OVER THE NEXT WEEK, I do my best to put thoughts of the Catalog Killer to rest. My theory hasn’t changed—I still think Connor was on the trail of the Catalog Killer—but I’ve finally convinced myself that it doesn’t matter. Connor is dead, nothing is going to bring him back, and there’s nothing at all to indicate that the murderer will strike in Camera Cove again.
But more than anything, I’ve finally realized that I wasn’t drawn into Connor’s search because I wanted to learn the truth, but because I couldn’t let go of Connor.
The truth is, Doris and Quill were right; I did have feelings for Connor. I wouldn’t say I was in love with him, but I definitely felt something more deeply than I was ever willing to admit to myself.
Maybe I wanted Connor to feel the same way, as crazy as that might have been, and his note to me was one last shred of hope that I might have meant more to him than I’d allowed myself to wish for. I know now that I was fooling myself, and like Doris said, I let it take over my mind. The case is over. I’ll never know the truth, and I’m not doing anyone any good by keeping it open.
It’s harder to ignore Quill.
I think about texting him a thousand times, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Neither can he, it turns out. For a couple of days, I expect him to send me a message, apologizing, but when that doesn’t happen, I begin to realize that whatever was starting to happen between us is probably over.
I tell myself that it’s for my own good—that it’s better for us to avoid each other. He has his own reasons for trying to figure out who killed his cousin, and they aren’t the same as mine. If he wants to keep chasing Joey’s killer, I won’t stop him. But I can’t be near it either.
Still, when I lie in bed at night, thinking about the summer so far, I can’t keep my thoughts from drifting toward him. His quick, deep voice, the smooth curve of his neck, his soft lips…
Dropping Quill and the mystery leaves a lot of empty space in my days, so I fill them up with work, helping Libby to prepare for our sale on parade day.
Last year, the Camera Cove anniversary parade didn’t happen for the first time in almost sixty years. Nobody felt like celebrating. More to the point, people were terrified, and large, loud groups didn’t seem like an antidote to the fear.
This year, desperate to get things back to normal and increase tourism numbers, the chamber of commerce and the town council have made a big push to get people excited about the town’s anniversary celebrations.
Libby and I show up early to set up our table outside the library. As I drag the mountain of donations we’ve collected up from the basement storage room, it’s clear that it’s actually been a pretty successful drive. Between the signs I’ve posted all around town and Libby mentioning the sale to everyone who checks out a book, people have been dropping stuff off at the front desk in a steady stream.
By the time people have started to trickle into town and take up space along the sidewalks, we’ve got several large tables set up. George Smith’s kitchen stuff squeezes into a space next to some hand-knitted sweaters, and the books, dishes, and various bric-a-brac that I’ve spent the summer collecting soon cover the tables and spill down onto the ground.
“This is so wonderful, Mac,” says Libby, as she cheerfully wanders about, sticking bits of masking tape onto items and scrawling prices onto them with a Sharpie. “I never would have guessed we’d have so much stuff to sell.”
I smile as I arrange trays of baked goods that have been donated to the sale by some of our patrons. I wonder how Libby would react if I told her that the whole thing started as an excuse to snoop around victims’ houses.
Since my visit to the old house with Doris, and our conversation with Trish Parnatsky, I’ve felt more and more disconnected from my original plans. Driving past Connor’s house this morning, on my way to set up for the parade, the familiar twinge of sadness was more muted than in recent weeks. The thrill of discovery—of feeling like I could solve this horrible case—has begun to recede. There are more important things to think about.
Like leaving. There’s a lot of summer left, but I’m finally imagining myself moving away to college. To a new life with new friends, new interests, and a series of distractions that will lead me away from Camera Cove and into a happier, less complicated future. Maybe, I even allow myself to think, I’ll find a boyfriend.
I try to imagine him, what he would look like, how he would sound, the things we would do together, but when I try to focus on the vague, faceless figure in my mind, it’s always Quill’s face that emerges, grinning widely, his eyes sparkling and intense. When I look back on him, will I think of him as my first boyfriend? Were we really a couple? Did he want us to be? I spin it over and over in my head, and ultimately I have to concede that it doesn’t matter; whatever he was to me, he isn’t that now.
It’s for the best, I tell myself. The only thing we had in common was the murders.
It doesn’t take long to get our display arranged, but before we’ve even finished, some early birds have started to arrive, poking about and making shrewd offers and inquiries. I’ve often heard the expression “one man’s junk is another man’s treasure,” but until you’ve run a small-town rummage sale, you don’t realize how true it is.
Soon the crowd thickens, and people begin to line up along the streets, unfolding lawn chairs and preparing for the main event. The sales table is buzzing along, and I find that I’m really enjoying myself. Everyone is in a good mood; the main street of Camera Cove hasn’t been this lively and full of togetherness since before the murders.
This is the Camera Cove I grew up in. This is what the killer stole from us. And for the first time since Connor died, I begin to think that maybe we’ll get it back. Not right now, but someday.
“Hey, these were my dad’s!”
I am jerked out of my daydream to see a kid stopped in front of my table, holding a pair of hockey skates in front of me accusingly. A woman reaches around from behind and puts her hand on the kid’s shoulder.
“That’s okay, Georgie. We donated them to the sale.”
My mouth goes dry when I see that it’s Emily Smith. The child, I recognize now, is George Smith’s son, and he’s staring intently at the skates that used to belong to his father. The skates that I took under false pretenses.
Emily gently takes the skates from Georgie and puts them back on the table, then she turns to smile at me.
“Hi there,” I say, forcing a smile. “It’s good to see you.”
“We’re leaving on Monday,” she tells me. “Finally sold the house. Shipped everything ahead with my mother. I wanted the kids to have one more chance to see the parade. George took them to it the year we moved here.”
I nod. “That’s nice,” I say. “It’s good to get back to normal, after last year.”
I cringe inwardly as I realize my blunder. Her smile drops.
“Yes, I suppose it’s good for the town,” she says briskly, “but I’m happy to leave. Can’t get the hell out of here fast enough, to tell you the truth. I feel bad for any of you who have to stay in this godforsaken place.”
She grabs Georgie by the arm and, without another word, pulls him away from the table and back toward the crowd that’s waiting for the parade to begin. In the distance, I hear the first trills of the marching band from the direction of the baseball field behind the school, where the floats and parade participants always line up to get organized.
The band gets louder and then, suddenly, they appear from behind the school, leading the way. The crowd cheers, and people stand and watch, full of happy anticipation as the parade makes its way along in front of us. Behind the marching band, two little girls in warrior princess costumes march along beside beribboned and cheerful looking ponies.
The floats cover all the bases. Most of them have been pulled together on the fly by various businesses and organizations. The hospital has a stereo playing Motown music, and various doctors, nurses, and other healthcare employees perform an elaborate, choreographed lip sync. Kids dive for candy that’s thrown from the floats, and as the parade marches past, I swell with more and more town pride—the likes of which I haven’t felt since I was a kid.
Then a murmur runs through the crowd ahead of me, and smiles turn to frowns. A man yells something indistinguishable, but obviously angry. I crane my neck, trying to make out what it is that has turned the crowd’s mood so quickly. Then I see it.
Cubby French has positioned himself in the middle of the action. He’s wearing a grim reaper costume: a long black robe with a hood and a sickle. On a sign that hangs around his neck, I read Camera Cove Murder Tours: Only the Best Put the Rumors to the Test.
“What on earth is he thinking?” says Libby, angrily. “What an idiot.”
Cubby seems to be enjoying his effect on the crowd, smugly marching along with a wide, shit-eating grin. He stops smiling, however, when, with a scream, someone runs out of the crowd on the other side of the street and full-on tackles him.
For a moment, they roll around on the ground, but Cubby is easily outmatched by the other guy, who manages to maneuver things so that Cubby lands on his back, his arms pinned to his sides and his legs kicking uselessly in the air. His assailant, screaming almost incoherently, turns sideways, and I get a glance at his face.
It’s Ben.
For a moment, the parade halts. The band stops playing, and the crowd goes completely silent as they watch the scene unfolding in front of them.
“You’re a freak!” Ben yells into Cubby’s face. “A perverted freak! What kind of person would do something like this? People died!”
The crowd near them parts, and Patricia Parnatsky pushes her way past people and up to the scene. Her presence seems to wake up the crowd, and a couple of large, beefy men step forward to help her as she pulls Ben off Cubby.
Cubby scrambles to his feet, his robe in disarray. “That punk attacked me!” he yells, pointing at Ben, who is standing breathlessly to the side, held back by one of the men.
“He only did what everyone else here wanted to!” yells a voice from the crowd, which results in a cheer from onlookers.
Parnatsky walks up to Cubby, and they have a quick and heated conversation. After a moment, he shakes his head and turns to glare at Ben before storming away. As he exits, the crowd claps. Parnatsky walks over to Ben, who has shrugged off the men who were holding him back and is now standing sheepishly to the side. She looks stern, but I see her put a hand on his shoulder as she speaks to him, and after a second he nods. Then he turns and disappears in the opposite direction of Cubby.
Cubby’s sickle sits in the middle of the street. Someone runs forward and grabs it out of the way, which seems to break the spell. The parade starts up again.
Nobody is buying anything at the moment—everyone is busy watching the parade.
“Libby,” I ask, “are you okay to watch things for a few minutes? I was going to run across the street and try to find a hot dog or something.”
“Absolutely,” she says, waving me away. “Take your time. We’re not going to need to keep this up much longer. Almost everything is gone!”
The parade has picked up steam again, and people are cheering and shouting it on. I find a break between a float and the local Girl Scout troop and skitter across the street, pushing along in front of the crowd in the direction where Ben disappeared. It would be impossible to spot him in this crowd, but I have a feeling he didn’t stick around to watch the rest of the parade.
I cut away from the crowds and the noise of the parade, and when I’m on an empty side street, I start to jog.