Chapter 12
TWELVE
It started to snow right before the detectives arrived. The flurries were intermittent and wouldn’t stick, but an early snow seemed foretelling. Of what, Marlowe didn’t know, but to her, something about this place—the land, with its cycles and weather—always seemed to hold special knowledge.
Glory welcomed the detectives to seats at the kitchen table. Frank and Glory sat next to each other, Marlowe near her mother, facing Ariel and Ben.
“We’re pleased to inform you that we’ve made some headway on the case,” Ben announced. “We just have a few more questions for you.”
“I’m grateful for it,” Frank said. “All of this happening on our land has unsettled us, to say the least.”
Ben nodded. “We can confirm that Harmon Gallagher was killed at some point between midnight and three in the morning on November 23. The initial coroner’s report states the cause of death as blunt force trauma to the back and top of the head.”
“And you have suspects?” Frank asked.
“I can’t say at this time. We’re still gathering information,” Ben said. “We have officially traced those threats you sent in back to Harmon, and we’d like to go over the details again, Mr. Fisher.”
“Certainly. Shall we talk in the study?”
“That would be great, thank you.” Ben stood up and followed Frank, but this time Ariel lingered.
“I’d like to get a better sense of the property,” Ariel said. “Marlowe, would you mind showing me where the old Gallagher house used to be?”
“All right.” Marlowe had expected, even hoped for, this kind of chance, but still she was hit by a ripple of shock at being so neatly singled out. Ariel didn’t waste time. Marlowe glanced at her mother, who wasn’t looking at either of them.
“Thank you, I appreciate it. And the guest you told us about on Friday, Enzo Marino.” Ariel turned to Glory. “Is he still in the house?”
“Yes, of course he is.” Glory looked confused. “He went upstairs for a nap shortly before you arrived.”
“We’d like to speak to him, if he’s able, when we’re back,” Ariel said. “Neighbors all recalled he was here full-time every summer; he must know this area as well as you.”
“Perhaps even better,” Glory said. “I’ll see if he’s up to it.”
Ariel stood in silence while Marlowe pulled on her coat, hat, and gloves.
Their footsteps were muffled by the dusting of snow as they traversed the lawn. Marlowe cleared her throat and pointed toward the chestnut tree as she crossed the road.
“The Gallagher Place was beneath the tree,” she said. “Over there by that hydrangea bush. And there was a small milk barn beside the bigger barn; you can still see the foundations.” They paused where Marlowe estimated one of the cornerstones of the house had been.
“After it was torn down, the grass was replanted. It was just a modest farmhouse, smaller than the Gray House. I remember it was painted dark green.”
Ariel nodded and then tipped her head back, peering up at the arching boughs of the chestnut.
“The brothers didn’t spend much time inside,” Marlowe continued. “They were always in the barn or the fields, trying to keep things up. The farm slipped more out of their hands each year.”
They continued tramping over the slippery grass, and Marlowe pointed out where the earth rose in a lump. “There was a cellar there. It’s filled in now, but there was a trapdoor in the house that once led down into it.”
“How do you know so much about the place?” Ariel asked.
“We explored the empty house before it was demolished.” Marlowe didn’t clarify whom “we” meant, but it had been the four of them as usual, including Nora.
“There wasn’t much to see after they died.
It was a simple place to begin with. The cellar was the only exciting thing.
It was pitch black down there, and the stone walls were cold and slick.
It felt old, far older than the house itself. ”
“The house was torn down right after your father bought the land, is that right?” Ariel paused, and Marlowe nodded her confirmation.
Marlowe couldn’t tell what Ariel was after with this line of questioning.
The ground began to feel flimsy beneath her feet, as if it might crumble and send her and Ariel tumbling into the ancient pit.
And she hated to admit to herself that she felt the dull beginnings of a craving for a glass of wine taking form.
“Leroy died first, yes?” Ariel looked up as a flurry hit her cheek and melted. “Then Tom shortly after, and then Dave. Here, on the farm, right?”
“Yes,” Marlowe said.
“Pretty strange, don’t you think? All of them passing within two years of each other?”
“Strange things happen all the time,” Marlowe said.
“Funny,” Ariel said. “Your father said the same thing.”
“It was more sad than anything else.” Marlowe’s instinct was to defend the Gallaghers. Who was Ariel to judge how their lives had ended?
“You mourned them?”
“I was a teenager; I barely understood it,” Marlowe said. “But those men were kind to me and my brothers, even when they didn’t have to be.”
“So they were fond of you?” Ariel asked.
“We were probably annoying, running around playing in their fields and barns,” Marlowe admitted. “But they never seemed angry. They told us we could play on their land, even encouraged us to, as long as we didn’t mess with their operation.”
“Your father says he was on good terms with them, that they even knew he planned to buy the land from whoever inherited,” Ariel said. “He says he had their blessing.”
Ariel’s voice was tinged with cynicism, as if to imply that a blessing had to be given, rather than claimed.
“As far as I know. But like I said, I was just a teenager. I didn’t have much insight into those things.”
“I wonder what set Harmon off, in that case,” Ariel said, walking toward the barn. “Why he decided to start sending those messages so many years after the property had passed hands.”
“I don’t get it either.”
Ariel paused and took in a long breath. Her mouth softened, as if even she was soothed by the beauty of the land, just as Marlowe always was.
“One of the threats mentioned Nora Miller by name, and a few others referenced her indirectly,” Ariel said. “Could you tell me more about her?”
The question struck Marlowe like a shot of freezing air in her lungs. Everyone—Nate, Henry, her parents—had downplayed Harmon’s words, too scared that Marlowe couldn’t handle it, but she had been correct. The threats were about Nora, and Ariel was taking them seriously.
“She was my best friend. We met when we were five. She lived just down the road.”
Ariel waited for her to continue. She wanted more. Marlowe’s gut twisted with apprehension. Her brothers could never wait out her silences, but Ariel was practiced at this, and her curiosity seemed to grant her all the patience in the world.
“When she vanished, it was awful.” If they were inside, Marlowe might have been able to stymie the emotion, but her eyes were already watering in the cold, and the barn blurred into a red smear, the white fields blending into the gray sky. “We couldn’t find her. Couldn’t find anything.”
“I looked over the old notes. June 5, 1998. About a year after your father purchased this land. The house would have been gone by then.” Ariel nodded at the empty square of grass, as if she was trying to anchor Marlowe to the ground, tether her to the present.
Marlowe hadn’t realized the panic settling over her until Ariel pulled her back.
It was jarring that Ariel could see her so well.
“So you’re familiar with the details,” Marlowe said.
Ariel shrugged. “I’ve been wanting to hear your version.”
Marlowe had no version. She had only her memory, as useless as it was, but she had nothing to hide, no matter what the rumor mill or the bloggers had to say.
“Summer had just started, and Nora was at our place,” Marlowe said.
“Nate had some friends from college over, and Henry had a friend up for the weekend as well. We were up late, laughing and drinking in the kitchen. Nothing crazy. Nora and I tried the beer but we didn’t like it.
We were just tagging along with Nate. It was exciting to be included with the older boys.
Around midnight, Nora went to take out the trash, and she never came back. ”
Marlowe swallowed hard, pushing down the images of Nora cackling at a story Nate and his college friends were telling, of her own smile as she sipped the vile-tasting beer.
The kitchen floor hadn’t been redone yet—it was still the faded orange linoleum.
They had been outside all day. Nora’s cheeks were tinted pink from the sun.
The stifling heat of summer hadn’t set in, and chilly night air wafted through the open windows.
“We looked for her in the pitch black,” Marlowe said. “And the next day the search party started.”
“And your parents?” Ariel asked.
“They were asleep, but we woke up them and Enzo when we couldn’t find her,” Marlowe said. “They called Nora’s parents.”
Marlowe’s voice wavered when she thought of Damen and Jennifer Miller, confused and desperate. Nora spent every spare second of her life at the Gray House when Marlowe’s family was in town. She loved it. She loved the Fishers. It was supposed to be safe. Good for her, even.
Ariel looked over her shoulder, toward the trash bins by the road, tucked beneath the copse of pine trees.
“How long before you noticed she hadn’t returned?” Ariel tilted her head, like a bird eyeing a fat worm.
“No more than ten minutes,” Marlowe said. “I’m sure that’s in the reports from back then. I went over everything a million times with the detective, John Brierley.”