by Tracy Donley
“And that one says he died quite suddenly, as if stricken down by a curse,” said Jack. “It’s one of my favorite entries in the whole Elizabeth Graves section of the book.”
“A good woman does a thing she never thought herself capable of,” said Seth. “Just like Ingrid said.”
“Yes,” said Rosemary.
“Poor Hortence—caught up between Jonathan and Matthew,” said Charlie. “Two selfish men.”
“Whatever killed Graves, he brought it on himself,” said Jack.
“Would you say the same of Sam?” asked Charlie.
“That’s definitely what Ingrid thinks,” said Rosemary.
“She says that these murders, hundreds of years apart, could be tied together,” said Seth. “That Sam’s death echoes Matthew’s. She seems to think that in examining the past, we’ll figure out what’s going on here in the present.”
“And in the process, set Hortence’s spirit free,” added Rosemary. “I don’t know if Ingrid means that literally or figuratively. Like maybe she’s saying that it’s time to set the story straight. Clear the family name.”
“Or maybe she thinks Hortence’s actual ghost still walks the land, waiting for someone to prove whodunnit,” said Jack in his spooky voice.
“It’s an old story, this business of deceit and jealousy leading to a crime of passion,” said Charlie. “Been told a million times.”
“But I can’t see how we could ever prove anything about any of this. Yes—at least in light of Mercy’s eyewitness report—it’s probable that the judge killed Hortence. But no one actually saw the murder take place. It’s not like we can travel back in time and look for clues. What if the mystery is unsolvable?”
Jack let out a long sigh. “Let’s hope the same isn’t true in the case of Samuel Wright.”
23
“Let’s take a break,” said Jack. “I’m hungry.”
“Me too,” said Charlie. “We need comfort food.”
“Stay and eat with us, Seth,” said Jack.
Seth caught Rosemary’s smile and quickly agreed to stay.
“Pizza. Deep-dish,” said Jack. “We’ve already got the dough rising in the kitchen.”
“Chicago-style, baby,” said Charlie. “And a big salad. And then we can whip up a batch of my famous snickerdoodles.”
“Famous snickerdoodles?” asked Rosemary.
“As in, he won the grand prize at the county fair last year,” said Jack. “They’re that good.”
“I love a good snickerdoodle,” said Seth, grinning at Rosemary.
“Oh, me too,” said Rosemary.
Jack and Charlie uncovered a bowl that was almost overflowing with yeasty dough, which smelled like heaven. Charlie kneaded the dough and then Jack attempted to toss it into the air in an expert fashion. Eventually, though, Charlie handed him a rolling pin. Jack floured the dough, rolled it out, and then pressed it into the big, cast iron skillet which Charlie had coated in olive oil.
Rosemary and Seth were in charge of toppings.
“I’m going to insist on sausage,” said Seth.
“And extra cheese. And diced tomatoes. And mushrooms?”
“Definitely mushrooms.”
“Aren’t they cute?” Jack said, nudging Charlie.
“They’re almost as cute as us,” agreed Charlie.
“They’ll never be as cute as us,” said Jack. “Do you think they’ll fall in love?”
“Hey! We’re right here in the room,” said Rosemary, feeling her cheeks heating up. “Don’t you think you should wait until after we’re out of earshot to talk about us?”
Jack and Charlie looked at each other.
“Nah,” said Jack, while Charlie shook his head.
Once the pizza was in the oven, Jack and Rosemary put together a salad while Charlie showed Seth how to make his famous snickerdoodles.
“First off, the facts,” Charlie said as Rosemary and Jack listened in and tried not to giggle too loudly. “One: The snickerdoodle is the state cookie of Connecticut. If you’re going to win awards with this cookie, you’d better get it right. And two: It is incredibly hard to go up against all of the frosted, fancy, dipped, and chipped cookies in the world—and to do it with this modest little cookie.”
Seth nodded obediently.
“If you’re going to make a prizewinning snickerdoodle, it needs to be thick, it needs to be chewy, it needs to be moist. Yes, there are those who like them thin and crispy, but that’s not gonna fly in this house.”
“Wow, he’s really serious about his snickerdoodles,” Rosemary whispered to Jack.
“He’s like a drill sergeant,” Jack answered. “Look at how he’s wielding that wooden spoon.”
“I would not want to meet him in a dark alley with that spoon,” said Rosemary.
At this, Seth turned and looked at her and then at Jack. “Do you mind? I’m trying to learn how to make these cookies,” he said.
“Sorry,” whispered Rosemary. “Come on, Jack. We’ll take our salad to the table and build a fire.”
Still giggling, she and Jack carried the salad bowl and a carafe of dressing into the next room. As Rosemary helped Jack build a fire, she paused for a moment and looked around.
The sun was just setting, casting a deep crimson light across the pond. The room was aglow with lamps and firelight. Wonderful smells were coming from the kitchen, along with voices and occasional laughter.
Home. Rosemary realized that this was what home felt like. This might even be what peace felt like. She was so used to feeling restless that she hadn’t even realized she was restless. Until she wasn’t.
Within a few minutes, they were all seated around the table, enjoying hot, cheesy slices of pizza and cool, crisp salad. Hints of vanilla and cinnamon drifted in on the air from the kitchen where the cookies were baking in the oven.
“I’m stuffed,” Jack groaned.
“Me too, but don’t worry, I’ll still have room for cookies,” said Rosemary.
Once the dinner dishes were in the dishwasher and the cookies were cooling on racks in the kitchen, the four friends gathered around the fire, and eventually, the conversation shifted back to Mercy and Hortence and murder.
“Talk about a tangled web,” said Jack.
“No kidding,” said Rosemary. “But it goes to show that the same problems have plagued mankind forever.”
“Nothing new under the sun, as the Good Book says,” said Jack.
“At least it sounds like Matthew Graves lived with terrible guilt about killing Hortence—I mean, assuming he did kill her,” said Seth. “Mercy said he was haunted . . . that he was convinced he’d actually been dealt a deadly curse.”
“He even thought he saw Hortence’s cat just before he died, remember?” said Rosemary, who was now beginning to relax with Smudge curled up on one side of her, Izzy on the other.
“I bet he did have a seriously troubled conscience, and that it eventually got to him,” said Charlie. “I mean, can you imagine the guilt? In his own twisted way, it sounds like Matthew loved Hortence. So, once she was gone, he had to deal with both his own guilt and the loss of her.”
“But he couldn’t talk about either. To anyone,” said Jack. “That would mean risking his reputation and disgracing himself. It must’ve been a heck of a thing to keep it all bottled up.” Jack shook his head. “And in the days before therapy!”
Suddenly, Rosemary sat upright and gasped.
“What is it, Rosie?” asked Jack.
“The judge’s conscience. Of course! And Josias King.”
“What are you saying?” asked Seth.
“Graves felt guilty. He was racked with guilt, in fact. He lived with it for almost a year. Imagine it: He’d killed the woman he loved. His child by her was living out there in the world somewhere. Meanwhile, he’d seized the Clark’s land, and every day, looked out on that land and faced the woman he was married to and lived with his memories. Don’t you think he would’ve wanted to release some of that gui
lt?”
“Of course. He probably carried it to the grave, though,” said Charlie.
“Or maybe not,” said Rosemary. “What if he confessed? What if he tried to relieve his conscience by seeking the counsel of his priest?”
“What if he did?” asked Jack. “That would just be one more thing we’ll never be able to prove. And besides, did Puritans even go to confession?”
“But what if Josias King, pastor of the First Church, did offer counsel to his sheep? And what if Judge Graves did confide in him? This is a longshot, but hear me out. Sam told me that he has a book. It was given to him as a gift from the historical society eight years ago—before you guys moved here. It’s a reproduction of the journal of Reverend King. It seems the good priest kept detailed records of his conversations with his parishioners. He wrote things down as a way of keeping track of his flock and knowing how best to pray for each one of them. His records were supposed to be destroyed upon his death, but his wife just couldn’t do it.”
“How is it possible that I don’t know about this?” asked Jack in amazement.
“The original is tucked away in a museum at the capitol. This is a bound reproduction, and Sam has the only copy.”
“Any idea where it is?” asked Seth.
“It’s at his house,” said Rosemary. “In the little outbuilding that was his home office. Where did he live?”
“You’ve actually seen the place. It’s on Maple Leaf Drive. That’s the street that runs behind the courthouse, a short walk from the green,” said Charlie. “You can just see Sam’s house from the churchyard. It’s literally around the corner.”
“Nice evening for a walk, don’t you think?” asked Jack.
“Or a cup of cider at Potter’s,” said Charlie.
“Wait, guys,” said Seth, holding up his hands. “We’re not going to break into Sam’s home office. This is nuts. We can’t get the book tonight.” He thought for a moment. “But then again, we could go down to the churchyard, test out the lanterns and make sure everything’s in working order.”
“And then if we just happened to walk by Sam’s and checked in there and it just happened to be open . . .” said Jack. “Or, you know, we jiggle the doorknob, and it turns out not to be locked?”
“Sam did offer to lend me the book, after all,” said Rosemary. “So, we know he wouldn’t have objected. We wouldn’t be stealing it. Just borrowing it.”
“But we won’t break any laws or anything like that. Are we all in agreement?” insisted Seth.
“Of course,” said Jack. “Let’s go.”
24
The rain and the wind from the past few days had given the town a reprieve, and it was shaping up to be a lovely, moonlit night as they all piled into Holly Golightly, drove into town, and parked along the green.
Charlie pronounced it, “Nippy, but not cold.”
“Sweater weather,” agreed Rosemary.
They walked past warmly lit shop windows filled with pumpkins and notices for the upcoming festival, and the café and coffee shop, which were doing a brisk business in weather that begged a warm drink shared among friends.
Shortly, they arrived at the church and Jack produced a pocket-sized remote control.
“Drumroll, please,” said Jack, clicking the button.
The whole churchyard was instantly illuminated. The lanterns in the trees flickered on, and the luminarias along the path glistened and winked in the light breeze. Rosemary was caught off guard by the sight. She hadn’t expected the churchyard to look this beautiful. She closed her eyes and smiled.
“How can you see it with your eyes closed?” asked Seth, putting an arm around her shoulders.
“Oh, I can see it,” said Rosemary. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
She opened her eyes and looked at Seth, who was smiling at her.
“Me too,” he said, grinning his endearing lopsided grin.
“She always closes her eyes at the sight of something breathtaking,” said Jack. “Why does she do it? The world may never know.”
“I have an idea,” said Charlie in his louder-than-normal, not-very-convincing stage voice. “Let’s stroll over there to the courthouse. Rosemary hasn’t really seen it yet. And it’s so pretty at night, all lit up.”
“Yes. Let’s!” Jack responded.
They walked the short distance and soon stood before the courthouse, a charming building, three stories high, of red brick lined with large windows that overlooked the center of town.
“Notice the colonial flair,” said Jack loudly, gesturing to the building’s façade. “And as you can see by this placard, it was built in 1790.”
“I just love these 18th century buildings,” Rosemary said for the benefit of any passersby—although there were none, aside from the occasional coffee shop patron hurrying past. Otherwise, all was quiet and closed up tight.
“So which way to Sam’s house?” asked Rosemary under her breath.
Jack glanced around stealthily and then pointed, and they all walked quietly past the courthouse, where they took a right and headed to the back side of the block. The street that ran along there was called Maple Leaf Drive, and even in the early evening light, Rosemary could see why: it was lined with huge, colorful maple trees. The houses were lit from within, and though they were on a mission to sneak into a dead man’s office, Rosemary couldn’t help feeling a mix of cozy warmth—at the sight of the people inside their houses, going about their evening activities—and the excitement of finding the priest’s book of confessions. Sure, they could’ve waited until the next day to search for it. Sure, they could’ve called the courthouse and asked Sam’s secretary, Becky Thatcher, about it. But it was just so much fun to see the town at night, and to sneak over to look for the book, like a bunch of twelve-year-olds.
Probably, they’d arrive at Sam’s house and it would be locked up tight, and they’d just walk on by. Probably, they’d lose their nerve or come to their senses.
But as they scurried down the road, dodging from one tree to the next, Rosemary couldn’t remember the last time she’d had so much fun. This felt like a historical treasure hunt.
“Here we are,” whispered Jack, as they approached a particularly charming house with an inviting front porch, framed by large trees.
“Holy smoke!” said Seth. “Someone’s coming!”
They all scampered further down the sidewalk, past Sam’s house, but then snuck back and hid behind a row of large bushes that had been planted alongside the porch.
Sure enough, someone was there, moving through the shadows up the front walk.
“Can you see who it is?” whispered Rosemary.
“Not yet,” said Jack.
The person stumbled a little on the first step up to the porch and cursed under their breath. Rosemary could see now that it was definitely a woman.
“Figures even your house would be a trap,” the angry voice grumbled. “Just another trap,” she called loudly, as if announcing it to the empty street.
“Oh lord. It’s Victoria,” said Jack.
By this time, Victoria Winthrop was fumbling with a loaded keyring, trying this key and that, cursing every time the chosen key didn’t fit the lock on Sam’s front door.
“Just like our engagement,” Victoria said, her voice slurring a bit. “Trap, trap, trap.”
“She’s been drinking,” said Charlie.
“You think? I can almost smell the scotch all the way over here,” said Jack.
“A big, fat trap!” Victoria lamented loudly.
“I get the feeling she thought their engagement was a trap,” said Seth.
“Very intuitive,” said Rosemary, elbowing him.
Finally, Victoria found the correct key, pushed open the front door, and went inside. Lights came on in the front room and then subsequent rooms, and even from outside, Victoria could be heard, slamming doors and cursing.
“I have an idea,” said Rosemary. “Let’s knock on the door. Let’s g
o in there and talk to her.”
“Seriously? She might be a killer!” said Jack.
“But there are four of us. And she’s clearly inebriated. I mean, we go in there, all friendly and sympathetic, and who knows? Maybe she’ll fess up and Ingrid will be off the hook. Or maybe she’ll at least let us go and get the book from Sam’s office out back. I can tell her he offered to lend it to me.”
“Good plan,” said Seth with a deep breath. “Let’s do it.”
They all went up the front steps and gathered at the door. Rosemary gave a nod and rang the bell. When no one answered, she rang it again.
Finally, the door swung open and there was Victoria Winthrop, looking decidedly less pulled-together than she had a few days before at the café.
“Who are you and what do you want?” she asked.
It was at this point that Rosemary noticed Victoria was wearing mismatched socks. She had on shorts, an oversized t-shirt, and sneakers with one blue sock and one red. And her hair was nothing like the shining golden coif she’d had when she’d breezed by their table at the café. It was a frizzy mess. And then there was her makeup, which had most definitely seen better days. Rosemary wondered if Victoria’s mascara was smeared because she’d been crying, or if it was simply because she hadn’t washed it off the day before.
“We’re here to offer our condolences,” said Rosemary quickly, hoping to keep the door open. “We’re so sorry for your loss.”
“Do I know you?” asked Victoria, squinting at the four of them.
“No. We’ve never met,” said Rosemary. “We knew your fiancée, and well, we just felt bad for you.”
“Yeah, I bet you knew him,” Victoria said, giving Rosemary the once-over. “You felt bad for me, huh? Why? Because I dodged a big ol’ bullet named Samuel Wright?” And then Victoria made a sound that was something like, “Bah!”
“Well, then, maybe we should be congratulating you,” said Jack in his most charming voice.
“You look familiar,” Victoria said, attempting to focus on Jack. She thought for a moment, and Rosemary held her breath, hoping Victoria wouldn’t remember Jack from the ladder in the churchyard. “No. Never mind. You don’t.” She snorted at her own remark.