by Tracy Donley
“This is surreal,” said Charlie, as they all stood slightly dazed, in line for coffee and a bagel with cream cheese and lox. At a funeral.
“This was Sam’s favorite,” said Jack. “He got a bagel with cream cheese and lox and a coffee every Friday morning at the bakery.”
“I don’t mean the bagels are surreal. I’m talking about this whole situation,” said Charlie. “There’s no violent crime in Paperwick!”
“Well, not since that whole witch business back in the 1600s, anyway,” mumbled Jack, elbowing Rosemary.
“And now, here we are, eating bagels, with two murders in as many days.”
“We don’t know that Victoria was murdered,” said Seth. “You saw her stumbling out of Sam’s last night. It’s more likely she had an accident.”
“I guess you’re right,” said Charlie, a little relieved.
“Look at Becky,” said Rosemary, peering through the crowd to where Becky Thatcher stood, dressed in black, dark circles under her eyes, holding an untouched bagel in one hand. “Imagine how she’s feeling. Her husband killed one of their dearest friends.”
“George said involuntary manslaughter,” said Seth. “So, he didn’t mean to kill him, apparently.”
“I heard them arguing. In the woods,” said Rosemary. “I was talking to Ingrid. It was just after you left, Seth. I wonder why they were so angry at each other.”
“Remember last night? Victoria said Ben was jealous of Sam. She really hit a nerve,” said Jack.
“No kidding,” said Rosemary. “I know that they were meeting to discuss the security cameras that were being installed around the meadow. Sam told me Benedict was in charge of the project.”
“And when Becky arrived, looking for them, she only found Sam, already dead, and Ingrid Clark standing over him. So, Benedict must’ve argued with Sam, somehow killed him, and left…” said Seth.
“Then Ingrid showed up, found him…” added Jack.
“That would’ve been right after she left me,” said Rosemary. “Then shortly after that, I packed up my things and was walking back toward the church when I heard Becky scream. The timeline makes sense.”
“Let’s talk more about this over lunch,” said Jack. “I have to get over to campus for class.”
“So do I,” said Seth.
“Rosemary, want to come along?”
“I’ll come over shortly,” said Rosemary. “I want to check on Mrs. Potter first.”
Even in the midst of police and paramedics rushing about, Potter’s Bed and Bakery smelled like heaven. The bakery was downstairs, and customers were still being handed bags of cookies and carefully wrapped loaves of bread over the glass display cases that were filled with good things.
As Rosemary entered the bakery, George was just coming down the stairs with Mrs. Potter, another officer trailing behind.
Rosemary stood looking at the array of tarts, cookies, and pastries as though she was pondering what to purchase, all the while, straining to hear George and Mrs. Potter’s conversation.
“We’ll have to clear the place out, just for a bit,” George was saying. “You understand.”
“Of course I understand, George,” said Mrs. Potter.
“The paramedics will move the body out, and then we’ll be able to confine our investigation to the second floor in Ms. Winthrop’s room. I’m expecting Detective Weaser within the next few minutes.”
“I’m just so glad you’re here, George. So upsetting.” Mrs. Potter lowered her voice a bit. “It looks like she passed out drunk. Shoes strewn on the floor, an empty brandy bottle right there on the bed with her. Did she die in her sleep?”
“Too soon to tell,” said George. “There may have been other substances involved. We found some prescription pills in the medicine cabinet that wouldn’t have mixed well with too much alcohol. Perhaps Ms. Winthrop took something. It was probably accidental, from what I can tell, although we can’t yet rule out suicide or, well, something else.”
“Something else? What else could it be?” asked Mrs. Potter, alarmed.
“We’ll know more when the coroner determines the cause of death,” said George. “Until then, we’ll have to keep the room exactly as it is. Sorry for the inconvenience, Mrs. P.”
“Don’t you worry about that, George. Meanwhile, have a cinnamon roll. I know they’re your favorite.”
Mrs. Potter shimmied behind the counter, grabbed a bakery bag and a pair of tongs, and put a giant cinnamon roll, gleaming with frosting and studded with pecans, into the bag. She folded the top of the bag closed and handed it to George.
“You go ahead and start clearing out the customers, dear,” she said. “I’ll take a few trays of donuts outside for your crew.”
George thanked Mrs. Potter, who had just spotted Rosemary and waved her over.
“Can you believe this sad business, Rosemary?” she asked, shaking her head and sliding a couple of huge, donut-laden trays out from one of the glass display cases.
“Here. Let me help you take these outside, Mrs. Potter.”
“Thank you, dear. I’m still having a hard time getting over a death in our little inn. This has never happened before! And we’re all still reeling from the loss of Sam.”
“So, you were the one who found Victoria, I take it?” asked Rosemary, taking one of the trays and heading outside along with the other customers who were vacating the bakery.
“Yes. Awful!” said Mrs. Potter. “I was all ready to walk down to Sam’s memorial service. Thought I’d offer to walk over with the poor girl. I mean, as rude as she’d been, I thought maybe it was all because she was grieving, and I felt a wave of sympathy. But when I knocked on her door, there was no answer.
“We’ve been here at the bakery, of course, since very early this morning, baking and getting things ready for our morning rush. So, I knew Ms. Winthrop—assuming she was in her room—had not left for the service yet. What can I say? I had a bad feeling. I have a knack about people, and I know that woman was deeply troubled.”
“So, when she didn’t answer the door . . .”
“Well, the door was open a crack, so I decided to take a peek,” said Mrs. Potter, showing Rosemary where to set down the donut-laden tray. “And there she was.”
“On the bed?” asked Rosemary. “I mean—I don’t want to pry.. . . .”
“Not at all. Yes, she was on the bed, still in her clothes. She hadn’t even made down the comforter. It looked like she’d walked into the room, kicked off her shoes, and passed out cold.”
“And never woke up again,” said Rosemary.
“Exactly. I supposed she and Sam are together now,” said Mrs. Potter, laying a hand over her heart and looking upward.
“I guess you heard that Mr. Thatcher confessed to killing Sam,” said Rosemary.
“Oh, yes! Broke my heart! George told me. He said the man was on the verge of a breakdown when he arrived at the police station in the middle of the night. He’d been carrying the burden of horrible guilt.”
“So, it was an accident, right? I mean, Mr. Thatcher didn’t kill Sam on purpose.” Rosemary wondered how far she could pry without crossing the line and sounding insensitive.
“Oh yes. George said that Ben and Sam had a horrible fight, Ben pushed Sam, and Sam hit his head on a rock. Benedict was horrified at what he’d done and ran away. He was so ashamed and panicked, he ran for a doctor instead of calling 9-1-1. In the meantime, Becky texted him, said she’d gone to the meadow to find him, but found poor Sam instead. And he was already dead! Can you imagine? All this time, Benedict knowing what had happened and not saying a word? Awful!”
“Becky got there and made the mistake of thinking Ingrid Clark had killed Sam,” said Rosemary.
“Poor old Ingrid,” said Mrs. Potter. “She made no secret of her feelings about Sam—and she’s definitely crossed the line a few times. There was an incident with a brick and a nasty note that I won’t go into now. But I don’t believe she’d ever actually hurt anyone. I mean, h
ave you seen her garden?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.”
“She plants seeds. Helps things grow. The way she cares for those plants . . .” Mrs. Potter shook her head. “Ingrid’s no killer, I’d bet my bottom dollar on it. Sad as it is that Benedict is in jail, I’m glad Ingrid was cleared.”
“Me too,” said Rosemary. “In fact, I think I’ll pay her a visit or ask her to dinner.”
“That would be very nice, dear. Well, I’d better go put on another pot of coffee before Detective Weaser arrives. Give my best to the boys. And in spite of all this mess, I hope you’re enjoying your stay in Paperwick.”
Rosemary smiled. “In spite of all of this, I am,” she said.
“This is going to sound crazy,” said Rosemary over lunch with Jack and Seth. “But what would you think of the idea of inviting Ingrid Clark out to the farm? I mean, so she can see where her ancestors lived?”
“I actually love that idea,” said Jack.
“Really? Even though she’s a bit of a nut?”
“Are you kidding? The nuttier, the better, I say. I’d like to make friends with Ingrid—and not just because we’re going to need her for our book. I love it that she’s connected to our land and the legend of Hortence Gallow. Let’s invite her to come over tonight for dinner. It’ll be a hoot.”
“Wonderful.”
“Do you think she’ll accept the invitation?” asked Seth.
“I think so,” said Rosemary. “We’ve established a little bit of a friendly rapport. And she is very dedicated to her family and its history. I think she’d love to see the place her eleven-times great-grandmother and aunt lived.”
“Great. Call her up, and we’ll make an evening of it,” said Jack. “Charlie will be thrilled. As a writer, he loves meeting new characters. Seth, you come too.”
“Are you sure you want me here three nights in a row?” laughed Seth.
“Absolutely,” Rosemary answered for Jack. “Besides, I think Ingrid approves of you.”
“But bring a pan of your brownies, just in case,” said Jack.
28
Rosemary was glad the predicted rain was holding off as she helped Jack and Charlie in the kitchen that evening. Seth had offered to pick up Ingrid, who had considered their invitation with surprising tolerance. She’d even almost smiled. When Rosemary promised to show her the old barn, she’d agreed to come.
Rosemary was in charge of the cheese and crackers platter. Charlie was making a quick shepherd’s pie, and Jack was throwing together a salad. The fire was lit, and the house was warm and inviting and ready for company. The sun was just starting to move toward setting, so there would be plenty of daylight left to show Ingrid around outside before dinner.
“They’re heeere,” said Jack, coming back into the kitchen after setting the table.
From the window, Rosemary smiled, watching Seth run around to open the door for Ingrid, who looked none the worse for wear after her time in police custody. She flung her door open just as Seth reached for it, knocking him aside.
“That woman is a force to be reckoned with,” Jack said in genuine admiration, looking out the window over Rosemary’s shoulder.
“She is that,” agreed Rosemary.
Jack called Charlie, and together, they all hurried into the entry room and opened the door before Seth had even rung the bell.
“Hello, and welcome!” said Jack. He held out a hand to Ingrid, who frowned at his hand, but didn’t shake it.
“Hello, Ingrid,” said Rosemary. “So glad you’re here.”
“As are we,” said Charlie. “Glad you’re here and not . . . well, in jail . . . anymore.”
“Thanks,” said Ingrid, who actually smiled a little at Charlie. “So am I.”
“Dinner’s almost ready,” he said. “How about we show you around before it gets dark?”
“But first, we’d like to return these to you,” said Rosemary, handing Ingrid Mercy’s diary and the file of articles about Sam that they’d found in Ingrid’s desk.
“Well, you keep the diary for now,” said Ingrid gently. “And these,” she held out the file. “Let’s recycle these. I don’t need them anymore.”
“Will do,” said Jack, taking the items from Ingrid and running them down the hallway.
“I know you must’ve wondered about that file,” Ingrid said, looking down at her hands and then up at Rosemary and Seth.
“Well, we could understand why it was better if Detective Weaser didn’t discover them,” said Rosemary.
“You really weren’t a fan of the mayor,” said Seth with a chuckle.
“No, I was not,” admitted Ingrid. “When you’ve lived as long as I have, and your family has lived in the same place for generations, you know the families. You watch and wait and wonder if the descendants will favor the good or the bad in their own bloodlines. The Wrights were good folks. The Graves were not. I remembered Mercy’s descriptions of Matthew Graves and couldn’t help but see the similarities in Samuel Wright. Handsome. Ambitious. Charming. Always reaching. Always hungry. So, I followed what he was doing here in our town very closely.”
“And the thing with the brick through his window?”
“Oh, if I had that to do again!” said Ingrid. “If I could’ve pulled that brick back in space the second after it left my hand . . . I know that was wrong. I just . . . got so tired of him not listening to my concerns. Of him not meeting my eyes, you know? As though I was just some crazy old lady who could be brushed aside. So, I made him listen.”
“Well, first,” said Rosemary. “You’re not that old.”
“I’m seventy-five if I’m a day!”
“Seventy is the new fifty-five,” put in Charlie, who’d been standing by quietly.
“And second,” Rosemary continued, “I’d have been mad, too. And I discovered some notes in the library that Sam had written, and I think you were right about him planning to exploit your family’s struggles.”
Ingrid nodded gratefully and gave a little sniffle.
“So, seventy’s the new fifty-five, is it?” she said, looking at Charlie.
“You’ve got a long life ahead of you, young lady,” he said with a smile. “And you’re going to be having lots of dinners here with us, and spending as much time on this land as you’d like.”
Rosemary had never seen Ingrid smile with her whole face. She always half-smiled or seemed to be stifling a smile. But now, Ingrid grinned so broadly that her whole face lit up, and Rosemary’s heart filled.
“Now let’s get outside and look around before the sun sets,” said Jack, who’d come back into the room and ran to open the back door.
Ingrid nodded, and they all stepped out onto the back porch that overlooked the pond.
They showed Ingrid the old barn, showed her where they’d found Mercy’s note, walked through Jack and Charlie’s miniature orchard, with its handful of apple and pear trees, and ended standing on the dock.
“It’s my understanding that the Clarks—and others who farmed the land after them—used the water from this pond for everything from irrigation to drinking water,” said Charlie.
“It’s in the perfect spot, you see,” said Ingrid, taking in the land around them. “Fresh rain would run off into this pond from all the land around it. It’s one of the reasons this parcel of land was so valuable.”
“The first thing that attracted us to this place was its history,” said Jack. “And your family’s history in particular.”
“We truly want you to know that you’re welcome here anytime,” said Charlie. “And we’ll always do our best to be good stewards of this land.”
“Well, I appreciate that,” said Ingrid, who’d softened up so much that she was almost unrecognizable.
“The sun’s setting. We often sit here on the water to watch it, and I think the rain is still a good distance off,” said Charlie. “Would you like to sit awhile?”
Ingrid nodded and took a seat. “You know, the people who owned this pl
ace before you weren’t so friendly. This is actually the first time I’ve been on this land since my mother brought me here as a little girl.”
“We didn’t know you’d been here before,” said Jack, smiling.
“Just that one time. And it’s more beautiful, even, than I remember it—and that’s saying a lot. You boys have done a lot with the house.”
“It’s been fun,” said Jack.
“A labor of love,” added Charlie.
The sky was now a riot of pink and lavender. A small flock of ducks glided over the pond, circled, and skidded into the water on the far side. Rosemary looked at Ingrid, who was watching them closely.
“She’s almost free, you know,” she said. “Hortence.”
“Almost?” said Rosemary.
“Seth here told me all about your findings on our drive over. But I felt it even before he said a word. I felt it last night. You’ve found enough evidence to finally point to Hortence’s killer. I feel she’s slipping into the next world, just as she should. She’ll be with Mercy and Lilly and all the rest.” Ingrid met Rosemary’s eyes. “My family is grateful,” she said. “The ones who live in the world now. And the ones who came before. Thank you.”
“We were glad to help,” said Rosemary, smiling.
“And have you told Rosemary here about the little cottage?” asked Ingrid, looking at Charlie and Jack.
“What little cottage?” asked Rosemary.
“How did you know about that?” asked Jack.
“I could say I have a knack about these things,” said Ingrid. “And it would be true. But really, I am a very observant and intuitive person. I listen to things around town. I might not say a lot, so no one really knows I’m listening, but I am.”
“What cottage?” Rosemary asked again.
“That one,” said Ingrid, pointing to the cottage by the pond.
“Amazing,” said Charlie, looking at Ingrid.
“Not really,” said Ingrid. “Bert Ander told me he’s been over here working on the place, said you boys were hoping your friend who was visiting would decide to stay. Simple as that.”