by Tracy Donley
Smudge opened the eye again, then closed it, which seemed to Rosemary to mean they had an understanding.
Mercy’s journal was one of the most valuable things Rosemary had ever held in her hands. Honestly, if she had found it in a cave full of jewels, à la Indiana Jones, with only moments to grab something before the whole place exploded, she still would’ve saved the journal over anything else.
Sitting on her bed, she carefully laid it out on the cloth Jack had wrapped it in, and slipped on a pair of white, cotton gloves he had given her so that none of the oils from her hands would get on the precious pages. Rosemary had handled valuable artifacts many times before, so Jack knew he could trust her to take the utmost care. But even for Rosemary, this book was exceptional.
She was amazed by the forward thinking displayed by Hortence and Mercy in their administrations. In a period in history where medicine was marked by bloodletting, purging, and trying to rebalance the body’s “humors,” Hortence was prescribing good food and fresh air. She used honey to sooth sore throats. Made poultices to calm itchy skin. There were lists of ingredients for various maladies—some of them, Rosemary suspected, had been picked up from Native Americans in the area.
Rosemary smiled when she saw the name “Potter” listed repeatedly in the records. In fact, Hortence had delivered no fewer than twelve Potter babies—among them two sets of twins! Twins apparently ran in the Potter family.
While many area people probably couldn’t afford to be seen by a doctor even when one could be summoned, Hortence and Mercy had accepted payment in the form of things like salt pork, squash, corn . . . The Potters had once paid for the care of one of their sick children with a linen handkerchief, and others hadn’t been able to pay at all, but that didn’t keep the sisters from making repeat visits.
Mercy wrote of cultivating and collecting basil, horehound, mint, and rosemary, among other herbs and plants. Rosemary marveled at the fact that she had probably done so on this very land that surrounded Jack and Charlie’s house.
It was way past midnight by the time Rosemary deciphered a particularly hard-to-read passage in the journal about bruises Mercy herself had treated on Hortence’s throat and wrists. There was an entry where Hortence’s eye had swollen shut from bruising. Rosemary clenched her jaw as she read about symptoms that certainly smacked of spousal abuse. She thought of Jonathan Gallow, buried respectably in the churchyard. And Hortence, alone in the meadow. Then she realized Hortence would probably have preferred the beautiful, peaceful meadow as a final resting place anyway.
The wind moaned outside, and Rosemary got up and walked to the window. She saw only darkness and distant lightening, so she pulled the curtains closed and returned to bed.
A few pages later, Rosemary read about the death of a man identified only as J. in late August of 1668. A knife wound. This entry was different from the others. As Rosemary was quickly learning, anytime a patient passed away, Mercy simply wrote “God save” in neat, curling letters. But this time, she did not. Instead, in very tiny, almost illegible print, she had scratched the words “Truth and justice no more intertwined. Justice did the deed.” Could this be Jonathan Gallow’s death Mercy was describing? Rosemary scanned the entry again. Late summer, 1668. August.
Rosemary searched her memory for Jonathan Gallow’s headstone in the First Church graveyard. “Died August 1668.” She was sure of it. So, the timing was right.
Was Mercy saying that it was just—fair—that Jonathan Gallow had been knifed down in cold blood? It seemed a logical conclusion, though of course, there was no way to be sure.
And “Truth and justice no more intertwined.” That phrase! Rosemary quickly took out the tin box with the note Mercy had written before running away with baby Lilly. And there it was: the very same phrase.
What was Mercy getting at? One thing was sure in Rosemary’s estimation: An intelligent, careful woman like Mercy knew what she was writing. It meant something to her. She might not have been able to speak of such things, but she had to release them somehow. So, she did the one thing she could do: She wrote them down.
Rosemary gingerly closed the book and wrapped it carefully in the fabric, then returned it to its box; she did the same with the note.
She fell back into bed, where Smudge yawned, stood up, walked around in her little circles again, and to Rosemary’s great relief, laid back down on her pillow and fell instantly asleep.
Rosemary’s eyes were burning as she finally let them flutter closed, the sound of a light rain falling steadily on the metal roof, thoughts of Hortence and Seth and Ingrid still swirling in her mind.
She decided she would find her way back to the Potters’ farm in the morning, and talk to Mrs. Potter about all of this. The Potters’ history, after all, was connected to the Clarks’. Mercy’s journal proved that.
If she and Jack were going to write a book about all of this, they’d need to get at the truth. And Mrs. Potter herself had said that the family had saved everything—old records and letters. Rosemary could even visit their family burial site while she was at the farm if it was okay with Mrs. Potter.
But it was more than the book that she and Jack would write that was on Rosemary’s mind as she tried to sleep. She was restless with questions. What did Becky Thatcher mean when she said to her husband that Sam had died because of the curse? Had someone used the 350-year-old curse—and the witch’s mark—to cover up a murder? All of these deaths that Seth had mentioned in the Graves family line—deaths that spanned hundreds of years and seemed to be tied to the curse . . . If curses weren’t real, then what was the truth behind all of those? Were they merely coincidences? Were they deaths that all had happened for logical reasons and then been embellished for the sake of good storytelling over back fences and in local rumor mills?
In the end, there were three main questions that made it almost impossible for Rosemary to fall asleep: Who killed Hortence? Who killed Jonathan Gallow? And who killed Samuel Wright?
And then there was the fourth and even more intriguing question: Why?
18
The sunrise on the farm the next morning was golden and glorious. Rosemary had also risen early, but was neither golden nor glorious after only a few hours of sleep. She was energized, though, by thoughts of getting out and visiting Mrs. Potter, and of digging deeper into the history of Paperwick. And also, by the thought of seeing Seth at lunch and the memory of his kiss.
She pulled on jeans and a sweater, walked outside and down to the pond, to the little dock, where she curled up comfortably in one of the Adirondack chairs that overlooked the water.
She’d been sitting and thinking for some time when Jack strolled up behind her, carrying two steaming mugs.
“How about a nice hot cup of coffee to go with that view?”
Charlie was close behind, carrying his own coffee plus a small basket covered with a kitchen towel.
“Pumpkin scone?” he asked, taking a seat and passing the basket.
“Yum! Thanks, guys. This is just what the doctor ordered for a night with very little sleep.”
“Let me guess: You stayed up too late reading,” said Jack.
“Well . . .”
“And then you couldn’t get your mind to settle down.”
“Something like that,” admitted Rosemary. “But it’s all such a tangled web. And how bizarre is it that the murder of Hortence Gallow is connected to the deaths of both Matthew Graves, hundreds of years ago, and Sam Wright, here in the present time?”
“What? How so?” asked Charlie.
“Connected by the curse,” said Rosemary. “Hortence dies, leaving a curse on the family of the judge who was about to condemn her. Then he mysteriously dies a year or so later, and is seen to bear the so-called witch’s mark. Then Samuel Wright dies here this week—and even though he’s not in that family, and so it would seem thus not in line for the curse—his murder is made to look like it’s the curse that killed him, too.”
She looked earnestly at
Jack. “I’ve rethought it a thousand times,” she said. “And I’m through second guessing myself. Samuel was lying there, facedown, the shoulder of his shirt torn, and there was a mark. I’m sure I saw it. And this part I’d forgotten in all of the chaos yesterday—but Becky Thatcher must’ve seen it too, because she was crying on her husband’s shoulder, saying it was all because of the curse.”
“Let’s hope the detective gets to the bottom of things,” said Charlie.
“I don’t have a lot of faith in Barney Weaser,” said Jack. “When we left, I heard him whispering with Benedict Thatcher, saying the whole thing was probably some kind of accident.”
“Why would he think that?” asked Rosemary.
“He’s not the brightest bulb,” said Charlie.
“And he’s lazy,” added Jack. “If he decides it was an ‘accident’ and tries to bend the evidence to point to that conclusion, then it’s either because he doesn’t want the trouble of a full-blown murder investigation, or he doesn’t want any negative publicity staining our perfect little town. Or I guess he could be in cahoots with whoever killed Sam, but that seems unlikely.”
“Trying to protect a murderer? That could end his career and land him in jail,” said Charlie.
“Does he seem like the ladder-climbing type, trying to advance his career at all costs?” asked Rosemary.
“He seems like the self-absorbed type. Whatever else he has in mind, rest assured Weaser’s in it for himself and what he can get out of it, I guarantee,” said Jack.
“Could he be schmoozing Benedict Thatcher because he wants to be on the good side of the next mayor?” asked Rosemary. “I mean, maybe he would even, say, overlook a few clues in order to make this all go away . . . to protect said future mayor?”
“Do you think Ben Thatcher needs protecting?” asked Charlie, leaning forward in his chair. “Does that mean you’re thinking he killed Sam? And that Weaser suspects it but isn’t willing to point a finger because of Thatcher’s position?”
“No. I mean . . . maybe. From an outsider’s viewpoint, Thatcher would have motive and opportunity.”
“Go on,” said Jack.
“He wanted to be mayor eight years ago, remember? He became city manager instead. So, he does all the work while Sam gets all the credit. Add to that the fact that Mr. Thatcher was probably the last person to see Sam alive. They had a meeting in the Witch’s Meadow. I saw them, wandering through the trees. And I keep remembering little things. Like could swear I heard them arguing. I think Ingrid heard them, too.”
“So, there’s suspect number one. Ben Thatcher. But I can’t help but wonder if Ingrid is the killer,” said Jack, shaking his head. “She hated Sam and what he was trying to do in Paperwick. And she’s a bit of a loon. So, there’s your motive. And she, too, was in the park at the right time. And didn’t you say she was spying on the mayor and Ben?”
Rosemary took a bite of her scone. “Yes,” she admitted finally with a sigh. “And the other odd thing is that Ingrid predicted there would be another death,” she said slowly. “I’m trying to remember her words. She talked about me seeing Smudge. She said something like, ‘You saw Hortence’s cat, didn’t you?’ She said it meant there would be another death.”
“Oh, man, that isn’t going to go off well with Weaser. Ingrid predicts another death and then sure enough, a few minutes later, there is one? Did anyone else hear her say that?”
“Other than me? I don’t know for sure. We were basically alone in the meadow. Except Sam and Benedict were definitely there, too. And I can’t say whether or not there was anyone else around. I wish I could go back in time and be more observant.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the coffee and scones and the peaceful morning. A small flock of ducks glided down and landed on the far side of the pond, and once again, Rosemary was amazed at the beauty of this place. She noticed the old red truck driving up to the cottage that sat next to the pond.
“I keep meaning to ask about that place,” Rosemary said. “Who’s that in the red truck?”
“That’s Bert Ander,” said Jack, getting up. “You’ll meet him.”
“Nice guy,” said Charlie, also standing.
“Well, I’ve got class in half an hour, so I’d better get going,” said Jack.
“And I have an online meeting with my editor,” said Charlie. “What are you up to today, Rosemary?”
“I’m having lunch with Jack and Seth on campus,” said Rosemary. “But before that, I’m going to take a little drive out to the Potters’ farm. I want to ask Mrs. Potter a few questions about the old days. Maybe get a look at their family burial plot.”
“Great,” said Jack. “And this afternoon, I thought we’d start hanging the lanterns in the trees at the churchyard, for the festival.”
“Perfect,” said Rosemary, feeling a surge of energy thanks to the coffee and having lots of interesting things on her agenda for the day. “See you at lunch.”
Now that Rosemary was learning her way around Paperwick, it only took a few minutes to drive back through town, across the covered bridge, and along the creek until she arrived at Potter Farm. She’d given Mrs. Potter a call before heading that way, and was warmly encouraged to come right over.
“How are you, my dear girl?” Mrs. Potter called, hurrying out to meet Rosemary at her car, which she’d parked in the small lot near the farm stand. Before she could answer, Rosemary was caught up in a tight embrace.
“I heard about you finding poor Mayor Wright,” said Mrs. Potter. “To think that we were just talking about him a mere two days ago! And now he’s gone!”
“I know. It’s a horrible business,” said Rosemary. “He was such a nice man.”
“The nicest. A terrible loss for the village. I understand poor Benedict Thatcher will be taking over as mayor for now,” said Mrs. Potter as the two of them walked past the big red barn toward a cozy house that stood on a slight rise just a short distance behind the farm stand. Little paths wove all through the property, from the farm stand to the barn and the house, and then back through the orchard and beyond. The house was a large, old, traditional two-story, with gray siding and black shutters, and a wraparound porch. Smoke rose picturesquely from its two stone chimneys. Rosemary followed Mrs. Potter up wide porch steps to the front door, which was painted a deep burgundy color.
“That’s my understanding,” said Rosemary. “But Jack and Charlie say Mr. Thatcher is definitely capable of doing the work. Small comfort, I know. But sounds like the town is still in good hands.”
“Oh, most definitely. Benedict ran for mayor himself some years ago, you know. Let’s see . . .” Mrs. Potter thought for a moment. “Yes, it was eight years ago, when Mayor Wright ran that first time. Benedict had been working his way up in the community—doing a lot of good around here.”
“And when he didn’t win, the mayor appointed him city manager?”
“That’s right. They’ve been quite a team.”
“But I hear Mr. Thatcher was also close friends with the mayor. I mean, in addition to being his colleague.”
“The closest. Those two worked together and played together. Like brothers. I can’t imagine how Benedict and Becky will get along without Sam.”
By now, they’d entered the house, and Mrs. Potter took Rosemary to a comfortable room just off the front entrance hall that appeared to be a study or library. The walls were lined with bookshelves which were packed to the brim with books. There was a large wooden desk with papers and books strewn about on its surface. The room looked lived in, and Rosemary liked that. Mrs. Potter motioned her to one of two cushy, oversized chairs next to a huge picture window that overlooked the orchard.
“I’ll get us some tea. Be right back,” said Mrs. Potter, who scuttled out of the room and was back almost instantly carrying a tray laden with a teapot, cream, sugar, teacups, and a plate of delicate-looking sandwich cookies filled with what appeared to be jelly. She set the tray on the table between the two chair
s. “We’ll just let that steep for a few minutes,” she said.
“Hot tea will be wonderful. It’s chilly out today,” said Rosemary. “So, you were saying the Thatchers were really close with Mayor Wright?”
“The three of them were like peas in a pod. They all grew up together here. Of course, Becky dated Samuel first—before she fell for Ben. But when Sam went off to college, she took another look at Ben, and the rest is history.”
“Becky dated Sam? That’s hard to believe.”
“Doesn’t quite fit, does it?” said Mrs. Potter. “Becky has always been a shy one. And Sam was a rambunctious young man. A party boy. But then again, they do say opposites attract. It’s better for both of them it didn’t work out. Ben, on the other hand, was the perfect choice for Becky. Solid. Decent. A very kind man.” She looked down sadly. “And of course, poor Sam had just finally gotten around to getting engaged himself.”
“I heard,” said Rosemary. “Only a few days ago. So sad. Do you know anything about his fiancée?”
“Victoria Winthrop. Comes from a well-to-do family over in Hartford. She and Sam met back in their college days, at Yale. She’s been living and working in New Haven ever since. The story goes, they dated in college, but broke up when Sam moved home to Paperwick. But they never lost touch and apparently rekindled the flame a few years ago.”
“Have you seen her? The guys and I think we might’ve caught a glimpse of her. Is she a very beautiful blond woman? Tall, thin, well-dressed?”
“That’s her, all right. Gabby waited on them at the café a few days ago, and came home with the scoop. Victoria is beautiful, educated, and rich. The honest truth is—and this is not gossip, because I got it right from Gabby—that Victoria is a bit of a snoot. She made that clear by the way she treated my girl. Apparently felt herself above the likes of a lowly small-town waitress.”