by Nick Scorza
I nodded. We had come to his house. Another old wooden place like my dad’s, but this one looked freshly painted and better cared for, with a lush garden in front.
“Have a good night,” I said. “And thanks for the help. I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” he said. “Glad you’re here, I mean. I’m not glad I’m here. . . . You know what I mean—I’ll see you later.”
He blushed a little as he said this. All the way home, I tried not to think of how cute it was, and I totally failed.
You like him, just admit it, Zoe whispered in my head.
“Shut up,” I muttered, glad no one was around to hear me this time. I felt a sudden twinge of sadness as I walked. Zoe had left me too early to talk about boys together. I had to try to imagine what kind of guys she’d like, if she’d even like guys at all. My memories of her could only take me so far.
My father was just getting dinner ready when I came in—spaghetti with jarred sauce, which Mom would never have even allowed in the house. Instead, whenever we had pasta, she tried and failed to replicate my grandmother’s sauce—which was one of the best things I’d ever tasted. Mom made a good sauce, but it never matched up to Grandma’s, and that put her in such a bad mood I kind of dreaded having pasta with her. Dad’s spaghetti was the opposite of al dente, and the sauce was practically sloppy joe, but at least we could eat it in peace.
The next day, I rose at dawn again and walked the misty street into town. I cleaned everything, fed the cat, and made the coffee, just like I had the day before. As the coffee was brewing, I thought I saw someone at the window again, but when I went to look, there was nobody there. Was this town making me lose my mind? Had Neil seen the same thing every morning?
I kept hoping to see Hector that day, and the day after, but he didn’t turn up. Instead, I served the power walk ladies, the old man from the bus, and a few other locals who barely acknowledged my existence, then worked in silent détente with Ash in the hour or so our shifts overlapped.
I noticed Deputy Harry outside the café again on the second day and tried to tell myself he wasn’t keeping tabs on me.
I was starting to think Hector’s fear of the town had gotten the better of him, or the whole thing had just been a ruse to get me to stop asking. Then, four days after our visit to the library, Hector came rushing through the door, breathless, like he’d run the whole way here. His expression was hard to read—one part triumph, one part pure panic.
“What can I get you?” I said.
“Never mind that,” he said. “Do you want to know how Neil really died?”
IX.
“What did you find out?” I said.
“I got a copy of the county coroner’s report. I haven’t read it yet, I figured we should do it together.”
My jaw dropped. I didn’t expect Hector to pull off anything like this.
“How’d you do that?” I said. “Did you hack into the county system or something?”
“That’s a lot harder than on TV, plus it’s like mad illegal—this town already feels enough like prison. No, I spoofed an email address from the Finger Lakes Monitor, which is much easier. I said I was a reporter writing a story on the incident, and they sent me the redacted coroner’s report—they said I was the only one who’d even requested it.”
“Isn’t that also illegal?”
“Yeah, but the Finger Lakes Monitor has barely heard of the internet. I think their average reader’s like eighty years old. Not much chance they’ll find out. Plus, this town likes to keep to itself, and the surrounding area is only too happy to oblige.”
“That’s—” I could see him waiting for me to say brilliant, which it was, but I couldn’t resist messing with him a little. “—that’s not bad.”
He looked offended for a moment, before he saw me smirking, and smiled back. Then we remembered what we were about to look at, and any amusement drained from our faces.
The document Hector opened had been scanned badly—all the text was slightly skewed on a diagonal, and parts of it had been blacked out with permanent marker. Even so, the parts that were still legible sent a chill down my spine.
“He didn’t drown,” Hector said, “he was drowned. It says they think someone held him down. He was fighting back. It’s hard to tell from the stuff they redacted, but it looks like someone cut him up first. The cuts must have come from a serrated knife, or . . . or some sort of animal claw.”
We were both quiet as the awfulness of this sunk in. I thought of the note, and what I thought had chased me in the woods, and I shivered. Just what the hell was going on here? I almost told Hector about the note, about Zoe, but I had no idea where to begin, and I was afraid he’d think I was as bad as the librarian with his lizard-people conspiracies. Who wouldn’t, given the circumstances?
I barely knew Neil, but I was already thinking of him as my friend on the night he died. I thought of him right here in the café, laughing or talking about going away to college. I couldn’t think of my friend dying in such an awful way.
Hector emailed me a copy of the report. We exchanged phone numbers as well, and I couldn’t help but imagine a more normal situation, where he was asking for my number to take me out sometime. Thoughts like that were so far away from what we were dealing with that they might as well have been happening in a movie—a movie I wished I was in right now, instead of here where someone could die so horribly.
Neither of us could handle talking about what happened to Neil, so we tried to think of what we could do to find out more. It wasn’t much.
“We need a contact on the inside,” I said. “There’s only so much we can find out without someone who knows how this place works.”
“Good luck with that. It’s like they’ve all taken a vow of silence. Most of the time, they don’t even acknowledge my presence. You might have better luck, though, since you’re family’s in the founders’ club or whatever. Why don’t you just ask your father?”
“Whenever the town comes up, he acts just like the rest of them. He’ll tell me little things now and then, but any time I ask a question, he avoids it, or makes some kind of answer that doesn’t really answer anything.”
Hector looked sincerely disappointed.
“That leaves the junior detectives with a dead end. I was . . . I was starting to think things would change here for a minute.”
His sarcastic smile was back, but now I could see the hurt and anger he masked with it. Hector had been stuck in this place he hated for so long, he didn’t want to start hoping—but I couldn’t let him quit now.
“Things are already different here—now there are two of us, and we can learn more than either of us could alone. I’m not giving up.”
“Why do you care so much about this? You barely knew Neil.”
“It’s more than that. My family is tied up in this town somehow. I have to know what that means.” I hoped I could tell him about Zoe and the notes at some point. I wanted someone else to know—and if I was honest with myself, I wanted that someone to be Hector, but he’d probably think I was nuts.
The bell on the door rang, startling us both. Ash was here for her shift. She walked to the back, looking at the floor the whole time—pretending we didn’t exist. I could see how much she was hurting. If anyone in this town would want justice, it would be her.
“I think it’s my turn to do some investigating,” I said to Hector. “I’ll let you know when I find what we need.”
In the few hours we worked together, I tried to be helpful to Ash while still giving her space. She just went on pretending I wasn’t there. It was better than outright hostility, but it was a long way from breaking through this town’s wall of silence, and I still thought she was our best hope.
I felt a twinge of guilt, like I was plotting to manipulate her, but I genuinely did want to help her. It seemed to me she’d want to know the truth more than anyone. I only started to come to terms with losing Zoe when I learned more about my feelings and the enormity of
what I’d lost. Maybe Ash was content to bury her head in the sand like most of the people here, but I doubted it.
“I just wanted to say again how sorry I am about Neil,” I said.
She only nodded her head at this.
“I hope we can move past how we got started.”
She stopped scrubbing the counter and looked at me. Not hateful, at least, but not exactly friendly, either.
“How long are you going to be here, the summer?”
“Yeah, but my dad lives here. I’ll be back to visit. I like it here.”
She looked at me like I’d just said I enjoyed gargling battery acid.
“I’m out of here as soon as I turn eighteen,” she said. “If it weren’t for my mom, I’d be gone now.”
“Is she all right?”
“She’s got a condition. She mostly just needs help around the house. She can find someone, though, or she can deal. There’s nothing for me here, not anymore.”
She let that last thought hang in the air between us. Neil’s restless spirit might as well have been haunting the place, whipping up a spume of ghostly latte foam. Before now, I thought I was done with death, at least until I was older. How many people make it through their youth without losing more than a grandparent? I had lost the person that felt like half of myself, and now someone I knew had died in a way more horrible than I could imagine. It was like losing Zoe had opened a black hole in my life that just drew more death into its orbit.
And somehow, all of it was connected. I had to know how Zoe fit in to all of this.
“You never stop feeling it when you lose someone,” I said, “but it does get easier. If it didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”
She looked up. Her mouth moved like she was going to say something, but nothing came out. She was silent for a moment, as if fighting back more tears. Then she gave me a brief nod.
“Thanks,” she said. “I forgot about your sister. Sorry . . .”
“It’s okay. You just have to find what helps you keep going, whatever it is.”
She nodded. It might have been my imagination, but she seemed a bit more at ease around me now.
Our last hour together passed in silence, but it was a more comfortable silence. When my time was finally up, I hung my apron and waved goodbye to her. Once again she gave me a little wave back—progress.
Deputy Harry was nowhere to be seen today. Instead, a Jeep was parked on the street in front of the café. I did a double take when I saw the driver—Keith Redmarch. What’s more, he was apparently waiting for me, because when he saw me, he leaned his head out.
“Clara, hey, I’m glad I caught you. I heard you were working at the café now.”
“You heard right,” I said, trying not to be too sarcastic. Keith was nice, but why was he waiting for me, and what more did he know about what had happened that night in the woods?
“So, I hope this isn’t too weird or anything, but when my father heard I’d met Tom’s daughter, he insisted I invite you up to the house. He’d like to meet you.”
He wasn’t wrong about the weird part—why would his father want to meet me? Was he like, the king of the town? Would I insult him by saying no? My father’s warning to stay away from the Redmarch clan seemed a little less strange now, especially given everything I’d read about their ancestors. Then again, my ancestors had been a part of that, too.
“Um, I know I’m a riveting conversationalist, but why exactly does he want to meet me?”
Keith looked troubled for a moment, caught between an awkward situation and a duty to his family.
“I didn’t ask him why, but I think he was good friends with your dad when they were kids. They don’t really talk anymore, though. Maybe he wants you to give him a message. Look . . . my dad is a nice guy, but he’s used to people just doing what he says. I’m sorry to put you up to this; it’s clearly awkward. I’ll head out.”
He turned to go, shaking his head.
“No, wait. It’s okay,” I said. “I’ll come.”
He mentioned two or three times that I didn’t have to, but I had made up my mind. If someone in this town actually wanted to talk to me, I wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity. I hopped into the passenger side, and we were off. The wind whipped around us as Keith drove along the road that wound around the lake. We were headed for the big house on the opposite bank, by the island.
“Did the deputies talk to you about Neil?” Keith asked.
“Yeah, you?”
“They came up to the house to talk to me. Not fair, I know. I should have had to go to the station like everyone else. I’m not sure what good it would have done—I lost track of Neil that night—but all the ‘family perks’ really make me want to punch someone. I don’t want special treatment.”
Easy to say when you’re used to getting it, I thought. Still, points for even acknowledging it.
“Listen, thanks for being all right with this. I hate letting my father down.” The way he said this made me wonder just what his father was really like. “Plus, it’s nice to meet someone new here. It doesn’t happen very often.”
The road wound up as we went around the lake, hugging the edge of the cliff. Past Keith, I could see out to the calm water below. Before long, the house was in view, bordered by terraced slopes of grape vines strung on poles. The Redmarch mansion definitely did not disappoint—somewhere along the way, the road had become a long driveway flanked by hedges, which ended in a dry marble fountain. The house itself was brick, with white stucco columns in front—built in what I think was a Colonial style. Keith parked his Jeep in front and we went inside.
The house was dark in the way only old houses were; like it was built when people worried about warmth and safety, and light was just a trifle. The walls were dark wood and old, patterned wallpaper. A massive staircase stood in the front room. Portraits lined the walls—Redmarch ancestors. Most of them had Keith’s ethereal good looks: graceful, symmetrical features, piercing eyes, hair like a saintly halo or a dark cloud, depending on how the light caught it. Others in the Redmarch clan were pale and sickly. Even with the artist’s idealizing touch, they looked tired and old beyond their years. I saw a portrait of a stunning blonde woman in an old-fashioned ball gown that might have been Cordelia Redmarch. I looked for her son Lyman, the Finger Lakes Ripper, but couldn’t guess which one he was. I wondered if his chamber of horrors was still under our feet. I tried not to dwell on it.
“Dad’s in the winery, I think. I’d give you a tour of the house, but honestly, most of it’s closed off under sheets and like a desert’s worth of dust. It’s just dad and me here.”
Keith led me through the kitchen toward the back door. I caught a brief glimpse of a massive dark wood table in the dining room, and past it what looked like a study or library before we were outside again. We walked through the rows of grape vines. As we passed a perfect green cluster of grapes, Keith picked a few and handed them to me. They were delightfully sweet. Not wanting to seem rude, I spat the bitter seeds quietly into my hand and dropped them beside the path.
The winery was an old building like a barn behind the main house, made with heavy wooden beams. Inside it was even darker than the mansion, lined with racks and racks of wooden wine casks. There were a few beams of pale light shining down from the high windows, each filled with dancing dust motes.
“Dad?” Keith called out. We caught sight of Mr. Redmarch with a glass in hand, sampling wine from one of the casks. He was swirling the wine in his glass around with a spiral motion, gazing into the golden liquid. He looked up and smiled when he saw us.
Jonathan Redmarch was supposedly the same age as my father, but he looked at least ten years younger. His age was only visible in the crinkle at the corners of his eyes. His hair was the same dark blond as Keith’s, without even a trace of gray.
“Clara Morris, wonderful to meet you.”
“Hello,” I said, suddenly at a loss for words. I had come here with grand plans of finding out more about this town an
d what happened to Neil, but something about Keith’s father made me want to hold my tongue. In old stories, I’d heard people describe the regal bearing of kings, the way something in their nature made you want to listen and obey. I thought it was all propaganda, but that’s what Mr. Redmarch seemed like: a king. It was hard to describe, but it felt like there was more of him there than you could see.
“Your father probably hasn’t mentioned me. He used to be my best friend, you know, but we lost touch when he moved to the city. I’d hoped, when he came back last year, that it would be like old times again.”
Mr. Redmarch took a deep whiff of the aroma from his glass of wine. He took a small sip, savoring it.
“I’m worried about him, you know. He won’t talk to me. Then I heard you were here, and as luck would have it, my son’s already met you, and I thought, well that’s certainly a sign if there ever was one.”
He smiled. Beside me, I noticed Keith had relaxed a little.
“Come, try some of this, it’s coming along nicely. I know you’re underage, but it’s just a taste.”
He poured us each a little bit right from the barrel. Before we could taste, he insisted we smell the wine’s aroma, which I learned is called the bouquet. The smell was stronger than I expected, fresh strawberries with just a hint of something rough and raw underneath, almost like gasoline. Mr. Redmarch held his glass up for a toast.
“To friends old and new.”
I felt a little quiver of panic—I’d been so firm about not drinking before that even a sip seemed wrong, somehow. I was afraid of losing even the tiniest amount of control, but I didn’t want to be rude. It was lusciously sweet, like strawberries with honey.
“It’s a late harvest Riesling,” said Mr. Redmarch. “The trick is to leave it on the vine just long enough. A little rot preserves the sweetness.”
“Do you sell this?” I asked.
“Oh no, it’s just a vanity project. We don’t have room to grow that much. Tell me, how’s your father doing?”
I was worried about him, he was spending too much time at home, and not talking to the people who cared about him, but I didn’t want to tell Mr. Redmarch any of that. Somehow it seemed like the wrong thing to do. Instead, I told him about my father’s work, and the time we spent together on his visits to the city. Mr. Redmarch asked me a little about my life and my mother, too, and our time in New Jersey where we’d lived before losing Zoe. He nodded as I spoke, though he barely seemed interested in anything outside of the town that bore his family’s name. After a while, he suggested Keith show me the view. As we turned to go, he pulled his son aside for a few more quiet words. I tried not to eavesdrop, as much as I wanted to. “Visit your mother, she misses you,” was all I could make out.