“Well, sure, but if things get rough . . .”
He could see that she was smiling, though she didn’t look back at him.
“Oh,” Annabel said, “things have been rough for a while. Jack said they’d get easier here, but they haven’t. I’m not surprised.” Finally, she looked back at him, giving him a smile and a flash of her pretty eyes. “So I’m used to things being rough.”
“As rough as all this?” Chad asked, as the truck rattled onto the main road leading into Woodfield. “A dead man’s hand being found on your property? Two people going missing from your house? The cops searching the place? Can you handle all that?”
Annabel’s smiled faded and she looked away again. “We shall see,” she said softly. “We shall see.”
79
From his desk, Richard could hear the special weather bulletin on the television warning of an impending major winter storm. “Snowfalls possible of up to four to five feet,” the woman in the bright pink jacket was saying, doing her best to look suitably concerned.
Richard was worried, but not about snow. He turned another page in the collection of cold case files on his desk. His predecessor as chief of police, Thad Arnette, had been on the job when Jack Devlin’s father had “gone mad,” as Millie described it. Arnette had left a fascinating note about the episode.
I questioned Devlin at length, both about his wife and his daughter, because some things just did not add up. Investigating the little Devlin girl’s disappearance, we discovered the mother had also recently died, reportedly of breast cancer. But no death certificate could be located for her, and no hospital in the state had records of her being a patient. Devlin explained this by saying that there was a paperwork mix-up and that the death certificate would be issued shortly. He seemed very uneasy, easily distracted, and sometimes did not make complete sense. We need to follow up with him, and see when that death certificate is filed.
Richard ran his hand across his short-cropped hair. Arnette suspected Devlin’s father of something, he realized. Perhaps some complicity in, or knowledge of his wife’s death and daughter’s disappearance.
But soon after that note came another.
Devlin has left town, returning to New York with his son. Have not received death certificate for Mrs. Devlin.
And then that was it. Most likely, other cases took precedence and after a while, with Devlin gone, Arnette forgot about him. Out of sight, out of mind. Not the best way to run a police department, Richard acknowledged, but it happened. The questions Arnette had about the death of Mrs. Devlin and the disappearance of the little girl—Cindy, her name was—were filed away among the rest of the cold case files.
What had happened to Jack Devlin’s mother if she didn’t die of cancer?
Richard buzzed for his secretary. “Betty,” he said, “could you come here in a moment?”
She was promptly bustling through the door. Betty was a good scout. Utterly devoted to the department. She’d been there twenty-one years. She’d started right out of high school as a file clerk, working her way up to secretary to the chief. She was thirty-nine years old, a little plump, with short bronze-colored hair. She was always smiling, or smirking.
“You rang, master?” she quipped.
“Betty, tell me what you remember about Jack Devlin’s parents.”
She was biting the end of a pencil. “The parents? Didn’t really know them. They weren’t here very long. The grandparents, of course, were here for decades. . . .”
“Yes, but do you remember when his parents came to Woodfield? His father was going to take over the inn, I believe, just as Jack is doing now.”
Betty was nodding. “Yes, that’s right. I do remember when they came, but they were gone in a flash, it seemed, right after the little girl got eaten by a bear.”
“That was never proven.”
“It wasn’t?”
Richard shook his head. “No, it wasn’t. Do you remember that the mother died of breast cancer?”
“Oh, that’s right, I do remember that. Poor thing. I saw her at the market a few times. Seemed very pretty, full of life. Then all of a sudden she was gone.”
Richard pursed his lips. “So,” he said, “she didn’t ever appear sickly?”
“No. I remember being real surprised hearing that she’d died, especially of cancer. It surprised everyone. One day, she was just gone.”
Richard sat back in his chair. “According to the official story, she was taken to a hospital and died there.”
Betty grinned. “And you don’t believe it.”
“I’m just questioning it.”
“What does that have to do with what’s happening at the Blue Boy today?”
Richard shrugged. “Maybe nothing. I’m just trying to get a history of everything that’s gone down there. It’s had more than its share of tragedy and mystery.”
“That’s for sure. You know who would know a lot about the Blue Boy?”
“No, who?”
“Agnes Daley. She’s at the library. She’s the town historian, but really she’s the town gossip. Knows everything about everyone.” Betty shuddered. “Probably knows a few secrets of mine, too. I wouldn’t get on Agnes’s bad side.”
“How long has she lived in town?”
“All her life. And she’s got to be seventy-five, at least. She can take you way back.”
“Thanks,” Richard said. “I think I’ll give her a call.”
“I’ll get you the number for the library,” Betty told him.
Within a few minutes, Richard was punching in buttons for the Woodfield Public Library. As the line rang, the chief’s eyes glanced off toward the window. The snow was coming down lightly, little spirals of white. He hoped the accumulation wouldn’t be too heavy. That always meant a nightmare for police work, with people snowed in on their streets, businesses unable to open, and fender benders all over town.
“Public library, Agnes Daley,” a raspy, efficient voice suddenly announced.
Richard introduced himself.
“Chief Carlson!” the town historian exclaimed. “It’s not every day that the chief of police calls me. What can I do for you?” Her ragged voice bore the unmistakable sound of someone who had smoked cigarettes all her life.
“I’d like to talk to you about what you know about the history of the Blue Boy Inn,” Richard told her.
“The Blue Boy Inn?” Agnes snorted. “Oh, not you, too, chief.”
“What do you mean, not me, too?”
“At least once a week the library gets a call from some far-flung corner of the world—Arkansas or Oregon or New Zealand or East Timbukistan—asking about that place. Ghost hunters, you know. They want details and pictures and otherworldly accounts.”
Richard laughed. “Well, I’m interested in the history of this world, Ms. Daley.”
“Call me Agnes, or we’ll never get along.”
“All right, Agnes.”
“Is this about the latest disappearances?” she rasped. “And Roger Askew’s hand? Because if so, I don’t have any idea how—”
“Well, that’s what has prompted my investigation,” Richard said, interrupting her. “But I’m more interested at the moment in the inn’s previous history. How well did you know Cordelia Devlin?”
Agnes chortled. “As well as anyone could know her. She was a recluse. Barely ever left that house since her husband died. She always sent that strange old man, Zeke, she had working for her on errands into town.”
“Was she more social when her husband was alive?”
“I suppose she was. Then the husband died, and the son came up to take over the place . . .” Agnes’s voice faded off as she spoke.
“Did you know the son?” Richard asked. “That would be the current owner’s father.”
“I met him a few times. Seemed a nice enough man. Until the tragedies with his wife and daughter.”
It appeared Agnes knew little more about Jack’s father than Betty had. Richard tried a different t
ack.
“What about Cordelia’s husband?” he asked. “What kind of man was he?”
“Well, he was kind of an ambitious sort, as I remember, when he first took over the place from his father. But after that little baby died up there, he, too, became a recluse.”
“The one whose arm was the only thing found?”
“Oh, yes,” Agnes said. “How sad that was. Poor little thing. They said the child must have been eaten by a bear, just like what was supposed to have happened to little Cindy Devlin years later, though they found nothing of her.”
“Sounds like you don’t believe these were bear attacks.”
Agnes snorted again. “Well, they fit so well into the haunted house narrative—you know, the curse of the Blue Boy Inn. So many deaths up there.”
“Do you remember any others?”
“I remember that man McGurk. I was a little girl then. Freaked me out, as the kids say today. They found a body with no head. How outrageous is that? In the middle of the parlor yet! Never found the killer, either.”
“Yes,” Richard said. “I’ve been reading up on that case. The investigators eventually closed the case. Everyone in the house had an alibi, and the head was never found, so they never made an arrest.”
“There have been other deaths and disappearances, too,” said Agnes.
“I have them all here in my files,” Richard told her. “How far do the stories of a curse go back?”
“Well, right back to the beginning,” she replied.
“And when was the beginning?”
“Well,” Agnes said, thinking, “the Blue Boy was built around 1865, I think. Right after the Civil War. It’s been extensively remodeled several times, and the integrity of its original architecture is gone, but I think you can still see some of the original structure. I haven’t been up there in an awfully long time, so I can’t say for sure.”
“Was it always an inn?”
“Oh, no. In the beginning it was a pastor’s house. That’s where the stories of the curse began.”
“Care to fill me in?” Richard asked.
“Its original owner was the Reverend John Fall. He was the head of a little church that once stood on the property as well. But in 1869, John Fall was hanged.”
“Hanged?” Richard asked. “For what?”
“Murder,” Agnes replied. “One of his pretty young parishioners was found with her throat slit from ear to ear. But word around town was that the deeper crime of Reverend Fall was witchcraft. According to the rumor, he’d killed the poor girl in some kind of satanic ritual. His church, these stories insisted, was merely a cover for his black arts.”
“Any proof of that?”
“Nope. Just the legends that persisted for decades after his death. The official line was that Fall had killed her because she was going to tell his wife they were having an affair.”
Richard sighed. “I can see why stories of a curse would begin, if the original owner had been suspected of witchcraft.”
“But there’s no denying, chief, that ever since, lots of people have died or disappeared up there,” Agnes told him.
“No,” he agreed. “There’s no denying that.”
“The church was torn down, and the house sat vacant for many years, until someone got the idea to open it up as an inn. Soon after the turn of the twentieth century, the Devlin family bought it, and they’ve owned it ever since.”
“The current owner is the fourth generation of the family then,” Richard said.
“Yes, sir. And he’s already seeing the curse at work.”
Richard laughed. “Surely you don’t believe in it, Agnes.”
“I’m a confirmed agnostic in all areas of my life. That doesn’t mean I don’t believe. It means that I neither believe nor disbelieve.” She laughed. “It’s the only path for a historian, unless you want to bring your own biases to your study of history.”
“That sounds like the smart approach,” Richard told her.
“I hope I’ve been of some help to you, chief.”
Richard told her she had, and thanked her for her time.
“No problem,” Agnes replied. “If you want to show your appreciation, you can make sure my street is plowed first thing in the morning, before anyone else’s when this blasted blizzard simmers down.”
Richard laughed. “I’ll speak with public works,” he told her.
“Much obliged,” Agnes said.
After he had had hung up the phone, Richard thought he could hardly base an investigation on rumors of a nearly two-hundred-year-old charge of witchcraft. How foolish people were. Maybe they just couldn’t believe a man of the cloth could succumb to the desires of the flesh and cheat on his wife, so they had concocted a tale about satanic rituals to account for it. He had learned little of use, it seemed, from town historian Agnes Daley.
But there’s no denying, chief, that ever since, lots of people have died or disappeared up there.
Nope. There was no denying that.
Richard stared out the window. The snow was coming down heavier now. The snow made him think of Amy. But everything made him think of Amy.
80
Annabel and Chad came through the front door shaking snow off their coats and boots. “Gosh, it’s really coming down!” Annabel exclaimed.
“Sure is,” Chad agreed. “In another hour those roads won’t be passable. The storm has come earlier than they were predicting. We got back just in time.”
“I’ll make some hot tea,” Annabel offered, “if you don’t have to rush right off.”
Chad nodded. “I want to take a look at the fireplace to make sure the flue isn’t damaged. When you’ve got this bad of a storm, you should really keep the flue closed.”
“Oh, good idea, thank you.”
Chad headed off into the parlor while Annabel made her way to the kitchen.
She turned the corner and walked straight into someone standing there. She gasped out loud.
“Jack!” she cried.
Her husband smiled down at her. “I heard you say you wanted tea. I’ve already got some ready, baby cakes. I figured you’d come in chilled to the bone.”
“Oh.” Annabel was flustered for a moment. “Great, thanks.”
“Shall I pour you a cup?” he asked.
“Yes, please, Jack, thanks. And pour a cup for Chad, too. He’s just checking the fireplace.”
Jack smiled as he lifted the steaming pot off the stove. “The fireplace?” he asked.
“Yes. He’s making sure the flue closes. With the storm coming, we’ll want to make sure.”
“Of course. Smart thinking.”
He handed Annabel a mug, the steam rising from it in waves.
“Careful, sweetie pie. Don’t burn your tongue.”
She accepted the mug and held it in her hands.
“I’ll pour one for Chad and set it here on the table for him,” Jack said. “Let it cool off just a little bit.”
Annabel cupped her mug between her two hands and stared at her husband. How sweet he seemed all of a sudden. He reminded her of the caring man he’d been during her hospitalization, how supportive he had been, how thoughtful. Jack had stuck by her through the worst of times. She had been so grateful to him.
This was the real Jack, she wanted to believe. The Jack of the past few days—mysterious and defensive—had been simply the product of stress and fear. And grief, over losing his grandmother. And worry, over the disappearances of Priscilla and Paulie and what that might mean to their business venture.
“Have a sip of tea, sugar babe,” Jack said. “Take the chill off.”
“Still too hot,” she said, blowing on the mug. “I sure hope we don’t get snowbound. I don’t like the idea of being trapped.”
Jack smiled. “Your old claustrophobia. Don’t worry, angel heart. I’ll dig a path from the front door to the street. You won’t be trapped.”
A smile bloomed on her face despite her misgivings. “Thanks, Jack. So, Neville’s gone?
I didn’t see his car.”
“Neville’s gone,” Jack told her. “Drink your tea, baby doll.”
She blew on the mug again. “He called me, you know, before he left.”
“Neville did?”
“Yes.” She locked eyes on Jack. “He said he’d been locked in his room.”
Jack frowned. “Yes, he told the police chief that, too. Sweetheart, the key was in his door outside. He must have left it there himself, and then the door locked again when he closed it. It’s a problem of these old doors.”
“You don’t think he had any cause to say he was locked in?”
Jack laughed. “Who would have locked him in, and why?”
Annabel sighed. “I don’t know, Jack. But we need to talk. Some very strange things have been happening. I understand when the police searched the chimney downstairs, they found none of the gunk that I put my hands into the other day. How did that all that get cleaned out?”
Jack looked mystified. “I don’t know. Maybe . . . Zeke cleaned it out?”
“I’m wondering that myself.”
“I’ll ask him.” Jack appeared as if a light suddenly went off in his head. “That could explain why the police found nothing.” He smiled over at Annabel. “You know, I was very cooperative with them. I figured it was better to show that we had nothing to hide than to act as if we did.”
“Oh, I’m glad, Jack.”
His smile broadened. “Drink your tea, honey. You’re still shivering.”
Annabel returned his smile. Then she lifted the mug to her lips and drank.
81
“Christ,” Chad said in a low voice, checking the fireplace one more time to be sure.
That’s blood, he thought to himself.
He was squatting down, inspecting the floor of the fireplace, specifically the ash dump opening. It was a big panel, a good three feet by two feet, and all around its edges there was a sticky brownish-red liquid. When Chad touched his finger to it, he felt certain it was blood. Still fresh. Not dried.
The Inn Page 21