Page 27 of Murder Will Out
Catherine smiled ruefully. “Don’t feel bad; the society has been full analog since the beginning, and Effie and Sue were their only official living members as far as I know. There are boxes back in the library’s archives I could hook you up with. I can’t let you take anything out of the building, but you’re welcome to scan or photograph anything you’d find useful.”
Willow brightened. “That sounds fantastic; I’ll take you up on it, if you don’t mind.”
“No problem,” Catherine said. “Here, I’ll show you—there’s no one in the library, anyway, and I can get you set up.”
Willow followed her to the back of the building, into a small box-filled room with anARCHIVES AND ISLAND HISTORYsign on the door. “This stuff was stored in the basement for years,” Catherine said, gesturing Willow inside, “so I can’t vouch for the state it’s in. When I took over this job, I moved anything that looked vaguely important out of the damp belowground, but there may be mold in here—aha!” Her gaze lit on a haphazard pile of boxes in the corner. “Here it is; I’m betting most of what you’re looking for will be in this stack over here. Effie and Sue were organizing some of this in their efforts to get official historical status for the house. Rina was helping them; she had the idea of adding the house to their vacation rental properties as a luxury inn or B&B, though I don’t think Sue was big on the idea.”
Willow took the first box from Catherine; she set it on the rickety card table in the best-lit side of the basement. “So that’s what Geralt was talking about yesterday morning when he and Rina argued before the funeral. He accused her of trying to get the house for herself after Sue died.”
Catherine shook her head. “I don’t think that’s true, even if it were possible. Sue died before their wedding, and neither of them had made a will yet; they’d planned to do it after they got married. Rina has no claim on the house at all, she’s just advocating for what she believes Sue wanted.”
“What about that Hank guy?” Willow asked. “He was droppinghints about wanting to build a resort on the property? It made me wonder if that’s what this historical society was trying to prevent.”
“Is that what he was going on about?” Catherine rolled her eyes. “I saw he had you cornered for a while there at the reception before everything went off the rails.”
“That guy.” Willow shook her head wearily. “He was talking about Cameron House, how there are no proper hotels on the island and what a shame it is the old house is sitting on such a beautiful piece of land.”
Catherine snorted as she set another box onto the table next to the first. “Hank Ramsey has been angling to get hold of the Cameron property for years. Sue and Rina told me about it; he would show up at Effie’s doorstep every so often trying to convince her to sell him the house, but she told him to buzz off.” She grimaced. “And it’s not like they were the only ones after the property. Like Mr. Ramsey says, it’s incredibly valuable land, and for decades now, it’s been just the one old woman in that huge house. She’s had more developers circling than this island has mosquitoes in July.”
Willow frowned. “So… Effie left the house to Sue. When Sue died with no spouse or heirs or will, it reverted back to Geralt, Effie’s last living relative?”
“That was in Effie’s will too: If Sue died without issue or spouse, the house went back to the youngest living member of the Cameron line,” Catherine replied.
“What happens if Geralt dies? Who gets the house then?”
Catherine looked up at Willow; the two women’s eyes locked as the librarian saw at last where Willow had been going with her questions. “I… suppose it would go to Geralt’s spouse? Naomi?” Catherine hesitated, speaking carefully. “Look, like I said, there was no evidence anywhere that Sue’s death was anything but an accident. No forced entry, no sign of anyone else in the house.”
“And Effie?” Willow’s voice was carefully neutral.
Catherine said, just as carefully, “There was no indication Effie’s death was from anything other than natural causes either. An old woman, passing in her sleep at ninety-nine years of age.” She paused. “But.”
Willow nodded and gave her a mirthless smile. “But. With Geralt lying in the hospital in a coma, only alive at all due to fast medical intervention, that’s three heirs to the most valuable property on the island who’ve died or almost died over a two-month period.”
“Not just three,” Catherine said in a hushed voice, “but the only three. The last three.”
“The last three,” Willow repeated. She looked sharply at Catherine. “You’ve been thinking about this too, haven’t you?” she asked.
The librarian didn’t answer, refusing to meet Willow’s eyes.
“But you haven’t said anything. Not to Diana and Mac, and not to Rina.” She hesitated. “Look, I know you care about Rina, but are you absolutely, entirely sure that she couldn’t have—”
“Hey, you two!” Mac’s voice came brightly from the doorway; Catherine and Willow jumped in surprise, whirling around to face her. “I brought goodies—Mom made way more than we needed for today’s morning rush, so—” She stopped, seeing their faces. “What’s up? What’s going on?”
Willow caught Catherine’s eye and shook her head infinitesimally; Catherine understood and said, “Nothing. We were puzzling over some things.” She forced a smile. “Got any scones?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It would take hours, days, Willow realized, to go through all the boxes. The flow of documents seemed endless, mostly scans of articles from old newspapers—local ones from Little North as well as wider-reaching publications from the mainland.
By about three in the afternoon, she found the yellowed sheaf of pages titled “North Islands Historical Society Articles of Incorporation,” dated November 2, 1856.Bingo, she thought, first photographing the pages, then settling in to read the document. The spiky handwriting, though faded, was tidy and efficient; the text itself was impenetrable legalese. She skimmed through the pages until the end, where the document’s signatories were named. The first two were signed in curly feminine handwriting: Miss Delphine Drummond and Miss Dorothy Drummond. Sisters, presumably. Old-fashioned names.
The third name, which looked to be in the same handwriting as the bulk of the document: Joel Drummond.Interesting, she thought.And a little surprising that Nick didn’t know his descendant, if the Drummonds have been on the island for this long.
She kept going. In the next folder, Willow found a reproductionof an old daguerreotype photo. A young couple stood in the center of perhaps a dozen others, all formally posed, she in a heavily bustled white gown and veil, he in a frock coat and top hat.
On the other side of the bride stood a man with a neatly trimmed beard and slicked-back dark hair. The photo was too old and the quality too fuzzy to see the silver threads in his beard—or the kind steadiness of his gaze—but Willow’s skin rippled with gooseflesh as her memory filled them in.
This wasn’t a photo of a descendant of the Joel Drummond she had met in Cameron House yesterday.
