Murder in the Meadow (Rosemary Grey Cozy Mysteries Book 1)

by Tracy Donley

  “Her journal?”

  “Mercy’s journal.”

  “Her medical notes, from the museum, you mean? Yes—she uses that same phrase about justice—”

  “Not that relic. I’m talking about her personal diary.”

  “What? Mercy also kept a diary?” asked Seth.

  “She was an avid writer. Wrote everything down. That was her way of dealing with things. Yes, she kept a diary.”

  “I’d love to see it someday,” said Rosemary.

  “If I didn’t want you to see it, I wouldn’t have told you about it, would I?” said Ingrid, regaining a hint of her usual feisty spirit.

  “Do you have any idea what this means?” asked Rosemary, pointing to Mercy’s note.

  “Yes, and you will too, when you read her journal. Look for the entries from just after this note was written.”

  “Wait. But Mercy wrote this note right as she left town. So, you’re saying the journal is from after that?”

  “Handed down for generations. From mother to daughter, all these years. The family donated some things to be shared with the public . . . And kept some things to ourselves.”

  “But why?”

  “Would you want your personal business laid out for the whole world to see?” asked Ingrid.

  “No, I guess not,” admitted Rosemary.

  “And are you the last of the Clark women?” asked Seth. “Is that why you’re the caretaker of Mercy’s journal now?”

  “I am not the last. But I am the last in Mercy’s line.”

  “Mercy’s line? But aren’t you Hortence’s eleven-times great-granddaughter?” asked Rosemary, confused.

  “Eleven-times great-niece. I am of Mercy’s line. You see, Mercy left Paperwick in those dark days, but even though her sister’s life had ended, Mercy’s life went on. She moved north. Met and married a good man—a doctor by the name of Jonah Mills. Raised Lilly and had a daughter of her own. She loved this place, though. Loved that farm your friends own now. Loved that old barn. That’s why we Clarks came back when that witch nonsense had finally blown over. For better or worse, this area is our home. Heck, I’ve got cousins fifteen miles up the road.”

  “So, the Mary Clark who returned here: The story is that she was Lilly’s daughter,” said Rosemary.

  “She was not. Mary was Rose’s daughter. Rose was Mercy’s child.”

  Rosemary let out a deep sigh.

  “And why is your name still Clark?” asked Seth. “Since all of the generations of women must’ve married and had children. Did they not take their husbands’ names?”

  “It is our tradition. The Clark women keep the name.”

  “I’m so glad to hear that Mercy was okay. The Historical Society only knows her story up until she left town.” Rosemary felt a tear sting her eye as she smiled at Ingrid and reached out a hand—though she assumed Ingrid wouldn’t take it. “You have a very proud heritage. Mercy was a survivor and a writer and an incredibly strong woman.”

  Ingrid’s fist unclenched, and she laid her hand atop Rosemary’s.

  “Like you,” she said gruffly.

  “Like you,” said Rosemary.

  “You say you don’t know who killed Sam,” Seth said quietly. “But I have a feeling you have at least an inkling. How did Sam’s curse kill him?”

  Ingrid’s gaze turned to Seth.

  “That old curse.” She paused thoughtfully. “But they’re connected, of course, those two,” she muttered to herself. “I’ll tell you a story about two spoiled boys who were cut from the same piece of cloth. Samuel Wright was a glutton. Matthew Graves was a glutton. Vastly different generations. Same. Old. Story.” Ingrid tapped the table with her finger at each of these three words. “They got a little power, then they wanted more power. They got a little money, then they wanted more. They each captured the heart of a woman, but then they had to have another, and another. They both always wanted whatever was just out of reach. Neither could ever be content. Not with what they owned. Not with just one woman. That was their shared curse. And that is why they also shared the same fate.”

  “Who was the woman Matthew Graves wanted?” asked Rosemary. “He was married to Elizabeth. She was the good woman whose heart he’d captured. But she wasn’t enough for him.”

  “It’s not important,” said Ingrid.

  “Was it Hortence?” asked Rosemary.

  Ingrid said nothing.

  “Sam was a flirt,” said Rosemary, shifting the subject. “But he’d just committed himself to one woman. I mean, he’d just gotten engaged.”

  “That’s right. And how do you think that woman felt when she saw the way he conducted himself around here? Don’t you think it’s odd that this woman whom he proposed to had never been to Paperwick before? Or that no one here had ever heard of her before? That was no accident! That was by design. Samuel Wright’s convoluted design. She would’ve cramped his style.”

  “But surely he was on his best behavior with Victoria around,” said Rosemary.

  “She’d have to be pretty blind not to see the women swooning everywhere he went,” said Ingrid with a hint of disgust in her voice. “Or not to feel them jealously glaring at her.”

  “But then why would he bother to get married at all?” asked Seth. “He could just stay single. Play the field.”

  “My guess is he finally caved to pressure. That, or he needed to keep up appearances and was just using this poor girl.”

  “But then,” said Rosemary, “Victoria had known Sam for a long time. She must’ve had at least a hint of what she was getting herself into.”

  “Who knows?” Ingrid continued. “Maybe they each decided it was worth it to give marriage a try. But she would’ve been none too happy once she put two and two together and realized how he operated here at home. No one wants to be made a fool of.”

  “So are you saying you think she accepted his proposal, came here, saw how it was, and then . . .” Rosemary lowered her voice and leaned forward in her chair. “And then killed Sam?”

  “Hell hath no fury,” said Ingrid.

  “Let’s think about this,” said Rosemary, looking at Ingrid. “Whoever killed Sam did it in the meadow. You were there that day, just like I was. You were watching Sam and Benedict Thatcher. Remember? Did you see anyone else? Because I think . . .” Rosemary lowered her voice even further, to a whisper. She glanced quickly at George. “I think it makes more sense that it was Thatcher—not Victoria—who did it.”

  “Jealousy,” said Ingrid with a knowing nod. “Either way, the murderer would’ve been fueled by jealousy. You could be right.”

  “I was hoping you picked up on something that morning. Something that I missed. Maybe something the police don’t even know.”

  Ingrid said nothing.

  “I’m pretty sure I heard them arguing,” said Rosemary. “Sam and Mr. Thatcher. Back in the trees? While you and I were talking. I’m almost positive.”

  Ingrid thought back and nodded slowly. “Yes. That’s true.”

  “Could you hear what they were saying?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then what can we do to help the truth along?” asked Rosemary, who was beginning to feel frustrated. “What can we do to see that truth and justice are united again?”

  “If Weaser has his mind made up, maybe they’ll just decide I killed Sam.” Ingrid gave a little sniffle.

  “But Ingrid, you didn’t do it,” Rosemary said. “And circumstantial evidence might be enough to bring you here, but it isn’t enough to keep you here.”

  “But there is something . . . Well, there’s something in my house that would look pretty bad if Weaser found it.” There was a note of guilt in Ingrid’s voice.

  “Are they going to search Ingrid’s house?” Seth asked, turning to George.

  Ingrid looked at George and gave him a little wave, signaling him to come closer.

  “You don’t have to stand over there, young Mr. Harris,” she said. “I trust you. You might work with a dishones
t man, but you’re good, through and through.”

  George looked at his feet, embarrassed. “Once Detective Weaser obtains a warrant, yes,” he said. “They’ll search your house, Ms. Clark. As of now, he doesn’t have one. You are here because you were seen watching the mayor in the park just before he died, and because you were found with the body. And, well, also because it’s widely known that you didn’t care for the way Mayor Wright conducted business.”

  “Never should’ve thrown that rock through his window,” Ingrid muttered.

  “That’s all circumstantial evidence, though,” said George. “They’ll need more than that to go any further with this.”

  “So why hasn’t Detective Weaser gotten a search warrant yet?” asked Rosemary. “Seems like he’d be in a big hurry to get over to Ingrid’s house to try to find something incriminating.”

  “I believe he’s trying to collect more evidence that would, well, warrant a warrant,” said George. “Detective Weaser is at City Hall right now, meeting with Becky Thatcher.”

  “Becky Thatcher?” asked Seth. “Why?”

  “Becky seemed convinced that Ingrid killed Sam,” said Rosemary.

  “That’s right. And she said she has some kind of evidence,” said George. “Something at the mayor’s office she wanted to show Detective Weaser.”

  “What could it be?” asked Rosemary, turning back to Ingrid.

  “I don’t know.” Ingrid looked as confused as anyone.

  “I don’t expect Detective Weaser will delay with the warrant once he gets back,” warned George. He looked pointedly at Ingrid.

  “Go to my house,” said Ingrid, looking at Rosemary and Seth, a sense of urgency now in her voice. “You have to get there before the police. There are two things you should get. First, get Mercy’s diary. It’s in a box, in a secret compartment behind the painting of the meadow. Start with the section from the fall of 1668—just after Mercy fled with baby Lilly. You’ll see who Mercy suspected of killing Hortence. You have to prove that and release Hortence’s spirit.”

  “But what does that old murder have to do with the one you’re tangled up in now? Ingrid, we want to help you,” said Rosemary.

  “Trust me, they’re connected. Remember the story: A man wins the heart of a good woman. Then his eye wanders to another. Then the good woman finds out. And the old curse comes alive. The good woman does a thing she never would’ve thought herself capable of. Mark my words. History repeats itself. Samuel Wright’s fiancée would’ve been furious when she saw who he really was. And now this murder, like all of the others since Matthew Graves, has been laid at Hortence’s feet.”

  “Because people are claiming Sam was a victim of the curse,” said Rosemary.

  “So, it all goes back on Hortence,” said Seth.

  “She wasn’t a witch, for crying out loud. She was just angry and trapped and frankly, I would’ve cursed Matthew Graves too. She can’t be free until her legacy becomes one of healing instead of killing. Just go read the journal. Start with the entry dated November 13, 1668. Then read October 11, 1669. Get it out of the house before Weaser has a chance to get his greasy hands on it.”

  George automatically whipped out his little notebook, scribbled down the dates, and handed the page to Rosemary.

  “And what’s the second thing we’re supposed to get?” asked Seth.

  “Open the bottom left drawer on my desk. You’ll know it when you see it.”

  “We better get you back to your cell, Ms. Clark,” said George. “I haven’t broken any rules letting you speak to these . . . counselors . . . but it would be better if you were in your cell when the detective gets back.”

  Ingrid stood, pitiful with handcuffs around her boney wrists. She met Rosemary’s eyes, but said nothing.

  “We’ll go to your house right away,” said Rosemary. “You have my word.”

  “The address is 331 Meadow View. The key is under a flower pot on the front porch. You’ll know it when you see it.”

  With a nod to Rosemary and Seth, George hurriedly took Ingrid out of the room.

  “We’ll find our way out, George,” Rosemary called after him.

  “Hold up, George,” said Seth, jogging over and handing George a business card. “My cell number’s on here. Please be in touch if you have any news. And thank you.”

  As they went back down the hall to exit the police station, Seth took Rosemary’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

  “We have to help her, Seth,” said Rosemary.

  “Then we’d better hurry.”

  As they made the short drive to Ingrid’s house, Rosemary thought back over everything that had been said at the police station.

  “Ingrid said, ‘A good woman does a thing she never thought herself capable of.’ She talked about jealousy being a powerful motive for murder. She’s implying that all those years ago, Elizabeth Graves killed her husband out of jealousy because the judge had a wandering eye, isn’t she? And now, Ingrid thinks the same thing has happened with Sam—that Victoria is the prime suspect because she was fueled by the same kind of jealousy.”

  “Like she said, history repeats itself,” said Seth. “Maybe the clue that points to Sam’s killer is buried somewhere deep in the past.”

  21

  Ingrid’s house was catty-corner from the meadow, and if a house could look like its owner, this one did.

  It was a small place, with a rickety fence around a front yard which was basically just one big garden—and an impressive garden, at that. There were herbs and a few hardy fall blooms, each one lovingly marked by a tiny stake in the ground that identified it.

  “Goldenrod. Autumn Crocus,” Rosemary read.

  “Sneezeweed? Tickseed?” Seth frowned.

  “Well, at least she has an organizational system in place,” said Rosemary.

  Just then, she spotted a large rosemary bush, and remembered the little bouquet that Ingrid had left on Hortence’s grave.

  “She said the key is under a flowerpot on the porch,” said Seth, pointing wide-eyed at Ingrid’s front porch. “But look!”

  Ingrid’s craftsman-style cottage boasted a generous front porch which was covered up in flowerpots, each one home to a different, well-tended herb or green or bloom.

  “We’d better start looking,” said Seth, going up the front steps. “This may take a while, and we need to be out of here before Weaser shows up.”

  Rosemary stood looking at the pots thoughtfully. “Wait. Try the pot with the yellow flowers first,” she said. “Those were the ones that were tied up in the bundle with the rosemary, remember?”

  “That’s right,” said Seth, lifting the heavy pot overflowing with the yellow blooms.

  Sure enough, the key lay beneath the pot. Rosemary slipped it out and gave Seth a victorious look.

  “Smarty pants,” he said, setting the pot back down and straightening. “Lucky guess.”

  “Ah-ha! But Ingrid said we’d know the right pot when we saw it. And she was right. Hey, while we’re here, what’s the name of that flower? I asked Ingrid about it, and she said she didn’t know what it was called. But now, seeing her garden, I’m having a hard time believing that.”

  Seth bent down and shifted the flowers to reveal the little plant stake.

  “Huh. It’s called Birds-foot.”

  “What an interesting name,” said Rosemary. “I’ll open the door. You check on your phone and see what it symbolizes.”

  “You know, it might not symbolize anything. Maybe she just likes the looks of it alongside rosemary.”

  “She knew the rosemary meant remembrance. She’s an expert gardener. She knows the language of flowers,” said Rosemary, jiggling the key in the old lock.

  Finally, she was able to turn the key and the door opened into a comfortable, well-worn living room.

  Shabby furniture was arranged around a woodstove, and a large desk faced the picture window that overlooked the back yard—which was a riot of flowers and plants just like the front yard. The de
sk was littered with papers.

  “You check the bottom left drawer. I’ll look around for a painting of the meadow,” said Rosemary.

  “Good. We’ve got to hurry and get out of here,” said Seth.

  “Getting antsy, are you?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  A moment later, just as Rosemary was headed down a hall still in search of the painting, Seth called her.

  “Can you come here a second? I think you’re going to want to see this,” he said.

  Rosemary came to the desk where Seth sat looking through a file which was stuffed with newspaper clippings—all of them featuring Mayor Wright.

  “There are literally eight years’ worth of articles about the mayor in here,” whispered Seth, digging through the collection. “Was she obsessed?”

  “Oh wow,” Rosemary whispered back, feeling her stomach turn over. “Look at that one where she drew devil horns and a pitchfork on his picture. Or that one where she scratched out his face. Ingrid is right. This looks pretty bad.”

  “To say the least.”

  “Wait, why are we whispering? We’re the only ones here.” Rosemary cleared her throat. “Okay, this does look bad, but I think Ingrid was worried and angry. Not obsessed.”

  “But the whole meadow development deal didn’t even happen until this year. Why would she have articles going back through his whole history as mayor?”

  “I can’t imagine. Unless—”

  “Unless what?”

  “Ingrid is a member of one of the founding families here. She knows the history of this place inside and out, just like Mrs. Potter. Maybe like Mrs. Potter, she knew that Sam was a descendant of Matthew Graves—the man she blames for disgracing her family and changing the course of their lives.”

  “I’ll bet that’s why she said they were cut from the same cloth,” said Seth.

  “Exactly. Maybe she didn’t trust Sam Wright from day one. So, she watched him closely. These are all articles clipped from the newspaper. It’s not as if they have anything to do with Sam’s personal life. I mean, Ingrid wasn’t spying on him at home. She was just following his actions as mayor.”