The next morning, I rose early and jogged back to the clearing in the cemetery. I picked my way through the headstones, looking for clues, trying to remember which way the camper had run.
I threw my thoughts back to high school, those years before Caroline and I had driver’s licenses, when we’d been content exploring myriad paths in the woods around the farm. The camper had had his choice of escape routes through acres of rolling farmland and forest.
Parts of the land on this side of Farm Lane belonged to the Danforths and part to the Gravers, er, Fairweathers. I didn’t know where the property lines were. Everyone had coexisted amicably, and the families represented in the cemetery had intermarried for years.
The sound of a distant lawnmower accompanied me as I took the path that led to the small pond, scanning the ground as I ran, searching for any trace of the camper. I found nothing and returned to the cemetery.
The shade of towering old oaks and massive stands of laurel provided a respite from the gathering heat. Most of the stones in the cemetery were weathered and covered with green lichen, so worn that any names on them were illegible. Except for one. I picked my way closer to a shiny stone of pink granite in the northernmost corner of the cemetery and shivered as I read the words carved on it: “Brooke Danforth. A Rose Barely Bloomed.”
The grave was beautifully tended, the headstone flanked by yellow rose bushes that seemed to hold the stone in a protective embrace. Some daisies had been planted recently, the earth around them loose and dark. I brushed away a leaf on top of the highly polished granite.
Approaching footsteps made me turn.
Dandy, dressed in a pristine white Penniman Golf Club top and jeans, emerged from a path behind the headstone. She carried a watering can and a basket of gardening tools, the sinews standing out on her tanned arms. A golf visor held her thick hair in place. Surprised, she stopped short when she saw me.
“Mrs. Danforth. Hello.” Here I was, thirty-five years old, still calling her Mrs. Danforth.
She smiled. “Hello, Riley. I didn’t expect anyone to be here.”
I stepped away from the grave. “Beautiful flowers.”
She set down the basket and sprinkled water over the just-planted daisies. “Thank you. My hobby.” I wasn’t sure if she meant gardening or caring for her daughter’s grave. Probably both.
“Did you see the fire last night?” I said.
“What a commotion! I didn’t see anything but I did hear someone running through my backyard. Flo told me about the firebug”—her lips turned down—“camping here. Disrespectful. I hope the police put an end to that nonsense.”
“Would you mind if I checked your yard?” I asked. “I wonder if the person dropped anything.”
She tilted her head. “I didn’t notice anything, but you’re welcome to look.” I followed Dandy through the laurel to a path that looped from the cemetery, through her backyard and out toward the lane, passing the open doors of an elaborate garden shed that was almost as big as the Love Nest. Inside were gardening tools and shelves of equipment, all organized and immaculate. A lawnmower was parked next to it, the scent of gasoline and newly cut grass telling me she’d just been mowing.
My eyes widened as we went into her backyard, a lush paradise of flowering trees and beds at odds with Dandy’s outward no-frills appearance and no-nonsense personality. Water trickled into a koi pond under a flowering pergola. Wrought-iron furniture with striped pink pillows decorated a stone patio. “Your yard’s beautiful.”
A smile lit her face. “Thank you.”
I walked quickly through the yard, scanning the ground, feeling more and more ridiculous, until I skirted along the back of the house. I saw a piece of dark canvas by the roots of a boxwood.
I picked it up, my heart thudding with excitement.
“You found something!” Dandy exclaimed.
The thick black canvas was rolled, heavy, and its contents shifted as I set it on Dandy’s picnic table. I unrolled it, revealing a set of knives, ranging in size from a butcher knife to a small paring knife, all with dangerously sharp edges.
Dandy looked over my shoulder. “That’s a gourmet set. Very pricey.”
“I should take it to the police.” I could pump Tillie while I was at the station.
“Nonsense. Don’t you watch NCIS? They’ll want to see it in situ. Come in and get a drink of water. You must stay hydrated in this heat.”
Maybe she was right. “Thanks.”
“I think this is important,” Dandy said as we stepped into her kitchen. “What if this fire bug had something to do with Mike’s death?”
The thought stopped me in my tracks. I’d thought of the person in the woods—well to be honest, Stretch—as a camper, a drifter. “Firebug” put a different spin on him.
What if the firebug murdered Mike? What if he’d seen Mike’s and Angelica’s expensive cars? What if he’d been sleeping in the barn? Maybe Mike surprised him and he lashed out. My stomach turned. Was it that simple, that awful?
The roll of knives was heavy in my hands. Here I’d been thinking of the firebug as a camper, as—what did Voelker say?—a Boy Scout. I practically threw the roll onto Dandy’s kitchen table.
But the note, I thought. There was the note.
Dandy went to the refrigerator and poured a glass of water. “It’s a terrible thought, that this stranger was here, so close.” Dandy handed me the glass.
“Thank you.” As I drank, I read one of those inspirational posters with a sunrise on the wall above her kitchen table: “Perfection is not attainable, but if we chase perfection we can catch excellence.”
Dandy picked up her phone. “I’ll call the police and let them know. There’s a bathroom down the hall if you need it.”
“Thank you.” The thought of making small talk this early in the morning was not appealing, and finding those knives rattled me. Even though I didn’t need it, I went down the hall to the powder room and washed my hands.
As I stepped out of the powder room, I could hear Dandy speaking, but now she was speaking very loudly, almost shouting. “—the fire in the graveyard.”
I couldn’t make out his words, but I could hear a man’s voice answer.
Dandy continued, “We found knives—”
Directly across from me was a bedroom with soft yellow walls and a white canopy bed. Who has a canopy bed anymore? Dandy’s and the man’s voice faded as the room pulled me in. There were posters of gymnasts and impossibly thin models next to band posters on the walls, bands that had been popular when I was in high school. There was a full-length mirror next to a desk, and on the desk was a vintage computer with a huge monitor. It was probably a valuable collector’s item now, but when I was in high school, it had been the latest model. This was Brooke Danforth’s bedroom, and it hadn’t been changed since she died.
Above the computer, a program for the Penniman High School Players Spring Production of Brigadoon was tucked on the shelf with a dried bit of heather. I blinked. I’d painted scenery for that play.
A stack of books drew me. On top was a paperback copy of Tess of the D’Urbervilles, a Summer Required Reading sticker on the spine.
My heart rate ticked up. I ran a finger on the desk but there wasn’t a bit of dust. Suddenly I was sure that Dandy had kept everything exactly where Brooke had left it when she died.
A Penniman HS gymnastics jacket hung on the back of the desk chair, State Champions embroidered on the sleeve.
On the bed, a pile of silky pillows. There was a denim-covered book on the nightstand, Diary embroidered in yellow stitching on the cover.
There was a sudden silence. The phone call had ended.
“Riley?” Dandy joined me, her face drawn. I’d crossed a line.
“Oh, sorry,” I stammered. “I was lost in thought about the guy with the knives. This room faces the backyard.” I pointed weakly at the window. “I wonder where he went.”
“A real firebug from what Aaron said,” Dandy frowned.
She’d been talking to Aaron the Hermit?
She reached past me and shut the door. “We’re going to talk to the police outside.”
I felt terrible having invaded what she must consider sacred ground. My stomach fell when I realized Brooke would be a woman my age now. The kitchen gleamed with updated appliances, but Brooke’s bedroom was frozen in time.