“Maybe it was an animal.”
“Why the bolt? Animal paws can’t open closed doors.”
“Some can.”
She gave him a dubious look.
“Okay, then maybe there was a fire escape leading up to that window years ago, and they didn’t want anyone climbing up and getting into the house that way.”
“That doesn’t make much sense.”
“It makes more sense than assuming the room must have been a makeshift prison. Why are you jumping to that conclusion?”
Hurriedly, she told him about the statue with its cryptic inscription. He was intrigued, but again wasn’t particularly concerned. He promised to take a look tomorrow.
She slips her feet into a scarcely worn pair of dress pumps and heads downstairs. Halfway down, she takes them off, wondering how—and why—Kim goes around in heels every day of her life.
Speak of the devil: the doorbell rings just as she reaches the first floor. Shoes in hand, Annabelle opens it to see Kim, Ross, and Catherine Winston. Kim is wearing one of the dresses she bought yesterday, Ross a tuxedo, Catherine, cutoff jean shorts and a scowl.
“There are all kinds of people out in front of your house,” Kim informs Annabelle. “And there’s a police officer hanging around on the corner.”
“That’s good. I think.”
“Looks like this is the safest place to be tonight,” Ross assures her. “There are cops all over The Heights. Did you hear about the burglary at the historical society?”
Annabelle nods. She did hear. Trib mentioned it when he got home, saying the tourists have graduated from gawking to grabbing. Whoever broke in stole several artifacts from the special exhibit, and Ora Abrams is reportedly beside herself, poor thing.
“I’m sure it was just kids. By the way, Annabelle, you look beautiful!” Kim turns to her husband and daughter. “Doesn’t she? Look how beautiful she is.”
“Drop-dead gorgeous,” Ross agrees.
Catherine, glaring as though she wishes her mother would drop dead, offers Annabelle a cursory nod of approval.
“I’m so glad you could come stay with Oliver while we’re gone,” Annabelle tells her with a pasted-on smile, certain this was a huge mistake.
“It was no problem,” Kim says for her daughter as they step into the foyer. “She’s happy to be here.”
The words fall flatter than Catherine’s tone as she agrees, under her mother’s prodding glare.
Annabelle thanks her. “Oliver is in his room. Do you want to go up and tell him you’re here, sweetie?”
Looking quite the opposite of sweet, Catherine heads up the stairs.
Annabelle looks at Catherine’s parents. “She doesn’t have to do this. I’m really totally fine with staying here with Oliver myself.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s doing it,” Kim tells her.
Annabelle looks at Ross.
“She’s doing it,” he agrees. “Kim grounded her, so believe me, this is the most fun she’s going to have for a while.”
“Why did you ground her?”
“The usual.” Kim begins ticking off reasons on her fingers. “She lied, she was fresh, she was obnoxious, she threatened to run away, and she—”
“Sometimes, I don’t know why you won’t let her.”
Kim looks at Ross in horror. “What did you say?”
“Relax. I was kidding.”
“It isn’t funny.”
“Maybe I’m the one who should run away.”
His wife narrows her blue, thickly mascaraed eyes at him.
“Kidding again. Let me guess. Not funny?” Ross rocks back on his heels and shifts his attention to Annabelle. “Um, is Trib ready?”
“I’ll go move him along. Have a seat.” She waves in the general direction of the parlor as she hurries up the stairs, still barefoot and carrying her shoes.
She finds Trib in their bedroom tying his bow tie in front of the mirror. Closing the door behind her, she hurries over to him.
“Are they here? I need two minutes.”
“They’re here,” she says in a low voice, “but I’m not sure I should go.”
“What? Why not? Isn’t Catherine here to babysit?”
“She is, but . . . I don’t think she wants to be. They’re forcing her to do it.”
“That’s what parents do. They force kids to do things. Anyway, we’re paying her, right?” Trib fumbles his tie, shakes his head, and starts again.
“Of course we’re paying her.” Last night, Annabelle had tucked a twenty-dollar bill into Catherine’s hand when she left after playing video games with Oliver, and the girl responded with warm gratitude. She even tried to give it back, but Annabelle shushed her, so that Kim wouldn’t overhear, and insisted that she keep it.
Tonight, however, is a different story. Catherine clearly resents being here, and Oliver is bound to pick up on that.
“He’s already upset that we’re going,” Annabelle tells Trib. “He’s going to be scared. If she’s not in the mood to keep him occupied, he could have a panic attack, and she won’t know how to handle it.”
Trib, shaking his head the whole time she’s talking, swiftly reties his tie and picks up his jacket from the bed. “He’ll be fine, Annabelle. I’m sure she’ll have everything under control. It’s only a few hours, and we’ll be two miles away.”
“But I don’t think it’s worth—”
“I need you there,” he says, standing in front of her and putting his hands on her arms. “I do. I have to stand up there and speak in front of a roomful of people, and I’m nervous. I need you, Annabelle.”
She isn’t just Oliver’s mother. She’s Trib’s wife.
She nods. “I’ll come. I’m sure everything will be fine. Your speech, and . . . everything else.”
Throughout The Heights, couples emerge from their homes in formal attire, get into cars, and drive away toward Hudson Chase Country Club off Battlefield Road.
Even old Ora Abrams leaves the historical society, wearing a sequined light blue gown and a tiara atop her snowy Cinderella bun. She leans heavily on the arm of Mayor Cochran himself. Behind them, a pair of uniformed security guards carries the large wooden time capsule chest to the limousine waiting at the curb. A Tribune photographer is on hand to capture the moment, as are scads of loitering tourists, and of course, Holmes.
He notes with interest that Ora, who ordinarily courts media attention along with public support, doesn’t even glance their way. The robbery has left her rattled, though not enough to keep her home on perhaps the most notable night of her life. She must be reassured by Chief Calhoun’s promised police officer, stationed inside the mansion for the duration of the evening.
That’s fine with Holmes. There’s only one thing he’s interested in stealing tonight, and it’s not inside the historical society.
He needs to replace the dead Kathryn.
He’d intended to exercise caution, aware that her turn won’t come for a couple of weeks, but panic is building.
What if he can’t find a candidate before July 13?
What if, as the date grows nearer, he feels compelled to rush?
That would be dangerous.
Do it now.
Find her tonight.
Holmes walks up State Street and rounds the corner onto Bridge, hunting for prospects. People stroll past clutching workshop handouts and Ora Abrams’s yellow maps, making the requisite pilgrimage from one Murder House to another. There are no Beauties among them.
As he makes his way toward number 46, he sees people milling about on the sidewalk, snapping photos of the house. The Binghams have visitors, he notes, seeing an unfamiliar car parked in the driveway. He slows his pace, idly watching the house, remembering that Charles Bingham is slated to speak at the gala tonight.
The front door opens, and there he is with his wife, Annabelle, along with another couple, and—
Holmes stops short, stunned.
Catherine.
She, too, is s
tanding on the porch. She has her hand on the shoulder of a young boy. The two of them wave as the four adults cross to the driveway and get into the car. Moments later, they drive away—bound for the gala, judging by their formalwear.
Catherine ushers the kid inside and closes the door.
Holmes can scarcely breathe, unable to grasp his good fortune. There is no mistaking the message: fate delivered a Beauty to the doorstep of the very house where it all began.
Holmes is meant to claim her tonight.
Sully rather enjoys Barnes’s startled expression when she makes her grand entrance, descending the steep flight to the cottage living room. As a fellow emerald-eyed redhead, she could have borrowed just about anything in Rowan Mundy’s closet, but this pale green chiffon gown immediately caught her eye.
Now, it’s caught Barnes’s. “Well, look at you, Gingersnap. My, my, my.” He pretends to fan himself.
“You’re pretty dapper yourself there, Barnes.”
Not that she’s the least bit surprised to see that the man is just as handsome, clean-shaven and dressed in black tie, as he is in his uniform, or worn jeans, or the khaki shorts and scruffy stubble he wore all day. But he’s looking plenty surprised, having never seen her in any dress, much less a dress like this, with bare shoulders and a plunging neckline.
Compliments out of the way, they head out the door, picking up their conversation where they left off earlier.
Barnes is still trying to wrap his head around Sully’s theory that the second victim—the youngest one, who’d been found at 46 Bridge Street, with the overkill wounds—was the killer’s ultimate target. The others, she believes, were throwaway victims.
“So you think he was laying the groundwork with the first victim,” he muses, as Sully locks the front door after them and puts the key into the little sequined bag she borrowed from Rowan. “And he was wrapping things up neatly with the third.”
“Exactly. He wanted the second one to look like a random kill, too, in order to cover his tracks and deflect attention.”
“Isn’t that a little extreme?”
Sully raises a Really, Barnes? eyebrow.
“You’re right,” he says quickly. In the grand scheme of bizarre cases they’ve worked, this MO is well within the realm of possibility.
He hurries to the car ahead of her to open the passenger’s side door—a first.
“Gee, Barnes. All I have to do is throw on a dress and you’re the perfect gentleman. Maybe I should do it more often.”
“Maybe you should.” He flashes a perfect smile and closes the door, going around to his side.
“We still don’t know who she was,” Sully reminds him as he gets behind the wheel, back to the gnawing case.
“Regardless of who she was, you said earlier that his true victims might have been the people who found the bodies. So who were they?”
“At 46 Bridge? George and Florence Purcell and their two young children, Augusta and Frederick.”
“And they’d never seen the dead girl before?”
“That’s what they said.”
“Yeah, well, I’m guessing at least one of them might have been lying.”
“I’m guessing you might be right.”
“I’m also guessing one of them could even have been the killer.”
“I’m guessing you may be right again.” Equally familiar with homicide statistics, Sully is well aware that most young female victims know, and are likely related to, their killers.
“Does this mean you’ll share the reward with me when we solve the case?”
She laughs. “Dream on, Barnes. But I will share a dance with you tonight if you’re lucky.”
If the flagstone terrace overlooking the river was a magnificent backdrop for the sunset cocktail hour, then the Hudson Chase dining room is a positively sumptuous one for dinner. With gleaming dark woodwork and floors, richly patterned wallpaper, and delicate crystal chandeliers, the vast room is filled with vases of jewel-toned summer flowers and lit by perhaps more white votive candles than there are stars in the clear summer sky.
“OMG. This place is amazing,” Kim murmurs to Annabelle as they take their seats at a round table near the speakers’ podium. “Have you ever been here before?”
“Once. For my senior prom.”
“Who was your date?”
“Steve Reed.”
“Oh no, are you talking about the pool again?” Trib takes his seat beside her and sets his folded speech alongside the clustered champagne flute and wineglasses.
“Not this time. We’re talking about old boyfriends,” Kim says tartly. “And I’d tell you about mine, but I’d rather wait until Ross is here. So don’t hold your breath, or we’ll have to call the paramedics to revive you.”
Trib and Annabelle laugh, but she probably isn’t exaggerating. Her husband has made himself scarce all evening, contentedly chatting with anyone and everyone who isn’t his wife.
The Winstons have always had a healthy marriage, but clearly, their parenting struggles are taking a toll. Annabelle isn’t surprised. She just wishes Kim would stop telling her how lucky she is to have an “easy” kid. Although Oliver did send them off with surprisingly little fanfare this evening.
When she and Trib stuck their heads into his room to say they were leaving, they found him and Catherine sprawled on the floor in front of Battleship.
“Hey, I can’t believe you still have that game, Oliver,” Trib said. “I haven’t seen it in years.”
“It was in the cupboard under my bed. Mom put it there.”
Annabelle saw that he’d taken out lots of other old games she’d stashed there after the move, and stacks of books, too. Maybe he was finally growing sick of video games.
“It was my idea,” Catherine told them. “I wanted to play something other than Xbox. I’ve been using my brother’s a lot lately—but don’t tell him.”
Annabelle and Trib smiled at her, and then at each other.
“I told her maybe we could play baseball or something outside for a while,” Oliver adds, “but she doesn’t know how, and she doesn’t really want me to teach her.”
“Yeah . . .” Catherine grins. “Not really my thing. Sorry.”
“She doesn’t seem so surly to me,” Trib whispered as they headed down the stairs.
“Maybe this is just an act. Or maybe she only resents her parents, and she likes the rest of us. Who knows?”
Who cares? She felt almost lighthearted as they drove over to the country club.
Even now, having listened to Kim’s recap of her latest mother-daughter battle, she’s finally managed to put her own troubles behind her.
“So who’s sharing our table?” Kim asks Trib, gesturing at the four empty chairs alongside Ross’s seat. “Are they VIPs like you?”
“I think it’s some of the Mundy family.”
“Well, don’t let anyone steal my seat, okay? I’m going to go hunt down a glass of wine. And maybe my husband, too.”
She leaves, and Trib turns around in his chair to talk to an acquaintance. Annabelle checks her cell phone, making sure there are no calls or texts from Oliver or Catherine. So far, so good.
As she waits for Trib to finish his conversation, she spots Rowan Mundy making her way over with her husband, Jake, who is directly descended from the first settlers. Handsome, charismatic, and athletic, he was a few years ahead of Annabelle in school. The Mundys’ story is similar to Annabelle and Trib’s. They didn’t date in high school, both went away to college, and they reconnected while visiting their hometown.
A vaguely familiar couple accompanies them. The good-looking African-American man towers over all of them, and the striking redhead must be related to Rowan.
But when she introduces them as NYPD Detectives Sullivan Leary and Stockton Barnes, Annabelle realizes they’re the missing persons team who tracked the serial killer to Mundy’s Landing last winter and helped to save the Mundys’ lives.
“Are you being honored tonight?” A
nnabelle asks as Rowan and Jake pause behind their seats, drawn into Trib’s conversation.
Detective Leary throws back her head and laughs heartily as she sits down. “God, no. We’re just here at the gala because Rowan and Jake had extra tickets. I didn’t realize we’d be sitting at a VIP table.”
“Don’t let Sully kid you,” Detective Barnes tells Annabelle. “She always expects VIP treatment.”
“Um, who’s the one who jets off to five-star resorts in the South Pacific on vacation? Not me.”
“Not me, either, unfortunately,” he returns. “Not this time.”
Detective Leary tells Annabelle she’s vacationing in Mundy’s Landing, renting a cottage on Church Street for two weeks. “Don’t ask me what he’s doing here,” she adds lightly pointing a thumb at her partner. “I can’t seem to escape him, no matter where I go.”
“You know you can’t live without me.”
As the affectionate banter continues, Annabelle notices the sparks flying between the two of them and wonders if they’re more than just work partners.
“How about you?” Detective Leary asks her. “Are you being honored?”
“No, my husband is one of the speakers. He’s the editor of the newspaper.”
“So you live here in town?”
“They live in one of the Murder Houses,” Rowan pipes up as she takes a seat across the table.
“Oh really? Which one?”
“Forty-six Bridge Street.”
At Annabelle’s response, the detectives exchange a sharp glance.
“What?” she asks, frowning.
Before they can respond, Stanley Vernon steps up to the podium. Reed-thin, with a bushy gray mustache and a golf course tanned face weathered with wrinkles, the longtime president of the Mundy’s Landing Merchants’ Association is acting as master of ceremonies this evening. He clicks on a microphone that makes a squeaking noise as he asks everyone to be seated.
Rowan will have to wait to learn why the detectives reacted that way when they learned where she lives.
She isn’t so sure she wants to know.
After dark, the Bridge Street bystanders who didn’t go to the gala have scattered—out to dinner, listening to the jazz trio performing in the gazebo, or perhaps to bed after a long day.
Blue Moon Page 29