SEVEN
July 19
Lizzy drove slowly through Salem Creek’s downtown district, strategizing how best to approach Chief Summers. Not much had changed since she’d left, not that she was surprised. Progress came slowly to small New England towns. No malls or big-box centers needed. Which was precisely how the locals liked it. Sleepy streets lined with small mom-and-pop shops, window boxes brimming with geraniums, hand-lettered chalkboards advertising daily specials, and water bowls on the sidewalk for thirsty pups. It was New England charm at its best, even if it did tend toward shabby in places.
But progress hadn’t halted completely. There was a new farm-to-table café on the corner of Elm Street, and a bookstore where the dry cleaners used to be. The library had a brand-new addition, and a tattoo parlor named Inky’s had taken over the old Cut & Dry Salon.
She turned onto Third Street, lined with a sprawl of redbrick buildings that housed Salem Creek’s public safety complex. As expected, the lot in front of the police station was nearly empty. Aside from the odd double homicide, Salem Creek enjoyed a fairly low crime rate.
The desk sergeant glanced up as she pushed through the tinted glass doors. “Can I help you?”
“I was hoping to speak with Chief Summers.”
Lizzy glanced at his name badge. Sergeant Oberlin. He was rake thin, all but swimming in his crisp black uniform, his cheeks pocked with recent acne scars. He ran his tongue over his teeth, surveying her with a comical air of self-importance. “Is it regarding a police matter, ma’am?”
“This is the police station, isn’t it?”
The sergeant colored slightly. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. And yes, it is a police matter. It’s regarding a murder. Well, two murders, actually.”
Oberlin’s eyes shot wide. “Murders?”
Lizzy smiled blandly, satisfied that she had his full attention. “It’s about an old case—the Gilman murders.”
“Can you spell that?”
Lizzy fought the urge to roll her eyes. Before she could respond, a beefy captain with hair the color of steel wool appeared behind the counter. “I’ve got this, Todd. I’m sorry, Miss . . .”
“Moon,” Lizzy supplied. “Elzibeth Moon.”
“Yes, of course. Miss Moon. Did I hear you inquiring about the Gilman murders?”
“You did. I’m here to speak with Chief Summers about the investigation.”
“The . . . investigation?”
The blank look on the captain’s face confirmed what Lizzy already suspected. There was no investigation. “Is the police chief in?”
The sergeant cleared his throat, managing a tight smile. “I’m afraid the chief is tied up right now, but if you’ll share the nature of your inquiry with me, I’d be happy to pass it along.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Lizzy told him, strolling to the row of plastic chairs along the wall and dropping into one. “I’ll wait.”
This clearly wasn’t the hoped-for response. “But Miss . . . ?”
“Moon,” she repeated coolly. “I’m Althea Moon’s granddaughter, and I’d appreciate it if you’d tell the chief I’m here to see him at his earliest convenience.”
The captain seemed to sense defeat. Lizzy watched him disappear through the same door he’d used to enter, wondering how long he’d be gone before returning with a new excuse. Instead, Randall Summers appeared.
Lizzy stiffened instinctively. He was tall and square, but no longer the well-cut figure he’d been when she left. He was thicker through the middle now, his navy blazer snug across the chest, his khaki slacks worn low, to compensate for a budding paunch. And his hair was a peculiar shade of blond, no doubt straight out of a box purchased at the drugstore. He reminded her of an aging game show host.
“Miss Moon,” he said, offering a nicotine-stained smile as he pumped her hand. “No one told me you were back.”
She looked up at him, unsmiling. “Should someone have told you?”
“No, I just meant . . . with your grandmother dying, we sort of expected you to turn up. Then when you didn’t, we assumed . . .”
He let his words trail, leaving Lizzy to wonder exactly who we might be, and what they had assumed. “I only arrived two days ago. I’m here because I have some questions about where the Gilman case stands.”
Summers shot her an oily grin. He reeked of breath mints and last night’s merlot. “Let’s step outside, shall we? I need a smoke, and you can’t do that indoors these days.”
Lizzy followed him out onto the front walkway. He fished a pack of Marlboro menthols from his jacket pocket, along with a heavy silver lighter, then held the pack out to her.
“No. Thank you. I don’t smoke. The Gilman investigation,” she prompted when he had taken his first long drag. “Where do things stand?”
Summers looked faintly annoyed as he pushed out a column of smoke. “They don’t stand at all, Miss Moon. There is no investigation, as such.”
“But you never found the killer.”
He threw her a sidelong glance as he took another pull from his cigarette. “No one was ever charged, that’s true.”
Summers’s inference was clear. As far as he was concerned, he had found the killer; he just hadn’t been able to make the case. Now, with Althea dead, he considered the matter put to bed.
“So that’s it? You’re done looking?”
He narrowed his eyes on her, his ruddy cheeks more florid than they’d been a moment ago. “It’s been eight years since those girls came up out of your grandmother’s pond, Miss Moon. Eight years, an anonymous tip, a pair of voodoo dolls, and an empty vial from your grandmother’s shop in one of the girl’s pockets. That’s where we are. No prints, no murder weapon. Just two dead girls and your grandmother’s pond. Where else do you suggest we look? Or maybe you have a crystal ball we could borrow.”
Lizzy held his gaze, unflinching. If he was trying to push her buttons, he was wasting his time. There wasn’t a cliché she hadn’t heard over the years—and learned to ignore. Nor was she surprised by his attitude. He’d never hidden his belief in Althea’s guilt, or his feelings about the Moons in general. Prejudices that were likely greased by his priggish wife, Miriam, who served as organist at the First Congregational Church and had been in the front row of the so-called prayer vigil for Heather and Darcy Gilman, throwing around words like heathenry and godlessness for the TV cameras.
“Can you tell me the last time you made any kind of inquiries? Spoke to anyone about what they might remember around the time the girls went missing?”
“It’s been . . . some time.”
“Does that mean months? Years?”
Summers flicked his cigarette into the parking lot and squared his shoulders. “This is Salem Creek, Miss Moon, not New York City. We’re a small town, with a small police force, and even smaller coffers. That means we have to pick and choose how we allocate our resources. And if you’ll pardon me for being blunt, I have better things to do with those resources than squander them on an eight-year-old case that’s every bit as cold as those girls.”
Lizzy gaped at him, stunned by his callousness. As far as he was concerned, the Gilman girls were nothing but a case number, something to be checked off a list, a matter of resources spent. She pulled in a breath, counted to ten. She’d come to ask for his assistance. Losing her temper wouldn’t help.
“I’m sure it’s terrible for you, Chief Summers. But I have no budget. And, as you might guess, I have my own reasons for wanting to know what happened to those girls. I’d like to think that as the chief of police, getting to the truth is just as important to you as it is to me.”
“Of course it is. I take my duties to this community very seriously.”
“Then you won’t mind if I do a little asking around on my own, about what people may remember from that time?”
“As a matter of fact, I do mind.” He was simmering now, throwing off the scent of hot metal as he struggled to tamp down his anger. “This town wa
s turned upside down when those girls disappeared. It was like a circus. Media crawling all over the place, talking about serial killers and god knows what else. It was five years before you could sell a piece of property in this town. And don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean, because we both know you do. Call it superstition, but when people get a whiff of that sort of thing, they run the other way. It’s taken years, but things are finally back to normal around here, and I don’t need you poking your nose in, stirring up things folks would just as soon forget.”
“And what about the Gilmans? How do you think they feel, knowing whoever killed their daughters is walking free? Do you honestly think they give a damn about their property values?”
“I assure you, Miss Moon, if I could have brought a case against the killer, I would have done so years ago. I understand your stake in all of this, but it’s pointless now, isn’t it? Your grandmother’s gone, and so are those girls. And nothing you or anyone else does is going to bring them back. Sometimes justice takes care of itself. Why not do us all a favor and leave the dead buried?”
It took everything Lizzy had not to fly at him. He’d as good as admitted that Althea had done him a favor by dying, bringing things to a tidy end. And maybe it had ended for him. But it hadn’t for her. “I’d like to speak to the detective in charge of the case.”
Summers let out a sigh, clearly weary of the conversation. “As I’ve already stated, the case was closed years ago. As for Roger Coleman, he left the department a few years back. Bit of an odd bird, Coleman. Pot stirrer, some would say. I don’t think anyone’s heard from him since he moved away.”
“Moved away where?”
Summers shrugged. “No idea. He stopped being my problem the day he turned in his badge. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a luncheon with Mayor Cavanaugh. He’s retiring after seventeen years, and I’d like to pay my respects.”
He was reaching for the door when Lizzy stopped him. It was a long shot, but she had to ask. “I don’t suppose you’d let me look at the case file?”
“You suppose correctly.” He nodded then, coolly polite, and was gone.
Lizzy didn’t realize she was trembling until she got back behind the wheel. Summers had been about as helpful as expected, and twice as loathsome, but she hadn’t come away empty-handed. She had a name—Roger Coleman. Now all she needed to do was find him.
Her cell phone went off as she pulled out of the parking lot. Luc. She clicked the hands-free to answer. “What’s up?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing. How’s it going?”
“It’s going.”
“When are you coming back?”
“I just got here.”
“I know. I just figured you’d be itching to get out of there.” He chuckled dryly. “Ghosts of your past, and all that.”
Lizzy blew out a breath. Ghosts indeed.
“There’s been a development, Luc. Two, actually. This trip might end up taking a little longer than I expected. Apparently, the house needs a ton of work. According to Andrew, I’ll be lucky to sell it at all.”
“Who’s Andrew?”
“A neighbor, and a friend of my grandmother’s. He’s also an architect. He rattled off a list of repairs as long as my arm. I’m not sure how I’m going to swing any of it.”
“So don’t. Knock it all down and be done with it. You can sell it as unimproved property. Plus the taxes go down. Boom, problem solved.”
Problem solved? Selling the farm was one thing. Razing it to the ground was something else entirely. “I grew up here!”
“And if I remember correctly, you couldn’t wait to leave.”
His response chafed. Not just his words, but the callous way he’d flung them at her. “You don’t have a sentimental bone in your body, do you?”
“I never claimed to. It’s part of my charm. But while we’re on the subject of sentiment, Andrew the Architect wouldn’t happen to be one of the developments, would he?”
The question took Lizzy by surprise. “Why would you ask that?”
“Just curious.” There was a long pause, the sound of desk drawers opening and closing, and then finally, as an afterthought: “I miss you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“How do you know?”
“You just told me you didn’t have a sentimental bone in your body.”
Luc conceded the point by changing the subject. “You didn’t answer the question. This Andrew who’s being so helpful—are we talking old flame or what?”
“No, we’re not. He’s just someone I used to know. He’s doing some work for my grandmother.”
“Your grandmother’s dead.”
Lizzy bit back a sigh. “It’s a long story, and I really don’t feel like getting into it now.”
“Fine. Just as long as he’s not thinking of poaching my new creative director. You mentioned a second development, and you’ve assured me it isn’t Andrew. So what is it?”
Lizzy bit her lip, kicking herself for not having been more guarded. What was she supposed to say? I’m trying to clear my grandmother of murder? “It’s nothing,” she said finally. “Just some legal stuff I need to clean up.” Okay, so not a complete lie. Technically, a double murder did qualify as legal stuff. “Like I said, it might take longer than I thought.”
“Are we talking days? Weeks?”
“I don’t know. But I have some time saved up, and I’m going to need to use it.”
Luc was silent a moment. Lizzy could hear the steady tap-tap of his pen on the desk, his go-to gesture when annoyed. “I think you need to keep all this in perspective,” he said finally. “Just do what you need to do and get out of there. I promise it’ll be a relief when it’s over, like closing one chapter so a new one can begin.”
Lizzy’s knuckles went white as she tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “Is that how you felt when your mother died? Relieved?”
More silence. More tapping. “People die, babe. It’s a fact of life. There’s no reason to feel guilty about selling something that belongs to you. Get on with it, and come home.”
Maybe it was the way he insisted on calling her babe, when she’d asked him a hundred times to stop, or his complete lack of empathy, but Lizzy suddenly needed to end the call. Now, before she said something she couldn’t take back. “Look, I need to go. I’m in the car and traffic is crazy.”
“Lizzy—”
“I’ll call you when I know more.”
EIGHT
Lizzy was still stewing over her conversation with Luc when she turned into the drive and spotted a white utility pickup parked near the top. The words ANDREW GREYSON, ARCHITECT were emblazoned on both doors. She remembered Andrew saying he had ordered some wood for the barn. Presumably, he’d come to deliver it. She shielded her eyes as she climbed out of the car, scanning the property for a glimpse of him. Instead, she spotted a man in worn gray coveralls coming toward her.
He was tall and burly, and looked vaguely familiar. Lizzy racked her brain, finally coming up with a name. Or at least a last name. The Hanleys had been neighbors once upon a time, their land bordering Moon Girl Farm to the north. Not that they’d ever been a particularly neighborly family. Especially the old man, who drank heavily and was rarely seen in town.
There’d been two boys—Hollis and Dennis—a year apart in age and thick as thieves. She’d never known them well enough to tell them apart, but if she were guessing, she’d say it was Dennis—the older brother—now coming toward her. He hadn’t changed much over the years. A bit thicker through the neck, perhaps, but his hair was still the color of young corn, his eyes the same unsettling pale blue.
Lizzy offered a polite wave as he approached. Hanley ignored the gesture as he marched past, leaving a pungent sillage of copper, salt, and stagnant water in his wake, like a mud flat at low tide. How was it possible no one else smelled it? She took shallow breaths as she watched him gather up an armful of lumber, presumably for the barn repairs Andrew was planning.
She forced a smile as he hoisted a half dozen two-by-fours up onto his shoulder. “If you tell me how much I owe you, I’ll write you a check.”
Hanley shot her a glare, sidestepping her again. “Didn’t send no invoice. Just told me to drop the stuff off.”
Lizzy watched as he headed back to the barn and dumped the wood onto the existing pile in front of the door. He was huffing by the time he returned. She waited for some sort of acknowledgment that he was through. Instead, he slammed the tailgate, climbed into the truck, and left her standing in a cloud of dust.
Lizzy watched as he disappeared down the drive, unable to shake the stench of him. Or the hard glint in his eyes when he’d looked at her. There might be a tattoo parlor and a brand-new café downtown, but Dennis Hanley’s snub made it clear that some things in Salem Creek would never change.
She was still scowling when she spotted Evvie prowling what remained of the vegetable garden in her faded chintz apron. The garden was nothing like it used to be, but it had fared better than much of the farm, and still boasted a decent selection of berries and vegetables.
Evvie dropped a fistful of string beans into her apron pocket and looked up, appraising Lizzy through narrowed eyes. “You look like someone ran over your best pig.”
Lizzy scowled at her. “I look like . . . what?”
“It’s something my daddy used to say. It means down in the mouth. I take it things didn’t go well with the chief.”
“That’s one way to put it. Apparently, the case was closed years ago, and he has no intention of reopening it. His exact words were sometimes justice takes care of itself.”
Evvie’s expression hardened. “How did you leave it?”
“I told him I was going to do a little asking around.”
“I’m sure he loved hearing that.”
“Not really, no. He made it pretty clear that he’d like me to leave it alone. Gave me some line about property values and scaring people off. I asked to talk to the detective who was in charge of the investigation—Roger Coleman was his name—but he’s apparently moved away. According to Summers, no one’s heard from him since he quit the force.”
The Last of the Moon Girls Page 7