CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Jenna turned right at Miller Avenue, heading east toward Pruitt Restoration phone pressed to his ear.
He was in his late forties, with the weathered complexion of someone who spent more time on job sites than in an office.
His dark hair was shot through with gray, and a day’s stubble shadowed his jaw.
He looked up as she entered, his expression darkening.
“I’ll have to call you back,” he said into the phone, not taking his eyes off Jenna. He hung up without waiting for a response and leaned back in his chair. “Mavis!” he shouted. “I thought I told you—”
“She did,” Jenna said, closing the door behind her. “But I’m not leaving until we’ve talked.”
Ray’s office was an organized chaos. Blueprints and work orders covered every surface; a collection of miniature tools lined one shelf; a coffee mug bearing the faded slogan “I Dig Historical Preservation” sat beside his computer.
The walls were covered with framed photos of completed projects—Victorian homes with restored gingerbread trim, storefronts with freshly painted facades, and, in a place of honor, Calloway House in various stages of renovation.
“So,” Ray said, folding his arms across his chest, “is Sheriff Graves here to arrest me again? Or is this just a social call?”
Jenna remained standing, keeping the desk between them. “I assume you’ve heard about Donna Marsh.”
Ray’s eyebrows rose. “The woman at Calloway House? Yeah, tragic accident. Fell off a ladder reaching for something.” His tone was casual, almost dismissive.
“I’m not so sure it was an accident,” Jenna replied.
Something flickered across Ray’s face—surprise, perhaps, followed by wariness. “You think somebody killed her? In a building full of condo owners and staff?”
“I think there’s more to the story,” Jenna said. “Starting with the network of passageways throughout the mansion.”
This time, the reaction was unmistakable—Ray’s posture stiffened, his eyes narrowing with caution. “I can’t talk about that,” he said.
“Can’t, or won’t?”
Ray leaned forward. “Can’t. Literally can’t. Legal reasons.”
Jenna studied him, watching for the telltale signs of deception. But Ray’s face showed only guarded wariness.
“You signed a non-disclosure agreement,” she said.
Ray’s mouth tightened. “I can’t even confirm that.”
“You can now,” Jenna replied. “Boyd Calloway is dead.”
Ray’s expression shifted to genuine shock, his face paling slightly beneath his tan.
“What?” he said. “When? How?”
“Last night,” Jenna answered. “In his bedroom at Calloway House. It appears to be a heart attack, but I have reason to believe it was induced—that someone used the passageways to frighten him.”
Ray leaned back in his chair, processing this. “My God,” he muttered. “I just saw him yesterday.” Then he looked at her sharply, “What do the passageways have to do with it?”
“That’s what I’m hoping you’ll tell me,” Jenna said.
Ray was silent for a long moment, clearly weighing his options. Finally, he sighed. “Look, I had nothing to do with what happened to either of them. Donna Marsh or Boyd.” His voice had lost its edge, the confrontation replaced by something closer to concern. “As for the NDA— “
“You found the passages during renovation,” Jenna prompted.
“We were working on the east wing, replacing some water-damaged plaster. My guy knocked through a wall and found himself in this narrow corridor—not a closet, not a crawlspace, but a full passageway.” He gestured with his hands, indicating the size.
“At first, we thought it was just a servant’s access—those old places have them sometimes. But then we noticed the pinholes.”
“The camera obscura effect,” Jenna said.
Ray looked surprised. “You know about that?”
“I found one in Boyd’s bedroom wall,” she explained. “It projects an image of the room into the passage.”
“That’s right, they’re all through the house—tiny holes drilled at precise angles. From the room side, they look like just another mark in the woodwork. But from the passage, they give you a view of what’s happening inside. Upside down, but clear enough …”
He stood, moving to the window. “When we figured out what they were for, we realized Pete Shannon had given himself a kind of spy system, back when he first built the mansion. He could watch his guests without being seen—see who was stealing from him, who was plotting against him, or ...” He trailed off, uncomfortable.
The image from her dream surfaced—Pete Shannon’s spirit watching a couple undressing, the upside-down projection playing across the wall before him.
“Or maybe it was just voyeurism,” Jenna finished for him. “The most likely explanation of all.”
“The thought occurred to me,” Ray said.
“So, you told Boyd,” she said.
Ray turned back to her. “I had to. It was a major architectural feature we’d uncovered.
He had a right to know.” His mouth twisted.
“That’s when things got weird. He was...
excited about it. Asked a ton of questions—where the passages went, how many pinholes we’d found, whether they were all still functional.
” He shook his head. “Then he made all of us sign NDAs—me, my foreman, the guys who’d found the passage.
Said he wanted to keep it quiet until he decided how to handle it.
That the passages were part of the house’s history, and he didn’t want people sensationalizing it with random stories. ”
“And you agreed,” Jenna said.
“What choice did I have?” Ray spread his hands.
“It’s not illegal to have secret passages in your house.
And the NDA was pretty standard—we couldn’t talk about the passages or the pinholes, but we could still discuss the rest of the renovation.
” He moved to a file cabinet in the corner, pulling out a drawer.
“I’ve got a copy right here, if you want to see it. ”
He extracted a folder and handed it to Jenna. Inside was a legal document—the header reading “Non-Disclosure Agreement” in bold type. She skimmed the contents, noting the standard language about confidentiality and penalties for breach.
“I can get you the ones my guys signed, too,” Ray offered. “They’re in our personnel files.”
Jenna closed the folder, handing it back.
“That won’t be necessary.” She studied him for a moment, reassessing.
The shock at learning of Boyd’s death had seemed genuine, as had his explanation for the NDA.
He might be a hothead with a history of cutting corners, but a killer? The evidence wasn’t there.
“I’ll need a list of everyone who worked on the Calloway House renovation,” she said. “Especially those who knew about the passages.”
Ray moved back to his desk. “I can email it to you. Most of the crew was local—guys I’ve worked with for years. A few specialists we brought in for the electrical and plumbing.” He paused. “You really think someone used those passages to kill Boyd?”
“I think someone’s been using them to move through the house unseen,” Jenna replied. “Whether that led directly to Boyd’s death or Donna’s is what I’m trying to determine.”
Ray was silent for a moment. “If there’s anything else I can do...”
“As a matter of fact, there is,” Jenna said. “Do you have ground plans of the mansion that include a complete layout for the passageways?”
“Yes, I drew them up after we discovered them. I’ve got them in a digital file.”
“Good. Email them to both Deputy Hawkins and me.”
Jenna gave him their email addresses and waited until the files were sent.
“I’ll be in touch,” Jenna said, moving toward the door. “In the meantime, keep this conversation to yourself. The fewer people who know we’re looking into this, the better.”
She stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind her and passing by Mavis’s desk on her way out.
The autumn air felt cool against her face as she stepped outside.
She’d been inside less than twenty minutes, but the interview had shifted her perspective.
Ray wasn’t their killer—his reaction to Boyd’s death had been too genuine, his explanation for the NDA too reasonable.
In fact, she thought it unlikely that any of his team was involved, since a murder would mean they couldn’t escape suspicion.
Of course, they’d all have to be interviewed about alibis and attitudes, anyhow.
But someone else might have discovered those hidden corridors—someone with motive to use them for murder.
Her phone rang as she reached her car. Jake’s name appeared on the screen.
“Hey,” she answered, sliding into the driver’s seat. “What’s up?”
“I just heard from Kay,” Jake said, his voice tight with excitement. “She’s already looked into the Shannon genealogy, like you asked.”
Jenna started the engine, letting it idle. “That was fast.”
“She’s good,” Jake replied. “And you’re not going to believe what she found.”
“What?”
“There’s only one direct descendant of Pete Shannon still living in this area.” He paused. “It’s Ethan Pierce.”