Page 23 of Murder Will Out
Willow envied him; now that she was back in bed, sleep seemed far away. The burst of adrenaline that had surged when the face appeared in the window still coursed through her, and now her mind was circling again, reviewing the day like a disjointed slideshow, rehearing pieces of conversation. Cameron House. Geralt. Joel. The whispering voices in the foyer. The disappearing cane and shawl. Geralt’s claim on the mansion that had been Sue’s, and Effie’s before her…
When someone with one foot already in the grave kicks the bucket, how hard are they going to look for a cause of death?the unidentified man in the church had said. She’d assumed he was referring to Geralt, but…Miss Effie, Willow thought, and her drooping eyes jerked wide open at the thought.The ninety-nine-year-old woman who supposedly passed peacefully in her sleep. How deeply, she wondered,did anyone investigateherdeath?
Effie. Then Sue. Now Geralt. One after another, in the space of just a few months.
It was a long time before Willow could relax enough to sleep again, but at last she found herself drifting off. In the timelessmoment between wakefulness and sleep, Willow thought she might have heard someone settling down into the glider rocker downstairs. This time, it did not occur to her to be afraid; her mind, shifting into dreams, realized this could only be Aunt Sue, settling into her favorite chair with a cup of tea, gazing out her own big bay window toward the sea.
Feeling safe and warm for the first time in recent, or possibly not-so-recent, memory, Willow at last felt her body begin to release again into sleep.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Willow awoke to a bright shaft of sun through the skylight, a wet nose in her face, and a feeling of being fully rested that she had not experienced in a long time. Finn expressed an immediate need to go outside, so she dragged herself out of bed to let him out; after anointing another wild rosebush, he informed Willow in no uncertain terms that it was time for his breakfast.Oh no, she thought,dog food. I don’t have dog food.“Sorry, dude,” she said. “I’ve never had a four-footed roommate before, and I have no idea what you guys eat. And I didn’t get to shop properly yesterday. We may be out of luck.”
But when she stepped into the little kitchen, Willow realized that, along with last night’s dinner makings, Rina had stocked the kitchen with some basic groceries: eggs, milk, yogurt, and juice. A loaf of fresh bread on the counter beside a jar of obviously homemade blueberry jam. Coffee, creamer, and a box of little oatmeal packets.
The small kindness made Willow’s heart swell again.
She opened the refrigerator with one hand, searching “what to feed your dog when you run out of dog food” on her phone withthe other—but before the first results had time to come up, Finn himself pushed past her to the fridge. Propping himself against the shelf with one paw, he made a beeline for the plastic container of leftover pasta Willow had not realized was there. Delicately maneuvering it into his large corgi jaws, he pulled it out and carried it over to the corner of the kitchen.
Before Willow could react, Finn pried the lid off the container with the technique of one who had done this many times before; within seconds, he had enthusiastically scarfed down the last of Rina’s pasta marinara. It wasn’t a very big breakfast, even for a medium-size dog like Finn, but he seemed to enjoy it. Willow’s shock soon subsided into something like admiration; if she had ever found a man with this much character and resourcefulness, she might not be in her mid-twenties and still completely single. Finn even brought the container back to her when he had finished; his look told her he would have been happy to wash it himself if he could reach the sink, but his legs were too short, and she would need to take care of that part.
Finn, she was coming to realize, was an extremely cool dog.
There was one leftover brownie from the evening before, neatly covered in cling wrap on a plate on the counter. Willow concluded it was as good a breakfast food as any—though she would have gone for the pasta herself if the dog hadn’t beaten her to it—and munched away as she waited for her coffee to brew in the small French press from the corner cabinet.
The connection Willow had made before drifting into slumber had stayed with her, as though her brain had gnawed on it as she slept. Sue’s death. Geralt’s apparent poisoning. Effie Cameron’s passing. The clamor of island preservationists, alongside the covert plotting of eager developers with their aspirations for new hotels and luxury B&Bs on the island. And then there was the North Islands Historical Society, whose existence so far Willow had only seen on signs and placards. Cameron House sat at the center of all of it.
Willow pulled on her favorite too-big sweater, remembered to shut off her phone’s Wi-Fi, and gathered up her laptop and backpack. She needed information. And as good as her research skills were, she suspected Catherine Ward’s might be better. At the last minute, she scurried upstairs to retrieve the Abel R. Douglas novel, slipping it into her backpack; maybe the red-haired librarian would know something about the author.
Before she had opened the front door more than a couple of inches, Finn slipped out and loped down the stairs. He stopped at the coastal path and looked at her expectantly.Well? Are you coming? Day’s not getting any younger.
Apparently Finn would be coming with her, and who was she to argue?
Willow breathed inthe salt-pine-sweet air of a perfect Maine morning, her feet crunching on the pine needles of the coastal path, listening to the raucous calls of the gulls and crows wheeling overhead. An old-fashioned lobstering dory made its way along the shoreline, moving buoy to buoy, pulling up its pots. The battered wooden boat had been dark blue once, but most of the color had worn away, and four or five lobster pots were piled in the stern. The captain looked younger than his boat but fully as weathered; he stood at the helm, a messy tousle of dark hair fighting its way out from beneath a fisherman’s hat. It was an unusual sight; every lobsterman Willow had ever seen used much larger flat-bottomed inboard motorboats with power winches. This one looked completely low-tech, with only buoys and oars and pots—the kind of boat lobstermen had used for centuries off the Maine coast.
Willow realized the fisherman had caught her staring. She froze, then awkwardly put up her hand to wave in greeting. He looked puzzled, returned the wave, and went on with his day’s work.
My life’s encounters with men in a nutshell, Willow thought wryly. Awkwardness, puzzlement, brief acknowledgment, and then they moved on with their lives and promptly forgot about her.
As they rounded the curve in the path that passed near Cameron House, Finn gave a quick, happy bark and ran up the front walk, ducking easily past the yellow police tape across the porch. Willow called him back, but he ignored her, pawing at the outer screen till his paw could slip behind it. Willow watched aghast as he wedged his body into the opening, pushed his nose against the front door, and slipped inside.
Alarmed, Willow followed, but stopped short at the fluttering barricade of yellow tape. She had no business going inside, but how was she going to get Finn otherwise? And why on earth was the door ajar? Didn’t anyone close or lockanythingon this island?
The responsible thing to do would be to call the police, or Nick, to explain that Finn had gone into the house and ask for permission to go after him. She pulled out her phone, and her thumb hovered over the Call button… then she muttered, “Nope, not happening,” and put her phone away. Willow gingerly grasped the porch railing and swung her leg over the lowXformed by the two strips of tape, pulled her long sleeves down over her fingers so at least she would not leave obvious fingerprints, and followed Finn inside.
Stepping through the doorway into Cameron House was like crossing a threshold into another dimension, as though the house held its own distinct reality within its walls. She could hear the rumble of the ocean outside and the faint call of the birds, but the sounds were distant, removed. In here, it was so quiet that Willow imagined she could hear the motes of dust as they flickered in and out of shafts of morning sunlight. She looked up to the second floor; in the chaos of the day before, Willow had barely noticed the giant stained glass panel crowning the landing,but today, its abstract swirls cast shafts of sea colors and sunset hues over floor and staircase and Willow herself.
To Willow’s left, Miss Effie’s sitting room overlooked the sea; to her right, a pair of glass doors loomed ominously at the entry to the shadowy library. Willow reached out a hand to try the library door, but before she could touch it, a flicker of movement inside the room startled her into backing away.
When her breath had slowed, she stepped back up to the library doors and peered into the room; it was dark and motionless. A waft of sound behind her, like a quiet chuckle, made her whirl around—but the foyer was empty. Just Finn, heading nonchalantly to what was clearly his favorite spot next to Effie’s rocking chair in the sitting room.
The dog did not seem to sense anything in the house beyond the two of them—at least, nothing that worried him—so Willow decided she must have been imagining things; it seemed she had Finn’s approval to be here, though if Nick or the other cops came back, she didn’t think they were likely to consult with the corgi. She knew she should grab the dog, leave the house, and get on with her day.
I should, yes, but… as long as I’m inside…
She wouldn’t explore the whole house; she didn’t quite have the nerve, and besides, it would take too long. But she wanted to find the dormer window she had seen last night.
The dog curled up in a rectangle of sunlight; he gave a single thump with his feathered tail and closed his eyes.You do what you need to do; I’m going to have a little nap, if you don’t mind.
