Drawn and Buttered

by Shari Randall

  Now he carried the pike as if it were a wizard’s staff. He placed each foot carefully, a wolf stalking prey. It was light enough for me to see, and, I realized, light enough for him to see me. I pressed my back against the rough bark of an oak, willing myself to disappear, to melt into the darkness.

  Ahead of us both, leaves rustled as Fern rushed, careless, unaware that she was being hunted. She knew the path, had probably walked it several times to her friend Beltane’s house, and she was eager to get where she was going.

  Warm light flickered through the trees to my right. I remembered that the woods bordered the lawn behind Isobel Parish’s house. Light. Safety. Should I run there? Try to get help? I hesitated. Fern wasn’t far ahead on the path. The hunter was too close to his prey. I had to stay here in the woods, try to figure out how to stop him.

  I crept forward, placing my feet deliberately, careful not to shuffle in the fallen leaves. Too easy for him to turn and see me, to reach me with the ugly sharp point of the pike. I pressed on, hoping that Verity had gotten my message, my mind blank, my heart beating with such force I imagined the hunter could hear it.

  Ahead, a low murmur of voices and flickering firelight drew us all.

  The voices rose. I imagined what was happening. Greetings, then hands clasped around the stone table.

  Farther, farther into the woods we went, my body stiff with tension and the effort of moving soundlessly. Slowly, barely able to breathe, I stalked the stalker.

  My phone dinged.

  The hunter’s head turned, then he spun, the pike in front of him.

  I glanced at the screen. Verity. R U OK? I’m coming!

  I fumbled to silence my cell.

  I looked up. In that moment, he’d disappeared.

  I froze. He was probably doing the same, in front of one of the trees ahead of me. I hesitated, then fear drove me. He’d heard the phone. I had to move. Without conscious thought, I skirted to the right. My shaking legs stirred up dry leaves.

  The chanting grew louder, providing accompanying music to this deadly dance. I considered screaming to warn Fern, but the chanting would cover the sound. The only one who would certainly hear me was the man hunting Fern. I had to reach her before he did, get past him to the safety of the circle, make sure Fern did the same.

  I imagined the pike’s sharp tip embedded in my chest, or piercing my back, pinning me to the ground. I had no doubt he’d use that pike. He had a lot to lose.

  Up ahead, a small rectangle of light caught my eye. No! Just as quickly, the light was extinguished. Fern had checked her phone.

  My body buzzed with adrenaline. I felt rather than saw that Fern’s hunter was closing in. The chanting continued. He’d strike before they finished.

  I dodged behind another tree, and another, my footsteps too loud in the leaves. The chanting grew louder, crescendoed, then stopped abruptly.

  In the sudden silence, footsteps whispered through leaves to my left. “Fern, run to the circle!” I shouted.

  A light appeared ahead and aimed back at me. “Is that you, Allie?”

  “Fern, run!” I shouted so loudly the words rasped my throat.

  At that moment a shadow crossed the beam of her cell phone light. Fern screamed. A blur of movement blotted her from my sight. I hurried forward as an unearthly scream tore the night air.

  A man shouted. Then a howl, like a wounded animal, made my blood turn to ice. Shadows flitted through the trees. Where is Fern? Who screamed?

  I darted forward, turning on my phone’s flashlight. Several forms, hooded, materialized in front of me.

  I ran into something hard, just at shoulder level. A branch? It was smooth. The shaft of the pike stuck out from where it was embedded in the trunk of a tree.

  A form thrashed and moaned at my feet. One of the hooded figures brought a lantern and raised it high over Lyman Smith writhing in the leaves and dirt. Two more hooded figures tended to him, one spoke on a cell phone.

  Fern Doucette walked slowly toward me, her eyes wide with shock. She grabbed my arm. “He was, he tried to stab me! Allie, when you screamed for me, I turned around. He was right behind me, with the pike. He missed me, but then I was too scared to move.”

  “So what happened?”

  Fern swung her cell phone light. “She saved me. She came out of the trees and stabbed him before he could pull the pike out of the tree to try to stab me again.”

  Isobel Parish stood over Lyman, panting, a broken sword at her side.

  Chapter 42

  “So did Professor Smith kill Max with that pike?”

  A few days later, Verity, Bronwyn, and I sat in the Adirondack chairs at the Mermaid, sharing a thermos of hot chocolate after the dinner rush. We all wore thick sweatshirts and Verity had a car blanket draped over her knees. Golden autumn was fading and frost was in the forecast.

  I shook my head. “No, he used a marlinspike.”

  “A what?” Verity tossed the end of a wooly scarf across her shoulders.

  “Marlinspike. Sailors use them for working on lines—that’s rope to you landlubbers. They’re tapered, spikelike things, sometimes with a curve. They help you undo knots. Usually they’re small enough to fit in your hand, but the old ones the historical society had were a foot long.

  “When we were at the grant ceremony, I saw little cards in a display case that told where some items had been loaned. Beltane was mad because Lyman Smith asked for a loan at the last minute. Max and the frat boys got a last-minute invitation to the ceremony, too. It was that term, last minute, repeated so many times that got me thinking.

  “I think Max had started blackmailing Lyman as soon as he learned that Lyman Smith was getting that grant, which he probably heard from Isobel Parish. Now Lyman Smith had more than his reputation to lose, he could lose that grant money, too. Which, by the way, was a payoff to suppress what Fern had learned from the diary and what they’d learned when they dug up the grave of Uriah Parish.

  “As frat adviser, Lyman would’ve known that Max had been cut off by his parents, that he needed money. He readily agreed to pay Max off because Max’s knowledge was too dangerous. I think Fern’s wasn’t the only student’s work Lyman plagiarized.

  “But how to silence Max? It was best to do it somewhere removed from the college. The Parish cemetery was perfect. And Lyman knew there was a weapon he could use right in the historical society display case. He just had to borrow it, clean it, and return it.

  “It was too easy to make sure Max got that slip of paper right at the ceremony. The note was vague—what grave? But Fern told me Max, Royal, and Lyman had dug up the family cemetery, so there was only one grave that mattered. The grave of Uriah Parish.”

  “Uriah?” Verity said. “Not Otis?”

  I held up my hand. “I’ll explain that in a sec.”

  “Wouldn’t Max be scared, meeting Lyman in the cemetery?” Verity said.

  I shook my head. “Max worked for Lyman. It was during a big party. He probably wasn’t a bit worried.”

  Bronwyn said, “Max’s autopsy also found that he had a blunt-force head injury. I bet Lyman Smith knocked him out first.”

  I nodded. “Lyman probably had no idea Max had plans of his own in the cemetery that night. His big prank—leaving Lobzilla at the grave of Otis Parish.”

  “So Max was probably busy with Lobzilla,” Verity said. “Lyman sneaked up, hit him on the head with a stone, and then stabbed him with that marlinspike.”

  “Lyman got his cape all bloody, but that was easy to fix,” I said. “He just added his cape to all the others in the coat room and traded it for another.”

  “And poor Madame Monachova picked it up,” Verity said. “She doesn’t see well and the lights were low. Lyman needed a cape, too, and managed to take one that was too short and too small. That’s what you noticed in the photos online, Allie.”

  “So social media captured the killer,” Bronwyn said.

  “You could say that.” I scrolled to the party picture I’
d seen earlier. “Here are the pictures from the party. In this one, taken early in the evening, Lyman Smith is wearing that gorgeous long—”

  “Historically accurate,” Verity added.

  “Historically accurate cape.”

  I scrolled to later in the evening. “And look. He’s wearing the cape pushed back over his shoulders. You can tell it’s too small and too short.”

  “Absolutely atrocious!” Verity said.

  “Fashion catches a killer.” Bronwyn laughed.

  We clinked our mugs.

  A puppy scampered up to us, tail wagging wildly. “What a sweetie!”

  “Oliver!” Johnny Sabino called from a picnic table. In the golden light thrown by a candle stuck in a Chianti bottle, I could just make out Bertha Betancourt sitting across from him. Aunt Gully had spread their table with the red-checked cloth. Johnny’s puppy ran back to them as Bertha’s laugh boomed.

  Verity, Bronwyn, and I shared a look.

  “I wondered who Bertha’d invite for her free dinner,” I whispered.

  “Look at that candle! Aunt Gully’s playing matchmaker,” Verity said.

  Bronwyn turned to me. “So what about Uriah Parish?”

  I gathered my thoughts. “All my life I’ve heard stories about Otis Parish. He’s the founder of Mystic Bay. The important guy. But I noticed that when I spoke to Fern, or Isobel, people who knew the Parish history, they mentioned Otis, sure, but they also always mentioned Uriah and Mercy.” I told them of Fern’s research, the dark deeds done in the Parish cemetery. “Fern said that we only learn the winner’s version of history. The Parishes had always suppressed things they didn’t want known. But she’d dug up evidence of this part of the Parish story that the family wanted to keep buried.”

  “Is that why Lyman attacked Fern?”

  Verity leaned forward. “I wish I’d seen that!”

  “I wish I’d been able to see it better, too.” Say what you wanted about Isobel Parish, she’d saved Fern’s life. “The Parish family has security cameras all through the woods. Isobel saw Lyman stalking Fern with the pike. She told me that she grabbed one of her old fencing swords and ran after him.”

  “Wouldn’t an old sword be dull?” Bronyn asked.

  I shook my head. “Isobel told me she cracked it over her knee and broke it to get a sharper edge.” I shivered. Isobel was volatile, but thank goodness she’d been willing to act to save Fern.

  “Don’t mess with Isobel Parish,” Verity said.

  “Wait a second,” Bronwyn said. “If there were security cameras, wouldn’t they have captured Lyman killing Max?”

  I nodded. “Isobel told her parents to turn them off for her party. How did she put it? She didn’t want her parents spying on her friends.”

  Bronwyn scoffed. “Even after their theft?”

  “I’m sure it was Kathleen Parish who turned them off, not Royal Parish.” I pulled my woolly scarf closer against the chilly air. Isobel, Kathleen, Royal. That family would never be the same.

  Bronwyn raised a hand. “You said they dug up Uriah. Why on earth did Royal want Uriah dug up? It only confirmed Fern’s research.”

  I nodded. “Royal Parish’s ego was so big, I think he discounted the story in Rosamund Parish’s diary because it was written by a teenage girl. He thought the exhumation would disprove the diary account. Instead, it corroborated it. That’s why Lyman got the grant. Royal was rewarding him for making sure Fern’s second paper, the one about Uriah and Mercy, didn’t get published.”

  “I’m still on the marlinspike,” Bronwyn said. “What did Lyman do with it after he killed Max?”

  I remembered how I’d carried my flashlight in my boot. “I bet he put it in his boot.”

  “Our forensics team is going over the artifacts at the historical society now,” Bronwyn said.

  A black sedan pulled into the parking lot. A woman in a black leather jacket over black slacks, her hair slicked back into a tight bun, got out and scanned the parking lot. She spotted us and headed over.

  “Oh, no.” Bronwyn threw me a look. I swallowed hard. It was Detective Rosato.

  “What?” Verity said. “You both look like you’ve seen Uriah Parish.”

  Detective Rosato approached, zipping her jacket. “Good evening. Bit chilly tonight.”

  Bronwyn snapped to her feet. “Detective Rosato.”

  Detective Rosato nodded to her and Verity, then turned to me. “May I have a word?”

  My mouth went dry, but I managed to nod.

  “We’ll clean up.” Bronwyn and Verity gathered our mugs and thermos and headed to the shack, throwing glances back at us.

  Detective Rosato took the seat next to me. “I heard about your car accident. How are you doing?”

  I relaxed, slightly. “I’m fine, thanks. I was just shaken up.”

  She didn’t say anything else for a moment.

  I shifted in my seat. She had started with a softball question. I knew more difficult ones would follow.

  The wind picked up and Detective Rosato smoothed her hair.

  “What made you suspect Lyman Smith?”

  I took a deep breath. “Although he was supposed to keep the story of Otis—well, Otis, Uriah, and Mercy Parish—quiet, although he was a trained historian and was familiar with archaeological excavation”—Fern told me how carefully they’d worked on the grave site—“he told the story of Otis Parish to a bunch of drunk fraternity brothers. He knows kids that age, understands them. The first thing those guys were going to do was run down to the cemetery to see the grave. All those kids running around would obliterate any footprints and compromise the murder scene, and as a bonus, the grave they’d dug up. Lyman didn’t even try to stop them from going to the cemetery.”

  “The scene was well compromised.” She cleared her throat. “Tell me about the backpack and the papers.”

  I swallowed hard. I knew this question was coming. I should have taken the papers to the police as soon as I’d found them.

  I told her how odd it had been when Max came to help Professor Nickerson with Lobzilla. How he’d worn his backpack into the crowded lobster shed while he worked. “He just didn’t strike me as the nerdy, forgetful type. I thought he left that backpack on because he didn’t want to lose it. Then Isobel told me he’d taken the papers. I put two and two together…” My voice trailed off. I guess this was the part where she arrested me.

  Detective Rosato didn’t speak for a long time, admiring the twinkling lights of the houses on the far shore of the river. “We discovered a car registered to Lyman Smith hidden in the woods off Old Farms Road. The damage was consistent with your accident. And a backpack was discovered in his office.” She stood and turned to me.

  “I could arrest you for so many things,” she said. My stomach clenched.

  “But you have allies. The Parish family is happy to have their”—she hesitated—“property returned. Quietly.”

  Property? She must mean the papers.

  She walked back to the sedan, raising her hand in a wave.

  Chapter 43

  As I wiped down the counter in the Mermaid the next day, Beltane and Fern came into the shack. Fern waved, smiling broadly. Then her phone rang and she stepped outside to take the call.

  “Hello, Allegra. One cup of chowder, please. To go.” Beltane slid money onto the counter, then said, “Is your aunt here?”

  Honestly, this woman does not give up.

  “Listen, Beltane, why do you keep asking her to join your group? She’s not interested.”

  Beltane regarded me with her unsettling eyes. “She knows the old ways. Especially with herbs. The tisane she gave me cleared up my rash and my doctors haven’t been able to do that for years. Her knowledge is encyclopedic. Plus—”

  Beltane leaned close. Her breath smelled like coffee and peppermint. “Her aura. It’s white.”

  “Aura?” I gripped onto the counter, tried to steady myself. All this crazy was making me dizzy.

  Beltane continued
, “All living things are energy. We give off auras. Yours is blue.”

  “My aura is blue?” Is that what she’d been talking about?

  She brushed my question aside. “But those whose energies are in perfect balance with the earth, the air, the sky, the spirits, those who have gone into the Beyond and those To Come … their auras are white. A signpost to those who can read it. A signpost to power.”

  Power? Aunt Gully, who had gone to a Celtics game in a T-shirt with a sequined red lobster and red earrings to match? Who had dressed up as Glinda for Halloween?

  “Here’s your chowder,” Hilda said abruptly as she put the cup on the counter in front of Beltane. “Have a nice day.”

  Fern came up to the counter.

  Beltane nodded curtly to me and Hilda. “I’ll wait for you in the car, Fern.” Hilda watched Beltane go, then returned to the kitchen.

  “You won’t believe what just happened,” Fern said.

  “Tell me! Something good, I hope.”

  “I think so. Royal Parish called to tell me that he was so impressed by my research that the Parish Family Trust has arranged for me to have a scholarship to a special history program in England!”

  “Wow!”

  “It’s amazing.” She pushed back her hair. “But moving, uprooting. And mostly, leaving my research here. It’s just…”

  “Out of the blue.” The phrase packed her off came to mind.

  She mirrored my thoughts. “Allie, I’m not a fool. They’re getting rid of me. I know too many inconvenient things about the Parish history and their friend Lyman. But if I could get packed off somewhere, this is a place I’d want to go. My mom said she’d come and take care of Prudie while I’m there. My husband is okay with it, too. He says it’s too good a chance to pass up.”

  I thought of the follow-your-dreams speech Aunt Gully would be giving now. “Is this your dream?”

  “I think so.” Fern’s face clouded. “I thought I could have my dream here. Now I just don’t know.”

  “Sleep on it.”