WHEN I GET HOME, I’m kind of shaken from my encounter with Emily Smith and her mother. I knew it wouldn’t be easy to get up close and personal with the victims’ families, but now that I’ve actually done it, I feel conflicted. For a brief moment, I wonder if I should stop now and just leave well enough alone, but then I think of everything I learned from George’s mother-in-law and realize that I need to keep going. If I’m going to follow through, I need to brace myself for more uncomfortable moments.
In the meantime, I need some air. I grab Hobo and clip him to his leash. “Come on, boy,” I say. “Let’s go for a walk.”
We walk to the end of the road and down onto the path to the lookout. I can’t get the Smith family out of my head. I don’t even know his kids’ names, and I doubt they even registered my presence, but I’m sure I’ll remember their faces vividly for a very long time.
I let Hobo off his leash, and he bounds off into the bushes. A few moments later he runs back to me, carrying a stick. I settle myself into a seat in the heather and absentmindedly toss it for him as I run through the bits and pieces of information I’ve gathered so far.
I was hoping for a physical clue at the Smith house—something concrete and tangible that I could hold and examine and consider—but it’s obvious to me now how naive that was. This isn’t some crime show; I’m not going to stumble onto some crucial piece of evidence that leads me to the killer. For one thing, the murders happened almost a year ago, and it’s not realistic to think that I’ll find a clue hanging about on the floor of someone’s garage.
I stare down at Camera Cove, neatly situated against the sea. From here, it looks like any other well maintained little town; people are going about their everyday business, as if nothing serious has ever happened here. But every single one of them knows the same thing I do—things can change forever in the blink of an eye. We’ve been told over and over again that the Catalog Killer is gone, and that we’re safe. But didn’t we think we were safe before?
And isn’t he still out there somewhere?
A chill runs down my spine at the thought, and I shiver. I stand and yell for Hobo. “Come on, boy,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”
When we stroll back onto the main road, I spot Mr. Anderson stooped in his giant garden, weeding. My father has told me that Mr. Anderson doesn’t need to keep up the produce stand, that it’s more of a hobby for him than anything, but it looks like a massive task for the old man.
He looks up and notices me, smiling broadly, then stands, pulling off his gardening gloves as he approaches the fence.
“How are you doing, Mac?” He wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of dirt.
“Do you need some help, Mr. Anderson?” I ask. I look past him at the garden patch, and I can tell that he’s barely made a dent.
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t say no,” he says. “If you’re sure you have the time.”
“I definitely do,” I say, tying Hobo to the fence and hiking myself up to jump over. “I could use the exercise.”
I quickly get to work, pulling weeds from a row of carrots, using my fingers to loosen the soil and let it breath. As kids, the five of us often helped out in the garden, and although it’s been years, it comes back to me quickly.
“You’ve still got the touch,” Mr. Anderson tells me, as he stops to observe.
“I used to like helping out,” I say.
He chuckles. “I think you were the only one. I remember Connor doing as little as he could get away with to collect his five bucks at the end of a session, and you were lucky to get Carrie here at all. Doris and Ben were good workers, though. What joy it brought Margaret and me to see kids out in the fields. We were never able to have our own, so you guys were the next best thing.”
The work feels good, almost as if I’m doing penance for spying on the Smith family. The sun beats down on us, and Hobo lies in the shade of a bush beside the fence, panting. Mr. Anderson brings him some water and gives him a good scratch.
“I’ve often thought of getting another dog,” he says. “But since Margaret died, it’s hard to imagine replacing Prince. Still, it’s weird. There’s always been a dog on the farm…but then, there were always cows and sheep and horses too, and I just can’t even think about keeping all of that up. This old veggie garden is about the most I can handle, and even this is getting hard.”
“You’ve been here for a long time, haven’t you?” I ask, a theory forming in my mind.
“You bet we have,” he says. “The Andersons have lived here for over a hundred and twenty years. It’s tough to farm by the sea. Would have been wiser of my great-great-grandfather to find a parcel of land inland, but he was a stubborn old goat. Insisted on farming near the water, so he could at least console his aching back with the best views around.”
He stands to take a break and stares around with a satisfied look at the land surrounding him. Down in the distance, the ocean sparkles and glimmers, and the coastline nestles the town against it. Except for the tiny subdivision of five houses scattered along Anderson Lane, we’re pretty remote.
“Did you ever hear stories about people smuggling stuff in and out of the caves?” I ask him. I’ve been thinking about this ever since George Smith’s mother-in-law told me he was constantly down at the beach. What if he wasn’t having an affair, but had somehow gotten caught up in the drug trade in the caves? Could that have been a more concrete tie to Connor?
Mr. Anderson looks at me and grins. “Only my whole darn life. Matter of fact, a younger brother of my grandfather was involved in running rum, back during Prohibition times. He was quite the scoundrel in his younger years. Settled down eventually, though, like we all do. Used to take me into the caves when I was a boy. Yes, those caves have seen a lot of wild things over the years, Mac.” He stops, and his smile disappears as he realizes what he’s just said. “That is, I didn’t mean to say…”
“It’s okay. I’m really just curious about what it was like back in the day. Back when there were pirates and rumrunners like your uncle. There are lots of rumors about drugs being hidden in those caves, even today. It’s just an interesting coincidence.”
He makes a disapproving face. “Yes, well, I don’t doubt it. I wouldn’t call it a coincidence though. It’s a natural thing, really. Those caves are a good hiding place. They run up and down the length of the coast, and they’re hard to access. You really need to know the terrain like the back of your hand, and more important than that, you need to be able to handle a boat. Someone like my uncle, who grew up moving boats in and out of coves and inlets, fishing and lord knows what else, had that kind of knowledge. These days, I suppose there are still some people around with the same kind of know-how.”
“People like Junior Merlin,” I volunteer.
He gives me a knowing look and the hint of a rueful smile. “The Merlins have lived on their little spit of land for almost as long as the Andersons have lived up here on this hill. I daresay they’ve got plenty of knowledge of the ins and outs of the coastline around these parts. Beyond that, I can’t tell you much without resorting to pure speculation. Not sure if you’ve noticed this, but around Camera Cove, speculation turns into rumor, and rumor turns into verified fact without a whole lot of nudging.”
“Yeah, for sure,” I say. “I was just wondering.”
He nods and pulls off his gloves, slapping them together to shake off the dirt. “Well, Mac,” he says, “I think I’m going to take my weary bones back up to the house, have a sit, and watch the ball game for a while. Much obliged for the help. I’ll see you in the town square.”
“You bet,” I tell him.
I collect Hobo and walk away. When I glance back over my shoulder, he’s still looking after me, a wistful look on his face.