He didn’t offer me a seat, but I sat nonetheless, choosing a metal chair near his desk. I was afraid he’d hear my knees knocking if I remained standing. “Yes, I was. The night Ray died.”
“Do you have any new information?” He plopped himself down in his nice, cushy leather chair and smoothed his tie.
“Possibly. I’ve talked to a few people. But I had a couple questions first.”
“Oh yeah? All right.” He pulled a notepad from an inside pocket of his gray suit jacket and flipped it open. He looked a little less grizzled in person, I thought, but still pummeled by the job. His body—average height, stout but not excessively fat—was fifty-five, but his face was ten years older, with black-green circles under his eyes and a pallor that suggested a bad diet.
“Can you tell me how Ray died?”
“He was suffocated.”
I gasped. I hadn’t expected Rancourt to be so forthcoming, and I hadn’t pictured such a violent end for Ray. “Then why wasn’t his death immediately ruled a homicide?”
“He was found at his kitchen table, and the suffocation wasn’t apparent. He wasn’t strangled.”
“Then how—”
“That’s all I can tell you.”
“Could a woman have done it?”
Rancourt cocked his head and said nothing.
“Ray was eighty-one,” I went on, “but he was pretty tough for that age. Though maybe not tough enough to combat a young, strong woman who took him by surprise. Maybe suffocated him with something while he sat at the kitchen table? I don’t think a man or woman would have killed him elsewhere and then moved him to the kitchen. But you’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“He was my friend.”
“I know that.”
“He called 911 that night.”
“Yes. And then he hung up, but we traced the call.”
“The killer was already there. That’s why he called. He made it to the phone but couldn’t complete the call, and the killer forced him back to the table.”
“That’s a possibility.”
“Did you know Ray was rethinking the Alana Williams murder?”
A shadow passed over Rancourt’s face. “We talked about it last time I saw him.”
“I know. He also said you two disagreed on some fact or facts of the case. It bothered him enough to tell me about it.”
“It bothered him?” Rather than looking puzzled, Rancourt seemed pained. He sat a little straighter in his chair. “He was adamant. I couldn’t talk him out of it.”
Speaking slowly and distinctly, so he’d grasp my meaning, I said, “Ray Landry had a sharp memory. Crystal clear. And an eye for detail like no one I’ve ever known. He got it from his father, who was a cop.”
I heard a rap on the doorframe and turned to see Marie St. Peter at the door, leaning in, waiting for Rancourt to signal she could enter.
“Sergeant?” he said.
“You wanted the toxicology, sir.”
“Already? Since when do they move so fast?”
St. Peter smiled, strode to Rancourt’s desk, and handed him the folder. “Since the Pumpkin Festival is tomorrow and they don’t want this on their plate?”
“Ah yes, we must make time for pumpkins.”
“And all things pumpkin spice, sir.”
St. Peter looked my way, and as I judged her to be on the friendly side despite her severely drawn-back hair, I said, “Do you have a moment? Can we talk?”
“No you cannot,” Rancourt said curtly. “We’ve got a murder to solve. You’re welcome to come back when we’ve done our job. I’ll be happy to talk to you then.”
“Well, if you can’t—”
“Thank you, and good day.”
“But I—”
“Good day, Mrs. Brewer.”
Fuming, I stormed out of his office and marched straight for the vending machine I’d seen by the building’s front door. I stuck a couple bills in the slot, tugged on a knob, and retrieved the granola bar that plunked to the dispenser bay a second later. Angry as I was, I was also famished.
As I ate right there in the hall, I looked back to Rancourt’s office. He was at work at his desk, and I couldn’t be sure, but he seemed to be mumbling to himself. Either that or he was chewing gum.
A moment later St. Peter appeared from around the corner, and seeing me, she halted. I stepped forward, keen to let her know I still wanted to talk, and for an instant I thought she might speak to me, but she appeared to think better of it. She glanced at Rancourt’s office, shot me a terse smile, and moved on.
I trotted down the station steps and headed for my car. The rain had ended, leaving the asphalt on Falmouth glistening. As soon as I hopped into my Jeep, I got a call from Emily. She told me she’d left Ray’s memoirs in my living room and, not to worry, she had made a copy and squirreled it away where no one nefarious would find it.
“I’ve got a meeting in an hour with someone who remembers the fight between Alana and Sheila Abbottson,” she said. “See you at your house later tonight?”
“Sounds good. We’ll put our clues together.”
“By the way, I left a pumpkin in your dooryard. Got it from a vendor at the festival.”
“Why?”
“So you can carve it, you goof. You used to love this time of year.”
“Yeah, pumpkin spice everything,” I said.
“What?”
“I’m thinking out loud. See you in a while, and we’ll have more of your chocolate cake.”
I drove home, thinking I hadn’t learned much that day and wondering what I was going to whip up for dinner. I parked in my detached garage and crossed the driveway for my side door, carrying my orchid with me. Before entering my house, I glanced down at Emily’s enormous pumpkin gift. No way was I carving that monster by myself.
Instantly I was alert for Minette. In the kitchen, I set the orchid on the table, slung my purse strap on the back of a chair, and zeroed in on the hutch. Nothing. I drew closer, and then I checked inside the teacups. More nothing.
Maybe the little creature had no intention of returning, I thought. We had met by accident, because of the rain and the pots, and she had probably taken off for the forest. Though I thought she’d enjoyed my company last night, and I knew she wanted me to find out who had killed Ray of the Forest. The relief was that I wasn’t losing my mind. Minette was quite real. But though the burden of that worry had lifted, it saddened me to think I might never see her again.
I fixed myself a sandwich, ate quickly, then made a cup of tea and took it, my laptop, Ray’s memoirs, and Irene’s pamphlet into the living room, dropping with a sigh to my armchair by the fireplace. How many fall and winter evenings had Michael and I spent by the fire, reading and talking? And how was I going to make it through the rest of my life without hearing his voice again?
“Stop it right now,” I said aloud. I set the laptop and teacup on the raised hearth and flipped to chapter 14 of Ray’s memoirs. “I’m going to find out who did this to you, Ray. I promise with everything I have.”
Seconds later I heard a faint scratching sound coming from the fireplace. I’d opened the damper a week ago to light a fire. Had I ever closed it again? The last thing I needed was a bird . . .
I leapt from my chair and sat on the raised hearth. “Minette?”
Silence. Then a flutter of wings. “Kate.”
I was overjoyed—so much so that I almost knocked over my teacup. “Minette, come down here.”
Feet first, she dropped slowly down from the flue into the firebox, hovering over the charred wood in the grate, her pink wings vibrating. Magically unscathed by soot, she smiled, flapped her wings forward, and flew horizontally into the living room, coming to a rest on Michael’s armchair.
She watched me closely for a moment, a puzzled expression on her tiny face, then asked, “You’re glad to see me?”
“Of course I am.” I picked up Ray’s manuscript from where it had
fallen, laid it on the laptop, and sat in my chair. “So that’s how you left the house. I was wondering.”
“I didn’t think you would be glad to see me.”
“I’m sorry. I haven’t reacted very well. But you have to realize, I was afraid. Humans don’t think fairies exist.”
“Because humans don’t believe what they can’t see.”
I chuckled. “I met a woman today. Irene Carrick.” I pointed at the pamphlet. “She wrote this booklet about fairies in Smithwell, but she doesn’t believe in them.” I leaned in for a better look at Minette, resting my elbows on my knees. The rose-petal wings that bore her like a flash of lightning when she went horizontal looked much too soft and dainty for the job, and her light brown hair, a mass of short, radiant waves, still shimmered, even in the low light of the living room. “Do you know why Ray didn’t tell me he saw fairies? He told Irene. Not that it did any good. She thinks he was crazy.”
“He was very careful who he told,” Minette replied.
“I’m sure he was. I just thought he would have . . . well, I don’t know. Never mind.”
Minette half scooted and half fluttered her way to the edge of the chair. “You don’t believe in things you don’t see, Kate.”
“Neither does Irene, it turns out.”
“But she wrote that book. I think Ray of the Forest was fooled by that. He thought he could talk to her.”
“Ray wanted to buy you an orchid, didn’t he? Because Irene wrote about it?”
“I like orchids. Irene is right about them, but she’s wrong about many other things.”
“Including Ray.”
Minette tilted her head at me. “Are you sad?”
The question caught me off guard. Did she mean about Ray? She couldn’t have known about Michael, could she? Anyway, I was practiced at hiding my grief over Michael. Darn good at it, as a matter of fact. I had to be. After the first month, people didn’t want to hear about your grief or your fears or death in general. It embarrassed them.
“I’m sad about Ray, Minette. I’m trying to see . . .”
“What do you see, Kate?”
I slumped back in my chair, shaking my head in frustration. “I’m not sure.” I thought about my conversations with Welch, Rancourt, and Irene and remembered what I’d seen in Ray’s house that morning. I pictured Ray’s face again as he warned me not to trust anyone I didn’t know. “I see . . .” I picked up his memoirs and flipped to chapter 14. “I see the sort of man who would’ve told me what I needed to know. I see that he thought something might happen to him.”
Minette squeaked and covered her mouth.
“I’m sorry, Minette. I see . . .” I looked down at Ray’s memoirs, at his second handwritten note.
“Kate?”
“Coffee,” I said. “That’s it. I think I know what Ray meant.”
CHAPTER 13
Stuffing my keys in my jeans pocket, I strode for my back door, intent on sneaking into Ray’s house again—before Ray’s son flew in from California.
“Where are you going?” Minette buzzed around my head like a freakishly huge pink bee as I slipped into my jacket.
“To Ray’s house. I’ll be back. Emily will be over soon, so you’ll have to hide when you hear her. And don’t fly in front of the windows.”
Minette hovered in front of me, no more than a foot from my face. “I will go with you.”
“You can’t.”
“I can.”
“Stay here where it’s safe.”
Every time I made a move for the back door, she circled around me and hovered again, saying, “You can’t stop me. I will go with you.”
Her tiny, honeyed voice had turned fierce, and her lips were pursed in a tight, angry line. For a moment, the incongruity—that childlike face and that ferocity in one tiny being—was almost comical.
I gave in. “All right, Minette, but you have to keep yourself hidden. Your wings are pink. And I don’t know if you realize it, but your eyes and hair glow a little.”
“I know. Like fireflies.” She dove headfirst for my right jacket pocket.
“Good heavens!”
“Do not put your hand in here.”
“Umm . . .” I held my right hand up, well away from my pocket, and looked down to see Minette’s face, the size of a dime, staring up at me. “Okay, I’ll try not to.”
“I will sit down. No one will see me.”
“If you hear me talking to someone, don’t poke your head out. Stay hiding no matter what.”
“Yes, Kate.”
“I should take a flashlight.”
“No, turn on a light in the kitchen. A flashlight will put you in trouble.”
“I guess a flashlight does look more suspicious.”
As I had done with Emily, I cut through the woods behind my house until I reached Ray’s back yard and then entered by his back door. I called out in the dark, and hearing nothing, I turned on his overhead kitchen light.
“It’s safe for now,” I said.
Minette flew out of my pocket with the same speed she had entered it and landed atop Ray’s refrigerator. “Ray of the Forest,” she said. She let out a small sob, catching it in her hands.
“I’m so sorry, Minette. I’ll find out who killed him.”
“But his jars are gone. Who took his jars?”
I wheeled back to the shelves where Ray had stored his Ball jars. Every single one of them was gone. All the foraging he’d done, all those jars he’d worked so hard to fill. “Sheila Abbottson! She promised to wait. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours.”
I leaned against the counter, my emotions lurching from anger to grief. So that was it, then. Ray’s life had been brutally taken, and now, everything he’d worked for and loved had been taken too—in a single day. What were they going to do next, rip out the carpet in his living room? Tear out the kitchen cabinets? Dig up the rhododendrons he and Donna planted twenty years ago?
“Ray of the Forest wouldn’t mind so much, Kate. Not as much as you.”
I gazed up at Minette. “I think he would. He worked hard on foraging and on those jars, and Sheila just tossed them.”
“We miss him, but he’s happy. He doesn’t mind about jars.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
Minette dropped crossed-legged to the fridge. “You never, never believe in things you can’t see.”
“I believe in you.”
“You see me.”
“Point taken, score one for you. You’re right, I don’t believe in things I can’t see. If that makes me a crazy person, so be it.”
I knew I sounded angry, and truth be told, I was, but not at Minette. I was tired, hungry, and devastated over Ray’s murder. Slowly, slowly it was sinking in that I would never see him again. And I was ticked off at Sheila and Nick and Welch and Rancourt and the whole scheming lot of them. Not to mention rightfully freaked out that I was having conversations with a fairy.
“That doesn’t make you crazy,” Minette said. “It makes you sad.”
“Don’t lecture me.”
“No lecture.” Minette bit her lower lip and continued to watch me intensely, unnerving me. How old was she? I wondered. She had the face of an eight-year-old but gave the impression of being a middle-aged know-it-all.
An awkward moment later, Minette said, “What does ‘coffee’ mean?”
“Yes, that’s what we’re here for,” I said, rubbing my hands together. “When I visited Ray in the morning, he would make coffee for me, not tea. I didn’t mind because I like coffee too, but he always asked me if I wanted sugar with my coffee because he loved mounds of it.” I grabbed the canister labeled “Sugar” from his counter and popped the top open. “If I’m right, there’s something in here he wants me to see. It’s like the thrillers we loved to talk about—secret code, Minette. He wrote ‘Coffee’ because he knew I’d think of him putting sugar in his coffee. The police wouldn’t know that, and his killer wouldn’t know that.”
As I tippe
d the canister and began to pour out the sugar, Minette flew from the refrigerator to the counter top. “There’s something there,” I said.
She squeaked with delight.
“A piece of paper,” I said, digging my fingers into what was left of the sugar in the canister. I pulled out a half-sheet of lined notebook paper with a black-ink drawing on it.
“What is it? What?” Minette cried, her wings vibrating in my ears.
“A drawing of Alana Williamson. Minette, back off, please. I can’t think when you do that.”
Still hovering, she fluttered backward a foot.
“It’s Ray’s recollection of Alana in the woods, the day he found her,” I went on. “We need to get out of here now.”
To be certain I’d found everything, I emptied the rest of the canister on the counter and then quickly scooped the sugar back in. I brushed the last of it into my hand, dumped it down the sink, and set the canister back in place.
“Lights must go off now!” Minette ordered. “Someone is here.”
I hit the light switch, seized the knob on the back door, and hesitated there, straining to hear what Minette had heard. “It’s the driveway,” I whispered.
Minette swooped into my jacket pocket and I raced out the back door, speeding for the woods. I’d forgotten to lock the door, but it was too late to go back.
It wasn’t until I was inside my own back door and sitting at my kitchen table—Minette out of my pocket and perched on my hutch—that I was able to catch my breath. “I wonder if that was Owen. Do you think he came early?”
“He lives in California,” Minette reminded me. “Why would he come at night?”
“Still, it might have been him. Or Sheila Abbottson. Or maybe it was Rancourt and St. Peter, now that they’ve called his death a homicide. They have to go back over the house, if they haven’t done that already. I didn’t see any crime-scene tape, so either they haven’t gone back or they’ve finished.” I smoothed Ray’s now-wrinkled drawing on my table, giving it a good look for the first time.
Above the sketch of Alana’s body, Ray had written “Rancourt’s recollection.”
“You must read the memoirs again and look at that drawing again,” Minette said. She took to the air and landed on the table. “See what Ray of the Forest remembered that the chased rabbits did not.”
Dying to Remember Page 8