Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Harriet
Maverick makes a few calls.
I keep staring at the kitchen counter with the fries and thinking about the one forum member who kept that whole fries thing alive. The one person who seemed to have it out for me.
Sherlocksmith.
Maverick strolls over. “Okay, Harriet. What do you think you’re gonna find on her computer or whatever that you want to take a look at?”
“I think I’m going to start typing in the true crime forum URL and see it autofill. And I think I’ll see the username and password autofill. And I think that username is going to be Sherlocksmith.”
“That’s a forum member?”
I nod.
“You think Varla is this Sherlocksmith.”
“Sherlocksmith has antagonized me for years and was also obsessed with that french fry detail. Like they would hammer on it, even after I asked for people to stop discussing it.”
“Are you saying the crossbow murders have something to do with you?”
“I don’t know. All I know is this scene has a whole lot to do with me. And I have proof that Varla framed Jerome.”
“We’ll take a look at her laptop together, and then you’ll give me your proof and get out of here.” Maverick leads the two of us to a side room that seems to be an office.
“The proof is very technical, but I’d be happy to send it over.”
“And you’ll cease and desist your investigation.”
“This investigation no longer holds interest for us,” Alexandru puts in.
Maverick holds out a pair of latex gloves. I put them on and sit in front of the computer, waking the machine up. I start to type in the forum URL. I don’t have to get very far before it auto-fills. I hit return and it all comes up.
“Sherlocksmith,” Maverick says.
“How long was this Sherlocksmith antagonizing you on the forum?” Alexandru asks.
“At least seven years, I’d say. A real bully. I always thought it was a dude.”
“Did you have any kind of relationship with any of the three murder victims?”
“No, I didn’t know any of them,” I say.
Maverick looks thoughtful. “If Varla was a forum peer, she knew you’d be investigating. Is it possible she thought that this was a clever puzzle to construct?”
“A nesting doll of culprits,” Alexandru says, almost to himself. “Dooley Brogan, then Jerome, then the puppeteer herself—each shell cracking open to reveal the next. Theatrical, however inelegant.”
“Right?” I say. “If this is supposed to be some masterpiece puzzle, it’s just not that clever.”
“Not clever?” Maverick barks out a laugh. “Harriet, this woman is quite possibly a serial killer, and serial killers aren’t clever. Jeffrey Dahmer kept body parts in his freezer. Ed Gein made lampshades out of skin.”
“An interesting décor concept,” Alexandru puts in unhelpfully.
“We got a crime scene crew on the way, and I don’t want you two contaminating things any more than you already have. You got my email address. Pull together everything you know and forward it to me. I’ll be in touch.”
My mind is spinning as we head to the front door. Was this whole thing about me somehow? Three people dead to taunt me?
Maverick swears softly when he sees the crowd out there.
Suddenly I think of one more thing. “What color is Varla’s car?”
“Is that important?” Maverick asks.
“It might be.”
Maverick leads us around the drive to the garage in back. A uniform officer is coming out the side door.
“Is there a car inside there?”
“Gray Subaru,” the officer says. “Four-door. Maybe five years old.”
Maverick looks over at me. “That important somehow?”
“Alma Washington told me that somebody in a smallish gray car was sitting and watching Dooley Brogan’s house before the murders even started.”
“Oh yeah, we heard all about that,” Maverick says.
“Right, she thought it was one of you. Somebody wearing a ball cap in a gray car.”
Maverick grunts. “Alma Washington is not exactly known for her thorough descriptions. We’ll get a picture of the car and talk to her.”
“Alma lives at that home up on Kempton Street.”
“Right near the Brogan residence,” Maverick says. “Okay, then.”
A white Porsche pulls into the drive, and Serena, Malik, KC, and Jeb the salesperson all jump out.
Serena rushes up to me. “Harriet! What’s going on? Is Varla okay?”
“She is dead,” Alexandru says.
Serena’s hand goes to her mouth. She looks stricken.
“No,” KC whispers. “No. What happened?”
I tell them about Varla hanging herself in the kitchen. I don’t add the part about the overalls with the hole in the left knee or the carton of cold fries on a flowered plate.
Serena’s eyes are bright with tears.
KC steps closer, his face a mask of concern. “She hanged herself? That’s...God, Harriet. You walked in to see that?”
Something in his tone makes me hesitate.
Alexandru’s hand closes around my elbow. “We must go.”
“Why would she do that?” KC says.
Alexandru’s voice is a growl. “How is she to know what is in the mind of this woman? Such questions serve nothing.” His grip tightens, steering me away from them.
“I was just—” KC calls after us.
But Alexandru is already walking me toward the car, his stride long enough that I have to half-jog to keep up.
“What was that about?” I ask once we’re out of earshot.
“I do not wish you to perform your pain for the entertainment of others.”
I glance up at him. “They just wanted to know.”
He makes a rough sound in the back of his throat—not quite a denial, not quite agreement. “KC’s questions were prurient. Ghoulish. You do not owe him an accounting of your distress.”
“You’re protecting me,” I say.
“I am not.”
“Thank you.”
He releases my elbow as we reach the car, and I catch a glimpse of his expression before he smooths it away—something old and feral.
His hunger.
The bell over the door of Mrs. Morgan’s Curios jingles as I walk in. The familiar smell of wood polish and old books comforts me, even though my mind is spinning with the darkness of that scene with Varla.
Mom looks up from behind the register, where she’s sorting through a box of what looks like estate jewelry. “Back so soon? To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I take a taffy from the bowl, unsure where to start.
“Something happened, and I wanted you to hear it from me before it hits the news.” I look up and meet her gaze. “They found the woman who took my job at InovaSpire dead.”
“Dead?”
“Presumed suicide. But the way she did it…” I pause, not wanting to say the rest.
Mom frowns. “What way did she do it?”
“She hung herself wearing overalls. With a hole in the left knee. In her kitchen. And there were other random details in that scene just like—” I don’t have to finish.
Mom’s expression turns serious. She sets down a tarnished brooch.
I rub the side of the candy, rubbing out the bulges. “It’s looking like she was the Crossbow Killer, too. They even found a crossbow over there.”
“I don’t understand. The Crossbow Killer was your replacement at InovaSpire? And what do the crossbow murders have to do with...” The Cuyahoga Killer, she means, but she doesn’t have to say it.
“I’m afraid the connection might be me.”
“In what way?”
“We’re still piecing it all together, but I was able to get a look at Varla’s computer, and it turns out that she’s this person named Sherlocksmith who’s been a jerk to me on the forum for years.
So Sherlocksmith gets hired for my old job, kills somebody right in front of our store here knowing I’d investigate, she frames Jerome, an old friend of mine, kills that retired teacher, and then hangs herself like that. ”
“All to antagonize you?”
“That’s what it looks like. It doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
“Did you know the retired teacher?”
“Nick Lernov? No.”
“What was this woman like to you in person?”
“She seemed friendly and professional in the interviews, but later on she seemed to have a grudge. I never understood why.”
“Sherlocksmith,” Mom says. “Did she see herself as some kind of Moriarty to your Sherlock, do you think?”
I snort. “I’m not much of a Sherlock.”
“You’re better. You are a brilliant, inquisitive young woman, and you’re always there when somebody needs help.
It’s one of the beautiful things about you, and I’m sorry that this sick young woman took advantage of that.
And I know I shouldn’t say this, but I’m glad she’s dead.
She saved the justice system the trouble of putting her away. ”
“I sent all the evidence that I have to Maverick, and hopefully he can make sense of it. He wasn’t thrilled with my investigation, I’ll tell you that.” I stare at the taxidermy weasel behind the register. “Still. Why the retired teacher?”
“I’m sure Maverick will work it out. He thought that the ligature marks looked like suicide, but that can be faked.”
“Harriet!” Mom scolds. “Sometimes things are what they appear. I know that’s not as interesting—”
“I’m just saying it doesn’t all fit together that well. The retired teacher…”
Mom lets out a soft sigh, and there it is: that look of pity and concern. The same as when I told her I thought James wasn’t taken by the Cuyahoga Killer, and that the black car had to be significant somehow, and how the man Alma saw maybe had something to do with it.
“Doesn’t make sense. Just saying.”
“I know, honey. But this young woman was trying to torment you, and I don’t want to see her succeed.”
“It’s just, what kind of pattern is it, even? It’s just so off in so many ways! Maybe there’s something I’m not seeing.”
“Hey.” She reaches across the counter and squeezes my hand. “I should’ve been there that day. Walking him home from school. I put my responsibilities on a little girl.”
“No, don’t say that.”
“I am saying it. I won’t stop saying it.”
“Twelve years old is not little.”
“You were a little girl, and I was the mother. I could’ve walked the six blocks up there. I had Granabelle here to watch the store. I leaned on you far too much when it came to James.”
“As you should’ve!” I protest through my tightened throat. “If I was old enough to babysit, I was old enough to walk him home, but what did I do? I left him there because I was more interested in boys and ice cream.”
“Stop! You were supposed to be interested in boys and ice cream at that age.”
“Please, I don’t want to do this, Mom.”
She comes around the counter and gives me a hug.
I squeeze her tight. “I might be getting taffy in your hair.”
She pulls away and fixes me with a harsh look. “The only person responsible for James disappearing is the one who took him.”
Her saying “the one who took him” instead of “the Cuyahoga Killer” is a concession to me.
“I love you,” I say.
“Back atcha. Just keep that taffy out of my hair.”
I say my goodbyes and head down Commerce Street, past Gable’s Grocery and the barber shop and Gazebo Park, feeling uneasy about the whole thing. I tell myself it’s just the shock of seeing Varla’s body like that. Obviously, it would bring up all kinds of dark feelings.
And what am I going to do about Alexandru? We are four days until he’s full-on feral beast. Who is Alexandru going to drain now that the Crossbow Killer is dead? I fear he’ll go for Dooley.
I’ll figure it out.
I pop into Berky’s bakery and make a beeline for the front counter. I decide to go for a semi healthy giant muffin instead of the full-on cookie breakfast that I deep down want. I add on a giant cup of coffee.
“Harriet!” Josie’s waving at me from a table. She’s with her little boy.
I grab my stuff and go over.
“Honey!” She hugs me. “I heard about that woman—” she glances down at two-year-old Angus and lowers her voice, “doing what she did like she did… what the h-heck?”
“I know.” I sit and tear apart the muffin, wishing I’d ordered a cookie instead, because I sort of deserve it.
“What the heck?” says Angus in his cute little-boy voice.
Josie frowns. “I don’t get it. Did she have some weird obsession with you or something?”
“That’s what it looks like. She was kind of a jerk to me on the internet, and she took it into real life.”
“Exactly what you don’t want,” Josie says.
I pop another bit of my healthy muffin into my mouth and think how mad I’ll be if it has the same exact amount of calories as a chocolate almond Berky Bomb. Which it probably is.
“The whole thing doesn’t entirely sit right, if I’m being honest.”
“Harriet. What’s going on? Do you not think it’s Varla?”
“No. I don’t know! It doesn’t sit right is all I’m saying.”
“Look. This is just between us, but the city council got a briefing from the police a little while ago. They interviewed your old boss and a few other people at InovaSpire, and this woman’s absences from the office coincide with the murders.”
“Okay. But that is circumstantial.”
Josie makes a face.
“No, I know,” I say. “Of course all the evidence is pointing to her.”
“Maybe they’ll find journals or ramblings or something that explain a bit more of her thinking.”
I gaze up at the bright French menu on the chalkboard. “If she really is the Crossbow Killer, thank goodness that’s over.”
“Have you seen your mom yet?”
“I told her just now. She was pissed on my behalf more than anything.”
“Your mom is a tough cookie.”
“Tough cookie!” Angus says.