Perhaps the mourners learn to look to the blue sky by day, and to the stars by night, and to think that the dead are there, and not in graves.
—Charles Dickens, The Old Curiosity Shop, 1841
QUINDICOTT CEMETERY, “OLD Q” to longtime residents, dated back to the founding of the town itself. Some of the earliest tombstones, scattered among the twisted trees of the ancient section, displayed dates from the early 1700s.
The early generations of the town’s settlers like the McClures, the Hudsons, the Lodges, and the Smiths were buried here—though the more recent dead from these families were interred in splendid Newport mausoleums.
Less prominent inhabitants included Aunt Sadie’s father; my mother; my older brother, Pete; and my own dear dad.
The most recent arrival at this fateful address was Amy’s father, Dr. Kevin Ridgeway, his grave next to those of his mother, father, and grandparents. Still just a grassless mound, surrounded by a sea of lush green, the scent of fresh-turned earth was strong. No tombstone yet marked the man’s final resting place. The ground was too soft to set it. Only a metal marker shined dully in the bright autumn sun.
Amy walked ahead and stood silently beside the grave. Though the day was clear, the birds were quiet, the only sound a rustling of alder leaves around us.
I wasn’t sure what to do, but Spencer knew. He told me to leave them alone for a while, that he would come find me when they were done. Then he hurried forward to join his friend.
I watched from a distance as Amy and Spencer stood side by side, unspeaking. Then Spencer took her hand, and they began to talk.
I was touched by Spencer’s tenderness toward his friend. I was proud of him, too. But as I moved away to give them privacy, a disquieting feeling rose up; not jealousy, exactly, but something like it.
My son was whispering secret things to a female that wasn’t me. Spencer was still a child, of course, and would need his mother for years. But one day, he’d find her, the love of his life, a soul mate. And I would be left alone.
That dreadful, awful feeling of losing a life entwined with yours was far from new to me. Only a few rows beyond, my entire family was buried under another alder tree. I’d lost my mother when I was close to Spencer’s age. Then I lost my older brother and finally my father. As I walked toward the site, I heard a strange sound—and then I saw a man, partially hidden behind the wide trunk of a century-old oak.
The man stood among the gravestones, in front of a painter’s easel, his thick legs braced, his beefy arm slashing violently, intently splashing color onto canvas.
With a start, I realized I knew him. Whitman Brink, a regular customer at Buy the Book, and, according to Eddie, Emma Hudson’s downstairs neighbor.
Mr. Brink was a large man, not as paunchy as Chief Ciders, but tall and thick around the middle. His skin had good color from painting outdoors every day, but the deep wrinkles in his fleshy face seemed to mark every one of his seventy-plus years.
“Hello there, Mr. Brink!”
“Mrs. McClure? What are you doing in this solemn place? Surely you’re not delivering the new Dennis Lehane I ordered?”
“That’s not coming out until next week. Actually, I came to visit my family. They’re buried right over there.” I pointed out the spot.
With a nod, he said, “My own family is interred here, too. Wife and daughter, side by side, with a plot waiting for me.”
I followed his gaze to a pair of simple tombstones. “Your wife had a beautiful name . . . Lydia—”
“And my daughter was Lillian.”
I read the dates. Mr. Brink’s wife had died just seven years after his daughter. “Lillian was only thirteen?”
“She died of leukemia,” he said with a curt nod.
I’d never looked closely at Mr. Brink’s clothing before. When we spoke, my focus tended to be on his animated blue eyes or neatly trimmed gray goatee. With Eddie’s revelation of his address, however, I noticed the fraying of the collar and cuffs on his rugby shirt, the worn state of his khaki pants, and the cracked and scuffed leather of his deck shoes.
“I’ve lost the light,” Brink said. Glancing at the sky, he scanned the western horizon. “Guess I should pack it in and head home.”
“And home is 1919 Pine Tree Avenue, right?”
“Not for much longer. I’ll soon be moving from that distressed address to the Estates, the gated community on Larchmont Avenue. A long time ago, my wife and I had a home up there, and I so loved the hills.”
“That’s good news for you. You must have sold quite a few paintings to afford such an exclusive address.”
He chuckled. “My paintings are good but far from fetching a small fortune. No, this windfall came from a publishing venture, Mrs. McClure. I can’t say more now, but there will be an announcement soon.”
“A publishing venture?” My curiosity was more than piqued. “You can’t give me a hint? Is it a thriller or maybe a crime novel?”
“Sadly, though I attempted it at one time, I will never be the new Tom Clancy, or a neo-noir sensation like James Ellroy. But at my age, you take your literary success where you can find it.”
“Will I be seeing the book soon?” I pressed. “Or is it published already? As a local author, Sadie and I would be happy to arrange a signing.”
He put his index finger to his lips. “I can’t say. Not yet.”
I did my best to keep a calm face, but inside alarm bells were clanging. Could Whitman Brink be the mysterious author I’ve been searching for?
Brink began folding up his easel, and I helped gather his things.
My next line of questioning would be tricky, and I’d have to sound casual. “I heard there was a death at your address the other day—”
“God, yes. It was awful,” Brink said, shaking his head. “Poor Emma.”
“You knew her?”
“One of the fallen.”
“Excuse me?”
“Emma had fallen on hard times, as I had. We met at the Laundromat across the street from the senior center and shared our tales of woe. I found her to be an interesting woman.”
“Did you speak with her recently?”
“The day she died. I was supposed to have dinner with her that very evening, but when I got home late that afternoon, I learned the terrible news—”
“But you’d already delivered baked goods for the meal, hadn’t you? Cinnamon buns and baguettes from Cooper Family Bakery, right?”
Mr. Brink’s jovial expression clouded. “Are you psychic, Mrs. McClure? Or just nosy?”
“I’m sorry, but I was the one who found Emma. She’d visited my bookshop, and a certain book, a big bestseller, disturbed her terribly. I was concerned, so I drove to her apartment to check on her. That’s when I found her body.”
“She was disturbed?” Brink said, confused. “By a book, you say? How odd! Emma always seemed so rational. But she did commit suicide, so perhaps I didn’t know her as well as I thought.”
“So you don’t think it was an accident?”
“You mean that baloney in the local paper? The house at Pine Tree may look like a dump, but it’s not a hazard. I saw with my own eyes that Emma’s balcony and railing are still intact.”
We’d reached Brink’s car—not the “jalopy” his landlord described, but a brand-new Lincoln Continental with a Stuckley Motors license plate frame. When he popped the trunk to load up the easel, I spied a catalog for the St. Francis University Adult Education Program.
“I see you attend St. Francis.”
“Three courses in the Political Science Department last year, back when I still dreamed of writing a hit thriller.” He chuckled again, but it sounded hollow. “Oh well. Life certainly can throw us curves. This semester I may have to take a course on money management.”
Political Science at St. Francis University?
“I knew a Professor Kevin Ridgeway who taught in that department. Did you—?”
“Professor Ridgeway was a wonderful teacher. I thoroughly enjoyed his course examining the causes of the Cold War. The geopolitical tensions are still with us. In fact . . .”
Mr. Brink knew Professor Ridgeway! My heart beat faster with the revelation. Jack, did you hear that? Jack?!
I listened with anticipation for that gruff, cynical voice in my head, the one who helped me process facts and evidence, point me in the right direction, and come up with a plan of action.
But Jack wasn’t with me. I’d left him behind.
“Hey, Mom!” Spencer called. “We’re ready to go when you are. Mom?”
“Mrs. McClure? Your son and his young lady friend are here.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, blinking back my focus—in more ways than one. “It’s been nice talking with you, Mr. Brink. Do drop by the store.”
“I’ll be there Wednesday. For Dr. Leeds’s lecture.”
“Right. See you then!”