Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
ELI
The neighbor’s description of the man she’d spoken to was too close not to be my missing mentor.
One more tie connecting Silas Creed to Emily Shaw.
I didn’t know how to put the pieces together.
It was potentially a break in the case that Silas had been to Emily’s childhood home since Emily had died, but I didn’t know how it fit in with the puzzle of what was going on with him.
We also now knew Shaw was either a married name—though we hadn’t turned up any information that she had ever been married—or it was an alias.
If she was using an alias, she’d kept her first name, since the neighbor hadn’t commented that we’d gotten that wrong.
I chewed on the problem at hand as I drove to the post office, not needing Sylvie’s map to find the little cottage tucked off Main Street, the same building I’d known from my childhood. I could drive there with my eyes closed, despite all the years since I’d last been back.
I wasn’t sure there was a point to visiting the post office, but if the neighbor had sent Silas there, we had to check it out.
The parking lot was empty when we pulled in, a single blue hatchback around back.
At the sight of the building, I felt the tense flutter in my gut of long-repressed memories.
The gray siding was faded, the white trim in need of a fresh coat of paint.
I knew this place. I could remember stopping in with my mother when she needed to buy stamps, standing in line for ages with wet, cold feet to mail Christmas packages.
Was the postmistress still Miss Carmody?
Would she recognize me? Everything inside me revolted at that idea.
This wasn’t a homecoming. I didn’t want to be remembered.
I was thinking about stopping by the graveyard before we left, or driving by the house I’d grown up in.
Maybe. I hadn’t decided. What I did know was that I didn’t want to talk to anyone who might remember me.
But now we were here, and it was too late to back out.
I felt an immeasurable wave of relief when Sylvie met me at the front of the vehicle, slid her arm through mine, and said, “Let me do the talking.”
“Happy to,” I agreed.
We walked up the front steps. Sylvie pushed open the door, her eyes scanning the room and locking on the corkboard off to the left of the front counter.
“Be there in a minute,” a rough female voice called from the back.
“Take your time,” Sylvie called back. “Just looking at the board here, we don’t really need anything.”
We stood in front of the corkboard covered in flyers, business cards, and a few sticky notes. Guitar lessons, a pet sitter, a local accountant drumming up business. And a few rentals: single-family home, two-bedroom apartment in town. As expected, nothing about the house we just left.
“Can I help y’all?”
Sylvie turned to face the woman at the counter—good thing she was doing the talking, because memory struck me dumb.
Miss Carmody. There were extra layers of wrinkles on the wizened face.
The hair that I remembered as steel gray was salted liberally with pure white, twisted up in the same frizzy knot at the top of her head, the same half-moon gold-rimmed glasses perched on the edge of her nose so far to the end they looked like they might fall off if she moved too fast. She wore a brightly colored, oversized chunky knit sweater I knew she’d made herself.
I didn’t remember how I knew that—probably knowledge I picked up as a kid in the hours I’d spent listening to my mother chit-chat across the counter.
Her eyes scanned me, stopping for half a second before she looked back to Sylvie. “Y’all need stamps?” she asked after seeing our hands were empty of mail.
“No, we stopped in town to look at a house we thought was for rent—the Greens’ place. A neighbor told us we were mistaken, sent us over here, said there’d been a couple people asking about it.”
Miss Carmody huffed. “The Greens haven’t been in town for a decade. Don’t know why they don’t sell that place, but Bess was right. Not for rent—never has been. And you’re the second person to ask about it.”
“Their daughter is a friend of a friend. She knew we were thinking about making a move, told us it’d be available.
” Sylvie shrugged, flashing a bright smile.
“Oh well. You said somebody else was here asking about it? Seems weird Emily would have told another person the house was for rent.” She looked back up at me, her eyes confused but her smile still bright.
She was a hell of an actress—a little scary, actually.
But in that moment, I appreciated how well she sold our story.
“It’s all right, honey, we’ll find something,” I said, giving her hand a squeeze.
“I know. Such a pretty town.” She turned back to Miss Carmody. “Have you lived here all your life?” she asked.
Miss Carmody started to answer and stopped, her eyes fixed on Sylvie. “I know you,” she said.
I braced, ready to jump in if necessary. We didn’t know who we could trust, and while Miss Carmody seemed an unlikely threat, I couldn’t forget that Sylvie was in active danger.
Sylvie shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so. I’ve never been here.”
“No, I know you… Oh my God—Sylvie Calloway! You’re Sylvie Calloway with Evidence & Echoes—oh my God, you are! You never show your face, but I know your voice!”
Sylvie’s cheeks flushed pink, and she slapped her free hand over her mouth. “You recognize my voice?” she said, sounding both amazed and enormously pleased.
“Of course! I’ve listened to you talk in my ear for hours and hours. What are you doing in my post office? Because I know it’s not looking for a rental. Why would Sylvie Calloway move to Hollow Creek, South Carolina?”
Sylvie pulled her arm from mine and set her hands on the counter, leaning forward slightly, studying the small woman on the other side before she said, “I can’t tell you?—”
“Because you’re working on the new season,” Miss Carmody finished for her. She was practically breathless with excitement. I wondered how often Sylvie encountered fans like this.
“Kind of. My new case has been a little more than I expected,” she said, surprising me with her honesty. “And some of it is extremely confidential.”
“But it has something to do with the Greens’ house? And the man who came in?” Miss Carmody asked, her bright eyes alive with curiosity and excitement.
“Maybe. Normally, I wouldn’t say, but since you’re a fan…” Sylvie leaned farther across the counter, bracing her elbows. “Most of our leads have dried up. This was a long shot. I have no idea if the Greens or their house or that man have anything to do with the new case.”
“But you won’t tell me who it is,” Miss Carmody said, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I can’t,” Sylvie said. “Normally I would, but this one…” Sylvie shook her head, her teeth sunk into that rosebud of a lower lip. “It’s complicated. Not like the other cases I’ve covered. It’s possible I’m going to have to bail and start over. It might delay the new season.”
“Don’t tell me that! Oh my God, I’m dying to hear what’s next.” She lay her palms flat on the counter and leaned toward Sylvie. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“What do you know about the man who was here asking questions about the house?” Sylvie asked.
Miss Carmody’s description fit what we got from the neighbor. Stocky, not short but not tall, trimmed mustache. She said he was wearing a hat, didn’t mention the bald spot, but that just meant Silas hadn’t taken off the hat.
“What did he ask about?” I asked.
Miss Carmody barely took her eyes off Sylvie to glance at me before she answered.
“Houses for rent, when the Greens had last been in town, what I knew about their family, and the daughter.” She shrugged.
“I told him what I’ll tell you. We haven’t seen hide nor hair of them in years.
The Greens moved down to Florida, said they were saving the house for the girl if she ever moved home, though any of us could have told them that wasn’t going to happen.
She hadn’t been home in ages. Didn’t know why they didn’t just sell it or rent it, just letting it sit.
But Harold always had this thing about real estate.
Fancied himself a flipper, though they never really flipped anything. ”
I wondered if Emily Shaw’s parents, Harold Green and his unnamed wife, actually were in Florida. Were they still alive?
“What about Mrs. Green?” Sylvie asked. “What was her name?”
Miss Carmody helpfully supplied, “Helen. Harold and Helen. Nice folks. Always thought they were a little too good for the rest of their small-town neighbors, you know. But good folks all the same. Went to church, didn’t start trouble. But I wasn’t surprised when they decided to retire down south.”
“Did you tell the man who came in anything else?” Before she could answer, Sylvie followed up with, “Did he tell you his name?”
Miss Carmody shook her head. “No, and no. I wish I’d asked.” She paused. “Can I get your autograph?” she said to Sylvie.
“Of course.” Sylvie grinned. “What do you want me to sign?” She patted her pockets. “I don’t even have a pen. I wish I had something to give you, some swag or something like that, but?—”
I wondered if Sylvie was going to tell her that everything she owned had blown up, but she stopped short of giving that much away.
“I’ve got a pen,” Miss Carmody said.
Sylvie turned to me. “Eli, do you have a business card or anything I can write on?”