Chapter 5 #2
“Lucky for us, last night’s snowstorm hit well after the collection of evidence at the scene had ended. It can make things a little tricky when the weather gets in the way.”
Not even a grunt of acknowledgment.
He was done making attempts at conversation for now.
He didn’t doubt for a minute that she would let him know whatever was on her mind.
For the time being, she appeared absorbed in taking in the details of the environment.
Might as well give her the scenic tour. Through the middle of Youngstown’s thriving, however small, business district and past the harbor.
Across the wooden bridge that connected Route 1 to Main Street.
Tourists always stopped near the bridge for pictures.
“The candles in the windows,” she said, breaking her silence. “Are those for the missing girl?”
Kale considered the houses along the street, tried to see them as she would. Most of the homes along Main were historic, with the accompanying plaques boasting the names of the original owner and dates as far back as the seventeen hundreds. Trees, even older, guarded the picket-fenced yards.
“Some,” he said in answer to her question.
“Others are always there in the winter.” He made brief eye contact.
“A number of the folks who were born and raised here choose to head for a warmer climate in the winter. It’s tradition to leave candles in the windows until their return. Electric ones, of course,” he added.
“To keep evil away while they’re gone.”
And so it began.
“I prefer to consider the candles welcoming beacons for their return.”
“The wind chimes dangling from porches? The sprigs of heather and rosemary hanging over front doors?” She twisted to stare at the house on the corner they’d passed. When she resettled in her seat, she tacked on, “And the glass bottles hanging from trees.”
He braked for the four-way stop at the intersection of Main and High. “The family with the ornamental bottles moved here from Louisiana after Katrina. Don’t folks down there consider that art?” He shot her a look that dared her to prove otherwise.
“The bottles are for warding off evil spirits, Conner. As are the rosemary and the heather. And the wind chimes.”
Hadn’t they decided to call each other by their first names? “Don’t you have wind chimes in New York?” Lots of homes were adorned with those accents. It didn’t mean the occupants believed in witches and demons or any damned thing else.
“Face it, Conner, this is New England. The place is steeped in ghost stories with vengeful spirits.”
“I guess you don’t have those in New York, either.
” He wasn’t going to argue with her. Damn straight, New England was steeped in many things, first and foremost history and tradition.
He wasn’t ashamed of it. He just didn’t want her ridiculing the town and the people he loved in her heartless magazine.
She hadn’t been here twenty minutes and she was already looking for ways to twist that history and tradition into something sinister and simpleminded.
Case in point, she didn’t say a word about all the yellow ribbons. Folks had started putting those up the very next day after Valerie Gerard’s disappearance. No, that was too normal to mention.
He rolled through the intersection, continuing east on Main. Newton’s attention lit on Bay View Cemetery.
“You see the crow on the headstone?” She turned to face him. “People associate crows with death. But there are perfectly logical reasons they hang out in cemeteries.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Pull over.”
He’d asked for that one. “Sure.” He eased to the side of the street. Stellar job so far of setting the tone for her visit. She was right. He’d definitely gotten a raw deal on this assignment.
But then, that was the story of his life.
“Tell me if I’m off course here,” she allowed. “People believe there’s something evil about the person buried in that grave because of the crow.”
Oh, she was going to love this one. “Mattie Calder,” he confessed. “According to village history”—he met his passenger’s expectant gaze—“she was a witch.”
“I rest my case.”
“But,” he continued with a listen-carefully tone, “she was a good witch. Her remedies cured the sick and enlivened the sex lives of many of our forefathers.”
“Fascinating stuff, Conner.”
He was on a roll now. Why not give her what she wants?
“You’re right, you know. People are a little afraid of cemeteries, so they compensate.
Take the six-foot iron fence, for example.
” He nodded to the subject of his topic.
“That wasn’t erected for the visual aesthetics.
Its original purpose was far more important than keeping out the neighborhood kids and dogs.
” He turned fully toward her, leaned in slightly as if to ensure she didn’t miss a nuance of what he had to say.
“It was erected to keep the dead inside. Iron was the strongest metal at the time. The accepted notion was that it could withstand the fires of hell itself.”
She stared into his eyes for one, two, three seconds. This close he could see the silver flecks gathered around her irises. The silver seemed to flare and darken into the deepest, purest blue he’d ever seen. That he found her eyes so damned distracting was annoying as hell.
“You’re quite the tour guide.”
Her lips tightened as she said the words. That was when he noticed how ordinary yet strangely unusual that feature of her face was. Plain, not particularly richly colored or plump . . . but there was something challenging about the shape.
“Or maybe you’re a comedian.”
Withdrawing the inch or two he’d encroached, he set both hands back on the wheel. “I’m making a point, Ms. Newton. Just because folks honor a tradition, whatever its roots, doesn’t mean they’re any different from you.”
“Actions speak louder than words, Mr. Councilman.” She faced forward. “They always have. Always will.”
Kicking himself for antagonizing her, he mentally groped for a way to redeem himself as he pulled away from the curb. “You were going to tell me the real reason crows hang out in cemeteries.”
“It’s the trees.”
“Trees?” There were trees all over town. Thankfully he had the self-control not to mention that obvious detail.
“They’re attracted to the larger, old-growth specimens. Unlike in residential areas, the trees in the cemeteries are rarely removed for progress. They just bury the dead around them.”
He nodded. “Interesting.” But then, there were a lot of old trees in Youngstown, period. Something else he wouldn’t point out.
“They’re social creatures. Where there’s one, there’s usually more.”
Social. Yeah. “This”—he made a right turn—“is Calderwood Lane. The witch’s namesake.” A fitting tribute considering how the narrow road snaked along the countryside.
“You, of course, know she wasn’t actually a witch.”
He flashed his charge a smile. “George Washington may or may not have chopped down a cherry tree, but that’s the way the legend goes.”
“I liked you better as a tour guide.”
Guess his comedian days were over.
“Sorry. I couldn’t help myself.”
She fixed her attention back on the passing landscape.
He did the same. Although he had lived here his whole life, for better or worse, he never once took for granted the rugged beauty of the land.
Grazing pastures elbowed out the trees in places, sprawling on both sides of the road, the left disappearing into the ocean, the right merging with the treed mountainside.
“Appleton Farm?”
He nodded. “Grandparents of Alicia Appleton.”
That bleak reality settled deep in his gut. That was the real story here. The one that needed everyone’s attention. If this woman, whatever her motives for coming here, could help, that was all that mattered.
Alicia had gone missing four days ago. Less than two days after Valerie Gerard’s body was discovered. Emotion swelled in his throat. It seemed impossible that one of them was dead and the other was missing. So young. So damned young. Alicia was the same age as his little sister.
“You know her?”
Kale kept his focus on the winding road; mostly it was easier to maintain a hold on his emotions that way. “Everybody knows everybody around here.” No matter that the number of year-round folks got smaller each year. “I can’t name a handful of Youngstown residents I didn’t grow up with.”
“With no unknowns or variables, that kind of limits the suspect pool, don’t you think?”
He looked at her then, the instant dislike he worked to ward off filtering in.
She was either angling for information on the people he knew and cared about, or, worse, making an outright accusation.
“There’s no one here who would . . .” He tamped down the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him and his ability to keep his voice firm.
“We don’t grow killers in Youngstown, Ms. Newton. ”
“And yet,” she countered, “you have one woman heinously murdered and another missing, with few or no newcomers to the area. According to my research, you had basically the same scenario twenty years ago.”
He braked hard for the next turn but didn’t take it, cut to the side of the road instead.
“Let’s get something straight right now.
” He let her see and hear exactly where he stood on the matter.
“We have strangers passing through, just like any other coastal town on Route 1. Three seasons a year we get hundreds if not thousands of tourists from all walks of life and all kinds of places. The man who did this may have been here before, may even somehow know one or both of the victims. But he isn’t one of us. ”
“What evidence do you have to suggest the perpetrator is a he? My impression is that it could go either way.”