Scott called me Tuesday evening, letting me know that he and Ethan were finally back home. Fortunately, despite questioning Ethan’s story, Brad hadn’t ordered him to be held at the jail. He’d simply requested that Ethan stay at home until the sheriff’s department could check out the old stone barn and see if there was evidence that he was telling the truth. Ethan had also gotten a good report from the medical team, who’d said that while he was suffering from a lack of proper food and water and sleep deprivation as well as the wounds to his hands, he was otherwise in decent shape. “It’s the best possible news, all things considered,” Scott told me. “Of course, he needs rest and time to heal, but he doesn’t have any really serious injuries.”
I finally got a message from Brad, but it was not encouraging. Stop by Thursday around eleven and we can talk, he texted.
Thursday!!! I texted back, feeling the need to use extra exclamation points. My info is too important to wait that long.
Sorry, will have to, Brad shot back, before ignoring my following three texts.
I finally gave up, but fumed to Richard when he got home late Tuesday night.
“Better Thursday than never,” he told me, yawning and rolling away from me, then immediately falling asleep.
Of course, he was right, and by the time I left for work on Wednesday, I had calmed down enough to logically consider my plan of attack for the Thursday meeting.
I was thankful to have Fiona available to watch the twins on Wednesday. It was the only other day I was scheduled to work during the week, since Sunny, understanding the complications presented by our hosting Fiona as well as Richard’s and the twins’ rehearsal schedules, had graciously volunteered to take on extra shifts.
Samantha was already at the circulation desk when I arrived.
“I just want to warn you,” she said as she turned on the desk computer, “that we might get some gawkers in here today. You know, people curious about what’s going on with the Blackstone case.”
“You mean people who want to know more about my brother-in-law’s possible involvement?” I asked.
Samantha fiddled with the computer mouse. “Exactly. Since the news last night reported his reappearance, I expect we’ll have some folks who’ll want to question you about that, especially because the information offered was pretty sketchy.”
“You mean nonexistent.” I pulled a few returned books from the desk book drop. “Yeah, I’m not looking forward to the interrogations I’m likely to face today.”
“Well, I was thinking”—Samantha straightened a stack of flyers beside the computer—“maybe I could cover the desk by myself today, with help from Denise and Bill during my lunch hour and story time. I don’t mind, and they said they’d both come in if we called them. That way you can take care of some administrative work in the back. That is something that always has to be done.” She gave me a wink. “I’d only call you out to the desk if a patron was asking for help with a real reference question, not just being nosy about your family.”
“That’s very nice of you,” I said.
Relief must’ve been painted across my face, because Samantha just smiled and patted my shoulder. “No problem. I know you’d do the same for me if necessary.”
“I most certainly would,” I told her fervently.
Freed from the public desk, I spent a few hours at my computer workstation in the staff workroom, processing interlibrary loan requests and handling other back-office tasks. I was deep into organizing some budget reports when my cell phone rang.
Noticing that the call was from Fiona, I experienced a frisson of anxiety until she immediately responded to my greeting by saying that Ella and Nicky were fine.
“I just wanted to let you know that I talked with a few old friends this morning, and they provided some interesting tidbits about Blackstone Properties,” she said.
“What might those be?” I asked, marveling at Fiona’s continued interest in helping me.
“It’s all rumors, or maybe even ghost stories,” Fiona said, amusement brightening her voice. “But there’s a lot of tales connected to one of their projects, the one called Crystal Lake. If you remember, it was featured on that flyer that had the threat scrawled across it.”
“Oh?” I straightened and rolled my task chair back from my desk. “What kind of stories?”
“Some people say the whole area around the lake is haunted. A lot of foolishness, of course, but I think there’s occasionally a nugget of truth behind such tales.”
“I agree. So why do people claim it’s haunted?”
“That wasn’t entirely clear, but it seems some people think that a couple of people were killed when the lake was constructed. One of my friends said she heard it was a few of the workers, but another one said it involved residents from the area.”
“Interesting. Thanks so much for sharing that, Fiona. I think I’ll go on a research hunt and see what else I can find.”
“Happy to help,” Fiona said in a tone that surprisingly made me think she was telling the truth. “And don’t worry about rushing home, Amy. The children showed me where you stored the instructions and supplies for doing their makeup and Ella’s hair for tonight’s rehearsal. I can take care of that before Richard drops by to pick them up.”
“Well … thanks again,” I said, so flabbergasted that no other words came to mind. I cleared my throat. “I should be able to get back in time to help you, but it’s good to know it will be taken care of in case I’m delayed.”
“No problem at all,” Fiona said, before wishing me a good day and ending the call.
I stared at my screen for a moment. “Will wonders never cease, indeed.” I asked aloud as I laid down the phone.
Inspired by Fiona’s comments, I decided to try a few more searches focused on Blackstone Properties and its Crystal Lake development project. At first, all I retrieved were more of the promotional materials that the company had generated, but when I added in some terms referencing the history and folklore of the area, I discovered a more intriguing item.
It was an article written for a local paper, discussing an older couple who were refusing to leave the small farm that had been in their family since the early eighteenth century. The husband, Gregory Hurst, was quoted as saying they’d have to be dragged out in chains, while his wife, Trudy, pleaded with local officials to block the development. “We’ve been on this land since long before any of these Blackstone folks were even in the country,” she told the reporter. “It isn’t right we should have to move for some latecomers.”
The photo that accompanied the article showed the Hursts standing in front of a log cabin with two sagging clapboard extensions and a porch that looked like it was being held up by stacked stone pillars and prayers. I peered closer at the photo but couldn’t discern much about the Hursts’ appearance, other than their well-worn clothes and the distinctively stubborn set of their shoulders and jaws.
Reading over the article again, I noticed that the Hursts, like all the people who owned property in the area slated to be flooded to create Crystal Lake, had been offered a “substantial settlement” by Blackstone Properties. Apparently, everyone else had agreed to accept “well over the tax value of their property,” but the Hursts were still fighting their eviction.
I checked the date of the article and did another search—this one to uncover any articles referencing Crystal Lake by the same paper and reporter and published over the next year or so.
“Bingo!” I said when I finally found a follow-up report on the Hursts. I read through the short article quickly, noting that the Hursts had eventually bowed to the pressure exerted by both Blackstone Properties and local officials.
At least they made Blackstone shell out a bit more cash, I thought as I read that Greg and Trudy Hurst’s payout had been substantially increased. According to the article, the couple had told Blackstone’s management team that they planned to buy another farm farther west, but, having cashed their settlement check, the Hursts had provided no forwarding address. There were some rumors among the locals that the Hursts, whose only child, a daughter, had died a few years previously, might have moved closer to their only remaining family—a son-in-law who’d made a career in the army and a grandchild. But the reporter clarified that this information was not substantiated, as no one had been quite sure where the son-in-law was living at the time.
I sat back in my chair. Could the son-in-law have carried enough resentment over the treatment of his wife’s family by Wendy Blackstone and her team to want to kill her so many years later? It seemed a stretch, but I’d encountered seemingly unlikely motives before.
Samantha cracked open the door to the workroom. “Sorry to bother you, but there’s someone here I thought you might want to talk to.” She widened her dark eyes. “It’s somebody called Tim Thompson,” she said in a softer voice. “He said something about a donation to the library, and I assumed that was always worth a conversation.”
The coincidence of my researching Blackstone Properties and Thompson’s appearance in the library wasn’t lost on me. “More wonders,” I said to myself as I stood up. Not wanting to embroil Samantha in my latest adventure in amateur sleuthing, I waved off her questioning gaze and said I’d be out in a second.
“How ironic. Just the person I wanted to see,” I said as I strolled out of the workroom and faced Tim Thompson across the desk. Turning to Samantha, I added, “Go ahead and take a break. I can watch the desk while I speak with Mr. Thompson.”
She murmured, “Thanks,” and headed off toward the staff break room.
“You wanted to see me?” Tim’s face expressed his obvious confusion. “That’s odd. I had the distinct feeling that I hadn’t made a good impression on you, Ms. Muir.”
“Yet here you are, offering to donate something to the library,” I said. “Personally, I find that a little peculiar as well.”
Tim smoothed one lapel of his elegant beige wool coat. “Not at all. Blackstone Properties always likes to support community services in the locales where we build our developments.”
“You haven’t gotten final approval to build it yet,” I pointed out.
“No, but I’m sure we will. There’s a delay, of course, what with poor Wendy’s death and all the issues surrounding that sad occurrence, but I’m confident everything will be resolved in due time.” Tim flashed one of his overly bright smiles.
“I’m sure you think so,” I said, fighting to keep my tone neutral. “But perhaps we should wait to discuss any sort of donation until things are settled. As I’m sure you’re aware, my brother-in-law, Ethan Payne, is currently under suspicion in your business partner’s death. I would hate for people to misconstrue your company giving money to the library as some sort of … well, payment for my silence on certain topics.”
Tim’s smile froze into a grimace. “What topics might those be?” he asked at last.
“I don’t know, maybe the protests and other problems your projects have encountered in the past?” I registered the barely controlled fury contorting Tim’s face. “I’ve been doing a little research, and it seems things have not always gone smoothly for your company. In fact, they almost never have.”
“What nonsense. Naturally, there are always issues with developments as ambitious as ours. But we have always prevailed. Legally,” he said, stressing the final word.
I took a breath before deciding to simply leap into deeper waters. “But you’ve made a lot of enemies along the way. At places like Mountainside Farms, for example. Or Crystal Lake.”
Tim peered down his narrow nose at me. “Again, we handled all the difficulties with those projects in a fair and legal manner.”
“Not everyone may have thought so,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “Like the Hursts, or the Jensen family.”
That scored a hit, I thought as Tim’s face blanched to the color of bone.
“Where did you hear those names?” he asked in a strangled voice.
“I told you—I did some research. I’m a librarian. It’s what I do,” I said.
“Research, my foot. You’ve been talking to Dylan, haven’t you?” Tim’s eyes narrowed to slits. “That boy is disturbed. In the past he’s seen conspiracies and cover-ups lurking behind every comment I, Nadia, or Wendy ever made. He needs help, not encouragement for his fantasies.”
“I have spoken with Dylan, but—”
“Enough.” Tim sliced the air with his hand. “I’m not interested in hearing more of this nonsense. I came here in good faith to offer a donation to your library, and what do I get? Unfounded accusations, that’s what. I don’t need to hear anything else from you, Ms. Muir. Good day.” He turned on his heel and stormed away, shoving the front doors so hard that they clanged back against the doorframe.
“I take it that didn’t go so well?” Samantha asked as she returned to the desk.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said with a little smile. “I learned a few things that might be extremely useful. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go and add them to the list I’m compiling for my meeting with Brad Tucker tomorrow.”
Samantha’s eyes brightened. “You found out something that might help Ethan?”
“I certainly hope so,” I said.