by Cleo Coyle
“We’re really sorry, Officer, sir,” Amy said, as her lower lip began to quiver. “We were just playing, that’s all.”
Eddie leaned through the open door to check the car’s interior. He jiggled the emergency brake, examined the radio and the computer hooked to the dash by a metal rack.
When he rose and faced the children again, tears were welling in Amy’s eyes.
“Look, no harm done, and no need to get upset, Amy.” The ice in Eddie’s tone thawed under the rain of the little girl’s tears.
“Don’t worry, Officer Franzetti,” Spencer said. “It will never happen again.”
“Good!” Eddie’s tone hardened again as he turned his attention back on my son. “Because that was a really stupid move, Spencer. No more stunts like that, okay? I don’t want to be arresting you a few years from now for something worse. We’ve got enough juvenile delinquents in Quindicott as it is.”
I stepped around Eddie. “Okay. My turn. That baloney about Grand Theft Auto might have gotten you off the hook with Officer Franzetti, but not me. You two are far too bright to get yourself in trouble without a good reason. Tell me the truth. What were you really up to?”
Amy’s eyes dried up fast as she exchanged guilty glances with Spencer.
I folded my arms. “We are not budging from this spot until you tell the truth. Explain the car. What did you want in there? How did you even get in?”
Amy pushed up her glasses. “Well, Mrs. McClure, when we came outside, I noticed the police car window was down. I peeked in and saw the computer was running, so I reached in and unlocked the door.”
“Yeah,” Spence said, jumping in. “The dash computer was still logged in to the mainframe at the station, so—”
“So I typed in my father’s name. I wanted to see the police report on the auto accident that killed him.”
“Why?”
“Nobody told me what really happened, Mrs. McClure. Nobody even talked to me about it!”
Eddie rubbed the back of his neck. “We didn’t want to trouble you, Amy—”
“But I know things!” the girl insisted. “You should have come and talked to me. That’s why Spencer helped me get into the police computer. I wanted to see if the police knew who killed my dad, and why.”
Eddie sighed. “There’s no why, Amy. It was just a tragic accident.”
“I don’t think so.” Amy shook her brown curls. “On my first day at the university seminar, Dad texted me this . . .”
Amy showed us the message on her phone:
Honey, I’m sorry we couldn’t be together while your mom is on vacation, but I’m proud of you for earning a spot at the seminar.
Things have been tough since your mom and I split, but there is good news. I’ve just finished a project that’s paying so well we’re going to take that trip to Disney World during spring break.
There will be more money, too, lots more. It’s owed to me, and I still have to work out some details. Once I do, I’ll be able to move back to Boston. I’ll get to see you more often. For now, you can count on us being together for a whole week in the spring. I promise.
Do your best! I’ll see you as soon as I straighten out this money situation.
Love, Dad
“Don’t you see?!” Amy said, her tone almost pleading. “My dad was arguing with someone over money. That sounds serious!”
“You father didn’t use the word argue,” Eddie reasoned.
“He wrote ‘straighten out this money situation’—that sounds like an argument to me!”
“Grown-ups often have discussions about money,” Eddie countered. “That’s not unusual, Amy.”
“But you didn’t even know about this, did you, Officer? Not until I showed you my dad’s text.”
Eddie’s stiff expression told me this bright girl was right.
“And what about the footage from the university parking lot?” she went on.
“What footage?” I asked.
“In the police electronic file on my dad, I found this security camera footage of my dad arguing with someone.” She held up her phone. The girl had taken a video of the police tape. “Who is that man? I can’t see his face, and you came out and stopped us before I could—”
“That man is another teacher from the university,” Eddie said, “and we’ve already spoken with him. His name is Professor Parker—”
Brainert? That surprised me. He never mentioned having a fight with Kevin on the night the man died.
“Dr. Parker already told me about their discussion,” Eddie continued. “Your father wanted him to get a bite to eat, but Dr. Parker had to grade papers and couldn’t join him. If you were to watch all the footage, you would see that your father and Professor Parker drove off in different directions. Dr. Parker went home—”
“And Dad got killed on the highway.”
“Sometimes accidents happen,” Eddie said.
Amy squeezed her eyes shut. Then she looked down, her long curls falling forward to cover her face. “My dad said we were going to be together. A whole week of fun. He promised . . .”
I knelt and gently pushed back Amy’s curtain of hair. Her eyes were filled with tears again, big ones, real ones.
“Do you want to go somewhere and talk, honey? I know you enjoyed the church service on Sunday. Would you like to speak with Reverend Waterman again?”
Amy shook her head and wiped her eyes. “The reverend was nice enough to me, but if it’s okay with you, I’d rather go to the cemetery and talk to my dad.”
That I understood. “Sure, honey. I’ll take you there.”
CHAPTER 29
Something to Do with Death
Perhaps the mourners learn to look to the blue sky by day, and to the stars by night, and to think that the dead are there, and not in graves.
—Charles Dickens, The Old Curiosity Shop, 1841
QUINDICOTT CEMETERY, “OLD Q” to longtime residents, dated back to the founding of the town itself. Some of the earliest tombstones, scattered among the twisted trees of the ancient section, displayed dates from the early 1700s.
The early generations of the town’s settlers like the McClures, the Hudsons, the Lodges, and the Smiths were buried here—though the more recent dead from these families were interred in splendid Newport mausoleums.
Less prominent inhabitants included Aunt Sadie’s father; my mother; my older brother, Pete; and my own dear dad.
The most recent arrival at this fateful address was Amy’s father, Dr. Kevin Ridgeway, his grave next to those of his mother, father, and grandparents. Still just a grassless mound, surrounded by a sea of lush green, the scent of fresh-turned earth was strong. No tombstone yet marked the man’s final resting place. The ground was too soft to set it. Only a metal marker shined dully in the bright autumn sun.
Amy walked ahead and stood silently beside the grave. Though the day was clear, the birds were quiet, the only sound a rustling of alder leaves around us.
I wasn’t sure what to do, but Spencer knew. He told me to leave them alone for a while, that he would come find me when they were done. Then he hurried forward to join his friend.
I watched from a distance as Amy and Spencer stood side by side, unspeaking. Then Spencer took her hand, and they began to talk.
I was touched by Spencer’s tenderness toward his friend. I was proud of him, too. But as I moved away to give them privacy, a disquieting feeling rose up; not jealousy, exactly, but something like it.
My son was whispering secret things to a female that wasn’t me. Spencer was still a child, of course, and would need his mother for years. But one day, he’d find her, the love of his life, a soul mate. And I would be left alone.
That dreadful, awful feeling of losing a life entwined with yours was far from new to me. Only a few rows beyond, my entire family was buried under another alder
tree. I’d lost my mother when I was close to Spencer’s age. Then I lost my older brother and finally my father. As I walked toward the site, I heard a strange sound—and then I saw a man, partially hidden behind the wide trunk of a century-old oak.
The man stood among the gravestones, in front of a painter’s easel, his thick legs braced, his beefy arm slashing violently, intently splashing color onto canvas.
With a start, I realized I knew him. Whitman Brink, a regular customer at Buy the Book, and, according to Eddie, Emma Hudson’s downstairs neighbor.
Mr. Brink was a large man, not as paunchy as Chief Ciders, but tall and thick around the middle. His skin had good color from painting outdoors every day, but the deep wrinkles in his fleshy face seemed to mark every one of his seventy-plus years.
“Hello there, Mr. Brink!”
“Mrs. McClure? What are you doing in this solemn place? Surely you’re not delivering the new Dennis Lehane I ordered?”
“That’s not coming out until next week. Actually, I came to visit my family. They’re buried right over there.” I pointed out the spot.
With a nod, he said, “My own family is interred here, too. Wife and daughter, side by side, with a plot waiting for me.”
I followed his gaze to a pair of simple tombstones. “Your wife had a beautiful name . . . Lydia—”
“And my daughter was Lillian.”
I read the dates. Mr. Brink’s wife had died just seven years after his daughter. “Lillian was only thirteen?”
“She died of leukemia,” he said with a curt nod.
I’d never looked closely at Mr. Brink’s clothing before. When we spoke, my focus tended to be on his animated blue eyes or neatly trimmed gray goatee. With Eddie’s revelation of his address, however, I noticed the fraying of the collar and cuffs on his rugby shirt, the worn state of his khaki pants, and the cracked and scuffed leather of his deck shoes.
“I’ve lost the light,” Brink said. Glancing at the sky, he scanned the western horizon. “Guess I should pack it in and head home.”
“And home is 1919 Pine Tree Avenue, right?”
“Not for much longer. I’ll soon be moving from that distressed address to the Estates, the gated community on Larchmont Avenue. A long time ago, my wife and I had a home up there, and I so loved the hills.”
“That’s good news for you. You must have sold quite a few paintings to afford such an exclusive address.”
He chuckled. “My paintings are good but far from fetching a small fortune. No, this windfall came from a publishing venture, Mrs. McClure. I can’t say more now, but there will be an announcement soon.”
“A publishing venture?” My curiosity was more than piqued. “You can’t give me a hint? Is it a thriller or maybe a crime novel?”
“Sadly, though I attempted it at one time, I will never be the new Tom Clancy, or a neo-noir sensation like James Ellroy. But at my age, you take your literary success where you can find it.”
“Will I be seeing the book soon?” I pressed. “Or is it published already? As a local author, Sadie and I would be happy to arrange a signing.”
He put his index finger to his lips. “I can’t say. Not yet.”
I did my best to keep a calm face, but inside alarm bells were clanging. Could Whitman Brink be the mysterious author I’ve been searching for?
Brink began folding up his easel, and I helped gather his things.
My next line of questioning would be tricky, and I’d have to sound casual. “I heard there was a death at your address the other day—”
“God, yes. It was awful,” Brink said, shaking his head. “Poor Emma.”
“You knew her?”
“One of the fallen.”
“Excuse me?”
“Emma had fallen on hard times, as I had. We met at the Laundromat across the street from the senior center and shared our tales of woe. I found her to be an interesting woman.”
“Did you speak with her recently?”
“The day she died. I was supposed to have dinner with her that very evening, but when I got home late that afternoon, I learned the terrible news—”
“But you’d already delivered baked goods for the meal, hadn’t you? Cinnamon buns and baguettes from Cooper Family Bakery, right?”
Mr. Brink’s jovial expression clouded. “Are you psychic, Mrs. McClure? Or just nosy?”
“I’m sorry, but I was the one who found Emma. She’d visited my bookshop, and a certain book, a big bestseller, disturbed her terribly. I was concerned, so I drove to her apartment to check on her. That’s when I found her body.”
“She was disturbed?” Brink said, confused. “By a book, you say? How odd! Emma always seemed so rational. But she did commit suicide, so perhaps I didn’t know her as well as I thought.”
“So you don’t think it was an accident?”
“You mean that baloney in the local paper? The house at Pine Tree may look like a dump, but it’s not a hazard. I saw with my own eyes that Emma’s balcony and railing are still intact.”
We’d reached Brink’s car—not the “jalopy” his landlord described, but a brand-new Lincoln Continental with a Stuckley Motors license plate frame. When he popped the trunk to load up the easel, I spied a catalog for the St. Francis University Adult Education Program.
“I see you attend St. Francis.”
“Three courses in the Political Science Department last year, back when I still dreamed of writing a hit thriller.” He chuckled again, but it sounded hollow. “Oh well. Life certainly can throw us curves. This semester I may have to take a course on money management.”
Political Science at St. Francis University?
“I knew a Professor Kevin Ridgeway who taught in that department. Did you—?”
“Professor Ridgeway was a wonderful teacher. I thoroughly enjoyed his course examining the causes of the Cold War. The geopolitical tensions are still with us. In fact . . .”
Mr. Brink knew Professor Ridgeway! My heart beat faster with the revelation. Jack, did you hear that? Jack?!
I listened with anticipation for that gruff, cynical voice in my head, the one who helped me process facts and evidence, point me in the right direction, and come up with a plan of action.
But Jack wasn’t with me. I’d left him behind.
“Hey, Mom!” Spencer called. “We’re ready to go when you are. Mom?”
“Mrs. McClure? Your son and his young lady friend are here.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, blinking back my focus—in more ways than one. “It’s been nice talking with you, Mr. Brink. Do drop by the store.”
“I’ll be there Wednesday. For Dr. Leeds’s lecture.”
“Right. See you then!”
CHAPTER 30
A Nickel for Your Thoughts
Find a place inside where there’s joy, and the joy will burn out the pain.
—Joseph Campbell
OH, SO NOW you want my help?
Several hours later, Jack’s tone was understandably peeved. When he finally awoke from his slumber, he found his Buffalo nickel on my dresser, and me vamoosed without it—and him.
You gonna tell me why?
“Why I left you behind?” I asked, pulling my car onto Cranberry Street.
I’m a gumshoe, sweetheart. I think I can guess that.
“Then you want to know why I came back for you?”
To be precise, after driving back from Boston, it was the Buffalo nickel I’d returned for, the same coin now cozily tucked in its little silk purse, and pinned once again to my underthings.
“It’s because I missed you.”
Of course you missed me! I know you by now, baby, better than you know yourself. My question is about our case. You remember? The dame who took a nosedive off her petrified balcony? Where are you driving us?
“1919 Pine
Tree Avenue.”
The scene of the crime.
“Close.”
I need more than one piece of the puzzle, doll.
With Jack back on the case again, I took the length of our drive to paint him the bigger picture . . .
* * *
* * *
A FEW HOURS ago, I’d made the trip up to Boston with Spencer and Amy in the back seat. The traffic was light, and the kids behaved. Unfortunately, that was where my luck ran out.
No matter how much I argued, reasoned, and (as frustration set in) begged and pleaded with the seminar director, he refused to allow Spencer and Amy to return to campus for the remainder of the program.
“If it were up to me alone, Mrs. McClure, I’d acquiesce. Amy is an especially brilliant student, and the loss of her father is certainly a mitigating circumstance. But the rules are in place for legal reasons. Truancy at their age is serious business. If your son and Amy had gotten hurt or worse, our program would have faced heavy liabilities. Sorry. My hands are tied.”
A student assistant supervised Amy and Spencer as they packed up their belongings. Then, after a bite to eat at Spike’s Junkyard Dogs (Amy’s idea since they were her dad’s favorite), we piled back into my car.
By the time we were heading south to Quindicott, I realized I wasn’t all that upset about the situation. There was nothing more to be done, so why agonize over it? In the end, I came around to Jack’s way of thinking.
For weeks, Spencer had been looking forward to the seminar. He’d given up a lot to stand by his friend, and I knew why after overhearing some of the things he told her. The loss of his own father was something that still pained Spencer, and I realized that helping Amy through her grief was also helping my son.
I knew something about a child’s grief, too, and it wasn’t easily assuaged by grown-up rituals—formal prayers and services; carnations and flowers; verses of poetry and handfuls of dirt. A child’s loss was more basic, and I hoped we were taking good enough care of Amy.