The next morning, I dressed in the thin sunlight and slid carefully out my door so I didn’t get ambushed by Sprinkles. Caroline’s door was open a crack, and I could see my furry nemesis curled up on the bed, both of them asleep. Good, Caroline needed the rest. I hoped she’d slept well. Maybe I wouldn’t even tell her about the campfire up the road last night.
After I’d returned from the campfire, I’d fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep and had awoken thinking of Buzzy’s will. I remembered what Caroline had said about not being able to find one. Had Buzzy made a will? If she’d made one, where would she keep it?
Inside Buzzy’s room, sunlight gleamed on the frame of the double brass bed. I stepped inside and ran my fingers over the soft fabric of the quilt—cheerful, colorful, just like Buzzy herself.
There was a purple velvet–covered settee in front of the window, with a reading lamp and a basket of knitting. Bookcases ran along one wall, stuffed with books of all kinds—Buzzy was a great reader. On her bedside table was a Bible and a bottle of sleeping pills. Would Buzzy hide her will in her Bible? I flipped through its well-worn pages but found only a few bookmarks and some greeting cards.
I moved to her bureau. The top was covered with bottles of perfume I’m sure she never used—she always smelled like Ivory soap and cinnamon gum. Some of the bottles were expensive brands, probably from Mike. I could see him picking up a bottle and thinking the expensive price tag made it a good gift. On the wall next to a wedding photo of Buzzy and Charles was a cross-stitch that read “Happy the man whose pleasures are cheap.” That was Buzzy.
In a corner of the room was a purple velvet cat bed, three feet long and about that high. Sprinkles’ bed had carved wooden bedposts and curtains, like something Henry VIII would sleep in if he were a show cat. Now her attitude toward me—and everyone—made sense.
I chuckled as I ran downstairs and laced up my running shoes. I headed up the hill, past the Love Nest where a police car stood sentry. A small blue sedan with Florida plates was pulled up to the cruiser’s driver’s side window. A rental. The two drivers were deep in conversation. It was no doubt a reporter trying to get the scoop on Mike’s death—no, I amended—on Angelica’s disappearance.
As I ran, I tried to imagine being Angelica the night of the murder. What if the killer came after her too? Angelica was strong and athletic. She could fend off an attacker, get in her car, and drive away. But if this was the scenario, why didn’t she contact the police? Or drive down to the road to the farmhouse for help?
I considered another scenario. Say Angelica saw that note. She’s angry with Mike. What if she’d been drunk? The wine bottle was empty. She’s drunk and angry and killed Mike. She’s desperate. She threw herself into her sports car and drove off. Where would she go?
Penniman was full of twisty back roads, lots of little lanes where Angelica could’ve gotten lost. What if her car had broken down? Or hit something?
My footsteps had taken me to the intersection with Town Road. Directly across, Farm Lane turned into Woods Road. I waited for a car to pass then jogged across the street.
This road was even narrower and more twisting than Farm Lane, plunging at a steep grade with an almost-hairpin curve. At that curve, a driveway descended to a long-abandoned farmhouse and a pond where generations of Penniman kids skated in the winter.
What if she’d missed that turn?
I hesitated at the entrance to the driveway then jogged forward. Tall laurel bushes and overgrown weeds hemmed in the narrow, rutted strip of asphalt. My footsteps slowed as the angle of the drive grew steeper, then opened into a clearing where an old farmhouse stood. You’re trespassing, Riley. But there was no sign of habitation in the farmhouse, given its peeling paint, broken windows, and sagging porch. I stood in the clearing, looking over the pond. I remembered skating on the gray ice, cold winter stars pinpricks overhead.
I turned to go. A patch of red by the side of the driveway made me freeze. A Porsche. The car was angled in the gully on the side of the drive—the tall weeds had hidden it from my view. It was tilted onto the driver’s side, its nose crushed against a tree.
Oh god. I ran forward, pushed through the brush. I leaned carefully onto the car—the passenger side was now the top—and looked down through the window. My eyes adjusted to the dim interior and I realized with a jolt that I was looking at a body. Angelica. She lay motionless, crumpled against the driver’s-side door, her gorgeous brown hair covering her face. “Angelica!” I shouted and pounded the glass. She didn’t move, but my pounding made the car rock. I jerked back. If the car fell, it might jar her and injure her further, or kill her if she wasn’t already dead.
My hands trembled as I called 911.
“Nine-one-one. Where is your emergency?”
“I don’t know the address,” I took a breath to steady my voice. “Down by the pond at the curve of Woods Road. There’s a car that’s run off the road. A woman’s inside. She’s not responding.”
“Don’t try to move her. EMS is on its way. Watch for them and wave them down.”
I ran to the top of the drive and waited, torn between needing to flag down the police and wanting to find a way to get Angelica out of the car. The police cruiser sped out of Farm Lane, across Town Road, light bar flashing. The blue rental car followed right behind.
“Here!” I waved wildly to stop the cruiser. I ran down the path, skidding on loose stones, the officer on my heels, his equipment belt jangling. He peered in the car, and muttered, “Can’t move her. Might injure her more. We’re gonna need special equipment.”
I tried to calm my breathing. How many days had she lain here? I counted back. The funeral was Friday and it was now Monday morning. How badly was she injured? The car was smashed against the tree. The impact must have been terrible.
Sirens screamed in the distance.
The man from the blue rental car ran up to us. He wore a polo shirt embroidered with the logo of a Boston television station. “Is that Angelica Miguel’s car?” He started toward it.
The cop cut him off and herded us aside. “Stay out of the way. Both of you.”
A Penniman fire department SUV with Fire Chief in gold lettering on the door panel rocked down the drive. The man from the Boston station started filming with a tiny video camera, giving a play-by-play. It took me a moment to realize that he was recording notes as he filmed. I held my breath as the sports car was swarmed by emergency workers.
“How’d you find her? Look at this place. You’d never see the car from the road. Was she on the floor?” I realized the reporter was talking to me but I couldn’t speak, unable to pull my eyes from the scene.
The newsman tsked. “Tough extraction. Did you see any blood?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“I wonder if she’s trapped by the dash,” he continued. “They won’t break the glass, too dangerous. They’ll probably move the car. It’s small. Lots of people here. Yep, they are.”
The crowd of rescuers surrounded the car and walked it backward away from the tree, setting it down gently. The driver’s door and front end were crushed, the windshield spiderwebbed with broken glass. An ambulance inched down the steeply angled driveway.
A team powered up a generator and I jumped at the roar. Two firefighters examined the vehicle, searching for the best way to get Angelica out without harming her further. The noise of the generator forced rescuers to use hand motions to communicate as they worked.
The reporter next to me flagged down a firefighter. “Who owns this place?”
The firefighter shrugged. “Place was condemned a few months back. Nobody comes down here except partying kids or real estate agents showing the property.”
The newsman jutted his chin toward the rescue team. “What are they using now?”
“A spreading tool. She’s pinned under the dash.” The generator turned off abruptly and someone shouted for a backboard. The firefighter jogged over to assist.
The fire chief leaned into the car, shouting Angelica’s name and pausing as if to listen. My heart rose. “She’s alive.”
“You think so?” the reporter snorted. “After how many days?”
Two EMTs with a backboard raced forward. The fire chief waved everyone clear. I held my breath as they reached into the car. Angelica, limp as a ragdoll, was placed on the stretcher and one of the rescuers gently secured her to the board with straps. I rushed forward but an EMT held me back, so I called, “Angelica!”
Her head turned slightly in my direction.
Angelica was alive!
A crowd had gathered at the top of the driveway. As sirens screamed down Town Road, I felt a tap at my shoulder. Detective Voelker stared down at me. “Are you the one who called this in, Ms. Rhodes?”
My mouth went dry. “Yes. I found the car when I was jogging.”
“You jogged down here?” He frowned. “This is private property.”
Dark aviator glasses hid his eyes and his mouth was set, but still disbelief and suspicion radiated off him.
And I still had to tell him about the money jar … and the scarf.
“Ms. Rhodes—”
“Jack!” The fire chief beckoned.
Voelker said, “I’ll be back.”
Tom Snow shouldered forward, beaming, no doubt thinking he was getting tonight’s scoop. “You, ice cream girl! You saved Angelica Miguel’s life. One of the EMTs said she wouldn’t have lasted another day if you hadn’t found her.” Two women threaded toward us, one of them hefting a camera. “Can we talk to you?”
In the crowd of emergency responders, I saw the officer who’d been first on scene talking with a reporter I recognized from CNN. He pointed at me.
“Can you give us an interview?”
There was nothing I wanted to do less. “Sure, give me a sec,” I said. “Let’s all meet down by the pond? The police detective wants me to talk to him first.” At least the last part was true.
The reporters headed toward the pond, exchanging notes as they went.
I mirrored the purposeful energy of the emergency workers around me, avoided eye contact, and slipped into the crowd heading up the hill. I jogged back home. Detective Voelker would be able to find me—Penniman wasn’t that big. Finding Angelica was an incredible relief, but I was nearly overwhelmed by a wave of anxiety. The police had one murdered man and one woman who was severely injured, and I was now connected to both of them.