“Yeah?” Liz looked up.
“If Matthew Birch, with his money and influence, was forming some group called the New Movement Alliance, I think the FBI would have known.”
“But Birch hired Ellison. Why hire your own informant?”
“From everything I’ve read and heard, Birch was serious about his conclave. I don’t see him knowingly bringing an informant into his house.” Possibilities were crowding her mind, vying for her attention. “But the FBI also fingered people as informants when they weren’t, in order to cause trouble within these groups. What if Ellison wasn’t an informant, but the FBI told Birch he was?”
Liz considered this. “Forget the FBI, anyone could have told Birch that Ellison was an informant.”
“With the likes of Matthew Birch and Gary Schwendeman in the group, that would be a death sentence.”
“Where’s that conclave photo?”
Anna swiftly dug it out of her purse and handed it to Liz.
“What do we know about the other people here?” Liz said, taking the photo to the chest by the window and holding it under the lamp.
Anna found the purple folder where Liz had hidden it and flipped it to where Bee had written down the names of the conclave members. “Schwendeman is dead,” she said.
“A bullet to the nose,” Liz said, shuddering.
Anna typed in a name. Seconds later, it popped up. “Nilla was right about Eric Browne. He died of a heart attack two years ago in Albuquerque. He moved there in 1970—maybe right after the meeting.”
“She said he was the only one who came back to the house. I wonder why he did.”
“Jeffrey Jay Alford.” Anna typed his name into a search engine and watched the results fill the screen. “He’s well known too.” She clicked on the top link.
“Is he still alive?”
“No. He lived in Denver until 1979, then traveled to Boston, got involved in left-wing politics, taught at someplace called the Marcuse Room. He died of cancer in 2007.”
Liz took the chair next to Anna’s and pondered the folder. “Right, then. We know Catherine Russo died of a drug overdose in Paris. Try Nate Petrick.”
Anna typed. “Nathaniel Anthony Petrick,” she said seconds later. “Born November 22, 1943, in Flint, Michigan. He lived in Boulder in the 1970s and moved to Ann Arbor in the 1980s. It looks like he’s still alive, living in Michigan.” She looked over at Liz. “Out of the eight people at the conclave, only two are still living.”
“And you’re meeting with one of them tomorrow. Sure you don’t want me to come?”
“I’m sure. I want Alice to talk, and she might feel intimidated with both of us there.”
“Do you think she will talk?”
“I think she desperately wants to. She wouldn’t have sent me those letters and contacted your website if she didn’t.”
Anna noticed the thunder this time. Softer and from a distance, it nevertheless rolled half a minute before ceasing.
“Are you hungry?” Liz asked.
Anna looked at her wristwatch. “It’s after midnight.”
Liz acknowledged the late hour with an awkward smile. “If it’s all right with you, I’d rather work as long as we can tonight and sleep in tomorrow. I’m not in the mood for another night of freaky noises, and anyway, it’s not like we can sleep while it’s going on. It seems to stop after two or three in the morning.”
“You’re right, it does. I wonder why.”
“And I don’t want to know if that painting has moved again. Not right now.”
Anna stood up and pushed back her chair with one foot. “Sounds good to me. I could do with a chicken sandwich.” She motioned to Jackson. “Come on, boy.”
It had been several hours since Jackson had last gone outside, Anna realized as she passed through the entryway. She asked Liz to wait for her then tugged hard at the front door, which with the dampness had continued to swell in the jamb. Jackson darted down the front steps, out to the driveway, and across the lawn as Anna watched him from the top step.
She stuck out her hand, feeling for raindrops, then followed her dog to the driveway. He was making circles in the lawn at the east side of the house, jumping over small shrubs, running up to her, then running back again across the lawn. Seeing him run, she felt a twinge of guilt. Jackson always paid a price for the long hours she worked. He hadn’t had enough exercise in the past few days. He was probably feeling more trapped in the house than she was.
And what about Liz? She wanted to go home. They’d both assumed the job at Sparrow House would benefit Liz’s website, but so far it had brought her little but trouble. The Elk Park Herald, like never before, was on the attack, out to ruin ElkNews.com and rid themselves of their only competition.
Anna looked back to the open front door where Liz was now standing, her arms wrapped across her chest as she shivered slightly in the chill air. She signaled her intention to get Jackson, then headed around across the lawn to the east side of the house, where Jackson was running in ever-widening circles. She gazed toward the peony garden in the distance and the woods beyond the garden.
Mitch had told her those woods were dangerous, and she was grateful for his warning, but at the time he hadn’t explained himself. He’d warned her then enjoyed her confusion as she tried to make sense of what he’d said. He seemed to know so much about the history of Sparrow House—or liked to give the impression that he did—but he said so little. He hinted, joked, and smiled, but he never explained. And he believed Devin was murdered but didn’t want to talk to the police about it.
And what about Nilla? She’d said Paxton’s father was dangerous, and she, too, wasn’t willing to explain herself. So many contradictions and silences.
Anna looked to her left, toward the carriage house. A light was on in one of its rooms. For a man who rose early and worked outdoors all day, Mitch was up very late. She twisted to her right and called softly to Jackson. He came running, tongue askew, mouth wide in a dog grin, and halted at her feet.
She thought of wiping down his wet legs and immediately dismissed the idea. In all the time she’d been in Sparrow House she’d yet been able to distinguish the dirty from the merely old. It all looked the same to her. Anna gave Jackson a pat on the head, tapped her leg with her hand, then started back to the house with him at her side.
“Sorry, I wanted to let Jackson run a little,” she told Liz as she mounted the steps. Once Liz and Jackson were inside, Anna pushed at the door until it clicked then headed for the kitchen.
While Anna sized up the coffeemaker for clues to its operation, Liz popped open the refrigerator. A moment later, with a small cry of victory, she withdrew a plate of sandwiches and planted it on the island.
“It’s like magic,” she said. “Every time we open the refrigerator, poof, there they are.”
“Don’t let Bee hear you say that.” Anna felt along the back of the machine until her fingers found a toggle switch. She pressed it and the coffeemaker came alive.
A sudden thud from above caused Jackson to growl. Unlike many dogs, he wasn’t a barker. He’d always growled at the sight or sound of something out of place.
“What was that?” Anna said. She dropped a package of coffee on the counter and walked to the center of the kitchen, glaring at the ceiling.
“I don’t want to know.” Liz snapped up a sandwich and with determined concentration began eating.
“That was louder than anything we’ve heard.”
“I really don’t want to know,” Liz mumbled, egg salad slipping from her mouth and onto the island.
The ceiling in the kitchen, Anna noticed, was adorned with the same swirling shapes that covered the ceilings in her bedroom and the library. But no handprints. Not that she could see, anyway.
“Anna, stop staring at it.”
Taken aback by the tone of voice, Anna looked down to Liz. She had always believed she was more susceptible to scary stories and things going bump in the night, but Liz was jittery, downright
scared. And trying to hide it by taking another large bite of sandwich.
At that instant Anna knew that Liz had asked to go with her to the Buffalo tomorrow because she was afraid to stay in Sparrow House alone, Jackson or no Jackson. When they returned to the library, she’d bring up the subject somehow and ask Liz to come along. Her friend could wait with Jackson in the Jimmy or enter the Buffalo a few minutes behind her so Alice’s suspicions wouldn’t be aroused.
“It’s probably Bee,” Anna said. “Sound travels through vents in these old houses.” She searched the counters for a television or radio, anything that would make enough noise to cover the booms and bangs from above. Bee at the very least had to have a radio in the kitchen, considering all the hours she spent in it.
“Found it,” she exclaimed, taking hold of a radio near the sink. “I want to check on the weather.” She turned it on, placed it on the island, and wandered back to the coffeemaker. A couple minutes later the scent of coffee began to fill the kitchen.
Anna plucked a sandwich from the plate and sat on one of the stools at the island as she waited for the coffee to finish brewing. Her thoughts traveled from Devin and Mitch to strange sounds in the night, the awful message on the receipt for the rosary, and the foul nursery down the hall. Was there nothing fresh, sweet, or undefiled in this house?
The words “hail” and “flooding” caught her ear, penetrating her thoughts. Tree limbs were down, the voice on the radio said. There was minor flooding along the Big Thompson River, a hail storm had hit Lyons earlier in the day, and there was a tie-up on Highway 34 due to a three-car accident halfway between Elk Park and Loveland.
Anna’s heart leapt to her throat. “When did they say the accident was?” she asked Liz. “I didn’t hear them say.”
Liz wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “They didn’t say, but any accident that blocked traffic on the highway had to have been much earlier. There’s no traffic on that road this time of night.”
“Idiots.” Anna slammed her palm to the island.
“Anna, relax.”
“News stations don’t know how to do a simple report these days. Who, what, when, where, why. Stay here.” She hopped off the stool, pushed open the kitchen door, and dashed down the hall and across the entryway. When she reached the library, she snapped up her cell phone and dialed Gene’s number.
Her heart raced as she listened to one ring after another. Where was he? If her phone was working, his should be. She hung up, punched the button for his landline in Loveland, and again waited. Hadn’t he heard about the accident on Highway 34? He knew what that meant to her. Sean had died on that highway, his car struck by a truck whose driver had fallen asleep. He knew that.
She hung up. Frozen in place, she stared at the signal bars on her phone. Four were lit. That was enough.
“It’s me,” she heard Liz call out. Anna gripped the phone tightly and spun toward her.
“Sorry, sorry.” Liz entered the library, balancing a pot of coffee and a plate full of sandwiches on a small tray. “Anything?” she asked.
Anna pushed books and papers aside, making room for the tray. “He’s not answering his cell or his Loveland phone.”
“Could he still be at Buckhorn’s?”
“If he’s still working at this insane hour, then he’d have his cell on.”
“But his cell—”
“Could be out,” Anna finished. She hit her phone’s button for Buckhorn’s landline. Several rings later, Gene answered.
Liz drained the last of the coffee from her cup, reached for the pot, and filled her cup again. “Anna, more?” she asked, holding up the pot.
“Yeah, why not.” Anna slid her cup in Liz’s direction. “We’ll be up all night, anyway.” She was aware that Liz was watching her closely, but she took care to avoid her eyes. She focused on her friend’s hands instead, how they held the pot and took another sandwich from the plate. The moment Liz’s eyes locked on hers, the questions would start.
Liz replaced the pot on the tray and gave a world-weary sigh. “I don’t understand why you’re so upset with him,” she said.
So much for the locked-eyes theory, Anna thought. She should have known Liz would maneuver her way to a question. She raised her hand and started counting off with her fingers. “He knows I’m going to call him because he asked me to, he’s not at home in Loveland, he falls asleep at Buckhorn’s, and he turns his cell phone off so I can’t reach him.”
“It’s one o’clock in the morning.”
“I called an hour ago.”
“You’re making too much of this.”
“You haven’t seen him lately. How secretive he’s been, how cold he gets when I mention he’s been working too hard.”
“He probably thinks he’s doing what he needs to do to keep the store running.”
“Then why doesn’t he just say that? Instead he clams up.”
Liz shrugged. “Maybe he wonders why you’re bugging him about it.”
Anna’s jaw dropped. “Bugging him?” At the slightest mention of friction between her and Gene, Liz took his side. Anna had heard enough. “We’ve been going out together since last Christmas. Either we have a relationship or we don’t. If he can’t talk to me about his work, then we don’t.”
“A lot of men don’t like to talk about work.”
“Gene’s not a lot of men, and why do you always take his side?”
“That’s crazy.” Coffee spilled from Liz’s cup onto her hand. She set down her cup and dragged the back of her hand across the leg of her jeans. “My clothes are filthy.”
“What you care about is that I’m with him, no matter what.”
“That is absolutely, positively not true.”
Protesting too much. Liz did that when they talked about Gene. “It is true. If Dan had done to you what Gene did to me tonight, you’d be mad as hell.”
“I might be a little upset, but I wouldn’t go off the deep end. You know you have a tendency to do that, don’t you?”
Anna ignored the question. “Do you know what Gene, the man who’s perfect in your eyes, did when he was in his twenties? He was engaged to be married, and one month before the wedding, he called it off. Can you imagine how his fiancée felt?”
Lost in thought or stunned into silence—Anna didn’t know which—Liz was silent. At last she asked, “How old was he?”
“Twenty-two, I think.”
Liz rolled her eyes and let out a moan. “It was probably wise of him to call it off then, don’t you think? Twenty-two! Anna, he’s thirty-eight now. Cut him some slack.”
They sat quietly, sipping coffee, avoiding each other’s eyes. Liz broke the silence. “What’s really bothering you?”
Maybe she hadn’t been fair to Gene, Anna thought. Maybe she was overreacting. But something was on his mind, and his refusal to speak up worried her. What if his silence was a harbinger of the future? What if she was doomed to pleading for simple, declarative statements from him for the rest of her life? If there was even going to be a rest of her life with him.
“I think his feelings have changed.”
“You’re reading too much into—”
“And when he got the offer on his house, he realized how much they’d changed.”
“I don’t understand how his house comes into it.”
“I’m living in my house, and now Gene’s buying a house that will be his, not mine, not ours. If he’s thought about moving forward in our relationship, then why hasn’t he wanted to discuss that?”
Liz furrowed her brow and, as if to highlight her confusion, slapped her hand to her head.
“Listen to me,” Anna continued. “If we married we couldn’t live in my house or his house. It wouldn’t be fair to either one of us. We’d have to buy a new house together.”
“Maybe. I still don’t understand what the problem is. If you had to, you could live at his house while you sell yours. Then find a new place together and sell his house.”
“I couldn’t do
it.”
“The logistics would be tricky, but you could.”
“No, I couldn’t.” Anna felt her eyes fill with tears. She clenched and unclenched her toes inside her shoes—a trick she’d learned long ago from Sean as a way to keep control of her emotions—but the tears fell anyway. She rubbed them away with her fingers. “I couldn’t sell my house.”
“Oh.”
Anna waited for Liz to say something else, something besides a single syllable, but she said nothing. “All my memories are there. Every room, the yard, the couch, every inch of the floor.”
“Your memories are here.” Liz put a hand to her heart.
Anna shook her head. She doesn’t get it. “Memories are connected to things. My wood stove—it holds memories. I could replace it with another wood stove and it wouldn’t be the same. Everything I look at or touch in that house, Sean looked at or touched. That’s where memories live. They don’t live in my heart or my head—that’s where memories die.”
“You’d create new memories.”
“And toss the old ones away.” Her feelings about Sean were always near the surface, but now, talking about him late at night, exhausted, with her defenses down, they were raw. It embarrassed her.
“No, that’s not what I mean,” Liz said.
“That’s the choice, Liz. Old or new, you can’t have both.”
“So you think selling your house is tossing Sean away.”
Anna felt anger rising up in her, crawling up her throat, preparing for an attack on its cornered prey. Liz talked so easily about it all—the house, memories, death. It was so simple for her, the choices so clear-cut. And Gene? Anna knew Liz liked Gene because it absolved her of worry over her poor widow friend. She turned on her. “What the hell do you know about it?”
Liz leaned back in her chair, shocked but defiant. She wasn’t giving up. “So choose old. Go ahead. You can live like the Birches. Maybe you could rent that nursery down the hall. That’s a real monument to memories.” She stood quickly, sending her chair falling to the floor. She shoved it to the side with her leg and grabbed the coffeepot from the tray. Without a word she exited the library.
Anna Denning Mystery Series Box Set: Books 1–3 Page 44