealed, he has a contact in the state police—and I’m hoping he can make the authorities see the light of day.
I make a quick meal for myself, and after pouring a glass of white wine to go with it, settle at the table. There is a terrible truth now staring me in the face.
As Sam said, no thief would have taken the time to stage a suicide, which means the killer had to have been someone Jamie knew. That person had either learned Jamie would be at the Davenports’ and lay in wait outside or had been at the party themselves. And, for a reason I can’t fathom, they wanted Jamie gone from this world.
I close my eyes and summon my memories of the party. As painful as it is to be back there, I can still see the amber glow, the candles alight on nearly every surface, the guests circulating through the inviting warren of rooms. Jamie wasn’t always in my sight, but I certainly don’t recall anyone glowering at him behind his back, and when I did see him interacting with others, they appeared to be enjoying his company.
In my apartment the other day, Sam suggested that a family issue might have been weighing on Jamie during the second half of the summer, and with a chill I think of Liam. Liam, who left the party early and could have driven part of the way home and snuck back on foot. If he’d suddenly slipped into the front seat of Jamie’s car, Jamie might have been surprised to see him, but not concerned enough to jump out.
But as I’ve already worked through, I never once witnessed tension between the two cousins, and when their lives overlapped, it was mostly at their uncle’s house.
Someone else suddenly muscles her way into my memory. Jamie’s date. I picture her long, stick-straight hair and small hazel eyes, but also the disgruntled expression she wore. Jamie seemed to pay zero attention to her that night, and when he’d spoken about her to me in the solarium, his tone had been dismissive. And, of course, she’d left the party early too.
But according to Sam, they’d only gone out briefly and it’s hard to believe that getting the brush-off from Jamie would have triggered a murderous rage in her. Women who get jilted after a few dates might trash the guy to any mutual friends or, if they’ve got anger issues, even key his car. But murder just seems so extreme as to be unlikely.
In general, Jamie wasn’t someone who went around asking for trouble. So maybe it wasn’t hatred per se that motivated the killer. Could one of the guests at the party have thought Jamie posed a threat? Maybe Jamie had stumbled onto troubling information about that person and he—or she—found out what Jamie knew and decided to do something about it.
I think suddenly of the list of addresses. Perhaps they’re significant in a way I can’t imagine right now. Seeing the first four houses in person offered no insight, but I decide to return to that task—as soon as I’m up tomorrow.
Because maybe if I see the final three, a pattern will emerge, and it will offer a hint about why Jamie was killed.
13
BY THE TIME I HEAD UPSTAIRS WITH MY IPAD, PLANNING TOread in bed, I still haven’t heard from Sam, and I feel more than a pinch of annoyance. How much thinking could the man have to do?
The phone rings, though, just after I’ve changed into a nightshirt.
“I hope it’s not too late to be calling,” Tori says.
“No, not at all,” I reply, surprised but at the same time grateful. When she’d suggested we might get together, I wasn’t sure she’d follow up.
“I was thinking we could set up that coffee date—if you’re still planning on being here.”
“Yes, I’d like that. And I’ll be around for at least a few more days.”
“How about tomorrow then—nine o’clock at the Salisbury Inn?”
I ask if we can make it ten thirty, adding that I have some things to take care of beforehand. She agrees, which I’m happy about. I’m eager to talk to her and learn if she saw something at the party that could be illuminating, though I have to be careful how I ask the questions. The last thing I want to do is give her any idea about what I’ve discussed with Sam.
The call over, I set the phone on the bedside table and before I’ve even taken my hand away, it pings with a text from Sam.
Let’s meet in person to discuss. 7:30 tomorrow night.
My annoyance flares again. No “Does that time work for you?” Just a command. And why the delay? Is he in the same camp as Megan, thinking that murder is something I’ve concocted in my grief-addled mind? Still irritated, I reply agreeing to the time, figuring we’ll pick a place to meet tomorrow.
I read for an hour, then pray for sleep to come quickly—but it rebuffs me. Tossing and turning, I think of Jamie sleeping between these same soft white cotton sheets, with no sense of the horrible fate that awaited him.
DESPITE HOW RAGGED I FEEL IN THE MORNING, I’M OUT THEdoor by eight. Two of the addresses I plan to check out are east of me and the other is farther south, in a town I’ve never been to. I decide to start with that one, figuring that the whole trip will consume about two hours.
The first house turns out to be another ranch, not unlike the two I saw yesterday. Though it’s freshly painted, it’s far too suburban-looking for the rural road it’s located on, and not the kind of place Jamie would have coveted for a weekend retreat.
