Footsteps jogging from the road and down the embankment startled her. Jacobus stepped away, and she didn’t miss his lean form walking through the mist like a tall mirage.
“Look away, Libby,” Elijah commanded, a protective note to his tone. She did so, but only to meet Elijah’s eyes.
“It’s not Paul,” Libby whispered.
“Shhh.” Elijah took her hand and led her toward the road, away from the sight. Libby found herself scanning the banks for Jacobus Corbin, but he’d disappeared.
“How did you know to come?” Libby asked under her breath, casting a backward glance at the pond just in time to see the body fall to the bottom of the rowboat.
“Oh, Lord, have mercy.” She clapped her hand over her mouth and spun toward Elijah. He leaned closer, looking over her shoulder toward the grisly scene while he spoke.
“I saw Paul at the paper. I went there first thing this morning. I couldn’t sleep last night.”
“Nor could I,” Libby breathed.
Elijah’s dark eyes locked with hers. It was evident he was questioning the obituaries again. While his father’s may have come to fruition, it seemed, if last night’s obituary was authentic, the killer had killed the wrong person. “Paul is very much alive. But he shouldn’t be, and he seemed to imply that when he told me a body had been found here. Do we know who it is? Why this person and not Paul?”
“I don’t think someone intended to kill Paul and somehow mistakenly took the life of a woman!” Libby whispered hoarsely. She glanced around to be sure no one was eavesdropping.
Elijah’s shoulders rose in a heavy breath. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “You’re assuming this even has anything to do with the obituary. And now all credibility is lost with the police, you know.”
Libby winced. She’d not thought of that. But something inside of her, something raw and sure knew that the body being rowed to shore was in no way a mistake, nor was it unassociated with the obituary aimed at Paul.
A shout came from the boat in the pond, and murmurs started through the onlookers of the constable, Dr. Penchan, Mitch, making its way to Reverend Mueller, who approached them while shaking his head in grave solemnity.
“It’s Dorothy Hayes.” His grim tone traveled across the morning air with a weight of finality that chilled Libby to the bone.
“Isn’t she—?” Libby couldn’t complete her question, but the stunned look that settled on Elijah’s face threatened to shatter what little calm she had left.
“Aunt Dorothy?” Elijah’s expression was one of shock.
Libby turned as the men scraped the rowboats’ bottoms along the shore. She saw the body of Elijah’s aunt, his mother’s sister, splayed on the floor of the boat. Her body drenched and pallid. Her eyes open, as if she stared into death’s eyes before taking her last breath.
Libby closed her own, seeing the writing of the obituary, word for word, as it’d been intended for Paul.
His secrets held, his secrets lost, shall rise again on tempests tossed.
His spirit while it laid to rest cried for mercy, then for death.
Cried for death. Libby remembered Paul, fear in his eyes, but insistence that nothing would happen. Almost—almost as if he were afraid, not of death but of truth. Secrets. Once again, secrets. And yet, in the wake of an obituary that seemed to taunt him with the escape from them, lay Elijah’s aunt.
Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness—for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again.
Death was a reuniting of souls in the afterlife. Deacon Greenwood and Dorothy Hayes were family—through marriage, but family still. Both dead. Silenced for eternity.
Libby shivered and wrapped her arms around herself as she watched Elijah stumble down the embankment toward the boat that held his aunt’s body. It was Elijah’s family that was being singled out, and Paul who was being goaded by the promise of escape from his secrets. Somehow they were tied together.
She’d been right. Libby sensed the strength leave her knees, and she sank onto the bank as men scrambled to hoist the woman’s body from the boat. Dorothy Hayes had stared into the eyes of Death’s abyss, and Death had laughed at the cruel game it was playing and the riddles it left behind as Dorothy slipped into the hellish blackness of night.
Chapter 19
Annalise
Garrett was at the round corner table in the coffee shop—her personal favorite—with the worn white paint and its farm table-style legs. The mismatched chairs were occupied across from him. Nicole, her significant other, Brian, and . . . oh no. Annalise’s attention was snagged before she could collect her thoughts regarding the fourth person at the table. She forced herself to focus on the customer at hand.
“I’ll have a large double caramel latte.”
Annalise mustered a smile and punched in the $4.25 and then repeated her smile when the customer stuffed a five-dollar bill in the homeless shelter fund-drive jar. She glanced back toward Garrett, whose rapt attention was on table occupant number four, Doug Larson, the contractor for the prospective wilderness center. Or rather, Garrett’s attention was on the blueprints Larson had stretched across the table. Maybe it would be odd to some that they would be doing business at the local coffee shop. But, this was Gossamer Grove, after all. People here preferred the hometown atmosphere to meetings at a stale office. Either way, it was gutsy of Larson. He knew well and good that she owned the coffee shop, that she had petitioned the town board for that land, and yet here he was, as if it had already been determined.
In the end, her vision rested on Garrett. He appeared well rested, if not a bit reminiscent of Shaggy from Scooby-Doo. It irked Annalise that he could sleep, plan his future, and carry on when her desk was covered in pictures and photocopies and vintage newsprint all recovered from Eugene Hayes’s trailer. It stung even worse that he would agree to meet Larson here, with Nicole and Brian. A family affair, it seemed, at the expense of those in the town who needed grace, intercession, and someone to just simply give a darn. It was all so . . . Greenwood of them.
Annalise turned away, blowing air through her lips. She bumped into one of her baristas, who wobbled a cup of coffee in her hand, a bit of the hot brew splashing from the opening in the cover.
“I’m so sorry,” Annalise mumbled. She met the gracious gaze of her employee, who handed her the cup with the glossy smile of a teenager.
“You need this. You look exhausted.”
To say the least.
Annalise took the gift and gave her young protégé a quick hug, watching as the teenage girl flipped her hair over her shoulder and bounced away to flirt with the college-aged male barista. Sighing, Annalise prayed the girl would be smart and not taken in by young emotions that led nowhere fast.
“Good coffee today, Annalise.” Doug Larson’s deep bass broke into her bad memory. She turned, the rubber soles of her sneakers silent on the shop’s barnwood plank flooring.
Annalise sipped from her cup. It was searing hot, and the tip of her tongue burned. But she preferred this distraction over the disconcerting expression on Larson’s face. In his mid-fifties, the man was fast making his place as the richest man in historic Gossamer Grove. Yet he didn’t look the part. His blue jeans were worn and permanently stained with the evidence of manual labor. His T-shirt was frayed at the neckline, and the flannel shirt over it had seen better days. The steel blue of his eyes drilled into hers, and Annalise was sure that if every freckle on her face could scamper up her forehead and hide in her red hair, they would.
“Heard about your break-in. And your tires were slashed?” He clicked his tongue. “Shame. Hope the police are following up on that.”
Of course. Small town. News spread fast. Annalise nodded, trying to remain civil in the wake of Larson’s semi-plastic concern. “They’re looking into it.”
Larson’s blue eyes flashed as he finished taking a drink of coffee. “Looking into it? If you wer
e my daughter, I’d be on top of them to make sure they caught the culprit.”
She wasn’t his daughter. Annalise blinked behind her glasses, not even sure what to say to the contractor.
“How’s your father?” Another awkward question.
Annalise knew he was trying to get under her skin, communicate in some chauvinistic way that he was smarter, more savvy, and more capable than she was. Everyone in Gossamer Grove knew there’d been a falling out between her and her parents several years before. They just didn’t know why. They weren’t aware that Annalise had finally told her parents she hated herself for giving up Gia, resented them for pressuring her as a teenager to give away her baby. It was the final wedge. A year later, Annalise was buying her childhood home and her parents were shaking the dust of failure from their shoes and leaving Gossamer Grove to make their mark in an Arizonian retirement community.
Larson cleared his throat, and Annalise jerked her attention back to him.
“Fine,” she mumbled. “My father’s fine.”
Larson gave a thin but knowing smile. “Well, honey, if you need anything, you just call me. I know it’s hard being a single woman on your own.”
Annalise bristled. He had no right to—
Larson kept talking as if they often discussed life over the coffee shop counter. Unfortunately, no one was behind the man in line to give Annalise an excuse to shut down the conversation.
“I’ve been chatting with Greenwood over there.” Larson lifted his cup in the direction of Garrett, still in deep conversation with his sister. “That man just slays me. He has such tremendous plans.” Larson clicked his tongue again as if completely in awe. “All the years climbing overseas served him well. He’s immersed in that culture, and it’ll speak to a lot of climbers and more extreme athletes. A good draw to the area.” He took a long sip of his coffee. His eyes spoke volumes.
I’ve won.
Annalise refused to be cowed by Larson. His veiled hint was clear. Garrett equaled revenue. Annalise equaled charity.
“I still stand by my conviction, Mr. Larson. We need to care for Gossamer Grove’s citizens even more than we do those coming into our town to visit.”
“Of course! I agree!” He nodded with enthusiasm as though to emphasize how right she was. “Job potential awaits them all if they clean themselves up and interview with my wilderness center. I’ve plans to build this summer, and all the investors are lined up and ready to go. Vintage cabins that inspire fishing and outdoorsy things like hunting and hiking. We’ve the forest land that Garrett says is ideal for climbers to—what he’d call it?—go bouldering? I don’t know. Regardless, it all means more jobs. More opportunity. You should be pleased Garrett is back in town.”
It was a backhanded comment. Sneaky, really. Annalise narrowed her eyes at Larson whose own stared back at her, unblinking. She stilled, her fingers tightening around her coffee cup. She managed a platonic smile. “Gossamer Grove is always pleased when a Greenwood comes home. But sometimes we wish they’d stay away and let the monarchy fade.”
Larson drew back, but his jaw clenched and then relaxed. He gave her a forced smile that came nowhere near meeting his eyes. He patted the countertop. “You have a good day, okay?”
Annalise stared after Doug Larson as he wove between tables and exited the coffee shop. She glanced at Garrett, who happened to look up. A shadow of question flickered in his eyes, then dimmed before he returned his attention to Nicole—who seemed to purposefully ignore her. She smiled at something Brian said, reaching up and brushing light brown hair from his temple.
Annalise escaped into her office, toward the mystery splayed across her desk. A deep sense of disturbance filled every nuance of her spirit. She rested her coffee cup on the desk. Lifting the photograph of the Edwardian-style woman, she stared into her eyes. They were dark, framed by elegant eyebrows, her cheekbones high and her features beautiful. Wavy brunette hair framed the young woman’s face and swirled around her head in a fashionable Gibson-girl style.
“Did you ever walk in the Greenwoods’ shadow?” Annalise whispered to the nameless woman, even as she glanced beyond it to the photograph of Harrison Greenwood that lay haphazardly atop the picture of an eighteen-year-old Annalise. She returned her gaze to the mystery woman. “I have a question.”
The woman in the photograph stared back as if captivated by Annalise’s words, waiting, listening.
Annalise spoke softly. “Without compassion, without grace, what do I have left? What do any of us have left?”
She tossed the picture on top of Harrison Greenwood’s, but the woman’s fixated gaze didn’t leave Annalise’s face.
The twin doors of the fieldstone house that was headquarters for the Gossamer Grove Historical Society creaked as Annalise opened them. A draft caressed her face, the inviting smell of vintage goods tickling her nose. Old papers, polished wood furniture, cracking leather newly oiled, and a pleasant citrus scent lingering in the air all spoke to the caregivers who worked here. The front hall was trimmed in dark walnut, thick and imposing.
Annalise’s footsteps echoed on the floor as she stepped off the wool carpet runner and toward the door on the left. What used to be a parlor now doubled as the registration room. It was significantly brighter here. The windows were tall and wide, sunshine streaming in and bouncing off pale-yellow walls. An angular woman sat behind the registration desk, which was probably relocated from the study, if one judged by its bulk and manly ambience. Books stacked in piles and a few index boxes sat in front of her, along with rows of photographs. Her fingers tapped a medley on the desktop computer’s keyboard.
Clearing her throat, Annalise waited. She tried to appear patient, but her foot timed a rhythm on the floor that was probably more attention grabbing than her tentative cough.
“Annalise Forsythe!” Brown eyes lifted and peered through metal-rimmed glasses. Gray hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and the curator ceased typing to stand. Moving around the desk with hands extended, she grasped Annalise’s.
“I’m Gloria Fairchild.” The woman, Gloria, squeezed Annalise’s hands.
“Hello.” Her face must have communicated her confusion.
Gloria squeezed her hands again and then released them, crossing her arms over a silky blouse with a very 1980s-style bow tied at the collar. “Gossamer Grove is just getting too big. I was your Sunday school teacher when you were a little girl. I believe it was first grade.”
Oh yes. Gloria Fairchild. Mrs. Fairchild, as she called her as a child. Annalise adjusted her messenger bag on her shoulder that was loaded with folders of clippings and photos she’d taken from Eugene Hayes’s trailer. “You might guess why I’m here then.”
Gloria tipped her head and smiled with a nod. “I have a suspicion. The town has been all abuzz. I’ve heard all about Eugene’s trailer and the strange pictures and news clippings. What a shame. And how curious! But, dear”—Gloria leaned closer and patted Annalise’s arm—“I don’t believe any of those rumors that somehow you disregarded him. Your work with the food pantry is honorable.”
Annalise smiled gratefully.
They both jolted when the front hall doors banged shut.
Garrett loped in, eyebrow quirked and a question stretched across his face. His eyes captured Annalise’s, and he gave his head a shake. “What are you doing?”
“Um . . .” Annalise gave Gloria a smile, then turned to spear Garrett with a wide-eyed look that said Not now. “Research.”
Garrett’s eyebrow rose even higher. He shrugged and palmed the air. “Why didn’t you tell me your tires were slashed?”
“Not here,” Annalise muttered. “Did you follow me?”
“Of course I did.” Garrett had no shame. “You left the coffee shop like a bat out of—” he glanced at Gloria—“I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“Oh, dear,” Gloria said, the wrinkles on her face soft and deepening, “He’s concerned about you.”
“Thanks.” Garrett tossed the
older woman a smile that reached his eyes and creased his cheeks and caused Gloria to lift her hand to the bow at her throat with a self-conscious chuckle.
Oh brother.
Annalise had forgotten how charming Garrett could be when he wanted to be.
She held up her hands. “My tires . . . the police are working on that.”
“Yeah, I know. Brent said there weren’t any clues as to who did it. Not even a street cam.”
“A street camera in Gossamer Grove?” Annalise quirked her own eyebrows. “This isn’t the big city.”
“Obviously,” Garrett mumbled.
“What can I help you with?” Gloria inserted herself into the conversation like a pleasant little peacemaker in the middle of thwarted lovers.
Who was Annalise kidding? They were thwarted lovers. The thought brought warmth to her cheeks, and Garrett noticed, like he noticed everything about her. He narrowed his eyes in question, and Annalise shifted her attention back to Gloria.
“My first question is in regard to Eugene Hayes. I find it interesting he went so long unnoticed on his property, with back taxes even, and no one seems to really know who he was.” Annalise sensed Garrett take a step closer. He wasn’t going away, that much was clear.
A sigh fell from Gloria’s lightly glossed lips that wrinkled with age at the edges. “The people who care about him know who he was. But they’re few and far between. Come. Let’s go sit down in my office.”
They moved to a room off the parlor with overstuffed red velvet chairs, a coffee table with a tea set on it, and more sunlight streaming in from windows nearby. Gloria settled into one of the chairs and waved her hands for Annalise and Garrett to do the same.
Her eyes sparkled with sadness. “Eugene Hayes,” she breathed in a slow sort of recollection. “We went to school together, actually. Way back in the late fifties. Elementary school, then the upper grades, although Eugene left when he was in tenth grade to work on his father’s farm. I lost track of him then for quite some time. We were from different worlds, although the same town. He was a farm boy, I an independent young woman, so in the sixties it was off to the university for me.”
The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond Page 13