Page 49 of Rock Paper Scissors
What I appear to be looking at is some kind of scarecrow, but with the head of a snowman. He has wine corks for eyes, a carrot for a nose, a pipe sticking out of the space where his mouth should be, and one of Henry Winter’s silk blue bow ties tied around his neck. It’s a shade darker than it should be, saturated with melting snow. Henry’s walking stick, the one with the silver rabbit’s head handle is leaning against it, as though for support.
Amelia comes to stand by my side. “What the—”
“I don’t know anymore.”
“This wasn’t here before, was it?”
“No. I think we would have noticed. I really don’t understand what is happening.”
We stand side by side in silence, staring at the scarecrow snowman as his head slowly melts. One of his cork eyes has already slipped halfway down his face. Apart from the odd dead-looking tree and creepy-looking wooden sculptures, we are in the middle of a vast open area. Whoever did this must be close by. And if Bob is near enough to be heard barking, we should be able to spot him,but all I can see is empty white space. Thanks to the sheep, the snow has been disturbed almost everywhere outside the chapel. If there were any footprints to follow, there aren’t now.
“We have to find Bob. He’s out here somewhere, we both heard him, and we just have to keep looking,” Amelia says, and I follow her.
There is a small cemetery at the back of the chapel. The old gravestones are barely visible thanks to the snow, but one stands out as I get nearer. The reason it catches my eye is because someone has wiped it clean, so that the dark gray granite stands out against everything else covered in white. And, unlike all the other headstones, this one looks relatively new.
That isn’t all.
There is a red leather collar sitting on top of it.
Amelia picks it up and I see Bob’s name on the tag, as though there had been any doubt in my mind that it belonged to him.
“I don’t understand. Why remove the dog’s collar and leave it here?” she says.
But I don’t reply. I’m too busy staring at the headstone.
HENRY WINTER
FATHER OF ONE, AUTHOR OF MANY.
1937–2018
AMELIA
“I don’t understand. If Henry died two years ago, wouldn’t we have known about it?” I ask.
Adam doesn’t answer. We stand side by side in silence, staring at the granite headstone, as if doing so might make the words engraved on it disappear. No matter how many times I rearrange the pieces of this puzzle inside my head, they just don’t fit. I can see the confusion and fear and grief on my husband’s face. I know he thought everything we have was a result of Henry Winter giving him his big break, and trusting him with his novels. A silly falling-out didn’t change that. The man dying when they weren’t even on speaking terms is going to hit him hard. But Adam must realize we have bigger problems right now: if Henry didn’t trick us into coming here, then who did?
“We should get back inside,” Adam says.
He’s still looking at the headstone, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
“What about Bob?” I ask.
“Bob didn’t take off his own collar and leave it here for us to find.Someone else did that. I don’t know what’s going on, but we’re not safe.”
His words sound so melodramatic, but I agree.
As soon as we are back inside the chapel, Adam locks the doors, and pushes the large wooden church bench in front of them.
“Whoever we saw letting themselves in earlier must have had a key. This will stop them getting back in without us hearing,” he says, heading toward the kitchen. “Can you show me the email you were sent about winning a weekend in this place again?”
I feel for my phone inside my pocket, but find my inhaler instead. Now that my breathing has returned to normal, I don’t need it, but I feel better knowing it’s close at hand.
I find the email on my mobile and hand it to Adam.
“[email protected], that’s the email address they used?” he asks.
“Yes. It sounded like a genuine holiday rental.”
