Murder Will Out
Prologue The House
Cameron House and silence were old friends.
From its beginnings more than two centuries ago, a deep stillness had settled in the mansion’s thick walls.
It seeped into the floorboards and writhed lazily upward from the granite foundations; it twisted up through the grand stone chimneys and spiraled out with the smoke into the chill Maine nights.
The house liked the quiet. Silence made it easier to listen.
On that chilly March afternoon, the silence in the massive old house was broken only by the quick thudding of the one living heartbeat still in the room.
Effie Cameron sat in her ancient rocking chair, facing out at the ever-changing waves as they hurled themselves upon the unyielding granite coast. Her veined hands, folded peacefully in her lap, rested on the afghan she had crocheted many years ago of soft wool dyed in the shifting variegated green-blue of the ocean in summer.
For most of her ninety-nine years, Effie had started each day exactly like this: sitting in the front window of the once-opulent mansion her great-grandfather had built over two hundred years ago, counting the lobster boats as they passed, and waving to the islanders who walked the seaside path every morning.
The heartbeat was not hers. Today, her eyes, once bright and crackling with intelligence and humor, were empty; the body was devoid of life. Effie was gone.
The old woman’s visitor stood motionless, brightly embroidered couch pillow still dangling from one slack hand, carefully looking anywhere but at the still form in the chair.
Killing Effie had not been the plan. But the old woman had been stubborn, unwilling to listen.
Unreasonable, shortsighted. And finally, most infuriatingly, so complacent and patronizing—shaking her head at every suggestion, refuting every argument, and at last announcing with icy politeness, “I’m afraid I cannot help you; now, if you don’t mind, it’s time for my nap.
You may let yourself out. Thank you for your kind visit.
” At which point, she’d turned her head away and closed her sharp blue eyes.
Who did she think she was? You want a nap? I’ll give you a nap, you patronizing cow.
It had been easier than expected. On some level, Effie’s killer had to admit that killing Effie might have been the plan, after all. No one will know. She was ninety-nine years old; she dozed off quietly in her rocker and never woke up. No one will suspect. It’s a mercy, really.
And now, the next, reasonable, hungry thought, now it’s almost done. Only one more obstacle …
A whisper, faint but unmistakable, floated up from the dead woman in her rocking chair: Murderer, it breathed.
The pillow slipped from nerveless fingers to the floor. The visitor’s focus jerked back to the body in the chair.
Effie was still dead.
Of course she’s still dead, you idiot. You’re imagining things.
But another whisper floated across from the other side of the room, out of the shadows near the old butler’s pantry; then, another, from the alcove by the fireplace. Murderer. Murderer.
The visitor inched backward, heart pounding, toward the finely carved wooden archway leading to the foyer, eyes darting around the room as though looking for the source, catching fleeting glimpses of impossible others in the room: a tall man in a gray suit leaning against the mantel, a pair of elderly women in black bonnets, backs ramrod straight, on the divan.
From the shadows behind the old spinet piano, a broad-shouldered fisherman’s piercing glare …
and others, vague blurry others, all whispering accusingly: Murderer. You killed her. Murderer …
The visitor backed away, lurching unsteadily toward the heavy front door, terrified to look away from the rage and contempt twisting these impossible flickering faces, so many, so very many people, there and yet not there … Murderer, they whispered, murderer murderer murderer …
The door would not open; it was stuck. Hands suddenly slick with sweat jiggled the bolt, jerked the handle back and forth, to no avail. The whispers grew into a crescendo of fury, pressing closer—Murderer murderer you killed her murderer, they said.
With a final panicked yank, the visitor felt the bolt give way, and the door swung open.
No living person observed the terrified individual who slipped out and ran along the coastal path back to the village in the slanting light of the late-afternoon sun.
But Cameron House saw, and those it sheltered.
Then the front door closed gently; an unseen hand turned the lock, and some invisible pocket claimed the key.
The bright decorative pillow lay on the floor beside the rocking chair, still bearing a depression on one side, about the size and shape of a face.
The paramedics would shove it out of the way when they arrived, and the police would take no notice of it.
Miss Effie was so very old; she had obviously died peacefully in her chair on this quiet March afternoon, and it would be a long while before anyone thought to ask questions.
The house could have answered all the questions, if not for its own silence.
But it would remember.