by Tracy Donley
Rosemary glanced at Jack, who was breathing his own sigh of relief.
“So, you’re off the hook, then,” said Seth.
Victoria looked at him and a slow smile spread across her face.
“I am off the hook,” she said, “And available. Please come in.”
She stepped aside and let the four of them enter the house, although Rosemary suspected she really only wanted Seth to come in. He was awfully cute, after all.
“So, are you staying here? At Sam’s house?” asked Rosemary, trying to sound casual.
“I was staying at a B&B in town. But thought I’d come over to Sammy’s place. You see, he keeps a supply of the most wonderful brandy. If you’ll help me find it, I’ll be glad to share.”
Was that a wink she’d just given Seth?
“Sure, we’ll help,” said Rosemary quickly. “We should probably also look out in his office.”
“Yes, definitely,” said Jack. “I think I remember that he kept some brandy there. Do you have the key?”
“It’s one of these,” Victoria said, thrusting the keyring full of keys at Jack. “How about you three go look out there in the office, and you,” she smiled at Seth, “can stay here and look in the house with me.”
“Great!” said Jack, grabbing the keys and hurrying toward the back door along with Rosemary and Charlie. Rosemary glanced back over her shoulder as they left. Seth gave her a look that said, “Hurry!” and she winked and nodded.
It took a while to find the key that opened Sam’s little outbuilding.
“He really should’ve labeled these,” said Charlie.
“Why does one man need this many keys?” asked Rosemary.
They pushed the door open and switched on the light, revealing a quaint little room with a large, well-appointed desk, a cushy couch next to a woodstove, and bookshelves lining every wall, loaded with hundreds of books.
“Wow. Who knew Sam was so tidy?” said Jack, taking in the perfectly aligned stacks of files on the desk.
“Even his books are lined up perfectly. Not one out of place,” said Charlie. “And this is quite a collection. Wonder if they’ll donate it to the library.”
“He may not have been very organized about his keys,” said Rosemary, coming to stand beside Charlie and looking over the books. “But the bookshelves are immaculate. Look. Reference books over there. Nonfiction in this section—and it’s categorized by subject matter. Fiction over here, all arranged by author’s last name . . . Yep, he’s a believer in the Dewey Decimal System.”
“You have to respect the man,” said Charlie. “Jack, can we get some of these tiny brass shelf labels for our bookshelves at home?”
“Absolutely. In fact, we need to reorganize our whole library tonight,” said Jack, admiring the shelves.
“So, the book we’re looking for, if it’s on these shelves, is with local history . . . What did he say it was called . . .” Rosemary ran a finger along the spines.
“Could it really be that it’s going to be that easy to find it?” asked Jack.
“Yep,” said Rosemary, pulling out a beautifully leather-bound volume. “Paperwick: The Original Sins, A Cautionary Tale.”
“Sounds scandalous!” said Jack, taking the book. “I can’t wait to dig into this.”
“And good news,” called Charlie, who’d wandered over to Sam’s desk. “I found the brandy! He has a little cabinet over here which is basically a minibar.”
“Ooh, are there any mixed nuts?” asked Jack.
“Shouldn’t we go rescue Seth now?” said Rosemary.
“Or should we stay here and look into this little baby for a few minutes?” asked Jack, waving the book.
“We couldn’t do that,” said Rosemary. “Seth needs us in there.”
“Maybe just a tiny peek?” said Jack.
Unable to resist temptation, Rosemary took the book and began flipping through the pages hurriedly.
“Find late 1669—probably just before Judge Graves went off to that great courtroom in the sky,” said Jack.
“Here it is,” said Rosemary. “Gosh, I love these seventeenth century people. So, organized. Everyone wrote everything down. No wonder they called this town Paperwick.”
“Because of all of the paper they used?” asked Charlie.
“And candle wicks they burned, staying up late, reading and writing,” said Rosemary, laughing. “But seriously, culturally speaking, the Puritans were very big on literacy, because they wanted everyone to be able to read the Bible.”
Jack nodded approvingly. “Very good, Dr. Grey,” he said with a smile.
Rosemary scanned the words—easy to read, because they’d been typeset in a simple font.
“Let’s see . . . what does Josias have to say on October 1, 1669 . . . Looks like the Potters had another baby. Reverend King writes about the upcoming baptism. He mentions the need to fix the leaky roof, because the fall has brought forth abundant rain.”
“Just like this fall,” said Charlie.
“There are lists of things he wants to obtain for people in need. He has written down some sermon notes. Ah! October third. He talks about giving counsel to two of his flock: one, a farmer with the initials A.L., who is contemplating purchasing ten acres to plant in corn next year. And the other . . .” Rosemary looked up with huge eyes.
“Matthew Graves? Shut the front door!” Jack said, almost unable to contain his excitement, and leaning closer to take a look.
“A person with the initials J.G. did seek Reverend King’s help,” continued Rosemary. “Seems he was deeply troubled because he’d been unfaithful to his wife and . . .”
“Oh. My. Gosh,” said Jack, bending to read over Rosemary’s shoulder. “He confessed he’d committed a plethora of mortal sins. Reverend King actually numbered them!”
“Whoa,” said Charlie. “You know you’re in trouble when the priest has to number your sins to keep track of all of them.”
“He’d killed a man in self-defense, and, holy cow! He killed his mistress. He confessed! He couldn’t stand the guilt!” exclaimed Jack.
“Reverend King was deeply troubled and advised J.G. to immediately take the matter to the council,” said Rosemary, reading further. “He said that he must confess publicly. Even if he faced death for his actions, and even though J.G.’s soul was already predestined for either salvation or damnation, he might be able to receive a measure of grace by confessing and facing up to his crimes,” said Rosemary.
“But J.G.,” said Charlie. “I suppose that could be someone other than Matthew Graves. Are you sure it’s a ‘J’?”
“I bet he’s referring to Judge Graves,” said Rosemary.
“Or Justice Graves,” said Charlie.
“Justice and truth . . .” said Jack.
At that moment, the door flew open, and there stood Becky Thatcher, with a look that was a mix of rage and horror on her face.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
25
“Who let you in here?” asked a red-faced Benedict Thatcher, coming up behind his wife. “What’s going on?”
“Sam’s fiancée, Victoria, let us in here,” said Jack, stepping forward. “And Sam himself had offered to let Rosemary borrow a book. We’re researching some local history for both the cemetery crawl at the festival on Friday night, and for a book we’re going to be writing.” He smiled proudly at Rosemary.
“Victoria Winthrop? That phony,” said Becky. “She never even loved our Sam.” She looked sadly up at her husband, who put a hand on her shoulder.
“Well, you’ll have to take that up with Victoria,” said Jack. “We’ll just be on our way.”
They started to move toward the door, but Benedict stepped in front of it.
“You’re taking Sam’s brandy?” he asked, clearly appalled. “Are you going to tell me he said you could borrow that too?”
“Not at all,” said Charlie. “This is for Victoria. She asked us to get it.”
“That woman trai
pses in here and starts stealing Sam’s things,” said Becky, who was starting to cry. “And we’re just supposed to stand by and do nothing?”
“Excuse me for asking,” said Rosemary, “but why are you here yourselves?”
“We live next door,” said Benedict. “We were in our backyard, saw the lights on in Sam’s office, and thought we’d better check. And a good thing we did. Let’s get into the house before that woman wrecks the place.”
“Of course you live next door,” mumbled Jack, shaking his head as they all trooped out of Sam’s office behind the Thatchers.
Rosemary gave him an elbow in the ribs as a warning, and tucked the Cautionary Tale into the oversized pocket of her sweater.
When they got into the house, a relieved Seth hurried over to stand next to Rosemary.
“Great!” spat Victoria. “More Paperwick people. Just wonderful. Did you find the brandy? Because I had no luck in here.” She gave Seth a pointed look, which Rosemary took to mean he’d resisted Victoria’s flirtations and Victoria was none too pleased about it.
Charlie came forward with the bottle, but Benedict Thatcher held out an arm, stopping him.
“Now wait just a minute here,” he said. “What right do you have to rifle through Sam’s things?”
“What right do I have?” asked an incredulous and still very drunk Victoria. “Seriously? I’m Sam’s fiancée. What right do you have to come into what would have been our home and question me? As if the police haven’t already questioned me enough today.” She mumbled this last part under her breath.
“We are Sam’s friends,” Becky choked out.
“Well, I am the love of Sam’s life, so stick it, sister!” At this, Victoria lunged forward, snatched the bottle of brandy out of Charlie’s hands and stalked toward the kitchen.
The normally sweet, demure little Becky looked ready to take a run at Victoria, but her husband again put a steadying hand on her shoulder.
Meanwhile, cabinet doors in the kitchen could be heard slamming as Victoria presumably searched for a glass. She returned to the room, the bottle tucked up under her arm, taking a swig from a glass half full of the amber liquid. She looked surprised to see them all still standing in the living room.
“What? You’re all still here? Time for you to go away.” She stumbled toward the door and reached for the knob.
“We’ll go away,” said Benedict. “But you need to go, too. I’ll escort you back to your hotel.”
“Why? So, you can knock me off like you knocked of my Sam?”
Benedict sucked in his breath and took a step backward, as though he’d been burned.
“Ben didn’t kill Sam, you horrible woman!” said Becky, who had just seconds before managed to stop crying but was now starting up again. “That witch Ingrid Clark killed him, and everyone knows it, and that’s why she’s in jail.”
“If the police really think Ingrid killed Sam, then why did they question me all day long?” yelled Victoria. “Like I had anything to do with it,” she said in a more subdued tone. “And we both know it wasn’t the witch who did it either, don’t we, Ben?”
She took a drink, found that her glass was empty, and fumbled to get the bottle open to pour herself another.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Ben, whose face had turned almost purple as he tried to hold himself together.
“Oh, but don’t you, though?” said Victoria, a sickly sweet smile spreading across her face. “Sam told me all about you. How you wanted to be the mayor. How you were jealous of him. How you’d been arguing lately about every, little, thing.”
“Shut up!” Becky yelled, stepping protectively in front of her husband. “The killer is safely behind bars, and that’s the end of it! Ben would never harm Sam. They were like brothers.”
At this, Victoria said, “Pffft! Cain and Abel, maybe.” She wobbled a little, as though she was getting dizzy. “But the witch in the jail cell didn’t do squat,” she went on, and then walked over and flopped onto the couch. “Unless it’s a crime to think Samuel Wright was an ass. She’s not in there for murder, anyway. She’s in there for being a kook. And I heard that Officer Harris talking to Weaser today, saying that the coroner’s report came in and Sam’s head was bashed in by a rock. And guess what, Benedict? They’re doing all kinds of testing—DNA testing—and soon they’ll know exactly who did it. And that’s not all. Some of those security monitors you installed in the trees? Turns out they were actually working. The quality of the recordings was so bad they had to be sent off to a specialist to be clarified. But it won’t be long now.”
At this, Benedict had to sit down.
“My darling,” said Becky, rushing to her husband’s side and kneeling down next to him. “Your heart. You know what the doctor said. You have to calm down. Don’t listen to this awful woman. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“Oh, but I do,” said Victoria. “And he knows it. And I know it. Even these losers probably know it.” She pointed wildly at Jack, Rosemary, Seth, and Charlie. “And the police will soon know it too—unless you have that Weaser in your back pocket like Sam did. But keep in mind, Benedict Thatcher: Weaser goes to the highest bidder. So, you’ll have to make plenty of deals with that devil if you’re going to get off scot-free and actually get to be the mayor of this pathetic, little, backward, backwoods, ancient, boring town! I was supposed to be the first lady, for crying out loud! That was the plan!”
With that, Victoria stood up, stumbled across the room, and threw open the front door. “Lock up for me, would you?” she said, flinging the ring of keys back over her shoulder. Jack, thankfully, ducked just in time, before they narrowly missed his head and hit the wall behind them.
With a slam of the door, Victoria was gone.
There was a beat of silence, and then all eyes slowly turned to Benedict Thatcher, who was still sitting with Becky at his knee, head in his hands.
“Are you okay, Mr. Thatcher?” asked Seth, approaching the couple and trying to get a look at Ben’s face.
Ben let out a long, sorrowful moan. “No. I’m not okay. I’ll never be okay again.” He lifted his head and looked at his wife. “Go on home, Becky. I have something I have to do.”
“Ben, you come home with me,” Becky pleaded. “It’s late. What could you possibly have to do tonight?”
He stood, wavered a little, then took a deep breath as if to fortify himself. “You’ll know soon enough,” he said.
“Then I’m coming with you,” said Becky. “Whatever it is, we’ll do it together.”
“No. Not this time,” he said, looking at her sadly.
“Ben, I’m—”
“No, you’re not. Go home.”
There was such a note of finality in his voice that Becky nodded, stood, and without even looking at the others, quietly left the room.
“Mr. Thatcher, do you need to get to the hospital?” asked Jack. “You don’t look well at all. We can give you a ride. Charlie will go get the car.”
“No,” Ben answered quickly. “I need to be alone now.”
With that, he trudged out the door and disappeared into the shadows.
Rosemary closed the door quietly and turned around to face the others. “Where do you think he’s going?” she asked.
“Who knows,” said Jack. “I’ll call City Hall and check on him in the morning.”
“Did you find the book?” asked Seth.
“Yes—we found it exactly where it should’ve been, as a matter of fact,” said Rosemary. “Sam might’ve led a double life, but he was seriously organized. You should see his office. Everything in its place.”
“And you’ll never believe this,” said Jack. “We think we found the confession of Matthew Graves.”
“Seriously? So, his conscience did get the better of him,” said Seth.
“Big time,” said Rosemary. “He couldn’t live with what he’d done, and he told the priest everything.”
“That is, we’re pretty sur
e it was Matthew Graves who told the priest everything,” said Charlie, taking a seat. “Josias King only used people’s initials, not their full names, in his records.”
“And he called this person J.G.—which we think is probably Judge Graves,” said Rosemary.
Seth sat down next to Rosemary and thought for a moment. “So Reverend King kept records of everything in his writings, right?”
“Yep,” said Rosemary. “Weddings, baptisms, births . . .”
“Deaths?” asked Seth.
Rosemary met his eyes. “Good idea!” she said, reading his thoughts. She flipped forward a few pages in the book. “Quick, Jack,” she said. “What day did Matthew Graves die?”
“Hold on . . . give me a second . . . let me think . . .” Jack put his hands to his temples and closed his eyes in concentration. “October 1669 . . . October 5th!”
Rosemary flipped a few more pages.
“Where is it, where is it . . .” She quickly scanned the pages. “Here it is. October 5th. Josias is riding out to visit Jolly Smith, who’s taken ill . . . He’s reminding himself to take the loaf of bread Mrs. King baked . . .” Rosemary turned to the next page. “A death! ‘J.G. has passed away. He will be missed by his wife Elizabeth, but his troubled soul is troubled no more.’”
Rosemary snapped the book shut and looked at the others in amazement.
“So, that’s it, then!” said Jack. “J.G. is Matthew Graves.”
“And Matthew Graves had confessed to the priest. And who knows? Maybe he went home and confessed to his wife after that,” said Rosemary.
“It would make sense,” said Seth. “If he was about to turn himself in, like the priest had advised, he might’ve wanted to tell his wife first. It would’ve been his only chance to apologize.”
“And then it would also make sense that either he took his own life or Elizabeth, who’d probably had it up to here with him by now, poisoned him, like Mercy implied she did,” said Charlie.
“I can imagine that Elizabeth was a little bit miffed if her husband told her he’d cheated on her and then killed her friend and neighbor, Hortence,” said Rosemary. “But do you all realize what this means? It can all come out into the light now. If we combine all of these different primary sources, a very clear picture of the past comes into view. Hortence wasn’t a witch. And now everyone will know it.”