Chapter Thirty-Three
“I spent most of the day in genealogy research rooms in all the county seats,” Catherine explained, “with a stop in Augusta too. Definitely got my money’s worth from the car rental.
Spent a small fortune on photocopies.” She handed Willow sheet after sheet of paper: old newspaper items, birth and marriage announcements, a pair of marriage certificates, four years apart, both of which listed Bruce Ramsey as the groom …
“Catherine, you’re doing that information-fire-hose thing again. What am I supposed to be seeing here? My brain is mush,” Willow said.
“You think I’m still firing on all cylinders after the day I’ve had?” Catherine retorted.
“I got this,” Nick said. He turned to Willow.
“Bottom line, Hank is descended from the same Bruce Ramsey who was married to Annabel Cameron, but he’s descended from the guy’s first wife.
No connection to the Cameron family at all.
” He tugged the papers out of Willow’s hand and gave them back to Catherine.
“It seems pretty cut-and-dried; I don’t know how he thought he could possibly get away with it. ”
“Because,” Willow said bitterly, “the people who could best oppose him were Effie Cameron, Susan, and Geralt, all conveniently out of the way now, and Rina, who’s in jail. Then if you factor in that he has family members working in all the right county offices—records, probate—”
“And the state’s attorney office too,” Catherine broke in. “I found it last night—his sister-in-law’s younger brother is the assistant state’s attorney. So even if a challenge came up, he’s got a legal person in all the right places to help him slide it through.”
“But even with all that, his best-case scenario would have been to do it quickly and under the radar,” Willow said.
“He probably hoped to have everything tied up and in place before anyone did exactly what you did”—she grinned at Catherine—“which was drive around the whole of Downeast Maine and dig up the smoking gun.”
Nick was still frowning. “Where did he get that whole song and story about a romantic wartime marriage? I mean, we all know Hank. Creativity is not his strong suit, and that story is way too involved for him to have come up with it.”
Willow rooted around in her pack till she found her copy of Widow’s Walk; she pulled it out of the bag and handed it across the table to Catherine and Nick. “He didn’t. Abel Douglas did. The whole story is right there, literally a work of fiction.”
Catherine straightened. “Wait … that’s what this book is about?”
Willow nodded. “I finished it this afternoon.”
Catherine flipped through the book, disappointed. “It’s not real, then,” she sighed.
Nick, Willow realized, was barely paying attention; he was eyeing the open bag on the seat next to her with a curious expression. “Stone? You drink that enhanced-water stuff?”
Puzzled, Willow followed his gaze to her unzipped backpack and the empty bottle perched on top.
“Oh, this,” she said. “I keep forgetting to throw it away. This was Geralt Talbot’s.
He threw it out after—oh!” She frowned. “After the reception. On the way to Cameron House.” She looked at Nick, worried.
“I’m sorry, it didn’t even occur to me it might—I mean, they come from the factory pre-sealed and all, right? ”
Nick frowned. “Probably nothing. But I can take it in and have it tested, to be sure.” He carefully took the bottle from her bag, napkin around his fingers so he would not touch it, and tucked it into his coat.
His phone went off. “I have to take this,” he said, glancing down at the screen. “Don’t go anywhere.” He slipped out of the booth and into the hallway in the back of the restaurant.
“Well, someone’s bossy all of a sudden,” Willow grumbled.
Catherine was still paging through the book.
“Like I said earlier, every other copy of this novel anywhere in the country has fallen off the market within the past year or two—and there weren’t many to begin with.
If someone knew they were going to foist this story off onto the world, maybe they wanted to reduce the chances of someone else recognizing the narrative? ”
Willow jerked her head around at the loud ring of male laughter from the bar. She turned urgently back to the librarian. “Catherine, I don’t know if you knew, but Hank is here.”
Catherine’s eyes grew wide, and she craned her neck around to see. “What? Seriously?”
Willow nodded. “Over at the bar with a bunch of other men—don’t look!
” It was too late; Hank had seen Catherine staring at him.
He put down his beer, excused himself from his friends, and made a beeline for their table.
The expression on his face was not the genial bonhomie with which he had always approached Willow in the past; his expression was grim, with one corner of his lip forming the universal curl worn by schoolyard bullies everywhere.
Catherine swiftly gathered her papers into a stack and managed to slip them back into her messenger bag before he got to their table.
“Ladies,” he said with false warmth, the hardness in his eyes belying his genial smile. “So nice to see you. Especially you, Miss Ward; you must be exhausted after all your driving around today. I hadn’t expected you back on the island till tomorrow.”
Catherine smiled sweetly. “I didn’t go far—I had some errands to run,” she said, trying to sound innocent. “Visiting a friend. But thank you for your concern, Mr. Ramsey.”
The easygoing expression fell from Hank’s face as he planted his fists on the table and bent over them.
“I don’t know what you two are playing at, but you’re out of your league,” he growled.
“Whatever you suppose you have, I’d strongly suggest you forget about it, flush it, whatever.
This is my town now, these are my islands, and you should be very careful before you think about crossing me.
” He faced Catherine, his voice full of menace.
“Lose it. All of it. Go back to your little library and check out books to children. And you”—his gaze slid to Willow as his mouth twisted in a sneer—“you should get in your car and drive back to your home in the murder capital of the nation. You don’t belong here. ”
He stood up straight, brushed the lapels of his sport coat, and smoothed a hand over his comb-over, which only made the bare patch of scalp underneath more obvious.
He smiled again and said brightly, loud enough for other diners to hear, “Have a wonderful evening, ladies. Be careful on that drive home!” And he walked away, slipping out of sight into the hallway in back where the restrooms were located.
Catherine froze. “Oh no,” she breathed to Willow. “He knows. He knows everything. He—what?”
Willow’s face had gone very still, as though she had barely heard Catherine, had barely heard most of Hank’s speech. But now her eyes darted up to Catherine’s, and she said, “It was Hank.”
“What?”
Willow insisted, leaning forward, “The man in the church vestibule. It was Hank. I recognize the voice now—in fact, even the words were the same: ‘Be very careful before you think about crossing me.’ It was Hank.”
The two of them gazed at one another in horror. Then Catherine made a quick survey of the room. “Where’s Nick? I’m not budging one step from this booth until he comes back.”
Willow stood. “You text him; I’ll go look for him. He couldn’t have gone far; he went to the back. He may still be on the phone.”
Catherine choked something unintelligible to Willow’s back as the determined musician strode to the rear of the restaurant, but Willow was out of earshot. Catherine took a deep breath, picked up her phone, and brought up Nick’s contact information.